#it was so hard to figure out if his name started with a c or a k | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heejamas · 1 month ago

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──★ JUST LIKE HEAVEN (part. 2)

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: jay x fem!reader … ﹒ 90s au, childhood friends to lovers, brother's best friend!jay, exes to lovers, fluff, smut … ﹒w/c: 15k synopsis: three years. that’s how long it had been since you last saw jay park. since spring break, since mixtapes and goodbye letters and i’ll write when i can. he had traded the life you knew for one on the road — guitars, neon lights, hotel rooms in cities you’d never been to. and it was 1994 now, you had your own place, your own rhythm. you had almost convinced yourself you were over it. until a concert. a song. a glance across a crowded room. and suddenly, nothing was over at all. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), smut, mdni!!! 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: just like heaven - the cure | read part 1 here <3

it’s been three years since you last saw jay park. and somehow, it still feels like yesterday.

by 1994, everything feels different. you’re in your last year of college now. you know how to make your bed in the dark, how to survive on gas station coffee and a playlist that’s been the same since sophomore year. your books are underlined and frayed at the corners. the shoes by your door don’t match on purpose anymore. jungwon’s in college now, halfway through. he’s still figuring things out, but his voice has settled, and so has his energy. a little more grounded, a little less wild around the edges. he doesn’t call as much as he used to, but he writes sometimes. signs his letters with messy doodles and stories that sound like home: who’s dating who, which professor’s a nightmare. he’s talking about studying abroad next year. says it like a joke, but you know he’s serious.

your friends are scattered across cities and apartments, student loans and early jobs. some of them are in long-term relationships. some are engaged. some are already talking about house payments. they still write you, too. sometimes on postcards, sometimes in long emails typed from shared computers in dorm basements. you keep every one.

you've learned how to let go of things slowly. how to miss people quietly. how to stop expecting things to stay the same.

the world has changed since 1991. nevermind came out. so did automatic for the people. you cut your hair once, just to feel something. you fell in love with someone else for a little while, then out of it, and didn’t talk about it much after. the posters in your room have faded from the sun. you don’t live in the dorms anymore. you don’t listen to the same tapes every night. just most nights.

you don’t talk about jay. not really. not out loud.

he shows up in passing. in jokes jungwon makes. in old notes you kept but don’t read. in the way your breath still catches when someone plays just like heaven on a jukebox too late at night. you heard he’s playing in a band now. you don’t know much. just that sometimes, when you pass a flyer on a telephone pole or a crumpled gig poster in a café window, you pause a little longer than you mean to. and sometimes, just sometimes, you wish you see his name is on it.

sometimes, in the middle of doing something normal — folding laundry, walking back from class, standing in line for coffee — you remember that last afternoon.

spring break, 1991. the sky was overcast, warm in the way that made you think summer might arrive early. jay was leaving again. his band had just gotten picked up to open for someone bigger, someone you’d never heard of but pretended to recognize. he had a folded schedule in his back pocket, all scribbled in blue ink and crossed-out cities.

“you should come,” he said. “i’ll leave your name at the door.”

you smiled. nodded. said, “yeah, maybe.”

but you never did.

the next semester hit hard. papers stacked up, internships started, and time blurred. phone calls turned into postcards. then into silence. it wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. he had tour dates. you had midterms. and something about trying too hard to hold on felt embarrassing after a while.

the last thing he sent was a letter.

you still remember the envelope. thin, bent at the corner, his handwriting slanted and messier than usual. you read it in your dorm room one night, sitting on the edge of your bed while your roommate snored into her pillow.

y/n,

i’m sorry i’ve been gone. i mean, i’ve been here, just not really anywhere at the same time. i thought i could keep up with everything. with touring, with writing, with remembering to breathe. but i keep messing it up. i keep losing time. i didn’t want to stop writing. i just didn’t know how to keep showing up if i wasn’t doing it right.

i still think about you. that’s probably unfair.

i hope you’re good. i hope you’re better than i’ve been.

— j

you kept that letter for too long. read it twice. three times. then put it away in a drawer and didn’t open it again.

after that, things just… faded. you didn’t write. he didn’t call. you heard from jungwon once that jay had been in town for a weekend but didn’t stop by. you told yourself that was fine. you told yourself it didn’t matter. until that night in 1993, in the back room of someone’s party. the music loud. drinks half-finished. two girls near the record player talking about some band they saw the week before. one of them said, “the guitarist was so hot, i swear he was flirting with me all night backstage.” and the other one laughed. “the one with the flannel? that’s jay, right?”

you froze. just for a second. and didn’t say anything. you didn’t ask if it was the same jay. you didn’t need to. you left early, walked home alone, told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that you were fine. that you’d grown out of it.

but some nights, when it’s too quiet to lie to yourself, you replay that last goodbye. the way he’d said, “you should come.” and the way you never did. you wonder if he waited. for how long. or if he stopped counting somewhere along the way.

and here you are, 1994, months from graduating, pretending the weight on your chest is just the pressure of adulthood. pretending you don’t still rewind that tape sometimes. pretending you haven’t memorized his handwriting even though you haven’t seen it in years.

you’re fine. you smile when people ask. you talk about plans. you fill your days with work and lists and voices that keep you forward-facing. but every once in a while, at the end of a song, or the bottom of a box, or when you see someone in a denim jacket that doesn’t quite fit, you feel it again.

you never really let go. you just learned how to carry it differently.

it started as something casual, something thrown into a friday night without much weight — just yunjin walking into the room with two tickets and that grin she always had when she knew you needed something to pull you out of your head. she said bon jovi was in town. said yeonjun already had his and that the three of you could go together. said she didn’t want to hear any excuses. and you didn’t have one, not really. so you nodded, and told yourself it would be good to get out. you hadn’t been to a concert in a while. not a big one, not the kind with lights and heat and voices shouting into the dark.

you didn’t think about jay right away. maybe just for a second. a flicker of memory at the name. you remembered him talking about bon jovi, you remembered that t-shirt you painted for him.

so you went. you got dressed. you wore your denim jacket and borrowed eyeliner from yunjin. yeonjun picked you both up in his dad’s car, windows down, music too loud. it was the kind of night that felt like it could belong to anyone. the arena was full. the floor vibrated before anything even started. people were already on their feet, beer sloshing from plastic cups, voices rising together like they’d been waiting all week just to scream. you found your seats, somewhere near the back but high enough to see the full stretch of stage. the lights dimmed. a ripple ran through the crowd, electric and hungry. and then the band was there. you let yourself enjoy the first songs. let the music rush through you, let the drums hit your chest. yunjin was dancing in her seat. yeonjun kept shouting lyrics half a beat too late. the night blurred around the edges in the way concerts always do.

and then came the next song. always. you recognized it before your brain caught up.

and that’s when you saw him.

your eyes were scanning the stage out of habit, and there he was. standing off to the left, half-shadowed in blue light. guitar slung low across his chest, hair falling forward a little as he tilted toward the mic. he looked older. not in a bad way, just real. flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands steady on the strings. and then he opened his mouth and sang. not lead. just backing vocals.

your body didn’t move. couldn’t. it was like the floor had locked you in place. you stared. the rest of the crowd kept moving. the lights kept flashing. yunjin was still beside you, completely unaware. but your world had shrunk to the length of the stage and the shape of his shoulders and the way he closed his eyes when he hit a harmony.

jay. after all this time.

after postcards and silence and a hundred almost-memories you tried not to replay.

he was looking out into the crowd, past the lights, into the blur of people that you had somehow become a part of. and still, something in you reached for him. your fingers curled against your jacket, your breath caught halfway. you didn’t cry. not yet. you just kept staring, like maybe if you stayed very still, the universe would shift, and he’d look up, and see you. but he doesn’t see you. of course he doesn’t. you’re just one face in a crowd of thousands, too far up and too far back and too far gone. but when the last chorus of always starts, something in your chest breaks open anyway.

you hear him — clear, right through the echo and the noise. i know when i die, you’ll be on my mind, and i’ll love you, always.

your breath catches so hard you forget how to let it go.

your fingers find the edge of your seat. your knees lock, then unlock. and before you even know what you’re doing, you’re standing. slipping past yunjin’s knees, brushing yeonjun’s arm. you don’t look at either of them. you just go.

“where are you going?” yunjin’s voice follows you.

yeonjun chimes in too, confused. maybe a little annoyed. “dude. what—”

but you don’t answer. you can’t. you’re already down the stairs, already pushing through the hallway, the noise of the concert fading as you make your way out. the air outside is colder than you expected. your legs feel heavy. your hands are shaking, and you don’t stop walking until you’re alone. you take the long way home, even though the buses are still running. even though your shoes are not made for this. you walk like you’re trying to wear the feeling out of your body. like distance could make this less real.

and when you finally get to your apartment, you shut the door quietly behind you. you don’t turn on the lights. you just stand there, coat still on, bag still slung over your shoulder, and you let yourself feel it. you cry. you cry in that ugly, helpless way where your hands can’t keep up with your face, where your chest folds in on itself, where everything you’d been holding in since 1991 spills out like it never had anywhere to go. you cry because you saw him. because it’s been three years. because you didn’t know he would be there and now you don’t know how to be here without the weight of that moment pressed into your skin. and then you sit down on the floor, like your body doesn’t know what to do next.

you think about all the things that came flooding back the second you saw him: that christmas, the porch light, the sound of his voice in a letter, the way he used to rest his forehead against yours like it meant something. the lake house. the mixtape. the last kiss. you think about the letter he sent before it all went quiet. the way he said i still think about you, and how you never answered. you think about the day you heard someone else say his name and pretended it didn’t knock the air out of you.

you think about how, even after all this time, you still knew his voice the second you heard it. and somewhere under all of that, buried deep in the ache, there’s something like pride. because he made it. you always knew he could. he was good, really good. not just at guitar, but at meaning what he played. and now here he is, sharing a stage with one of the biggest bands in the world. and sounding like he belongs there. you’re happy for him. you are. but it still hurts. not because you wanted him to stay, but because some part of you never expected to lose him like this. not so completely.

you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jacket. pull your knees up to your chest. the room is quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of a light somewhere down the hall. and in the middle of all that silence, your heart keeps repeating the same question, over and over. does he ever think of you when he sings it? you don’t know. maybe you’ll never know.

but tonight, for a moment, you were eighteen again. and that’s almost worse than forgetting.

you wake up with your face still puffy, the inside of your mouth dry, and the memory of always still echoing in your chest. you sit on the kitchen floor with yesterday’s clothes and a cold cup of coffee, and you think, i’ll just move on. you don’t mean to say anything about it. you don’t wake up planning to talk. but then there’s a knock and it’s yunjin, holding a paper bag and looking like she already knows you’re not okay. yeonjun’s behind her, carrying takeout cups and wearing his we come in peace t-shirt that always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

they don’t press at first. they come in, settle onto your couch, act like it’s any other morning. yunjin puts music on low — something soft, r.e.m. — and yeonjun turns on the kettle like he lives there. you sit cross-legged on the floor in your hoodie, and after a few minutes of silence, yunjin says, “you didn’t come back.”

and that’s when it breaks, and you tell them everything. not the whole thing. not every letter, not every tape, not the lake or the kiss or the way he once said you make things feel easy. but enough for them to understand that it wasn’t just the shock of seeing him. it was everything around it. the time, the loss, the space between who you were and who he is now. they don’t interrupt. they don’t try to fix it. yeonjun just nods, real slow, and mutters, “damn.” yunjin reaches over and squeezes your hand.

hours pass, blurring into a quiet afternoon of them helping you pack away some of the memories, pausing only to put on some mindless show. they don't stay too long after that. eventually, they get up and start talking about dinner, about how you're going out whether you like it or not, and you let them take you along because the apartment feels too full of memory, and because they're trying, and because you've always been better at pretending when someone else is watching.

the diner they pick is on the corner near the old bookstore, the neon sign flickers a little, and you feel something in your chest settle as soon as you sit down. yunjin and yeonjun are talking, laughing quietly about someone from class, their legs brushing under the table in that way that makes you suspicious. they’re trying to act normal, but there’s something too soft in the way she hands him the salt. you watch them out of the corner of your eye, chewing on your straw, and finally smile for real for the first time all day.

but after a while, the noise gets too much again. you excuse yourself, and step out the front door, letting it shut behind you with a soft click. the sky’s dark now, but not cold. the street’s mostly empty and silent, except for a few cars passing, the occasional sound of a skateboard or a laugh from somewhere around the corner. you reach into your jacket pocket and pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes. one left. figures. you picked this habit up during finals last year. felt cool. felt like the end of a music video, like it did in the 80s. but now, in the 90s, they say it’ll kill you. but it shuts everything up for a second. so.

you don’t know how long you stand there like that, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between your fingers, letting the night breathe around you. and then headlights hit the pavement, a car pulls into the lot — dark green, polished, the kind of old-school cool that feels deliberate but not forced. it’s a 1992 chevy camaro z28, all angles and muscle, the kind of car a guy buys when they’re not quite ready to settle down.

you watch without thinking. the door opens. a guy steps out, tall, black jacket, looks vaguely familiar. another follows, laughing, pulling off a beanie. you know them. not well. not personally. but you recognize them. because you’ve seen them before.

on stage.

the third door opens slower.

and there he is.

jay.

he steps out like he’s unsure of the ground under him. same flannel, sleeves rolled, hair a little shorter now, but still him. still the same shape of boy you kissed once in a field of stars, the same voice on every tape you kept hidden in your drawer.

he’s looking down at first, shoulders slightly hunched. and then he looks up. right at you. he freezes. you freeze too. for a second, maybe longer, neither of you moves.

the other guys are still talking, already walking toward the diner entrance. but jay doesn’t follow. he stays there, by the car, staring at you like you’re something he thought he made up. like seeing you breaks some rule. your cigarette burns down between your fingers. you forget to breathe. you forget to blink. and in the silence between one breath and the next, the years fold up like they never happened. it feels like you’re just two kids again.

the car door is still open behind jay, one of the other guys calling his name from a few steps ahead, not noticing, or maybe not caring, that he hasn’t followed. his eyes stay on you like they’re trying to make sure you’re not just a trick of the lights, something he pulled out of a dream too late at night. you don’t look away. you can’t.

he closes the door and takes a few steps forward. slow and careful, like you might run.

“hi,” he says, voice low, uncertain, like the word isn’t big enough for what he’s feeling.

“hi.” you say it back.

and then silence again. the kind that comes heavy and weird, pressing between the two of you like fog. you cross your arms. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. a door opens somewhere behind you, someone laughs from inside the diner, but it doesn’t touch either of you. he clears his throat first.

“i forgot we were in your city,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “too many cities lately. i don’t even know what day it is half the time.”

you let out a small, dry laugh through your nose — not exactly mean, just tired. “yeah,” you say quietly. “i went to the show.”

his eyes widen a little, like the information hits harder than it should. “you—what?”

you nod once, slow. “i didn’t know you were part of the band. it was my friend’s idea. she dragged me out.” your voice is steadier than you expected. “i recognized your voice first. then i saw you.” he doesn’t say anything. his mouth opens slightly like he might, but nothing comes out. “you’re really good,” you add, softer this time. “i mean it.”

his shoulders drop a little. his mouth twists, not into a smile, exactly, but something close. “thanks.”

“i didn’t know you made it that far,” you say. “bon jovi.”

he exhales. his eyes are shining a little, and he looks down like he needs a second to get control of whatever’s happening inside him. “i didn’t know you’d be there.”

“me neither.”

he takes another step toward you. you don’t move. "i didn’t think i’d ever see you again," he says. his voice cracks at the end, just a little. "and now you’re here, you’re smoking."

you let out a low laugh, real this time. “yeah. turns out i have terrible coping mechanisms.”

he smiles, but it’s cautious. “i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for disappearing. for not writing. for—”

you hold up a hand, just slightly. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to.” his voice is steady now. quiet, but clear. he’s still standing a foot away, but it feels like he’s closer than that. “i wanted to reach out a hundred times,” he continues. “but it felt like too much. or not enough. and then time just… passed.”

you nod, slowly. “yeah. it does that.”

he looks at you again, really looks this time, like he’s trying to see who you became. “you look good,” he says. “different, but not really.”

you smile, even though it hurts a little. “you too. the flannel’s still doing the heavy lifting though.”

he laughs, finally, and it breaks something between you. for a second, you let it be easy again. he tilts his head, eyes soft. “can i—are you okay?” you hesitate. then nod. “i don’t know what this is,” he says. “i don’t know if i have the right to even be talking to you right now. but i’m really glad i saw you.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “me too.”

he takes a breath like he might say more, but the diner door swings open then, and yunjin leans out. “hey—are you—”

she sees him, and freezes. then looks at you. then back at him. her mouth opens like she wants to say something but she wisely doesn’t. “i’ll give you a minute,” she says, disappearing back inside without another word. you and jay both laugh under your breath at the same time. and just like that, it’s quiet again. he takes one more step forward, close enough now that you can see the curve of his lashes, the slight stubble on his jaw, his birth mark on the side of his neck. the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“can i give you a hug?” he asks, voice soft. unsure.

you nod. barely, but it’s enough. he moves toward you and wraps his arms around you, carefully at first, then tighter, like something in him breaks open when you don’t pull away. and you sink into it. not because you want to, but because your body does before your mind can think twice. his arms are strong, warmer than you remember. he smells like the kind of cologne you’d smell on someone walking by backstage, faint smoke and something sharp underneath it, but it’s still him, still familiar. you bury your face against his shoulder, and neither of you says anything for a long time. he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. doesn’t let go.

“i think about you a lot,” he says, voice rough. “still.” you meet his eyes, breath shaky. he continues, “some songs... i write thinking about you. i don’t mean to. it just happens.”

you blink hard, chest tight again. “i liked always,” you say. “it’s a good one.”

he looks down, just a second. his hand still resting on your back. “yeah, i wrote that one,” he says. you stare at him for a beat. he shrugs a little. doesn’t say if he wrote that one thinking about you. but his eyes say more than his mouth ever could. you look away first. try to breathe again.

“how’s jungwon?” he asks suddenly, gently shifting the weight of the conversation.

you smile, genuine. “he’s good. third year. studying architecture. i don’t know where that came from.”

“he always liked building stuff. remember that weird tower he made out of cereal boxes?”

you laugh quietly. “yeah. and glue sticks. and half the living room rug.”

he smiles at that. the kind of smile that aches. “i missed him. i miss home sometimes.”

you nod. “me too.”

he looks at you again. more carefully this time. “what about you? last year, right?”

“yeah. almost done.”

“how’s it been?”

you shrug. “busy. normal. lonely, sometimes. i live alone now.”

he opens his mouth to answer, but the door behind him swings open again. two guys step out, the same ones from the car. one of them grins when he sees jay and calls out, “hey, you coming in or what?”

jay glances at them, then back at you. “i’ll be in soon,” he says. “ran into a long-time... friend.”

the pause in the middle of the sentence hangs there. not heavy. just strange. like both of you noticed it, but neither wants to name it. the other guy raises his eyebrows a little but doesn’t ask anything. they head back inside. the silence creeps back in. the door opens behind you this time. “hey,” yunjin says, stepping out. “we’re heading out. you coming?” yeonjun follows, one hand casually linked with hers. they both look at you, curious but not nosy, like they know enough not to ask. you glance at them, then at jay. then back.

you shake your head. “i think i’ll stay.”

yunjin squeezes your arm, just once, and nods. yeonjun just smiles, like he expected that answer all along. they wave as they walk away, hands still linked, disappearing around the corner. you turn to jay. he doesn’t say anything. just watches you. waiting. and somehow, without a word, you both understand the next step.

and that's when jay thinks about everything that happened in the last three years. he didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did.

at first, he thought he could balance everything — school, the band, writing, you. he really thought he could make it all work. but time moved differently back then. and he was always chasing something. a setlist. a deadline. a bus that left too early or too late. the band got serious quicker than any of them expected. one night they were playing to twenty drunk kids in someone’s garage and the next they were opening for someone bigger, someone with real equipment and real fans. people started showing up. listening. remembering his name. it was addictive but also terrifying.

college faded into the background. it didn’t make sense anymore. he stopped going to most of his classes. said he’d take a semester off, then another. his parents were furious at first. called it reckless. stupid. said he was wasting potential. but then they came to a show. just one. they saw the way the crowd reacted, the way he moved with his guitar like it was part of him, like the music wasn’t something he made but something he became. after that, they softened. not completely, not all at once, but enough.

he kept going. city after city. song after song. sleeping in vans, missing birthdays, forgetting what day it was. he lost track of holidays. of phone calls. of you.

but he thought about you all the time.

he thought about you when the van was too quiet and everyone else was asleep. he thought about you when he saw lights flickering in some motel parking lot and it reminded him of that night in the lake. he thought about you when he wrote something too soft, too raw, and didn’t know why it mattered until your name crossed his mind halfway through the chorus. he thought about you every time they played near your state and he almost said something to the manager. almost asked if you’d be there. he thought about you every time he rewound that tape you gave him, the one with your handwriting on the cover and that one song you swore would always make you think of summer.

he started writing that last letter months before he sent it. scratched out versions of it in different notebooks, napkins, corners of lyric sheets. tried to get the words right and never did. everything sounded like a lie, or worse, like a goodbye. and he didn’t want it to be that. but he also didn’t know how to keep pretending it wasn’t over. and when he finally wrote it, he kept it folded in his bag for three days before mailing it. didn’t sleep that night. didn’t tell anyone. he didn’t expect you to write back. but part of him always hoped you would.

he told himself he was doing what he was meant to do. that the trade-off was worth it. that this life — the shows, the travel, the applause — it had to be enough. but then the lights would go down at the end of a set, and someone would ask if he was coming out for drinks, and he’d find himself standing by the door too long, thinking of you. of your voice. of how you said maybe when he asked you to come see him play. he told himself you were probably happy. probably better off. probably didn’t think about him the same way anymore.

and then, three years later, he walked out of a car in a city he didn’t even realize was yours. and there you were, smoking a cigarette, looking at him like he’d never really left. like he was still someone you knew. and everything inside him just stopped. because it had been three years, and somehow, it still felt like you were the only part of his life that had ever been quiet enough to feel real.

he watches your friends walk away until they’re out of sight. the parking lot quiets down again, humming with the low buzz of neon and leftover conversation.

he turns to you. “do you wanna get out of here?” he asks, like it’s nothing. like it’s not everything.

you look at him for a second. just long enough for it to matter. “yeah,” you say. “i do.”

he nods, like he wasn’t expecting a yes. like part of him already had one foot back inside the diner. you both start walking toward the car, the one he came in, but he hesitates. “this isn’t mine,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “we’re leaving tomorrow morning. early. that’s the drummer’s car.” he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down for a second before glancing at you again. “my car’s at the hotel. about twenty minutes that way.”

“my place is closer. we can walk, if you want.” you don’t know why you say it. not exactly. the words come out easy, but they sit strange in your chest. there’s no plan. no reason. no expectation. just this pull that says don’t let him go yet.

he nods. “okay.”

the walk starts quiet. the streets are mostly empty, the kind of quiet you only get in a small city late at night. the air is cooler now and makes your skin feel too tight. you pull your jacket tighter around you. he notices. he doesn’t say anything. just steps a little closer. your shoulders brush, just slightly. neither of you moves away. you pass under a streetlamp. it hums above you. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye — his jawline in the yellow light, the way his hands are still tucked into the sleeves of his flannel like he’s holding something in.

“i don’t know what to say to you,” you admit quietly. not looking at him.

“me neither,” he says, almost instantly. “it’s weird.”

“yeah.”

“but not bad.”

you glance up at him but he’s already looking at you. you nod. “no. not bad.”

you don’t speak again for a while. the silence between you isn’t empty, though. it’s full of everything you both remember and everything you’re both afraid to ask. every few steps, your arms brush again. sometimes your hands, and it doesn’t feel like an accident. but it doesn’t feel like a decision either.

you turn onto your street, point out the building without saying anything. he follows you up the front steps like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear your keys in your hand before you realize you took them out. you stop in front of the door. and that’s when it really settles in — the closeness. the possibility. the strangeness of all of this.

you haven’t seen him in years, you barely know him now, but you used to. you really, really used to. and standing here, in front of your door, you’re not sure which version of him is looking back at you — the boy you kissed in the dark, or the man who sang backup on a stadium stage. maybe both. maybe neither.

you unlock the door with a quiet click, push it open slowly, and step inside first. you don’t turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp by the bookshelf. your place smells like lavender and the faint trace of the incense you burned the night before. you kick off your shoes, he copies you. he steps in carefully, like he’s not sure if he should be there, like he might break something by breathing too loud. his eyes move slowly across the room — the record player near the window, a stack of books with a coffee mug balanced on top, a blanket half-fallen from the couch.

he lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “you made it look like you.”

you glance at him, eyebrow raised. “what does that mean?”

he shrugs, walking a little deeper into the room. “i don’t know. it just... feels like you live here. it’s not just a space. it’s yours.”

you smile, small. close the door behind him. “thanks, i think.”

he turns back toward the shelf, fingertips brushing over the spines of the books, the edge of a candle, the side of your old walkman. he pauses. his hand stops at a cassette case, faded, slightly cracked at the corner, label smudged from years of being touched. he pulls it out gently. the handwriting is his.

he looks at you, eyes soft. “you kept this?”

you nod, slow. “yeah.”

he stares at it for a second longer, then sets it back down, careful. when he turns back toward you, his face is quieter than before, like something's settled. “do you... wanna talk?” he asks. his voice isn’t pushing. just curiosity and hope. “like—about everything. put things in order.”

you blink once, then nod. slow. “if you want to,” you say. “if you’re comfortable.” he nods too, eyes still on you. you motion to the couch, then the kettle. “you can sit, or make tea, whatever makes it feel easier. make yourself at home.” he lets out a little breath at that, the corner of his mouth tugging into a barely-there smile. he sits on the couch and watches as you move through the space. you light the kettle on the stove. he watches your hands. “so,” you say eventually, turning back to face him, leaning against the counter. “how did you end up playing with bon jovi?”

he huffs out a breath, eyes widening slightly. “honestly? i still don’t totally know.”

you raise an eyebrow and he shrugs. “you auditioned?”

he nods. “twice. the second time, i played a song i wrote. didn’t say it was mine. they figured it out later. he liked that too.” he pauses. “it happened fast. i didn’t expect it.”

you tilt your head. “but you wanted it.”

“yeah,” he says, looking down at his hands. “i think i did. i mean, of course i did. we were opening for a few mid-sized acts. nothing huge. a guy who did lighting for their crew saw us in a club, told someone higher up that our guitarist was ‘some kid with way too much emotion in his fingers.’” he rolls his eyes at that. “i guess jon liked that.” you walk over slowly, curling your legs under you as you sit across from him. he shifts just slightly to face you. “so,” he says, matching your tone. “what about you? how were the last three years?”

you hesitate. not because you don’t have answers — but because none of them feel simple. you shrug. “good in pieces.” he watches you for a second. not pushing, but not letting the question disappear completely either. you offer a half-smile. “i don’t think i figured anything out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

he nods. “i wasn’t.”

a quiet settles in again. and then he says suddenly: “i missed you.” with no hesitation. like the words had been sitting too long and couldn’t stay still anymore.

you really look at him. “i missed you too.”

his eyes soften again. he leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees. “sometimes i used to wonder if i made it all up. that summer. the way we were. if i just remembered it better than it really was.”

you shake your head, sure. “you didn’t.”

“you were always in the back of my mind,” he says. “even when i didn’t want to admit it. especially then.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. “i thought about you a lot. more than i wanted to.”

you both sit in it for a moment — the weight of three years, of silence, of almosts that never got their ending. the kettle starts to hiss, soft and steady in the background, but neither of you moves. he leans back a little, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his hand only inches from your shoulder now. “i thought maybe we’d bump into each other again. and i hated that. the idea that it’d take chance, not effort.”

“but you’re here,” you say, quiet.

“yeah.” he breathes out. “and i don’t want to leave this time without doing it right.”

you glance at him. “i don’t know what doing it right means,” you admit.

he smiles, eyes tired and full. “me neither. but we could try.”

you look down at your hands, then at his fingers brushing slightly against the fabric of the couch. your heart’s louder now. you nod, barely. “we could try.”

you don’t know when it happens exactly, the shift. maybe it’s the quiet. maybe it’s the way the room’s only lit by the soft glow of the lamp. maybe it’s the weight of his words still floating between you. but suddenly, you’re looking at him, really looking at him, and he’s already looking at you. his gaze doesn’t move — not to your hands, not to the floor like it used to when he got nervous. it’s steady now, like he’s memorizing something. like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. your heart stumbles a little. and neither of you looks away, and the moment stretches. his knee is brushing yours. his hand still resting on the couch cushion. your whole body feels too aware of itself — your fingers, your lips, your throat.

the kettle screams.

you both flinch, not much, just enough to break the spell, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“right,” you say, standing up quickly. “tea.”

he stays on the couch, watching you move across the room. you flick off the stove, pour the water into the mugs you grabbed earlier. you add honey to yours, then add some to his, too. you bring the mugs back, hand him his. he smiles when he takes it. that same crooked, tired smile you remember.

you sit again, curled into your side of the couch, feet tucked under you. “so,” you say, gently blowing over the rim of your cup. “rockstar life, huh?”

he really laughs, for the first time tonight. “i mean, it’s not exactly groupies and private jets,” he says. “sometimes it’s tuna sandwiches at truck stops and sharing hotel rooms with people who snore like they’re dying.”

you snort. “glamorous.”

“deeply.”

“do you like it?”

he thinks for a moment. “i do. most days. some days it’s exhausting. some days i feel like i’m just chasing noise.”

you nod, sip your tea. “do you ever get lonely?” you ask, quiet.

he looks at you. “yeah,” he says. “a lot more than i thought i would.”

you both finish your tea slowly, the conversation drifting here and there. small questions, quiet answers, tiny pieces of each other being carefully returned. it’s not like before. but it’s not not like before either.

you place your mug down gently on the coffee table. he does the same. your hands brush. just barely. you start to move yours away out of instinct, but then you feel his fingers wrap gently around your wrist. you look up. he’s already looking at you again. his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is loud. louder than you want it to be.

he leans in, not quite closing the space, but almost. “you still do that thing,” he says, voice low. “twist the sleeve of your sweater when you’re nervous.”

you glance down at your hand. he’s right. you look back up at him. his face is so close now you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the one from when jungwon pushed him off his bike in eighth grade. you could reach for him. you could close the distance. you could kiss him.

you don’t move, not at first. you just sit there, watching him, feeling his hand warm against your wrist, his thumb brushing once against your skin like he’s asking something without saying it. the distance between you is nothing now, and he’s close enough that you can see the way his lashes fan downward, the faint crease between his brows, the softness in his expression that wasn’t there when he first stepped out of that car. his hand moves slowly, from your wrist to your jaw, fingertips grazing up the side of your neck. his touch is careful, your breath catches, and he feels it, you know he does, but he doesn’t stop. his palm settles against your cheek, his thumb resting just below your eye.

he tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, and then he leans in. his lips meet yours in a kiss that feels like an exhale, full of everything that’s gone unsaid. he kisses you like he’s afraid to startle you, like he’s still checking if you’ll let him stay. and you do, you kiss him back without hesitation, your hand moving to his chest like you need something to hold onto. his breath hitches and he shifts closer, legs brushing yours, the heat of his body pulling you in. his other hand moves to your waist, anchoring. you tilt your head, your lips parting under his, and that’s when the kiss deepens.

you feel him everywhere — in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, in the press of his chest against yours, in the gentle sound he makes when you pull him in a little closer. the world narrows. the couch disappears. the years fall away. there’s only him, only this, only the you falling into together like no time has passed at all.

when he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, he doesn’t go far. his forehead rests against yours. your noses brush. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes stay closed.

“i’ve wanted to do that since i saw you standing outside the diner,” he says, voice low, breath warm against your skin. “actually, since before that.”

you smile, overwhelmed, a little breathless. “i know.”

you open your eyes to find his already on you. wide, tender, shining. “i didn’t think i’d ever get the chance again,” he adds.

you reach up, fingers finding the side of his neck. “you have it now.”

and he kisses you again, no pause this time. his mouth finds yours with more confidence now, more feeling. the way you mold into him is instinctive, your hand slides up into his hair, his fingers spread across your back. the kiss is soft, but it’s not shy. every press of his lips says i missed you, every shift of your body says i’m still here.

his lips don’t leave yours for long. there’s no rush, but there’s urgency, not of time, but of want. of having waited too long and not knowing how to say it any other way. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. he shifts closer, his body pressing into yours with a kind of hesitation that disappears as soon as you don’t stop him. your knees bump. your hands move without thinking, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. you feel the weight of him then — not just the physical, but everything he’s holding.

he leans into you, and you lean back, and the cushions give under your weight as he gently guides you down, your back meeting the couch, his body following. he hovers over you for just a moment, eyes meeting yours like he’s asking again, silently, if this is okay. and you answer the only way you can: you pull him in.

his mouth finds yours with more fire this time. it’s still careful, still steady, but there's a heat now that wasn't there before, something that builds in the way he presses you into the couch, the way his hand finds your waist, the way he exhales against your lips. you feel the weight of his body above you, his knee slipping between yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. your hands explore him like you’re tracing something familiar and new at the same time — the slope of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the muscles shifting under your palms.

he pulls back just slightly, mouth still close, breath catching as he looks down at you, and then he says it, voice low and rough and full of awe, “god, you’re so beautiful.” you inhale sharply, eyes locking with his. he kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “always were,” he murmurs between kisses. his lips trail lower, grazing your neck, making your whole body tighten. “you don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers.

your breath hitches. your fingers tighten around his back. he kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. every shift of his body against yours makes your skin burn in the best way. there’s something new here, a closeness that’s never been touched before, but was always waiting. you find it overwhelming, but it’s not scary. his hands move to your hips, grounding you, holding you like he doesn’t want to let go — like he couldn’t, even if he tried. his fingers dig in just slightly, and it sends a shiver through your body. you exhale, a soft, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out, and he hears it.

he kisses you harder. his mouth pressing into yours like he’s starving for it now. you feel his tongue slide against yours and you moan softly into his mouth, and that’s when you feel his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, skin against skin, warm and steady and reverent. he groans when he touches you. low, like it’s involuntary, like just feeling you beneath his hands undoes something in him. you reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, messing it up in a way that makes him hiss under his breath. he leans into it, hips pressing forward, his body sinking further into yours, like he needs to feel you everywhere at once. his knee shifts between your thighs, pressing in. you don’t know if he means to do it or if it’s just instinct, but it sends a wave of heat through your core that makes your back arch slightly into him. you let out a breathless moan and your hips twitch without meaning to, and he feels it. his breath stutters, his hands holding tighter.

“fuck,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “you make the prettiest sounds.”

you let out another soft, shaky moan when his thigh presses in again, more deliberate this time, like he’s testing something, like he’s trying to see how far he can take you with just this. your head spins. his hands slide further up under your shirt, fingers spreading across your waist, his palms dragging up the bare skin of your stomach. you gasp softly when the cool air of the room hits the warmth of your skin, and he leans back just enough to look at you. his lips are parted. his eyes heavy and full of something dark and warm and wanting.

“can i take this off?” he asks, voice low, almost careful. “just your shirt.”

you nod, but it’s not enough — you’re already whispering, “yeah. yes. it’s okay.”

he lifts it slowly, his fingers brushing your ribs, the fabric sliding up over your head and landing somewhere behind the couch. his eyes drop to you, his gaze moving over your chest, your stomach, the way your skin is flushed and rising with every breath.

“jesus,” he breathes out, more to himself than to you. “you’re... fuck.”

you can’t look away from him. the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or fall to his knees, makes your whole body ache. he leans in again, this time slower. he kisses your collarbone. the center of your chest. his hands still holding your waist, guiding you gently as his mouth maps a path down the center of you. your hips move again, and his thigh finds its place between yours, pressing up, grinding just enough to pull another sound from you, one that surprises even you.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your ribcage. “just like that. let me hear you.”

you feel it all. his body above yours, your legs tangled under him. the weight of his thigh against your center, the warmth of his mouth, the hands that can’t seem to stop touching you. you don’t know where this is going yet — not fully — but right now, it’s everything. right now, it’s his breath on your skin, your hands in his hair, your lips swollen from kissing him over and over again. it’s the years that fell away the second he touched you. it’s the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

his hands never stop moving, dragging along your sides, your stomach, and he leans back just slightly, just enough to take you in again, his eyes dark and full of something that makes your skin heat under the weight of it. his fingers slide up one strap of your bra and down your arm, until the thin band slips from your shoulder. he presses his mouth there immediately — warm kisses, one after the other, his lips brushing over the new skin, then he bites gently, just enough to make you gasp, and he groans at the sound.

you moan softly, helplessly, when his mouth gets close to your breast, and that’s when he stops. just for a second. he lifts his head and looks down at you, breathing heavy, his hands still firm on your waist.

“do you really want this?” he asks, voice low and serious.

you nod right away, then say it out loud, because you want him to hear it. “i’ve been waiting for this for a really long time, actually.”

his eyes flash, jaw tightening, like the words hit deeper than they should. he groans, low in his throat, and then he’s on you again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, and you feel his breath, warm and fast, as he speaks between kisses. “yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough. “what exactly have you been waiting for?”

you let out a breathy laugh, your fingers digging into his back without thinking, and whisper, “i was waiting for you to make me yours.”

he curses under his breath, something sharp and guttural, and you barely have time to react before he’s reaching behind you, tugging your bra down with a kind of desperation that makes your head spin. “fuck,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “i’m gonna make you mine, then.”

his touch changes — still gentle, but firmer now, more certain. he cups your breast like he’s wanted to for years, his thumb brushing your nipple before he leans in and takes it into his mouth. your back arches without meaning to, a moan slipping out of your lips as your hand flies to his hair again, pulling slightly, needing something to hold onto. he groans into your skin, the vibration making you shiver. his other hand slides under your back, supporting you, keeping you close. your hips roll instinctively beneath him, your legs parting more, needing more of him everywhere. your nails drag across his back, not too hard, but enough to make him breathe harder, to make him growl softly against your chest.

“so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “can’t believe you’re really here. can’t believe i get to touch you like this.”

his voice is raw now, every word soaked in years of longing and frustration and heat. and you’re melting under him, body buzzing, mind gone, skin on fire. his mouth is still on your breast, warm and wet, his tongue circling your nipple in slow, maddening strokes before he sucks it into his mouth again. and while he’s doing it, you feel him shift his hips down into you, slow and deliberate, grinding his hardness right where you need him most.

your whole body jerks in response, hips tilting up into him, a sharp, breathless moan leaving your lips before you can stop it. his thigh is still between your legs, but now his cock is pressing right against your core, even through the layers of clothing — and it’s too much, not enough, exactly what you’ve been aching for. he keeps moving his hips, slow, hard, dragging himself against you like he knows exactly how close you are to falling apart.

you whimper again, high and needy, your hands clutching at his shoulders, at his back, at anything you can reach. “jay,” you breathe, voice thin and shaky, “please.”

he pauses, not pulling away, just lifting his head slightly from your chest to look at you. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lips parted and wet. “please what, love?” he asks, his voice low and rough and teasing. he knows. of course he knows. but he wants to hear it.

you stare up at him, completely undone and open. “i want you,” you whisper. “i want you so bad it hurts.”

his breath leaves him in a rough exhale, and before you can say anything else, his hands are on your waist, lifting you and pulling you up onto his lap, your thighs straddling him, your chest still bare against his flannel. you can feel how hard he is now, pressed right between your legs, and the friction makes your head spin.

he kisses you hard, deep and messy, all teeth and tongue and want, and then he pulls back just enough to murmur, “tell me where.”

you blink, dazed. “bedroom. down the hall. second door.”

he stands with you still wrapped around him like it’s nothing, like he was meant to carry you. you hold onto him, arms around his neck, mouth brushing his jaw as he moves fast, focused, straight down the hall. he kicks the door open gently with his foot and walks you inside, setting you down carefully on the bed like you’re something he doesn’t want to drop, like he’s still trying to be careful even when he’s about to lose control.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you as he stands over the edge of the bed. “look at you.”

he crawls over you slowly, hands braced on either side of your head, and starts pressing kisses to your skin again — your jawline, your cheek, the soft space behind your ear, down your throat. every kiss is hot, open-mouthed, a little desperate. he whispers between them, voice hoarse.

“so perfect.”

“been dreaming of this.”

“can’t believe i get to have you like this.”

his hands roam over your ribs, your sides, your thighs. his body never leaves yours. every part of him is pressed to you, and you’re burning, pulsing, so far gone you can barely form thoughts. your fingers dig into his back, his arms, his hair, anywhere you can pull him closer. you moan again when he kisses the space between your breasts, grinding into you through his jeans, and he growls softly at the sound, kissing lower, biting gently at your hipbone.

“gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your skin. “gonna take my time with you. finally.”

you arch into him, legs falling open wider, and he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you — all flushed and panting beneath him, your eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen.

“you’re mine tonight,” he says, voice wrecked. “every inch of you.”

you nod, breathless, your whole body trembling. “i’m yours,” you whisper.

and that’s all he needs. he pulls back just enough to sit on his knees between your legs, breathing hard, his hands moving to the buttons of his flannel. his eyes don’t leave yours as he pulls it off slowly, letting the fabric fall to the floor beside the bed. underneath, there’s just a worn black t-shirt and you watch, wide-eyed and barely breathing, as he lifts the hem and peels it off too.

he’s lean, all muscle and sharp lines, but not in a showy way. more like someone who’s lived in his body, worked in it, played night after night with a guitar strapped across his chest. his stomach is tight, his arms strong, his collarbones prominent in the low light. and god, he’s beautiful. you swallow, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and he sees the way you react to him, the way your eyes move over every inch of his chest like you can’t help it. like you’ve been thinking about this too long not to stare now that he’s finally in front of you like this.

he smirks, just a little. not cocky. just knowing. “you okay, love?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

you nod quickly, your lips parting around a soft gasp when he leans down again, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “you’re even better than i imagined,” you whisper, like it slips out before you can stop it.

he groans at that, something low and deep, and kisses you again, slow and hot and full of tongue, before he starts moving lower. his hands find your waist again, fingers sliding under the hem of your pants. he kisses your stomach once, just above the waistband, then looks up at you through his lashes.

“can i?” he asks, voice a little rough now, like he’s holding back.

you nod, and your voice is small but certain. “yeah. please.”

he hums like the answer physically affects him, and starts pulling your pants down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, your thighs, down your calves, until they’re gone. you’re left in just your underwear, legs spread for him, chest rising and falling fast, and he sits back for a second just to take it in. he lets out a sharp, helpless sound when he sees you.

“fuck, baby,” he says, eyes roaming. “look at you.”

his hands come to your thighs, thumbs brushing the inside where your skin is already hot and shaking. he leans in, kisses one side gently, then the other — slow, open-mouthed kisses to the softest parts of you, places no one’s ever touched the way he does now. his lips find the crease of your thigh, right where it meets your center, and you gasp, your hips jumping slightly. he chuckles against your skin, breath hot.

he kisses you through your underwear next, a soft press of his mouth right where you need him most, and it makes your entire body jolt. you whine, your hand flying to his hair, tugging lightly. he moans at the contact, at the scent of you, his nose pressing lightly against the fabric. and then he breathes you in, slow and deep.

“jesus,” he mutters against you. “you smell so fucking good.” his hands tighten on your thighs. he presses another kiss through the damp fabric, then another, dragging it out, letting you feel every bit of the tease. your hips roll again, trying to get more, chasing the heat of his mouth, and he just smiles. “fuck, baby, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he says softly, almost like he’s in awe.

you can’t respond, not with real words, just a soft, shaky moan and your fingers digging deeper into his hair as he keeps kissing between your legs, building the pressure, praising you under his breath like it’s a prayer. your legs are trembling now, thighs twitching with every breath. he groans into you, deep and low, like he’s losing his mind just from being this close. then his hands slide up your thighs, slow and firm, curling around your hips as he pulls his mouth back just enough to look at you.

“can i take these off?” he asks, voice dark and tender at the same time, like he’s already halfway gone.

you nod fast, desperate, breathless. “please.”

he hums at the way you say it, like you’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted. and then, slowly, he hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and pulls. he watches as he drags them down your legs, never breaking eye contact for too long. he tosses the fabric aside without care, like nothing matters but you now, here, like this. his eyes drop to your core, and he groans, deep in his chest. “fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so wet already.”

your cheeks burn, but you don’t hide. you can’t, not when he looks at you like that, like you’re sacred.

he kisses your thighs again, then lower. kisses your mound. kisses the soft skin right beside where you need him most. teasing, worshipping. and then finally he leans in and licks a slow, flat stripe from your entrance up to your clit. your whole body arches. your hand flies to his hair again and you let out a sound that’s not even a moan — just a desperate breath, cut short by how hard it hits.

he groans into you. “that’s it,” he murmurs, licking again, slower this time. “that’s what i wanted.”

his hands slide under your thighs and hold you open, steady, as he buries his face between your legs. his tongue moves like he knows you already, like he’s been dreaming about this for years — licking, sucking, teasing. he focuses on your clit in soft, steady circles, then moves down, tongue fucking you, groaning every time you moan for him. you can’t stop moving. your hips grind against his mouth, your thighs tense, your stomach pulling tight. and he just holds you there, letting you fall apart in his hands.

“you taste so good, baby,” he whispers between strokes. “so sweet. fuck.”

you whimper, fingers tangled in his hair, the pressure building so fast you don’t know what to do with it. he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even slow down. his mouth stays on you, perfect and hot and overwhelming, his hands holding your thighs open as he works you open with his tongue. when you moan his name again, sharp and breathless, “jay—,” he groans like it physically affects him, like it’s the only thing he ever wants to hear again.

“that’s it,” he says. “say my name again. let me hear you.”

every movement feels intentional — like he’s learning what makes you whimper, what makes your legs shake, what makes you cling tighter to his hair and moan his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to say. his mouth is relentless, warm and wet and perfect. his hands hold you firm like you might slip away if he lets go. the coil inside you is tightening fast now, heat building between your hips, up your spine, down your thighs. your whole body arches into him, and he groans at the way you move against his mouth.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby. come on. let go,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. you gasp, your fingers fisting the sheets now, eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding. and then his mouth sucks your clit just right and your whole body shatters. the orgasm hits hard.

your back arches off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat as the pleasure rolls through you in waves. your legs tremble, toes curling, thighs squeezing around his head, and he just keeps licking you through it, gentler now, helping you ride it out, coaxing every last bit of it from your body with his mouth. “fuck,” you breathe, over and over, your voice shaking.

he finally pulls back when you’re twitching, your body too sensitive, your breath caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh. he kisses your thighs again, affectionate, almost reverent, and then he sits up. his face is flushed, lips swollen, chin wet with you. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. and then, slowly, he reaches down and undoes his jeans. you watch, still trembling, chest rising and falling too fast. your eyes follow his hands as he pushes the denim down his hips, revealing the outline of his cock through his boxers — hard, straining, undeniable. he kicks the jeans off, and then he just stands there for a second, breathless, staring down at you with something between hunger and awe.

he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other still at the waistband of his boxers, pausing for a moment as his eyes roam over your face, your body, your chest rising and falling from the high he just gave you. you meet his gaze, and there’s something new in it now — something softer than before. not lust, not quite. something closer to reverence.

“i’ve thought about this,” he says, voice low, breath shaky. “so many times. more than i ever should’ve.”

you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him. “me too.”

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second. then he kisses you again like he’s trying to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud yet. you taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth. he pulls back just enough to whisper, “i missed you so fucking much—” his hips grind against yours through the thin fabric still between you, “you. all of you.”

“i missed you too,” you whisper, and it comes out raw and honest.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. then he finally pushes his boxers down, and you feel the heat of him against your thigh, thick, hard and heavy. you look down and your mouth goes dry. it’s overwhelming, in the best way — not just the size of him, but what it means. that he’s here. with you, like this.

he moves between your legs, settling into the space that always felt like his, and pauses. “you sure?” he asks again, his voice quieter now. steadier.

“yes,” you say, without hesitation. “please.”

he groans, and reaches down, running the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in you. the pressure makes you gasp again, your hips twitching toward him, desperate to feel him where you’ve needed him most. he lines himself up, eyes never leaving yours, and then he pushes in slowly and carefully, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you open. your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your back arching, hands flying to his shoulders. he curses low under his breath, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you feel like heaven. you feel... fuck, baby.” your fingers dig into him as he bottoms out, buried completely inside you, and he stays there for a moment — not moving — just breathing with you, forehead resting against yours. “you okay?” he murmurs.

you nod. “perfect.”

he starts to move, slow at first, with deep, steady thrusts that make your breath stutter with every roll of his hips. the friction is perfect, the heat between you unbearable. every sound he makes — every grunt, every whisper of your name — pushes you closer to the edge again. his hands roam constantly, like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. he kisses you between thrusts, muttering things into your mouth like so fucking good, and i missed you, and you were always mine.

you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, tighter, and he groans like he’s breaking apart. his rhythm builds, his hips slamming into yours with more force, more urgency. it’s not rough, not careless, but it’s just that he needs this. needs you, every part of you, and you need him too. the sounds of skin and breath and moans fill the room, tangled with his name on your lips over and over again. “jay—fuck—”

he kisses you hard, messy and open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours as he pounds into you, the headboard knocking gently behind you, his hands everywhere. one grips your thigh, the other pressing into the mattress by your head. and then his hand moves up, fingers brushing your jaw, your lips, and you part them instinctively, letting him slide his thumb inside your mouth. he watches you as you suck on it, his eyes dark, mouth falling open. “jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re... fuck.”

you swirl your tongue around the pad of his thumb, moaning around it, and his hips stutter. he growls low, pulls it out, and brings that hand down to grip your waist as he fucks you harder and deeper, every thrust dragging against the sweetest spot inside you. “you feel so good,” he mutters, voice wrecked, barely coherent. “so fucking good. like you were made for me.” you cry out again, hips rocking to meet him, your nails raking down his back. your whole body tightens, thighs trembling, your second orgasm crashing close like a wave.

and then he says it, broken, breathless, true. “i loved you. all this time,” he gasps, pressing his forehead to yours, thrusts getting sloppy, more frantic. “i still fucking love you.”

you come undone with a cry — loud, raw, desperate. your whole body arches into him, clenching around his cock, dragging him down with you. you tremble under him, pleasure blinding, his name falling from your lips like prayer. he groans, deep and guttural, and pulls out at the last second, fisting his cock once, twice, before he comes with a growl, hot and thick across your stomach. he jerks in his own hand, breathing ragged, eyes locked on you as he spills everything onto your skin.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. his body trembles above you, he lets out a shaky breath, his lips brushing your neck. “mine,” he whispers. “you’re mine. you always were.”

you hold him close, heart pounding, your legs still wrapped around his waist. and for the first time in years, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be. you stay like that for a moment, his body heavy over yours, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, your breath slowly returning to something close to normal. your skin is damp with sweat, your chest still rising and falling too fast, and you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs, loud and unsteady.

he doesn’t move right away. just presses his lips once, soft, against your neck, then your collarbone, then rests his forehead there like he can’t bear to let go of the closeness just yet. you slide your fingers up into his hair, brushing it gently back from his forehead, and whisper, “we’re a mess.”

he laughs, low and breathless, and lifts his head enough to look down at you. his gaze moves to your stomach, the evidence of him still there, and he hums, a little sheepish. “let me clean you up,” he murmurs. you nod, and he leans over the side of the bed, pulling a crumpled t-shirt from your laundry basket nearby — one of his, you realize, from years ago, soft and faded. he uses it carefully, wiping your stomach, being gentle like you’re fragile now, like he’s still not done taking care of you.

you watch him the whole time. the way his jaw clenches in focus, the way his hands move. the way he keeps stealing glances at your face, like he needs to check if you’re still with him. and when he’s done, he tosses the shirt aside and settles beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. you turn toward him instinctively, tucking yourself against his side, your leg draping over his hip, your hand resting flat on his chest. he wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer. skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, almost afraid of the quiet that’s settled around you both.

you nod, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. “more than okay.”

there’s a pause, and he shifts a little, like he’s trying to find the right words. his fingers trace slow circles on your back, his breath even now, steady against your temple. “i meant what i said,” he murmurs eventually. you blink, and tilt your head to look at him. “about loving you,” he says. his voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet. like he’s scared to say it too loud, scared it’ll disappear if he does. “i didn’t know how to carry it back then,” he continues. “but i still love you, even after all this time.” you don’t interrupt, you let him speak. “it never stopped,” he says. “not really. i loved you when i was writing songs in hotel rooms. i loved you when i saw your name on old letters and had to stop myself from riding to your city. i loved you when i stepped out of that car and saw you again for the first time.”

he turns fully toward you now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “and i love you right now,” he says. “more than i know how to explain.” your throat tightens and your eyes burn. you reach up, touch his face, and trace the line of his cheek with your thumb.

“i love you too,” you whisper. “always did.”

he leans in then, kisses you slow and soft. nothing rushed, nothing hungry, just love.

just all the things you both kept to yourselves for years, finally allowed to be spoken in the quiet of your room, under soft sheets and the faint hum of the city outside. you rest your head against his chest again, and he holds you tighter.

“can we stay like this for a while?” you ask.

he kisses the top of your head. “as long as you want.”

and for the first time in a long time, there’s no distance. no almosts, no waiting.

and he sleeps over that night. not because you asked, not because he asked. just because neither of you ever considered the alternative.

you fall asleep tangled in each other, your leg over his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, his breath steady against your neck. his skin is warm, even under the cool sheets, and at some point in the night, he murmurs something — too soft to catch — but it makes you smile in your sleep. when you wake up, the sun’s filtering through the blinds in thin lines, and he’s already awake.

he’s propped up on one elbow, watching you, hair messy, smile soft. “good morning,” he says, voice low, raspy from sleep.

you blink slowly, stretch a little, and smile back. “hi.”

he kisses your shoulder, then your cheek, then pulls you closer like he doesn’t want to leave the bed — like he could stay like this forever. but he can’t, and you both know that.

“i should get back to the hotel,” he says eventually, eyes apologetic. “they’re probably losing their minds trying to find me.”

you sigh, nestle into his chest for one more second. “what time’s the last show?”

“tonight,” he says. “city next over. it’s the end of the leg, then we get a few weeks off.”

you nod slowly. “you can use the phone,” you say, sitting up, brushing your hair back. “i don’t think it’s been used in days.”

he grins. “i missed landlines.” he pulls on his pants and shirt from the night before, pads barefoot to the phone in the corner of your living room, dialing a number from memory. you hear him talk to someone — probably the security guy — laughing a little, apologizing, promising he’ll be down in twenty. when he hangs up, he walks back toward you, hands in his pockets, eyes lingering on the edges of your apartment like he wants to remember it exactly as it is. “they’ll be here soon,” he says, voice lower now. “i should go.”

you nod. try to smile, but it’s small. he watches you for a second. then steps closer. his hands land on your waist. his forehead rests against yours.

“come with me,” he says.

your heart stutters. “what?”

“just for the night. the last show. it’s nothing big. we’ll be back by morning. or—” he laughs softly, eyes still on yours. “we won’t. we’ll figure it out.”

you blink. “jay…”

“i know it’s sudden,” he says. “i know we haven’t figured out what this is. but i don’t care. i just want you there.” you hesitate. not because you don’t want to go — but because it feels big. because everything between you always has. he leans in closer, kisses the corner of your mouth. “come with me,” he says again. softer this time. “please.”

he looks at you, you look at him. and then you’re moving.

you spin around, nearly tripping over your own feet as you head to your bedroom, pulling open drawers, grabbing whatever you can — a pair of jeans, a toothbrush, your tape player. he laughs from the hallway, breathless, half in disbelief. “i’ll take that as a yes,” he calls out.

you yell back, “shut up and help me find my shoes.” he grins, already heading into your closet like he’s lived here forever. and just like that, you’re going.

before you leave, you scribble a note on the back of an envelope you found near the phone, the ink shaky from how fast you’re writing. you fold it in half and slide it under the mat by your door.

yunjin, if you pass by here — went on tour with jay. just one night. back tomorrow. probably. maybe.

you don’t sign it. you don’t need to. she’ll know, and then you go. the drive to the next city is quiet at first. the windows rolled halfway down, your bag in the backseat, jay’s hand resting on your thigh the entire time. there’s music playing low on the radio — tom petty, bryan adams, someone you don’t catch — and the sky is the kind of gray that doesn’t mean rain, just distance. he looks over at you every few minutes like he still can’t believe you’re there. like he’s afraid to blink and find the passenger seat empty.

you get to the venue around three. the crew��s already setting up, cables and amps everywhere, the soundcheck halfway through. someone hands jay a setlist. someone else tells him where catering is. he keeps looking back at you like he’s trying not to lose you in the noise. you don’t get lost.

you follow him backstage, watch him tune his guitar, watch him run through scales absentmindedly with his eyes half on you. you sit on a speaker case and talk with one of the backup singers for half an hour about lip balm and tour food and how long the drives get between cities. you see the way the rest of the band looks at jay when he plays — the quiet respect, the ease, the way he’s earned his space up there. you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. and when the show starts, you watch it from the side of the stage.

the lights are blinding. the bass shakes the floor. the crowd screams in waves, louder with every song. and he plays like he’s alive in a way you’ve never seen before, like every note is another word he doesn’t have to say out loud. you watch his fingers move across the strings, his head tilted back, sweat dripping down his temple. and all you can think is i’m so fucking proud of him. he looks at you once during a quiet moment between songs. you smile, he does too.

after the show, the band’s buzzing. half-dressed, towel-draped, beer-in-hand kind of buzzing. someone hands you both a drink. someone else tries to convince you to stay for another leg of the tour. you laugh it off. or maybe you don’t.

you end up in a hotel room around two in the morning. his guitar still in the corner, your makeup smudged, your voice a little hoarse from singing along. he presses his forehead to yours before you fall asleep, whispers, “you were my favorite part of today.” you don’t answer. you just kiss him.

the next morning, the world feels slower. the windows are fogged. the coffee tastes stronger. he sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, one sock on, and glances at you like he’s thinking too hard. “you know,” he says, not looking up, “this could be a thing. you and me. doing this.”

you pull the sheet up over your chest, lean on your elbow. “you mean… shows? cities?”

he nods. finally meets your gaze. “yeah. if you wanted.”

you don’t answer right away. because maybe this was supposed to be one night. maybe you were supposed to go home in the morning. but maybe you won’t. you think about the noise, the lights, the music. about his hand on your thigh in the car. about his mouth on your skin the night before. about his voice saying “my favorite part of today.” so you look at him — hair messy, guitar pick still in his pocket, smile soft, and you think: maybe i could get used to this.

and your life changed a little after that day. not in the kind of way that people notice from the outside, not right away, but something shifted. you came back home feeling different. lighter, like someone who finally let herself say yes, like someone who wasn’t afraid of living anymore.

you graduated two months later. your cap didn’t sit right on your head and your gown was wrinkled from the car ride, but none of that mattered. not when you saw him in the crowd, leaning against the back railing, sunglasses on, biting back a grin when you caught his eye. he didn’t bring flowers. he brought his car. you hadn’t packed a bag. he didn’t ask if you wanted to go, and you didn’t ask where.

you watched a concert in a city you never thought you’d see, slept in a motel with pink walls and a broken ice machine, woke up to him humming something under his breath while brushing his teeth, one hand tangled in your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. sometimes you went alone. just you and him. sometimes you brought a friend — yunjin once, who danced side stage like she’d been doing it her whole life, who whispered he’s so gone for you, you know that, right? into your ear after the show, and kissed your cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

sometimes you both passed through home. once, you and jay picked up jungwon for a weekend. no plan, just his overnight bag and your mixtape in the stereo. you ended up at the coast. jay let jungwon drive for part of the way, and you both screamed when he almost missed the exit. you slept three across in one bed, your feet tangled, your ribs hurting from laughing. jay played guitar on the porch of the tiny rental, barefoot and happy, and jungwon fell asleep with popcorn in his lap.

no one talked about what it meant, but everyone felt it anyway.

you started carrying a small bag in the back of your closet, just in case. a toothbrush. a sweater. a cassette or two. he’d show up sometimes without warning, always leaning against the doorframe like he’d never left. “thought we could drive,” he’d say. and you’d go, you always went. you weren’t following him, you weren’t chasing anything. you were just there together making it up as you went along. saying yes to the kind of life that didn’t always fit in lines or schedules or plans. but fit him, and it fit you.

fit this version of love that moved, and stretched, and stayed. the summer blurred like that. with half-packed bags and gas station snacks, and hotel keys that never worked the first time. with sweat on your skin and his songs in your ears. with soft hands and sleepy grins and “come here” whispered into your neck in the backseat of his car at rest stops. with your feet up on the dashboard, and his fingers tracing your knee at red lights. it wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

you got used to the rhythm. not just of the music, but of the life. sleeping in unfamiliar beds. brushing your teeth in gas station bathrooms. ordering breakfast in diners that smelled like the seventies and played the same four songs on repeat. you stopped asking where you were. stopped keeping track of state lines. stopped needing to define what you were doing. but you weren’t trying to escape anything, you just didn’t need to stand still anymore.

some mornings, you woke up to the sound of his guitar in the other room, already strumming something into shape. other mornings, he was still asleep, one hand wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your shoulder like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched. there were fights, too. about timing, about exhaustion, about space. sometimes he shut down. sometimes you disappeared into the crowd before the encore. but every time, you found your way back. not with apologies, always — but with hands reaching in the dark. with quiet dinners. with the word stay whispered into your hair.

you made friends with the crew. with the other musicians. you had your own backstage pass, but mostly you stayed out of the way. you read books in the greenroom and you painted your nails on the tour bus floor. you stole his hoodies, of course. you took pictures you never printed. and in every city, he kissed you like it was the first time. you never asked what would happen after the tour ended, and he never offered a version of forever. but something in you both knew that this, whatever this was, had already become part of your bones.

one night, after a show in a city that felt too loud even in the fading hours, you and jay found yourselves driving back to your hometown. not just a quick visit, but the kind of week where time stretches slow and familiar. you needed a break from the tour, from the noise. the car hummed softly down the old roads you both knew by heart. the tour bus felt miles behind you, like a distant memory. the car was small, just enough space for both of you and a couple of guitars resting in the backseat. you didn’t say much, but the silence was easy and comfortable. jay hummed a melody low enough that it was more felt than heard, his fingers tapping softly on the steering wheel like it was another instrument. you reached over and squeezed his hand without thinking, and he glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips, like he’d been waiting for that all night.

when you arrived at your parents’ house, your mom opened the door, and the second she saw you, her eyes welled up with tears, of course. your dad, teased as always, “didn’t think you’d grow at all while you were gone.” and even though it was the same old line, you could tell he meant every word, his voice warm with relief. jay stood beside you, shifting awkwardly at first, but your parents welcomed him like he’d been part of the family forever — not just jungwon’s best friend, but the one who made their daughter smile in a way they hadn’t seen before.

the days that followed were a patchwork of memories and new moments stitched together. you went back to the park where you and jay had found each other again after you left for college, trying to make sense of everything that had changed. the diner where you’d shared late-night fries and whispered secrets during winter break, the neon sign buzzing softly overhead, still humming the soundtrack of your youth. you stood by the lake where the sky had caught fire the night of your first kiss, the water reflecting the soft glow of twilight. and then there was his childhood bedroom, tucked away in the basement of his parents’ house, walls still lined with posters, a guitar resting against the bed, and a window that looked out onto the quiet street. you remember the night he played “just like heaven” on his guitar there, fingers trembling with a mix of nerves and hope. it was before he left for college, before the silence stretched long between you. that song, that moment, stayed in your chest like a promise, one you both carried through the years.

that week, wrapped in the comfort of old places and quiet laughter, felt like a pause in the endless moving. a chance to remember where you came from, and to hold on to the pieces that made you whole.

and sometime in late october, you were at a city on the coast, windy, a little gray. the venue was old and charming. he was quiet that day, but not distant, just thoughtful. kept checking his setlist and tapping his pick against his thigh. didn’t talk much in soundcheck, and you knew better than to push. you watched from the wings, your arms crossed over your chest, the laminate pass hanging loose around your neck. and when they got to the second half of the show, the part where they sometimes rotated songs in or out, someone leaned over and told you he was going to do something different. you didn’t know what that meant, not until he stepped forward, a little closer to the mic, and looked out at the crowd like he was looking for something in it.

“we’ve been on the road for a while now,” he said, voice steady. “and this next one’s not ours. but it’s always been… mine. in a way.”

you felt it before he played the first chord. your breath caught in your throat. he glanced sideways, just once, just for a second, and then he started playing.

“show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…”

and your heart cracked wide open. because just like heaven wasn’t just a song, it was your song. from the very beginning, from that spring you thought you’d lost him, from mixtapes on train rides, from letters tucked into jacket pockets. from him playing it for you in his childhood bedroom, dreaming of what it’d feel like to be wanted the way those lyrics wanted someone.

you left the venue late that night, your hand in his, your cheeks still warm, your chest still aching in the best way. and no one said “the end” because no one needed to. some stories don’t end when the lights go down. they end quietly, in moments like that: in a guitar string still vibrating, in a look across the stage, in the memory of a song you never stopped hearing.

and in the way you still felt like heaven to him. always.

author's note: first of all… i’m so sorry for taking forever to update this 😭 life got busy, motivation disappeared, my brain shut down for like days, you know how it is. but we’re BACK and i’m so, so happy i finally got to share this part of the story with you

writing this second half felt like coming home in a nostalgic and painful and soft way. i always knew i wanted this fic to feel like growing up, and getting older, and realizing that love doesn’t always disappear just because time does, it just shifts. and maybe, if you’re lucky, it comes back <3

thank you for reading, screaming, crying, waiting, messaging, and just being here. this fic means the world to me. if you made it this far ilyyyyy!!!! you are the moment <3

taglist: @iyoonjh @jakesimfromstatefarm @blushingkoo @povjin @7789995323567322 @wtfisgoingright @dearestdreamies @fateismoonstruck @skzaurora @mora134340 @wonuziex @htrhng

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princesssmars · 8 months ago

Text

home sweet home

a vi x reader.

the war between the silco and the firelights has gotten tense, and all you want is a day off to rest. but when an old flame returns from the dead you find the energy to give her a welcome home present she won’t forget.

wc: 4.491

contains : fluff, adoptive brother ekko and firelight reader. mentions of vi's abuse in prison :c smut. dry humping and tribbing yippee.

a/n : idk something about being separated for years and celebrating the reunion with rough and/or desperate sex does it for me bro 💔 started this beforeeee everything and hopefully this gets posted the morning of act ones drop <3 update i love vi but i need to kick her ass yayyy enjoy.

for lack of a better word, your day was getting really fucking weird.

you woke up with a weird feeling in your stomach, an ache strong enough to rouse you from your sleep and out of your bed. you chalked it up to hunger, having skipped another meal last night to stay up looking over some of the injured firelight’s and new schematics for tools and weapons.

but once you got a good meal into your stomach, staring up at the giant tree you called your home, you realized the feeling wasn’t from neglecting your appetite. it was that feeing you got when something big was about to happen.

you felt it when the breakthroughs were made on some of the bigger inventions like the hoverboards, when the firelights found this impossible and beautiful grove and made it their home, on that day years ago where your life crumbled around you in the space of a few days.

so it was only up to fate if something bad or good would happen today. and you didn’t feel like waiting to find out.

quickly making your way up the tree, you rapidly do your special knock on ekko’s door, only to be met with silence. you try again and silence still. trying and slightly failing to keep yourself calm, you head back down and start asking others if they’ve seen him, the ache in your stomach growing at some of the awkward and shifty responses you get.

for six years you and ekko have been inseparable. both traumatized by the trials of growing up in the undercity, getting taken in by benzo, and then the sudden and bloody death of your friends, you had no one else to depend on except for each other. it was hard to put it lightly, navigating a rapidly changing undercity and taking care of your little adoptive brother while trying to deal with your own trauma. even as you met others and formed this group you now call family, you made a promise to each other to stick side by side no matter what.

and that included not running off and doing god knows what in the early morning while the other was sleeping.

you’re halfway through pulling on your coat and mask when you hear the sound of the main door opening and a small commotion, running as fast as you can to get down the tree again before a tall figure stops you.

he tries to be funny, throwing out a 'hey hey hey, slow down! your running like there’s a fire-ow!' before he holds a gloved hand to the side of his arm, cradling the spot where you punched him. you get a solid minute of berating and cussing him out before the look on his face tells you he's being serious, conflict clear in his brown eyes.

you have about a million questions running in your head as he leads you to one of the stock rooms, his breath inhaling multiple times to explain before he lets it out in frustration.

“just…promise you won’t freak out, ok?”

you nod before he pushes you inside and closes the door behind you.

you scoff, calling his name and knocking on the hard material for him to let you out. you weren’t in the mood today to entertain his hidden playful nature, most of the time you indulged him but you were too worried at the moment. you’re seconds away from cursing him out again when a soft voice calls out your name from the darkness behind you behind you.

no. it’s not possible. it’s deeper, more rugged then you remember, but you wouldn’t, couldn’t forget that voice. you heard it in your dreams for years, pushing you to keep going for yourself when you felt like giving up, reminding you she was always there by your side when you felt so alone.

you slowly turn your body, unconsciously trying to protect yourself from the possibility of this being a farce when two strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you into a sturdy torso. at the slightest glimpse of hit pink hair your eyes start to water and your chest is heaving with long building gasps, wrapping your arms around her shoulders and digging your face into her neck.

for years you’d daydream about this moment, what you’d say if you were reunited with the girl who was your best friend and likely the love of your life. you’d imagine the rushed out words and apologies, the shared wails as you assured the other you’d never leave their side again. but this silence just feels so right, makes so much sense for all the emotions you’ve been letting sit in your heart without any kind of resolution or closure.

she pulls away from you slightly and you hope she ignores the subtle whine that leaves your throat as she does. her large, and you mean really large, palms come up to cup your cheek as she stares at your face, blue eyes flitting across your features like she’s trying to commit every piece of you to memory. you don’t mind, you remember how she liked when you let her observe things so she could take in things as much as possible lest they be gone in a second. it just gives you an excuse to stare at her, too.

and gods above are you staring. obviously a large part of you is sentimental and sad as you see how much she’s changed over the years; the longer jagged shapes of her jaw, her nose. your heart pangs seeing the cuts in her brow and lip that you unconsciously bring a finger up to rub at. but it takes an embarrassing amount of strength not to pay attention just to her lips as you feel over the scar, how her bright eyes go wide and unblinking as she stands and lets you do whatever it is you’re doing.

you want to do anything to break the tension and you’re given the opportunity when your eyesight drifts slightly to the right and catches onto the tattoo on her upper cheek.

“did you…tattoo your name on your face?”

you’re still so close you can feel her laugh rather than hear it, her chest pressing into your when she huffs through her nose.

“wanted to make sure the guys in there knew who was kicking their asses without the need for introductions.”

“still punching first yelling insults later?”

“nothing anybody in there didn’t deserve.”

gods does your heart hurt for her. you knew it was likely other people like her were probably in stillwater, disposed of to cover someone’s ass or see as thrash just for where they were born. but you knew despite that she would have faced so much being thrown in there at such a young age that you not anyone else could understand, the way they must have treated her…

even after all these years it’s like she can ready your body language like a book, able to know your fingers stalling in their exploration means your mind is wandering, and given the previous subject matter she knows it can’t be good. her bandaged fingers gently wrap around yours and rub over your knuckles until your attention is back on her.

“hey, stay with me for now. we’ll have time to go over all that stuff later. right now just stay with me, alright?”

like you could ever say no to her.

you figure the best way to make progress until your much needed conversation is yo acquaint her with where your sure she’ll be staying until she gets back on her feet, however she chooses to do so. at first she seems uncomfortable with the idea of staying at the base, like she doesn’t want to intrude on the home you and others had built from the ground up.

“obviously i’ll help with anything you guys ask but are you sure everyone would be alright with me staying here? i kind of punched the shit out of that scar guy.”

“he’ll get over it just like everyone else. you’re a legend here, vi, you’re up on that mural for a reason.”

the whole time you show vi around you feel a warm mess in your chest. you forgot just how nice it was to spend time with her, thinking back on fond memories of the two of you sneaking away when the others were busy to spend time together on the safer and quieter parts of the undercity. your feelings aren’t helped with how close vi insists on being, hand never leaving your grasp as you tug her around and occasionally bumping her shoulder into yours when your mind wanders.

you’re recounting the story of how one of the hoverboards went haywire and crashed into one of the bases walls when a low rumble from the side of you cuts you off, footsteps halting you in place. when you turn to vi she has that same cute embarrassed look she used to have when you were younger, eyes wide and body still like if she didn’t move you wouldn’t acknowledge what just happened.

she knows better than to argue with you as you drag her pliant body somewhere, most likely to get her something to eat after only having some scarfed down jerichos a few hours ago. you bc lead her to some small communal dining area before not so gently guiding her to sit, eyes on her form for a few seconds to make sure she won’t be stubborn and refuse to let you grab some food for her.

and why would she even think of resisting when she can sit here and finally get a few minutes to just relax. ever since cait somehow managed to get her out of prison her body had been on, sheer stubbornness and willpower keeping her going until she found what she was looking for. a part of her knew she wouldn’t stop searching, wouldn’t stop hoping to see you and her sister again.

but as she watches you across the room pick and prod over a meal a vastayan is helping to out on your plate her shoulders unclench and the muscles in her legs ease. nothing felt better than when you’d dote over her. she remembers one time she caught a flu and had to stay inside and distant from everyone, ready to be miserable in solitude until you burst in with vander hot on your heels and insisted you wouldn’t leave her side until she was better, that she’d do the same for you.

which she did have to wind up doing as you caught the sickness from her after only three days. she never once complained.

when you finish her plate you look back to her with a sweet smile and start to walk back over to her. she writhes in her seat a bit under your gaze, suddenly feeling a little too warm when you sit the plate in from of her and tell her to eat up. she tries her best not to scarf this down as well, but when you give her a look that says you know how hungry she she is and won’t mind she can’t help herself.

she spends the rest of the day by your side, never leaving your sight as you introduce her to some of your fellow firelights and some of the younger kids who’d heard stories about her and vander. you can tell it still prods at an unhealed wound to talk about him in past tense, but that she still looks back on those fond memories with happiness. you’re more than happy to join in and help narrate the tale of one of your more adventurous and dangerous trips through the old undercity.

eventually the sun starts to set and the lights of the tree turn from a dazzling green to a soft collection of oranges and yellow, a signal to everyone that it’s time to wind down and end the day. the two of you meet back of with ekko who tells you he had already shown cait to an extra room she could use for the next few days.

“cupcake didn’t put up too much of hassle today, did she? don’t think she’s ever spent this much time past the promenade.”

“she was alright. uptight but i can tell she means well. you can talk to her in the morning, her room is right across from yours.”

you’re paying too much attention to just being in the space of two of your favorite people again that you don’t even notice how vi has turned her head to look at you, silently asking you to ask her for what she hopes you both want. by the time you realize and turn back to ekko he has that dumb little grin on his face that he used to wear all the time he’d catch the two of you getting a little too close for comfort.

“don’t even start, ekko.”

“i didn’t say anything! i’ll catch up with you two tomorrow. try not to be so loud, some of us need a good nights sleep tonight-“

you quickly reach over and swat at the young boys arm as he laughs and hurries away from the two of you, voice carrying as he leaves to head off to sleep.

it’s surreal as you take vi’s hand into yours and start the brisk walk to your personal quarters. you don’t have any expectations about tonight but you can’t lie and say a deep part of yourself isn’t hoping to get more than close with her tonight.

once you reach your bedroom you start shuffling for some clothes for the both of you to wear while she prods and examines all of your things. you watch her for a moment, nearly giving yourself away with a laugh when she nearly breaks the dusty antique snow globe you’d found abandoned on a scrap run.

“it’s crazy, right? how they’ll just abandon things without even thinking about their worth.” you speak offhandedly as you settle yourself on to your bed and start to remove your boots and holsters.

“yeah, no offense but i just. really don’t wanna talk about abandoning things right now.” her tone is malicious enough to make you sit your movements, eyes softening at the broken and tired woman in front of you.

“i’m sorry, i just-“

“no, no, it’s okay. i understand,” you gently reach out your hand to hold hers, locked in that tight fist she does when she’s bottling up her anger. “can you talk to me about it? whatever you want to say, just say it.”

she rolls her shoulder before setting down the globe and sitting on the bed, her tensed back facing you. you gently pass the spare clothes you have for her and watch as she takes them and sets them on her lap.

“every night for the first year i was in there i’d have these nightmares. about what happened. first it was just, replaying what happened on this endless loop. then it was wondering what i could’ve done different, if i could’ve been smarter-“

“vi dont do that,” you crawled over to sit right behind her body placed your hands on her shoulders, gently rubbing them across and down to her forearms. trying to look her in the eye proves useless. “what happened was…tragic, and blaming yourself is pointless. you did what you could, i know you did.”

“how? how could you possibly know?” she finally turns her head to you and the look in her eyes does nothing to help the sick feeling you have building up in your throat and stomach. “i told you to stay with ekko, you weren’t there. how could you not be even a little angry at me, for not being here for powder, for ekko and the firelights, for you?”

you can hear the lump in her throat and see the tears building in her eyes when you bring your hands up to cup her face. a stray tear runs down her face and you brush it away with your thumb.

“i could never be angry at you, vi. not for this. the girl i know always kept fighting for her family, and if she didn’t come back to us it was because she couldn’t. she’d never abandon us, you wouldn’t abandon us.”

she gently nods her head and nuzzles her face into your hands. you give her a minute to calm down, continuing to softly brush her cheeks and her crazy hair out of her eye.

“what is going on with your hair?” you whisper as you struggle to push a strand away and out of her face, giving up once it falls back into place for the tenth time.

her eyebrows scrunch. "what, you dont like it? its cool."

"its covering half of your face, its horrible."

"you'll get used to it." she shakes her head with a small smile before softly resting her hand on your lower waist.

"maybe, but im definitely not going to brush over you tattooing your name on your face. please tell me you didnt make any other rash b ody adjustments in there."

the growing smile on her simultaneously puts butterflies in your stomach and makes you very nervous. its not helped when she turns her back to you again and starts to shrug off her jacket, revealing the previous glimpse of her neck tattoo you'd seen goes further down. way further down.

"wow. that's...wow." you want to bury your head into your hands and leave the room. 'wow just wow?' really smooth. "can i touch?"

"uhhh yeah, no problem."

after she gives her consent your fingertips lightly hover and brush over the interlapping lines of curves inked into her skin. you feel a small thrill seeing the goosebumps rise on her arms when your hands glide down them, taking pride in knowing you can still bring out a physical reaction in her with your touch.

"this is really nice, vi. did you get someone in there to do it for you?"

"nope, did 'em both myself. wasn't exactly the best environment to ask people to have access to your body with a needle for hours at a time."

you hum in response while continuing to observe the tattoo. you can see it goes further down her back and decide to speak without thinking too much about what you're saying.

"can i see the rest of it?"

you're a bit scared at how still she goes, wondering if maybe you crossed a boundary before her hands slowly reach behind her and start to lift the white fabric of her shirt until its full taken off of her body.

you make sure to continue the gentle touches as your hands run down the muscles and planes of her back, continuing to admire the clouds and gears that make up the design. you feel a little pang in your heart when you see the initials of mylo and claggor at the bottom of the tattoo, along with the number of welts and scars on her skin.

"its beautiful, vi." you whisper. her body subtly scooches back on the bed to get closer to your touch. the moment is just shy of overwhelming, which is probably why you leave a small kiss on her shoulder, right where one of the scars starts before trailing down her back a few inches. she lets out a muffled noise and you start to pull away before the strong grip of her palm clasps down on your leg, holding you in place.

you leave more kisses and pecks over the length of her tattoo as your legs start to wrap around her from behind, both of her hands grasping your thighs as she relaxes into the affection. you test the waters when you come back up to her neck, lightly sinking your teeth into her skin.

"oh fuck-" her strained voice hits your ears right before she abruptly pulls out of your arms and tugs you by the arm and leg until your reversed, sitting in her lap with her hands gripping at your hips.

you continue to drag yours up and down her arms, reveling in the fact that you can now see her facial expressions, how her eyes droop and lips part as you slightly scratch at her skin.

you adjust your hips to sit closer to her at the same time she lifts hers up, the friction causing small noises to escape both of your throats. her eyes open up and she stares up at you with those big light blues.

your hand travels up to her hair, running through it as you keep looking at her. "are you sure? i dont wanna push you,"

"you wont, i do. please, just wanna be close to you."

you give in, wrapping your arms around her neck and bringing her into a sweet kiss, reveling in the feel of her arms coming up to grip on your back. its slow and languid as you get used to each other before she adds her tongue to the mix, pulling a moan from your throat as you try to bury yourself even closer into her hold.

you move your focus onto her neck, trailing kisses and bites down and across her throat, as she rocks your bodies together and claws at your back.

"used to dream about this, about you, missed you so much," her voice has a slight rasp to it already that drives you nuts, instantly darting back up to bring her into a messy kiss. she adjusts her knee to rest in between your legs and lifts it up into your core, pulling away to look at you as you moan at the friction.

"jeez, what'd they teach you in there?" you let out a breathy chuckle while you grind down into her knee. your eyes drift close before her gentle kiss to her cheek drags your gaze back to her, unblinking as she watches you come undone for her. her stare along with the hazy smile on her face yanks you to the edge, gasping and moaning as you come in her arms.

you feel almost drunk as you come down from your orgasm, nuzzling into her neck while she presses gentle kisses to your shoulder and the side of your neck. she starts to place your body on the bed before you tug her back on top of you.

"what, aren't you tired?"

"maybe, but not tired enough to stop now. take off your pants."

she grins like she'd just been offered free sweets from a piltovian candy shop for the rest of her life. you try not to giggle as she stumbles off the bed and tugs her pants off before settling her body back on top of yours. she resumes her barrage of kisses and bites into your skin, finally paying some attention to your chest while you bring your hands up to thumb at her nipples, biting your lip at how sensitive she is to the touch.

she wastes no time spreading your legs beneath you and getting your silent agreement before moving her lips to rest over yours, taking a second to drag her fingers through your cunt and stuffing them inside her mouth.

"vi!"

"sorry, was just curious." she leans down to kiss you sweetly before resting her self on you, legs draped over the curves of her arms as she oh so slowly starts to drag herself back and forth over you.

you slightly wish you had done this first as the overstimulation makes it oh so intense for you, the feeling of her hair and clit rubbing over yours nearly sending you into a frenzy. your eyes roll back into your head once she starts to speed up her movements, her soft whines and grunts into your neck only adding to the physical stimulation you're feeling.

your core feels like its on fire when you start to hear the subtle whispers she's letting out into your neck, curses of 'fuck, fuck oh-fuck,' and grunts of your name mix together to create a desperate harmony.

"vi, feels too- oh my god i-"

"i know, baby, i know," she moans, pressing a harsh bite into the underside of your neck. you can feel her smile into it when you involuntarily let out a squeal at the action. "never gonna leave you, pretty. could never leave you, leave this."

you never fancied yourself the possessive type, but the reaction you have to her words definitely proves there's something there as you wrap your hands around her shoulder and squish her down into you again, moaning just a little too loud at the lack of closeness and feeling of her chest rubbing against yours.

you can feel your next orgasm building quick and fast, thighs trembling as you desperately grind your hips into her even harder. you can tell she's close too, hips losing their rhythm as her panting gets even louder. you nudge your face to the side and rub your cheek against hers, thankful she gets the hint to smother both of your noises with an intense kiss.

"fuck, vi, missed you s'much, love this, love you-"

you're grateful that you have some semblance of brain activity left to drag her head down to your neck to bit down as she cums, her groan loud and long as she keeps moving her hips until you cum only a few seconds after she does. you can feel a tear or two escape your eyes, overstimulation so intense you think you see janna for a moment.

both of your chests are rapidly panting as you catch your breaths, dragging your hand through her sweaty hair while she presses gentle kisses over the marks she no doubt left over your chest. now you'll have to wear more layers for a while, but at the moment you cant find it in you to care.

"you have no idea how glad i am that i still have you," you almost dont pick up on the silent whisper she says, muffled by the current kisses. you lazily drag your fingers to lift her up by the chin until she's looking at you, eyes filled with nothing but love and affection.

"you're always gonna have me vi, i promise."

you can tell she has her doubts, you do as well. but she lets herself relax into your hand yet again and wears the tiniest smile while she starts to fall asleep in your embrace.

you gently pull the covers over both of your bodies and follow her into the lull of sleep, falling asleep in vi's arms again for the first time in years.

you have the nicest dreams you've had in years.

#still want her #throw me in the show id save her </3 #arcane #arcane x reader #vi #vi arcane #vi x reader #vi x reader fluff #vi x reader smut

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mrsbarnesblog · 20 days ago

Text

˖˚⊹ old habits

➤ summary: you call Rafe out when he acts disrespectfully

➤ w/c: 1.5k.

➤ warnings: themes of toxic masculinity, emotional confrontation

➤ a/n: really wanted to be a part of @zyafics campaign, and I hope that other writers will consider doing it too <3

masterlist

The thing between you and Rafe was still new and fresh—only a few times going out on dates, lingering touches, and way too many moments that were more than just friendly.

Since the first time you had met him, you thought that he had grown to be a better person. He tried to change some of his old habits to become more mature. And you truly saw that, and it was a reason why you even started to catch feelings. But there were still times when he struggled, when some of the traits of that old toxic Rafe were slipping through, either because it was too hard to control things that he had been taught from a young age or because he truly didn’t see himself being in the wrong.

That day he invited you to the new cafe near the beach on the mainland, saying that it was the best one. For you, Rafe was a gentleman. He picked you up, helped you to get in and out of his truck, complimented your dress and your hair, and let you hold his upper arm when he was leading you to the entrance.

He opened the door for you, and the place was dimly lit with yellow tones and just radiated warmth. It was a little bit too loud with people sitting everywhere, but if the place was good, you didn’t mind that one bit. You looked back at Rafe, sharing a smile, until the young hostess stepped in front of you.

“I’m so sorry, but as you may see, we’re full right now. You may sit here until one of the tables is free.” With a polite smile, she gestured to the side. “The waiting time will be around fifteen to twenty minutes, if that’s okay with you.”

You nodded to her words without hesitation. “That’s totally fine.”

But beside you, Rafe let out a small breath. Not quite a sigh, more like a scoff. He raised an eyebrow and looked the girl up and down with something colder in his expression than you would’ve preferred.

“You’re telling me you can’t fit two people in? It’s not even full in here.” She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, briefly looking at you to figure out how to react. Rafe’s voice wasn’t loud, but you knew how intimidating and cold he might be, especially to people who were not used to it.

“Rafe.” You said his name sharply, tugging his bicep once in hope that he would let it go.

He glanced at you, then back at the hostess, not getting the problem that you seemed to have. “We’re literally standing here, dressed nicely, just asking for a table. I’m not trying to be a dick. I'm just saying, you could make it work if you actually wanted to.” You didn’t wait for her to respond. You took a step back, slowly removing your hand from his arm.

“I’ll be outside.” You said. No emotion in your voice, hands already folded across your chest.

You sat at the bench outside, one leg thrown over another, looking at the ocean and debating just simply going back home. Rafe walked out a few minutes later, with hands buried in the pockets of his pants, looking at you like he genuinely could not understand your behavior.

“Are you seriously mad at me?”

“I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.” You said calmly, not even sparing him a glance.

“For what? I didn’t even say anything bad. She was the one who couldn’t do her job properly.”

Your head snapped towards him with eyebrows raised in surprise. “No.” You said sharply, taking him aback. “You were being an asshole because you didn’t get what you wanted. She was doing her job, Rafe.”

His brows knit. “Jesus, I wasn’t an asshole—I was just calling her out.”

“Calling her out for what, Rafe? For not breaking policy? For not giving you special treatment?” He looked away, jaw clenching. His hand reached his head to rub over his buzzed hair in frustration, while you simply looked at him, seeing the conflict that he had. Part of him clearly knew you were being reasonable, that he might’ve stepped over the line, but the rest of him, the louder part, wanted to be right. Wanted to win.

“I’m not dating someone who thinks talking down to people makes him important.” You said firmly, your voice low and calm but hard to let him know how serious that situation was for you. “That’s not cute. That doesn’t make you look cooler or whatever. That’s not something I tolerate.”

Rafe exhaled hard through his nose, briefly throwing his head back in frustration. “You’re making it sound like I screamed at her or something. I was just—I don’t know—frustrated.”

“Yeah, and she was working. Probably scared of losing her job because of kooks who talk down to her every day. Probably already dealing with a bunch of other men who think that they are better than everyone and that other people owe them something.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

You stood up, stepping closer with your heels softly clicking against the wood. You squinted your eyes slightly, tilting your head to the side now that you were almost the same height. “Do what?”

“Make me out to be some kind of monster.”

“I’m not.” You shot back. “But if you don’t like how I make you sound by just talking about your actions, maybe ask yourself why instead of getting defensive.”

The silence that followed stretched long between you. You crossed your arms tighter, mostly to keep yourself from softening, because, God, you wanted to. Because part of you knew that he didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but still addressing the problem was important to prove to him that the said problem existed.

You watched the gears turning behind his eyes, jaw tight, hands buried deep in his pockets. He looked off toward the ocean like maybe the answer was out there, like it could help him to understand how to break the default settings that were engraved in his brain.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.” Rafe admitted finally, his voice quieter now, and you could hear the edge of hesitation. “I didn’t even notice I was doing it. That I was acting like…” He trailed off, and you knew what he meant. Like Ward.

“That’s the problem, Rafe.” You said softer now, but still steady. “You don’t even notice when you slip. I know that you’re trying to be better. I see it, but I also need you to acknowledge that sometimes you can still be mean, that sometimes you’re in the wrong. Otherwise we won’t work out.”

He looked at you then, as if hurt for a second, because for the part of him, it sounded like a threat or like a challenge that he didn’t want to accept.

“I don’t want to be that guy.” He said after a moment. “I’ve been trying. You know I have.”

“I know. That’s why I’m still standing here and not leaving.” You stepped closer, but you didn’t reach for him.

“But I’m not going to coach you through being a decent person every time you slip. You have to want it for yourself, not just to keep me happy, because I’m telling you right now, Rafe…” You met his eyes, staying your ground. “If that’s the man you choose to be, I will walk away. Even if I don’t want to.”

His throat bobbed in a nervous swallow, his eyes darted away, then back to yours, as if he was trying to measure if you were bluffing. And when a few seconds passed, when you looked at him steadily, waiting for an answer, he turned and walked back toward the café.

You watched him through the front windows when he hesitated near the hostess stand, tugging awkwardly at the expensive watch on his wrist, and then leaned in to speak to the girl. Her face was surprised at first, then softened as he continued to talk, before she nodded a few times, still slightly hesitant, and said something back to him.

When Rafe returned back to you, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a little bit, though his jaw clenched when he rubbed the back of his neck and stopped in front of you like he wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I apologized. Told her I was out of line.”

You gave him a small nod. “Thank you.”

He shifted on his feet, nervous. “She said the table will be ready in ten.” You nodded again, waiting for him to continue. “You still wanna eat with me?” He asked, almost hesitant, like a boy who'd just been scolded.

“I do.” His lips stretched in a small smile, eyes glimmering with something like surprise and maybe a bit of shyness that you caught every once in a while. Rafe stepped closer, offering you his hand, and you playfully rolled your eyes, smiling back and interlacing your fingers. “Now I’m about to order the whole damn menu, Cameron. And it better be good.”

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helioooss · 1 month ago

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vi. i need to want something more (the end)

synopsis: after a rare drunken night, y/n wakes up in bed next to the most untouchable girl at yonsei: karina. she’s immediately thrown into a mess she never wanted, torn between her own moral compass and the undeniable pull of something she doesn’t understand. some lines, once crossed, can never be undone.

w/c: 10k+

warnings: heavy cheating, implied sex, alcohol, smoking, just normal uni stuff, swearingggg, slow burn

a/n: so here it is…was a long time coming; i appreciate all of you who stuck around long enough to see the end it. there will be no fics for awhile as i work on editing my older stuff — figured i need to show those a bit of love and polishing too. this series has so much potential to become more, i’ll keep my ears open in the future. always enjoy reading your takes on this chapter, so please let me know how you feel about it :)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the light wakes you first. not the usual pale grey cast of a seoul morning, but something softer, whiter. your breath is visible in the sliver of air between your duvet and your face.

the heater’s still warming up — typical. you stay curled beneath the covers a few seconds longer, blinking toward the window, where the light presses through the glass differently now.

you already know.

when you sit up, you’re met with the season’s first snowfall. it’s not heavy yet, still a delicate sheet of white layered over the pavement and trees outside.

the world is slower; even the wind is holding its breath.

you get up barefoot, stepping around the pile of laundry near your desk, your laptop still open from last night. giselle flew back to japan last week and yunjin left a post-it note on your side table saying she was grabbing coffee with ryujin. they’ll probably be out for hours.

you should make coffee, maybe start reading that case brief you’ve avoided all week. instead, you stare out the window a while.

the trees outside are really bare now, snow clinging to every branch like a second skin. you reach for your phone and snap a quick photo.

your fingers hover for a moment before sending it to your parents.

first snow of the season! ❄️

they had invited you to join them in switzerland for the holidays; some rental cabin overlooking a frozen lake, something out of a postcard. you told them you had too much to finish here; that much was true.

the reply comes quickly.

from: dad 👨

beautiful! mum says bundle up. she’s already trying to book you a plane ticket despite your answer still being a firm no. 😂

you smile, a little and your screen dims again.

and then it buzzes.

from: sana 🩵

you still like watching the snow fall from windows?

something shifts in your chest as you stare at her name for a moment — warm and uncertain. before you can think about it too hard, you hit call.

she answers before the second ring.

“hi,” you greet, still watching the snowfall.

“hi,” she replies, voice soft and all. she sounds like she’s speaking from under a warm blanket. “you’re up early.”

“snow woke me.”

“hmm,” she hums. “me too, actually.”

you don’t say anything for a second, just listen to her breathing through the speaker because there’s something grounding about it.

“do you want to come over?”

she pauses, then says: “only if we get breakfast first.”

you smile, small and real. “our usual?”

“of course.”

you end the call and move slowly through your morning — brushing your teeth, pulling on layers, rubbing moisturiser into your face with hands that still feel half asleep. you stare at your reflection for a beat too long; there’s colour in your cheeks from the cold and your hair’s a little flat, but you look more like yourself lately.

or someone you recognise, anyway.

as you zip up your coat, you think of sana. how she’s never asked you to call this anything…or make you feel like you owe her certainty you don’t have.

and still — she shows up.

you think about how easy it would be to keep building this quiet version of love, one morning at a time. back then, you thought maybe the whole world would bend if you just stayed still beside her long enough.

you could get used to whatever this is again.

eventually, a car horn honks twice. when you step outside, the snow crunches beneath your boots. she’s already out of the car, walking toward you with a knit beanie pulled low over her ears. her breath clouds in the air.

the first thing she does is reach for your scarf.

“you still don’t know how to do this properly?” she mutters, unwrapping it halfway to re-loop it snug around your neck. “every year, it’s the same issue.”

“you’re just controlling,” you mumble, lips chapped and numb.

“you would freeze to death without me,” she shakes her head, focusing on the knot. her fingers are cold when it brushes against your neck.

there’s snow caught in her lashes and her cheeks are pink from the cold.

her hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands stuck to her collar. and she’s not looking at you. she’s still focused on that damn scarf. you study her face up close; how her brows knit together in concentration and how beautiful she is when she doesn’t know you’re looking.

“you’re pretty.”

she blinks and looks up; the corners of her mouth twitching. “don’t.”

you grin. “just saying.”

“you’re annoying.” she tugs your scarf tighter and gently shoves your shoulder before turning to the car. you follow, heart warmer than your gloves. “come on.”

the drive to itaewon is short and mostly quiet. the windows fog slightly and she draws a little heart in the glass with her knuckle at a red light. she doesn’t look at you when she does it.

“so,” you begin, glancing at her, “you could be in australia right now; drinking cocktails by a pool. why are you here in seoul?”

she glances over with a smile. “i could be.”

“so why aren’t you?”

she exhales through her nose, barely smiling. “because you’re here.”

“right,” you answer, cheeks flushing with warmth. and it’s enough.

that silences you, looking out the window as the snow settles along rooftops. your chest aches a little and it’s not in the way it used to; not with longing, but just with how much space she still takes up, even now.

grazia is tucked between two boutiques, all brick and wood and fogged-up windows. it’s warm and smells like cardamom and coffee inside. the waiter leads you to a quiet table near the back; you end up ordering pancakes and sana gets eggs on toast with extra mushrooms.

you talk about books — what you’ve been reading, what you haven’t had time to. she tells you about a ridiculous rumour she overheard at a party last week: something about taehyung and a chaebol heir (not jennie this time) who may or may not be fake.

it’s ridiculous.

after a pause, she stirs sugar into her coffee and asks. “so…have you decided?”

you look up at her, then down at your plate. “about the job?”

she nods.

“i think i’m gonna take it,” you answer, running your fingers through your hair. “taehyung’s dad offered me a contract starting next month. i’d be handling mid-scale portfolios. nothing glamorous, but…”

“it’s a start,” she finishes.

“yeah…a really good one.”

she smiles. “i’m glad — you’ll do so well.”

she stirs her drink once more, something milky and sweet. she’s dressed down today; soft turtleneck, old jeans, hair tied back with a velvet scrunchie that doesn’t match.

you rest your cheek on your hand and watch her; she looks comfortable.

“you’re staring again,” she chuckles without looking up and the sound makes your head all warm and fuzzy.

you clear your throat. “you’re always stirring your drink for no reason.

she grins. “i’m thinking.”

“about what?”

“you.”

you scoff into your coffee. “try something harder.”

she reaches across the table to steal a piece of your banana bread, doesn’t bother asking. you let her. then, more softly, she adds: “i’m really proud of you.”

“what for?”

“the job,” she mumbles. “with taehyung’s dad. that’s huge…everyone knows the kim family doesn’t let anyone in so easily.”

“it’s honestly just an entry contract.”

“it’s still a big deal,” she insists. “don’t downplay it. you worked hard and earned it.”

you press your hands around your mug and let the silence linger before asking: “and what about you?”

she lifts her gaze as you watch her carefully.

“when are you taking over your empire?”

sana snorts. “don’t call it that.”

“it is that…your family owns half of tokyo and most of osaka.”

“i mean when you put it like that,” she mutters. “it is…a lot.”

you raise a brow. “so? what’s the plan?”

she laughs, soft and brief — but you keep note of how her shoulders tense.

you don’t press, not yet. you just keep your voice even. “you know it’s coming.”

she leans back slightly, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup. “i know. my dad’s been…bringing it up more often lately. the board’s already making decisions ten years from now.”

her eyes lift to meet yours.

you try to sound gentle; encouraging. “so why not?”

she shrugs, looking away now. “because i’d have to be in japan…full-time.”

she hasn’t said it so plainly before.

you let the silence sit long enough, watching the way she presses her lips together, like she’s already prepared herself for this to hurt.

perhaps the part of you that’s been too afraid to name this…whatever this is — has been waiting for this conversation all along.

“it’s not that i don’t want to,” she adds, quieter now. “but i can’t leave you. not like this. not when we just…started again.”

she meets your gaze once more. there’s something in her expression that makes your chest ache. it’s not doubt.

it’s love, stretched thin by time and distance and the inevitability of her life pulling her somewhere you can’t follow — not yet.

and maybe this is what it means to be grown. to sit across from someone you love, knowing love might not be enough to keep things from changing.

“i’d never ask you to stay just because of me.”

“i know you wouldn’t.”

“but i also wouldn’t hold it against you if you needed to go.”

she exhales, blinking down at her hands. “i don’t want to go if it means leaving this.”

“we’re not a place,” you tell her gently. “we’re not a time either. we’re just…us. maybe we’ll always be.”

you reach for her hand across the table and she lets you take it. her fingers are cold but steady, thumb rubbing against the inside of your wrist like she’s trying to remember how to hold on without gripping too tightly.

you think: if this is all we have right now, i’ll take it. and across the table, she looks at you like she’s thinking the same thing.

as you walk back to the car, she slips her hand into your coat pocket; not your hand. just your pocket.

you laugh at her, feeling a bit lighter now. “what are you doing?”

she shrugs, looking forward. “just making sure you’re warm.”

you don’t reply, sliding your hand over hers, not lacing your fingers, just covering them because her palm is cold. you press your thumb into the space between her knuckles and feel her lean a little closer as you walk.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the sound of your door clicking open feels louder than it should. your body aches from sitting too long in the same position, neck stiff, legs heavy and your brain mush after hours of reading case law. you drag yourself into the main living area where the scent of cheap popcorn lingers and twilight is somehow playing again — muted blue and green tones flickering across the television screen.

bella is mid-monologue; the sky is always grey in that fuckass town.

yunjin and ryujin are curled up on opposite ends of the couch, each with a throw blanket and a half-empty bowl of snacks between them. yunjin’s legs are draped over ryujin’s lap and they’re blth eating crispy m&ms (because they’re the best) like it’s the end of the world.

you drop onto the armchair beside them.

“how many times do you guys need to watch this a year?” you ask, voice still rough from not speaking all afternoon.

ryujin doesn’t look away from the screen. “you’re uncultured.”

“she just doesn’t get it,” yunjin agrees, nudging you with her socked foot. “she never got the team jacob to team edward pipeline.”

“i was studying contract law while you two watched vampire melodrama,” you grumble.

“that was your mistake,” ryujin shrugs, refusing to look away from the screen. “and so the lion fell in love with the lamb.”

you sit with them a while, with bits of and pieces of them mimicking lines and a type of silence that only happens when people know each other too well to need to fill it. it’s almost dinner time, you realise. you probably haven’t had a proper meal since breakfast.

yunjin turns to you like she’s reading your thoughts. “so, what do you want to do for dinner?”

you hesitate. “uhh, i’m actually going to sana’s soon.”

ryujin raises her brows without comment. yunjin shifts slightly, pulling her knees to her chest.

“movie night?” she asks, a little teasing, but gentle.

you nod, reaching down to adjust your sock. “yeah, she said she found this old japanese film she wants me to watch.”

“what’s going on with you two anyway?” ryujin looks at you. “it’s been a while now.”

you pause because putting it into words makes it feel more solid.

“we’re…good,” you say slowly. “we don’t talk about what it is. but it’s been really good.”

yunjin hums softly. “and…have you heard from karina?”

her name hits like a stone through still water, your shoulders tensing without meaning to. you haven’t thought about her in ages.

not really, anyway. not since early winter, when snow was just beginning to settle and you were still getting used to the way sana folded your blankets and made you tea before you even asked.

after that dinner scene, jimin just simply vanished. no texts or awkward sightings. not even a whisper from giselle, who always managed to mention her in passing before.

and you didn’t chase it. perhaps you were too tired…or maybe you were finally learning how to let silence be what it was.

still, the name makes something flicker inside your chest. it’s no longer pain, not anymore…just something dull and hasn’t fully left.

“no,” you finally answer. “i haven’t heard anything.”

yunjin fiddles with a popcorn kernel. “well, she’s in seoul, i saw her on ningning’s story last week. she was in the background.”

ryujin says nothing for once, she just reaches for the remote and lowers the volume a bit.

your stomach twists. “really?”

“looked like a rooftop thing. not much though, was just a glimpse.”

you nod, mouth dry. “guess she didn’t end up going to europe with jaewook after all.”

“yeah, guess so,” yunjin smiles at you, the way she always does when she wants to comfort you but doesn’t know the words to say.

you push yourself off the chair and stand. “i should get going though.”

ryujin gives you a slight wave. “tell sana we said hi. and look after yourself. and your heart.”

you pull on your coat, scarf still a mess from how it was folded. your bag’s got a change of clothes stuffed at the bottom and a book you haven’t opened. as you walk out into the cold, your breath clouds in the air and the sky has that faint blue cast of early evening.

sana’s apartment is warm, smells faintly of citrus and something boiling on the stove. she answers the door in a navy jumper and fuzzy socks, her hair damp like she just stepped out of the shower. you blink once and feel your chest ease.

“hi,” she grins, already reaching for your scarf, unravelling it to untie it properly now.

you laugh. “seriously?”

“you’ll thank me later.”

you follow her inside, boots off, bag dropped near the shoe rack. she’s already set up her bedroom —blankets stacked and mismatched pyjamas folded on the edge. you change slowly, the clothes a little big on you, the sleeves brushing your knuckles. she doesn’t say anything when she sees you wearing her shirt, but she smiles like something in her has softened.

you settle into the blankets while she brings over miso ramen and sushi on two trays; simple, warm, comforting.

she really insists on playing an old japanese film she watched once with her mum. it’s black and white and slow-moving, all long glances and quiet music. halfway through, your head finds her shoulder and eventually, her chest.

and somewhere near the end, your eyes start to slip closed. you don’t mean to fall asleep. but sana’s warmth is steady, her breathing’s a weird kind of comfort and her hand has found yours under the blanket.

when you stir awake again, the room is darker. the credits are rolling in soft kanji across the screen. she hasn’t moved.

you lift your head slightly and find her staring at you. “were you watching me?”

she smiles, lazy and unbothered. “a little.”

“creep.”

“you’re peaceful when you sleep.”

you groan and bury your face in her arm. “don’t look at me like that.”

she laughs quietly. “and you’re warm, i didn’t want to move.”

you stay there a while longer, the silence easier now. then something tugs at you. “i’m sorry.”

she doesn’t respond right away. “about what?”

“about how we’re still…like this,” your voice is small. “no labels, no real plan — i really need to fix myself.”

she lifts a hand to push your hair back, thumb brushing your temple. “you don’t need fixing, y/n. not for me. i love you the way you are now. and i’ll still love you when that changes.”

you exhale shakily, not sure if it’s relief or fear that floods your chest.

she squeezes your hand to ground you.

“you know when i was a kid,” she adds after a moment, her fingers gently playing with your hair. “i used to imagine running away.

you look up at her. “why?”

“not because i wanted to disappear,” she says softly. “i just wanted to choose who i came back for.”

you don’t say anything.

you just press your face into her neck, grip tightening around her waist while listening to the rhythm of her breathing until you fall asleep again…because maybe that’s what this is. not the end, not even the beginning.

it’s her coming back. and this time, you’re here to open the door for her.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the suit bag hangs on the edge of your wardrobe, unzipped and half-open, like it’s waiting to be taken seriously. inside are five options. none of which you picked. sana’s stylist had dropped them off earlier that morning, her usual chirpy self making you try on half of them while sana watched from the bed, cup of coffee balanced on her knee.

now it’s dusk and you’ve been through three shirts, three full outfit changes and a minor crisis about the perfect sock colour. the room smells like sandalwood and setting lotion. your window’s open just slightly, letting in the bite of the air, that particular cold that only ever feels sharp in late december.

sana’s standing behind you, hair already done —glossy, parted perfectly with the ends curling. she’s wearing a black suit, white shirt buttoned down enough to make you look twice. or three times. the fabric clings at her waist and loosens again at her hips.

it’s unfair. criminal, even…to look that good.

you’re standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuff of a white shirt that isn’t yours.

“this one’s too tight,” you complain, tugging at the collar. “i look like i’m going to cry at prom.”

“you always look like that,” she replies, flicking through jackets on hangers. “it’s part of your charm.”

you glare at her through the mirror and she laughs at your own expense without bothering to look up.

you’re staring.

of course you are.

“you’re staring at me again,” she says, not even looking up.

“you look ridiculous,” you reply.

“that’s not what your face is saying.” she lifts the black lapel of a suit jacket and gives you a side glance, smug. “should we match, bub?”

you cross the room before you even decide to. she’s still smiling when you reach her, but it drops slightly — just enough to tell you she knows.

you don’t think.

you’re already up before she can finish her sentence. your hand finds her waist, and then her back, and then her mouth. the kiss lands hard and sure, pulling her in until her spine meets the wall beside your wardrobe. she lets out a surprised sound that turns into a low laugh against your lips when your hands grip her tighter than you mean to.

she tastes like spearmint and skin warmed by sunlight. everything else fades — your open window, the hum of the street below, the muted rustle of ryujin and yunjin bickering in the hallway.

your entire world narrows to the sound of her breathing, quick and uneven, her hands slipping beneath your shirt; not greedy, never, just holding you in place.

when you finally pull away, you’re still gently cupping her face as she blinks slowly, breath catching.

“you’re such an ass,” she starts, voice rough. “you’re really going to do that an hour before i introduce you to my entire bloodline?”

“hmm,” you murmur, forehead pressed to hers. “seemed like the right time.”

she exhales a laugh and shoves your shoulder lightly, but she doesn’t move away. her lips are redder now, eyes much darker. you like how she looks like this — just a little undone.

“you’re the one in a suit,” you continue, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. “this is your fault.”

she kisses you again — just once, before tapping your chest. “grey suit. last one on the rack. wear the white shirt with the pearl buttons.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you sure?”

“you’ll make everyone nervous,” she confirms, unbuttoning the shirt you just complained about. “it’s perfect.”

when you finally walk out of your room — now dressed, hair styled and tie slightly crooked on purpose, ryujin and yunjin are waiting in the living room in matching red dresses that clearly weren’t planned but still managed to look coordinated.

yunjin looks up from her phone. “are you two done making out?”

sana’s behind you, still adjusting your collar from the back. “oh,” she says lightly. “what gave it away?”

they groan in unison, ryujin grabbing a cushion to half-heartedly throw at you. “disgusting.”

“embarrassing,” yunjin adds.

you just roll your eyes, cheeks still warm.

the minatozaki family meet every year in seoul a few days before christmas, no matter how scattered they are across time zones or industries. they are old money, after all, operating like a boardroom with laughter; polite, but rarely without genuine warmth.

it’s all carefully curated holiday cards, biannual art acquisitions and a shared family lawyer who’s probably been with them longer than most cousins have been alive. and they’re big on tradition, binding them like a woven thread across generations.

sana once told you that missing the family holiday party would be a bigger scandal than missing a wedding of the year. no one has ever dared skip it — not even the cousin who got stranded in switzerland one year; he video called in wearing a tux.

the venue this year is a five-star hotel in gangnam; just one of those buildings with glass facades and understated signage. as soon as you walk inside, the ballroom is glowing with golden lights and crystal fixtures, the chandeliers dimmed to a soft glitter. waiters move between clusters of people with trays of champagne and tiny canapés.

she walks beside you, hand in yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear ryujin swear while yunjin nervously fidgets around. her other hand rests lightly on your lower back as she steers you through the room, the guests are all family, more or less: great-uncles and cousins and elders you can’t quite place.

everyone already knows. there’s no guessing involved. they all smile at you politely, a few with surprise but no one dares to question your presence.

her mother hugs you as soon as she sees you, still smelling faintly of lavender and expensive tea.

“finally,” she sighs in relief, smiling. “we were starting to think you were imaginary.”

her father smiles approvingly while eyeing your blazer. “you look very sharp, you wear the colour well.”

you thank him, a little awkwardly, and sana leans in to whisper, “he only says that to people he really likes.”

you laugh, brushing her fingers with yours.

throughout the evening, relatives come and go in waves. they ask what you’re doing after graduation, if you’ve thought about law firms abroad, if you would consider working in japan. you answer each one as politely as you can and they nod like they’re taking mental notes.

sana’s grip never wavers. this is the difference.

with her, there’s no hesitation. she doesn’t shrink you and make you feel like something to be hidden. she says: this is y/n like that means something…it has to.

you think about that as the night goes on. how strange and comforting it is, not to be the shadow in someone else’s story. she’s proud. of you. and the whole room knows it.

then, somewhere between dessert and after-dinner drinks, an uncle announces the annual family photo. the photographer’s already setting up near the grand staircase, light stands flaring against the high ceilings.

you start to step back, figuring this part isn’t for you, when she tugs you gently by the wrist.

“and where do you think you’re going?” she asks, an eyebrow raised in that demanding tone too.

you glance at her. “i figured i’d stay out of the frame.”

“don’t be stupid,” she shakes her head, tone now soft, not scolding.

she brings you forward, weaving through her cousins and uncles, until her mother sees you both and waves you in closer. the photographer arranges everyone once again, gesturing toward the centre of the front row.

sana takes your hand and leads you there — right beside her, between her and her mother like you’ve always belonged.

“this okay?” she murmurs.

you nod slowly.

“good,” she fixes your collar, smooths your jacket, then slips her hand into yours again.

her father smiles at you two and her mother wraps an arm around your waist like it’s second nature.

when the photo is taken, sana’s thumb gently brushes against your knuckles. you’ve never felt more seen in your life.

later on, sana excuses herself to the bathroom and you’re suddenly cornered by ryujin and yunjin near the dessert table. they both have shit-eating grins on their faces like they’ve been here before.

“so,” ryujin begins, popping up beside you with a glass of wine, “you’re marrying another heir of a billion-dollar company? what’s this obsession with rich people? when i said ‘eat the rich’, i didn’t mean in a literal sense.”

you nearly choke on a piece of almond tart. “what the hell are you on about this time?”

“we didn’t realise,” yunjin perches in from the other side. “like, you know, she had this vibe of maxed-out platinum card and four overdue bills she refuses to open.”

“i thought that girl was dangerously living beyond her meanest,” ryujin mutters. “like…’it’s crippling, i’m gonna run away eventually’ kind of debt.”

“and giselle used to pray you never had to cover any of her bills,” yunjin laughs. “she was scared for you.”

“you’re all idiots,” you say, but your cheeks are warm. you sip your wine and glance around the room — gold, velvet, soft laughter under chandeliers.

“seriously,” yunjin continues, nudging you. “how does it feel?”

you pause, thinking about it. “honestly? it feels…nice. to belong in the room, be held like this isn’t something anyone’s ashamed of.”

they go quiet.

and then ryujin offers you a mini tart she already bit once. “you earned it.”

you roll your eyes and take it anyway. you’re halfway through your first glass of champagne when nayeon somehow ends up in front of you. ryujin and yunjin shyly greet her before running away to the bar.

“well, well,” she says, appearing at your elbow like a headline. “if it isn’t little top-of-her-class.”

you nearly choke. “hello to you too, nayeon.”

“you didn’t think you’d escape me, did you?” she laughs, pulling you into a hug. she still smells like endless paperwork. “look at you — looking all grown.”

“you’re not still in that securities firm, are you?”

“worse: corporate advisory. mina’s still keeping me sane.”

as if summoned, mina appears beside her, dressed in an ivory pantsuit and the kind of earrings that could probably pay your rent.

“hey,” she smiles, eyes warm. “it’s really good to see you.”

“you too,” you say honestly. “both of you.”

nayeon leans in. “we always knew you and sana were going to find your way back to each other. she was such a mess about you in undergrad.”

they were two of sana’s closest friends at yonsei. both a few years older than you and practically royalty in their own right; effortlessly composed and always surrounded by people who wanted to be close to them — or be them.

you used to see them around often when you and sana were first getting close. they never treated you unkindly…in fact, nayeon always greeted you with a loud “oh, you again?” and mina would smile quietly, handing you a drink like you already belonged. they were your seniors in every way: in age; in experience; in the kinds of heartbreaks and head starts that come with growing up too fast in worlds you barely feel like you belong in.

even now, years later, the sight of them still pulls something warm and nostalgic from your chest. they remind you of a different time — the nights you stood by sana’s side…feeling small but safe, never knowing just how much she would come to mean to you years down the line.

“i was not,” sana says, appearing behind you with two plates of dessert.

“please,” nayeon rolls her eyes. “she used to leave dinners just to call you and then cry about how complicated everything was.”

“used to?” mina murmurs, eyebrow raised. “i think the streak ended, what — last year?”

you give sana a look. “so i’ve heard.”

she hands you a plate and shrugs. “they’re exaggerating.”

“you used to leave parties to sit in stairwells and call her.”

“i was dramatic.”

“you cried.”

she waves them off, then glances at you with a crooked grin. “they’re jealous.”

“of what?”

“that you’re the first person i’ve ever brought here.”

“what?” you blink in disbelief, mouth already full of something sweet and expensive. “no dates before me?”

“not here,” she repeats. “this place is family.”

“so i’m special.”

she rolls her eyes, a teasing smile appearing in the corners of her mouth. “you literally dumped me and i’m still here, so yeah.”

you nudge her, she bumps your shoulder back.

mina watches you both with a quiet smile. “i’m glad you’re here, y/n. you’re both good for each other.”

it takes you a second to absorb that because you do. for the first time in years, maybe ever, you’re in a room full of people who know each other’s names, whose approval isn’t cautious or polite but warm and unconditional — and you’re not being hidden.

it’s late by the time the car rolls through empty streets. the city lights pass like slow waves against the windows. you’re both a little buzzed from wine, shoes kicked off, blazers draped in your laps.

sana’s fingers are still laced with yours, she looks softer now. her voice quieter as she talks to you, like the world is shrinking back to just the two of you.

your hand rests lightly on her thigh, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of her trousers.

“can i ask you something?” you murmur.

“you’re allowed,” she replies, tilting her head toward you.

“so why have you not brought anyone to this party?”

her brow lifts, leaning her head back against the seat. “honestly?”

you nod.

“you’re the first,” she begins to explain. “because you scare me a little, you never asked to be here — you just…showed up and made space without needing to take any.”

you stare at her, a little breathless.

she turns to look at you fully, her expression is open. “it’s always been you, even when it wasn’t.”

you swallow hard.

the car still moves quietly through the city, lights passing over the windows in slow, golden waves. and you think, for the first time in a long time, that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

it’s christmas day and sana’s family home is lit like something from an old winter painting. the snow clings to the trees and lines the edges of the roof like icing. and there’s warmth in every room inside; everything made out of oak in that traditional japanese sense.

you’ve never had a christmas like this.

there are matching slippers at the door, monogrammed napkins and the kind of table setting that makes you hesitate before sitting down. the candles flicker low between you all, flames catching on the wine glasses as her father lifts his to inspect the pour.

he sits at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, wine glass already half full. “not too much,” he chuckles, topping yours off. “don’t want you falling asleep before dessert.”

“no promises,” you reply, and he laughs louder; shoulders shaking and all

it’s just the four of you. no cousins, no extended family or staff pacing in the background. sana sits beside you, ankles crossed under the table, her hand brushing your thigh every now and then like she’s checking that you’re still here.

“your parents must miss you,” her mum says, spooning rice into her own bowl. “have you called them yet?”

you shake your head. “not yet, i was waiting until things quieted down.”

“call them now,” sana says softly, nudging your foot under the table. “you can put it on speaker.”

you hesitate, but her mum is already nodding. “that would be great, we would love to say hello.”

your phone is in your pocket so you fish it out, glancing at the time — still early evening in switzerland. you press call. the dial tone hums once, then twice and then your mum picks up.

“merry christmas, darling!”

“hi, mum,” you greet, smiling. “you’re on speaker.”

“oh?”

“i’m with sana’s parents,” you explain. “they wanted to say hi.”

sana’s dad leans forward. “merry christmas, hope you’re both having the best time,” he waves, warm and clear.

you can hear the delight in your mother’s voice. “oh, how lovely! thank you for hosting our daughter this year. we were sorry she couldn’t come with us.”

“she’s very welcome here,” her mum adds. “we’re happy to have her.”

sana chimes in next, her voice light. “hi, mr and mrs y/l/n. thanks for raising the most stubborn woman alive.”

your father’s voice comes through faintly in the background. “you’ve got your hands full, then.”

they all laugh and you feel your face warm. it feels good.

“we’ll let you go enjoy dinner,” your mum adds after a minute more of cheerful noise and small talk. “we’ll talk properly tomorrow.”

you hang up and sana squeezes your knee gently beneath the table.

her father’s already mid-sip of his wine when he says, “so, this firm you’re joining — under the kim family?”

“yes, taehyung’s dad offered me a placement earlier in the year.”

he snorts. “sounds about right; that man’s sharp. got his claws into you before the others could.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “he was persuasive.”

“a good sign,” he nods, raising his glass. “people chase talent, it means you’re doing something right if you’ve got one of south korea’s richest men to persuade you.”

you hum and it settles over you: the warmth, the acceptance, the easy rhythm of it all. there’s no tension in your shoulders and you don’t feel the need to read between words or brace yourself for correction — it’s a slow meal with people who see you as someone worth being proud of.

not tolerated nor excused, but welcomed with open arms.

dinner finishes with tea and fruits. sana’s mum brings out small velvet boxes and pushes one toward you. you hesitate, glance at sana, who’s smiling gently.

“we said no gifts.”

“and we ignored it,” her mum replies.

you open it carefully.

inside is a watch; silver and elegant, the weight of it immediately grounding as you glance at the name richard mille.

jesus christ, you thought.

beside it, wrapped in a velvet slip, is a gold pen with your initials carved at the top of it.

you’ve seen something like this pen before. on sana’s desk, in her hand, tucked into her notebook. she mentioned she got it at eighteen.

you look up, words forming slowly. “this is too much.”

“nonsense,” her father groans. “you’re part of our lives now; get used to it.”

you don’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you nod, fingers curling around the velvet like it’ll anchor you.

they don’t need thanks drawn out and scripted; you know their kindness doesn’t ask for anything in return and that’s the part that stings the most. you never knew you could be carried like this without having to earn it.

and when the table’s been cleared and the kitchen grows quiet and her parents disappear up the stairs with soft goodnights and kind glances, it’s just you and sana again — on the living room floor, legs stretched toward the fireplace, two glasses of wine resting on the table between you.

the fire crackles quietly, the only real sound in the room. you can still hear music faintly from the kitchen; jazz, maybe, but the rest of the world has dimmed.

your head leans slightly against her shoulder. she doesn’t move.

you’re full in every sense of the word. full of food, of warmth, of something else you haven’t named yet. and then your phone buzzes.

you feel the vibration in your pocket before the ring even begins.

it’s faint, easily ignorable, except something in your body registers it before your mind does. you shift slightly, ease your hand into your pocket, still curled up beside her in front of the fire.

the screen lights up and her name flashes once.

karina.

the air feels colder all of a sudden. your stomach twists, a quiet clench that catches you off guard. beside you, sana stirs slightly but she doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t need to. she sees the screen.

you stand up, too quickly.

“i’ll just — be a minute,” you murmur.

you stand without a word and she doesn’t look up.

you step out onto the balcony, sliding the door closed behind you. the air is cold against your neck, your breath blooming white in the dark.

and you answer before you can talk yourself out of it. “hello?”

her voice is exactly how you remember it — low, careful, like it’s measuring the silence between your words before they’re even spoken.

“hi, merry christmas, y/n.”

you close your eyes for a moment, let the wind bite at your face. “merry christmas, jimin.”

there’s a pause. you hear the hum of something in the background and neither of you speak for a second.

“i wasn’t sure if i should call, but you crossed my mind. i guess…you still do,” she continues, her voice is so small it barely carries on top of the breeze. “but i didn’t want to let the day pass without…saying it. i know you were excited for christmas.”

your hand curls around the edge of the railing, feeling the ache before it even takes shape. it’s not a painful, but more like the kind that’s been dulled by time but not erased.

“how are you?” you ask, unsure what to say next.

jimin exhales a shaky breath. “i’ve been better, but my parents are still asking if i’ve managed to win you back,” she lets out something close to a laugh, but it doesn’t reach her chest. “they say it like it’s a job — think they really wanted to know you more.”

you let the silence settle for a moment. it’s familiar, but it doesn’t hurt the same way anymore. you didn’t need to know any of that; no longer have the right to.

“how’s…jaewook?”

she’s quiet for a second too long. “umm, yeah, we broke up the day after that night i saw you. i think i knew i couldn’t keep lying to him and myself after that.”

you chew the inside of your cheek, the words settling slowly, heavy but unsurprising.

“i’m sorry,” you croak out.

“don’t be,” she replies. “i should’ve ended it a long time ago.”

the wind whistles faintly between the railing bars. you adjust your weight, heart beating a little harder than you would like.

“are you happy?” she asks; it’s barely more than a whisper. “with her?”

your breath catches with how much weight the questoon carries. you look through the frosted glass, into the house where sana still sits, curled into the couch, waiting patiently — warm and steady.

“yeah,” you reply after a second. “we’re…taking things slow. but it’s real; she’s real.”

she doesn’t reply right away either. when she does, her voice is rougher than before. “good.”

you believe her, mostly, or at least you want to.

“i’m glad,” she continues, though there’s something behind it…like she’s letting go of something without knowing if it’s the last time.

the silence comes back, thicker this time.

“thank you for calling,” you tell her, meaning it. “it’s really good to hear from you.”

you hear her exhale, something like a smile buried in it. “take care of yourself.”

“you too.”

the call ends.

you watch the snow fall for a few more seconds, then slide the phone back into your pocket, letting the cold seep into your skin just to feel everything clearly.

it was kind, that call. necessary, maybe. but you don’t feel unsteady and you don’t feel torn.

it feels…finished.

sana looks up as you return. she doesn’t move, but her face has changed, ever so slightly — like something pulled rigidly just beneath her eyes.

you feel it settle between you like a window left open just a little too long.

“if you ever want to go back to her,” she suddenly voices out, tone sorrowful: “i won’t hold it against you, i knew what i was getting myself into. and you don’t owe me anything at all.”

your heart drops as you stare at the fire for a second longer before you speak. “sana, baby, i want to keep moving with you.”

the words sit between you, unfurling slowly. she nods. once. but you can see how tightly she’s holding herself together.

under the couch, you pull out the small box you had been keeping for her. it’s not wrapped well and the corners are uneven and you had to tape the bottom twice because you suck at wrapping gifts — but you place it on her lap anyway.

“this is for you.”

she looks at you, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. she doesn’t reach for the gift right away. instead, she unwraps it slowly, fingers catching at the tape.

inside is a square canvas — the edges still a little rough where the paint dried too fast. it’s the two of you, sitting on a bench in that quiet park from that night. backs facing the viewer, just two figures with shoulders leaning in, hair caught in a breeze. nothing fancy, but it’s unmistakably you and her.

you wait while she stares at it.

then: “you painted this?”

you nod. your voice shakes a little. “a few weeks ago.”

her eyes flicker up. they’re glossy now and it breaks something open in your chest. she doesn’t speak for a long time, just holding the frame in both hands like she’s afraid it’ll slip.

you shift a little closer.

“i know we didn’t take a photo that day, we were both too drunk,” you explain, a smile on your face. “but i remember it. i remember thinking that if anything in my life ever felt like home again, it would be that moment — us under the stars, quietly figuring ourselves out.”

her breath hitches.

“i’m still scared,” you admit. “i still think i might mess this up. i still wake up sometimes not sure if i deserve any of it. but i want to try. you’re so, so, so important to me, sana, i never want to lose you again.”

the tears spill slowly, she doesn’t even bother hiding them.

“you’re such a jerk,” she mumbles through a soft laugh. “you couldn’t have said all that before the wine?”

you smile, a little helpless. “sorry.”

she puts the painting down carefully and reaches for your hand. “you won’t lose me, not this time.”

you pull her in gently and she lets you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, the painting resting carefully against her side.

“you matter to me,” you whisper. “always.”

“i know,” she says. “i just needed to hear you say it.”

and so you do. again and again.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

you wake to the dull hum of your phone vibrating on the nightstand. you don’t reach for it straight away — your eyes are still adjusting. and sana’s breath is warm against your neck, she shifts slightly, murmuring something in her sleep and her arm curls tighter around your waist.

the screen glows again. this time you blink fully awake and glance over.

but the sound doesn’t stop. it pulses again —persistent. you shift, groggy, reaching toward the nightstand where your phone is lighting up.

karina is calling…

“the fuck?” you let out a quiet sigh through your nose, staring at the screen like maybe, if you’re still enough, it’ll stop ringing.

it doesn’t. the digits blur slightly — 2:31 a.m.

sana stirs behind you. “who is it?” her voice is still caught in sleep, soft and heavy.

“it’s…jimin,” you mumble out in slight disbelief. “she’s calling, should i answer?”

you half expect her to roll away, to go quiet like last time. but instead, she rests her hand against your shoulder and says, gently: “answer it.”

you turn to her. “are you sure?”

she nods; her hair’s messy against the pillow, eyes barely open, but she still offers you a small, understanding smile. “i know what it’s like…to be the one who never gets the call back.”

your heart aches at that, but you nod and slide off the bed quietly, grabbing your hoodie from the chair as you step out into the lounge room.

you swipe to answer. “hello, jimin?”

you’re already halfway down the hallway, bare feet padding softly against the hardwood, heart thumping as you shut the bedroom door behind you.

her voice cracks instantly through the speaker. “you answered…i wasn’t sure.”

it’s messy — slurred, uneven, like her tongue’s too slow to keep up with her mouth. there’s noise in the background. a car maybe, or the wind, it’s nothing solid.

“are you okay?” you ask. “where are you?”

“i don’t know,” she breathes. you can hear her sniffle. “i didn’t want to call, i just — i couldn’t not. fuck, i sound so stupid.”

your brows furrow, concern rising. you drop onto the couch, pressing the phone harder to your ear.

“jimin, what’s going on? are you out?”

“i wanted to see you,” she answers, voice trembling. “i keep wanting to see you. i keep seeing you. it’s like — everything i do reminds me of you and i don’t even know if you care anymore. do you still care?”

you sit down on the couch, rubbing at your temple. “what more do you want from me?”

“you,” she says it so fast like it’s always been waiting behind her teeth. “i want you back.”

you close your eyes. “karina…”

“don’t, don’t say it like that, don’t say it in that tone like you pity me.”

you run a hand through your hair, staring at the dark screen of the tv in front of you. “you’re drunk, can you please send me your location?”

“you still care?” she asks, voice wobbling. “you still care about me, don’t you?”

you don’t answer that. instead, you repeat, firmer this time, “send me your location. please.”

she sniffs, quiet for a moment. then the familiar ping of a map drops into your phone. “you didn’t answer me…”

“stay on the line,” you demand. and she doesn’t argue.

you get up from the couch, walking back toward the bedroom. sana’s sitting up now, pulling her hair back into a bun. the bedside lamp is on, casting soft yellow against the walls. she looks tired, but she’s already pointing at her bag.

“keys are in the front pocket,” she gestures you over with a sleepy, understanding smile.

you lean in, press your mouth to her temple, then her cheek, her skin warm and soft against your lips. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t be,” she cups your jaw gently. “all i want is for you to bring her home safe.”

“i’ll be back soon,” you whisper.

“i know.”

you slip your shoes on at the door, phone still pressed to your ear as you speak quietly to jimin, who’s gone quiet but hasn’t hung up.

“hey,” you say. “i’m coming to get you, okay?”

there’s no response at first. then: “okay.”

the street is cold and quiet, light snow from the previous night still melting in uneven patches along the curb. you get in the car, engine humming to life with your hand tight on the wheel. you glance once at the rearview mirror and try not to think too hard about where this night is headed.

because even now — even with sana asleep in your bed, with your life finally steady, with love that doesn’t hurt — you’re still driving out into the dark when jimin calls and a part of you hates that you always will.

the streets are empty this late. seoul feels softer somehow, the edges dulled by the chill and the quiet. traffic lights flicker through amber and red, casting slow glows against the frost on your windscreen. the heater hums low.

while jimin’s still on the line, she’s quiet now, only the sound of her sniffling breaking through. you don’t say anything. there’s nothing left to say in the silence and yet you stay on the call.

you drive with one hand on the wheel, the other holding the phone to your ear, her breath moving in and out like waves.

the location leads you to a quiet side street near a convenience store. a line of taxis sits idle nearby, lights off, drivers probably asleep. you see her before she sees you — curled up on a bench, knees pulled tight to her chest, hair tousled and damp. her coat’s buttoned wrong and she looks smaller than you remember.

the sight of her like this does something strange to your chest — splits it, gently, like an old wound reopening along its scar line. you hadn’t realised how deeply the memory of her lived in your body.

but you get out anyway.

each step toward her feels like walking underwater. heavy and unreal. it’s not like the movies; there’s no music, no chatter, not even the buzz of the neon bar sign — just the sound of your boots crunching over ice and her small, wracked breaths in the distance.

she looks up; mascara smudged under both eyes, blinking like she’s not sure if you’re really here.

“you came,” she speaks, voice shaking. “you actually came.”

you crouch down beside her. “of course i did.”

it’s not even a sentence, really. her lips part like she wants to speak, but nothing comes out except a new wave of tears. she breaks immediately — no hesitation, no pride left to cling to. she just folds into you like muscle memory, like all those months apart didn’t stretch the distance between your bodies.

her arms lock around your neck, shoulders shaking violently, the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deeper than sadness.

grief, maybe. or realisation.

“you look so much happier now,” she mumbles into your sleeve, voice muffled in between breaths. “with sana. i see it in your face…you never looked at me like that.”

“that’s not true,” you reassure her. “

she puts a slight distance between you two, wiping her face with the sleeve of her coat instead. her eyes are swollen, cheeks red from the cold. “i ruined it. i ruined everything.

you look at her, really take a good look at her. the way her lips are chapped, she looks so tired. you wonder if she’s eaten today.

if she’s still trying to pretend she’s okay to everyone but you.

“maybe,” you say gently. “but that doesn’t mean i hate you.”

she laughs bitterly through her tears. “you should.”

“i don’t,” you say again. “you loved me in the way you could…it just wasn’t enough.”

the words feel cruel even as you say them, but they’re honest. and maybe she needs that more than kindness right now.

you guide her to the car with gentle hands, barely saying a word. she’s compliant but stumbling, half-apologising through her sobs. her coat slips off one shoulder, and you pull it up, fasten the belt for her. the seatbelt clicks into place and you pass her the water bottle from the centre console.

“drink some of this, you need it.”

she obeys. she always does with you, even now. she’s still crying — softly, into the crook of her elbow. you start the car and pull into the road without asking where to go.

you already know.

the han river’s quiet this time of night. empty car park, the kind of silence you used to share like a secret. back then, it felt like the only place in the city where you could breathe together.

no lights except the scattered halos of streetlamps catching on the water. you pull into the spot she used to love — far left corner, facing the ripples.neither of you speak right away.

the engine hums low on the background.

“i used to take you here every time i ran out of things to say,” she whispers. her voice is hoarse. “and somehow you always found more.”

you turn to her. she’s staring out at the river like it holds every answer she was too scared to look for back then. her hands tremble as she sets the water down to her lap.

“why did i do that?” she asks, voice small. “why did i lie to you every time i told you i was choosing you? why did i make you believe that?”

you don’t know how to answer. you’ve asked yourself the same thing, over and over. back then it felt like she was always reaching for you with one hand and holding something else in the other.

you wanted her to choose, you waited for it. but she never did.

“i was so scared,” she admits, eyes glistening again. “not of you. of what it meant to love you that much and the expectations already set out for me in stone.”

you remain quiet because your throat aches with too much of everything. she reaches for your hand, like she’s checking to see if it’s still real.

you watch the water shimmer through the windshield, her reflection blurring next to yours in the glass. “i tried so hard to let you go, but i think i just…folded you into every part of me instead.”

“i hated myself for how i treated you,” jimin continued, her voice cracking again. “i still do.”

“don’t,” you finally look at her. “you were scared. people make stupid choices when they’re scared.”

“you weren’t,” she lets out a pained sob. “you never were. you always chose me, even when it hurt. even when i couldn’t say your name out loud.”

“and you’re punishing yourself for not being ready, but that’s not love, jimin. it’s guilt. and it’s going to eat you alive if you let it.”

you both sit there for a long time, her head resting against the window and her hand still holding yours.

she folds over again, body racked with sobs, and you do what you’ve always done — you hold her. her head lands onto your shoulder this time and she grips your sleeve like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

at some point, you find tears slipping out of your eyes too. not because you still want her, not in that way. but because once, you really did. and that kind of loss never leaves quietly.

you stroke her hair slowly, the silence stretching around you like a blanket pulled tight. it’s not cold anymore, but you’re both shivering from everything else.

then, your phone buzzes. sana. asking if you’re still there…but it feels like a different question, like it holds another meaning than just there.

“we should go,” you heave out a sigh. “sana’s waiting for me.”

“okay,” she nods quietly. “okay, we can do that.”

she’s quiet when you drive her home. her hand stays in yours the whole ride, resting on the centre console, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

nothing needs to be said now.

when you pull up outside her building, she doesn’t move at first. she just turns to you, eyes full and steady. she hesitates. and then, barely above a whisper: “will you stay with me tonight?”

you pause, heart twisting, then stills. “no,” you say, as gently as you can. “i can’t.”

she nods, like she expected that answer but it still wounds her. “this is goodbye, isn’t it?”

you look over at her. “i…yeah. i think so.”

she reaches out, touches your cheek gently, her fingers cold but still familiar. you shake your head, but she leans in, presses her forehead against yours and keeps going. “if i ever get another chance…i’ll do it right.”

your eyes sting and having her this close again makes your chest ache. “jimin —“

her voice is barely a whisper now, her tears falling on your lap. “if i have to wait a lifetime, i will. if not this one, then the next.”

you don’t promise anything, but you press your forehead to hers for a moment longer and then pull away.

“please go inside,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “goodnight, jimin.”

she nods and steps out of the car — doesn’t look back but you can see the way her shoulders shake. you watch her walk away until she disappears into the building, and only then do you let the tears fall freely.

it’s not love anymore, not quite. but it’s still something. maybe it always will be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

you don’t mean to make a big deal of it. not really.

the sky’s that bright blue that means late spring is almost over and it’s warm enough that the breeze coming off the han river barely makes a difference.

sana’s leaning back on her elbows, the grass soft beneath the blanket she insisted on bringing. it’s the same one from the last time — the one you two fell asleep under after sneaking snacks into a campus lawn movie night months ago. you’re both stretched out at yeouido park, iced coffee mostly melted between you, the soft hum of people around blending with the low strum of an acoustic busker in the distance.

you should be focused on your book but you’re not. you’ve been reading the same paragraph three times; she keeps tapping your ankle with hers. she’s got sunglasses on, head tilted back like she’s soaking in the last of the coldness before summer pulls it away.

“you’re staring,” she says, not looking at you, her mouth tugged up into the smallest smirk. “i can feel it.”

“i’m not,” you lie, flipping the page like that’ll save you.

she doesn’t push, just keeps tapping your ankle lazily, her foot warm against yours. you want to tell her to stop because it’s driving you mad, the affection of it.

the way she still treats you like someone precious, even when you’ve made her wait all this time.

you glance sideways at her. her lips are soft and she’s wearing your hoodie. she smells like the inside of your pillow. and when she turns her head to face you — sunglasses sliding down a little — you feel it all at once.

every slow moment you’ve spent together since winter. the little things. the movie nights, the long drives, the way she remembers how you take your coffee. how she’s never made you feel like loving her is a countdown to goodbye.

and god, you love her.

you set your book down. “hey, sana.”

she hums.

“can we —” you falter. clear your throat. “can we make this official?”

that gets her. she pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, blinks at you like she didn’t hear you right. “what?”

you sit up straighter, stomach twisting. “i mean…i want to be with you. like, actually with you. if you still want that.”

she’s silent for a second too long, in the way you know she’s replaying your words, making sure they’re real. her smile starts in her eyes before it reaches her lips.

“you’re asking me to be your girlfriend,” she repeats slowly, softly, like she wants to savour it.

you nod, heart thudding. “yeah.”

“finally,” she lets out a breath, practically laughs, and then leans forward, pulling you in by the front of your hoodie and kissing you, full and slow and warm like sunlight. it’s like she’s known it would happen, eventually, and now it has. her hands cradle your face as she pulls away. “took you long enough.”

you smile against her lips, relief blooming in your chest. “sorry.”

“i forgive you,” she grins. “but only because you’re cute.”

you groan, bury your face in her shoulder. “i should’ve asked you when you brought me coffee every morning for a week. or when you stayed up all night helping me with my thesis draft.”

“or when my parents bought you that fancy watch for christmas.”

“okay, yes, that too.”

she plays with the hem of your sleeve. “i would’ve said yes every time.”

you look down at her fingers brushing yours. “i know.”

and you do. you really do…because that’s the difference with sana. with her, there’s no guessing. just quiet loyalty, kindness that doesn’t make you feel small.

you both lie back again, the moment settling into your bones. she squeezes your hand once and doesn’t let go and the grass rustles beside you.

you don’t say anything more. you don’t need to. she knows.

and somewhere, maybe not too far off, you think of jimin — how some things burn out before they ever have the chance to be steady. how sometimes, it’s not about who makes your heart race, but who makes it feel safe to stay.

today, you chose safety. and maybe that’s what love is now. not the ache of almost, but the warmth of finally.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

fuck, you didn’t plan on seeing her.

not today of all days — when you’re feeling light, even content, walking along the street with a brown paper bag in hand, the apricot pastry tucked neatly inside.

sana had texted you earlier, something about being stuck in a last-minute campaign, promising to make it up to you with takeout and terrible reality tv.

but campus is small, specially after graduation. the cafés are familiar and the corners shared.

jimin.

she’s sitting alone outside, cup of americano going cold in front of her, a book she isn’t reading open on her lap. her hair’s even shorter now, blunt around her jaw and she’s dressed in black again, like she’s always bracing for winter, even in the middle of summer.

you think of walking past or turning around, but your feet don’t move fast enough and she looks up like clockwork — and there it is. the recognition and the pause. her eyes soften the second they land on you and she lifts a hand in a small wave.

your feet begin walk over. there’s no ache in your chest now. it’s something softer; nostalgic.

“hey y/n,” she smiles, a bit brighter now.

“jimin!” you sit across from her, slipping the bag onto your lap. your heart isn’t racing like before, now it’s a steady thrum, a quiet reminder of everything you used to feel.

“hey,” she repeats, voice low.

still familiar. still jimin.

“hi, how are you doing?”

“i’m well,” her lips twitch into something like a smile. “you look good.”

you shrug. “so do you. different…i like the short hair, it’s good.”

it’s awkward in a way it always is with exes…or whatever you two were.

she nods slowly, as if she knows. “i feel different.”

you glance at the book on her table — something classic, spine cracked, pages annotated in the way she always used to do when she was trying to understand something deeply. you used to love watching her read like that, as if the words meant everything and they were a map.

“i heard about you and sana,” she adds after a beat. not bitter, just factual. “and graduating top of your class isn’t an easy feat; i’m so proud of you.”

you nod again, it means a lot coming from her. “we’re doing well.”

there’s a pause. then she says: “she’s good to you.”

“she always has been.”

and jimin looks down, eyes on her coffee. her voice is steady when she speaks; “i’ve been thinking a lot. about everything. about how i was with you. with jaewook, with…myself.”

you don’t say anything. just listen.

“after you,” she continues, “i tried to fill the space with noise. with him. with plans that didn’t belong to me. i thought maybe if i pretended hard enough, it’d go away. the guilt and the wanting.”

you watch her hands as she speaks. they’re calmer now. no shaking, no nervous twitching. just open palms, resting on her lap.

“i broke up with jaewook a few weeks after that night at the restaurant. i didn’t tell anyone. i think part of me was still waiting for you to come back.”

your chest tightens — not painfully, but enough to remind you that the past isn’t as far away as you sometimes pretend.

“but you didn’t,” she adds. “and i’m glad you didn’t because it forced me to stop waiting and start…choosing.”

you tilt your head slightly. “choosing?”

“myself. finally,” she lets out a breath. “i’m taking over the family business.”

that makes you blink. “really?”

she nods, chuckling. “yeah, i always thought it was a sentence. something i’d be trapped in. but now it’s…mine. i want to do it right. make something out of it that means something. not because they told me to — but because i want to.”

you can’t help it; you smile. for her; with her, because you can recognise how far she’s come.

“i’m proud of you for deciding on that; jimin, the ceo of yu group — can’t believe i get to say i knew her.”

jimin looks up then, really stares at you. and for a second, you see her as she was when you first fell in love — messy-haired, sharp-tongued, eyes always searching for something to hold onto.

“thank you for loving me the way you did. i was too young to understand it at the time, too scared and stupid.”

you nod slowly, the words settling somewhere deep inside. “i used to wish you’d been braver.”

“i know,” she smiles, a little sad. “i wish i had been too.”

you both sit there for a while, letting the silence do what words can’t. there’s nothing sharp in the air anymore. no what-ifs or if-onlys; just two people who survived each other.

“i miss you,” she admits, finally.

you meet her gaze. “i miss you too, but i don’t miss us.”

it’s gentle, the way you say it, but you can see it hit her — the truth of it. she doesn’t cry and doesn’t reach for you. instead, breathes in then out.

“and thank you for loving me when i didn’t know how to love you back properly.”

you smile, soft at the edges. “you taught me a lot. even in the mess of it.”

she laughs, a little broken, a little healed. “that’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me i was a total disaster.”

you smile shyly too, brushing imaginary dust off your jeans. “take care of yourself, jimin.”

“you too,” she says. “and y/n?”

you pause.

“if you ever need someone to have your back — even if it’s from far away — it’ll always be me. what i said that night…i meant it. in every lifetime.”

your throat tightens, offering her a small smile. “i know.”

you walk away, heart strangely light. there’s no heaviness, but you carry the knowledge that some people are lessons. and some are homes.

sana’s probably waiting for you back at the apartment now, with her soft playlists and too-large jumpers and the smell of peppermint tea she always forgets to finish, wondering if you remembered the name of the pastry this time.

you did; and this time, you’re bringing it home.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the end.

#heliooosss #kpop x reader #kpop gg #kpop imagines #aespa x reader #aespa imagines #aespa #angst #karina #karina imagines #sana imagines #sana x reader #minatozaki sana

557 notes · View notes

oscpstri · 24 days ago

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don't you make me | leclerc

leclerc x fem ex!reader, 547

you didn't think it would end this way, but when charles decided to downplay the breakup about a relationship he never even cared to tell people about, you show your ex exactly who he was dealing with.

INCLUDES: charles is a red flag but we all knew that !!, PETTY ENERGY

NOTE: got this idea bcs ive been IN LOVE with the bridge of 15 minutes ever since it came out. also inspired by my own breakup bcs i need to release this hot girl anger somewhere. love sabrina she's my queen

( masterlist | more CL16 )

Charles should have known better.

You weren't the type of girl who could be erased so quickly, not when the entire relationship was built by you brick by brick.

That's why when an exclusive interview with the grid's Monaco prince came out with Charles saying he 'gave you what he could', you were fuming. Gone were the nights of you bawling your eyes out because everything reminded you of him, now you were just looking for a way to get back under his skin.

Because you were not about to let a man who couldn't even give you handwritten letters ruin your life.

So you closed the curtain, took a week to better your headspace, and opened it like nothing had happened.

The breakup wasn't big— just enough. You were a nobody because Charles refused to hard-launch you but now you were about to turn into the hottest woman the paddock has ever seen. No one would forget you. Definitely not Charles.

Talk about a glow-up? You had a whole F1 car sized weight lifted off your chest.

You posted on Instagram. A simple three-slide post that encapsulated everything you had been up to since the week Charles had tragically let you go.

The first slide was a faceless photo, tan lines out, sunglasses on, posing like you owned that damn beach.

The second slide was a picture of the ocean. Calm, serene— much opposite to the reactions you garnered from the last slide.

The third was a selfie taken from the top, your eyes covered by the brim of a hat. A hat everyone instantly recognized— even the drivers themselves. This then probed the question to the public: Who are you and why is you wearing a Carlos Sainz hat provoking the drivers reactions?

Pierre liked your post immediately, Lando hyped you up in the comments, Alex reposted on his story with the caption 'complete Williams WAG roster', and Charles? He saw everything. And you know he did.

Because the second the paddock starts whispering your name when they find you, Charles turns to see the talk of the town. He wouldn't have had a hard time, though. Because you weren't even trying to blend in. A black mini dress, sunglasses, and a cute gold chain with a little "C" pendant dangling from it.

You let people wonder which C, but Charles knew exactly who it wasn't.

He glances at you, tight-lipped, regret simmering in his eyes.

You mustered up the sweetest PR-approved smile you could give, "Hi!"

Charles blinked. "Hey."

You leaned in, voice sweet and innocent. "Hope your season's going well. Big fan! All things considered."

You mutter the last part under your breath, walking away with a wide smile. Charles didn't respond, he couldn't, and he knew that.

His eyes follow your retreating figure all the wsy to the Williams hospitality where you find yourself beside Carlos.

"You're dangerous." He leans towards your ear, voice low and husky.

You turn to him, another wide smile on your face. "Only when I'm provoked."

He grinned. "And if I don't provoke you?"

Your smile simmers, a smirk replacing it as you take a sip of your drink. "Then you get to be the hard launch instead of the big caution sign for the next guy."

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7-deadly-cats · 2 months ago

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killing me softly | 16

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive language & themes, rafe ovulating, angsty and overthinking reader, some verbal tension, some very long-ass conversation starting in the second half, reader having some intense episode of spiraling and need for reassurance, rafe being very dramatic at the end aka him jumping to the craziest conclusion known to man aka he's actually going insane (monologue only), also rafe being possessive and if you look closely also some unresolved trauma of abandonment, some hints at past platonic kiara x rafe

✿ S U M M A R Y O F L A S T P A R T ✿ waking up with a hangover, the first thing you saw when opening your phone was the drunk texts you’d sent to rafe after getting home last night. the two of you had exchanged blurry selfies, and rafe had made some very suggestive comments. cringing at yourself, you texted cara to meet up later. after your shower, you found rafe in the living room bc he wanted bring you your forgotten bag. his bruise getting looked at by your dad (rafe later claimed he told your dad the bruise was an accident with a golf club). your mom invited rafe for lunch and they seemed to like him. afterward, you and rafe are left alone with him suggesting to continue your project. you being too hungover declined. rafe decided to drag you outside so you could properly sober up. in his car, rafe gave you his phone to shut kelce's spamming up. however, opening the chat, an upper body pic of kelce greeted you. after replying to kelce in rafe's name, you got a little too curious scrolling through the chat and finding thirst trap of rafe (the boys seemingly update each other with their gym progress). rafe caught you staring but he shrugged it off with a cocky remark. you finally arrived at the health store rafe claimed had magical anti-hangover smoothies. and somewhere between the car ride and the smoothies, you started to get the feeling that maybe, just maybe, rafe actually liked you more than you originally thought.

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 10.4k+ (reader's fault)

✿ A / N ✿ getting to add some barry action into KMS? don't mind if i do hihihii;; also literally so anxious about this part (i know i say this with every new chapter help) bc the second half took me a while to figure out or rather i had a hard time debating how i wanted their convo to go AND which pov i wanted it to be in and ngl i actually had to keep my own patience in check with reader 🤣 and well, i’m always scared some stuff might feel forced or rushed, especially bc i’m aiming for a natural development BUT ANYWAY, it is what it is and i hope you guys enjoy. as always, lmk what you think <3

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"That looks like the stuff that came out of me this morning," you said with scrunched-up brows as you crouched in front of the smoothies' fridge at Bulk & Bloom (shit, yeah, that was the actual shitty-ass name, and no, Kelce was not a co-founder).

And somehow, seeing you in that position there beside him, lips slightly parted in a way that could be viewed suggestive in a different setting, Rafe had no fucking clue why, but the sight did something to him. Suddenly, there was an urgent need to think of wrinkly old grandmas and dead puppies.

Rafe let out a chuckle. "Which end?"

You blinked at him, deadpan. “Your sense of humor is horrible.”

Fucking hell. And now you were looking up at him with that bratty gaze. Rafe tried to think about literally anything other than how badly he wanted to—

Fuck, what.

"Shit, still better than expressing my feelings through some fucked-up images that look like they came straight out of a crackhead’s brain," he shot back with a crooked smile.

Because yeah, your weird-ass reaction pictures? Only Wheezie seemed to understand what the hell those pictures were supposed to mean, or how to use them (not that he'd shown them to anyone else anyway). And Rafe still questioned his own sanity for actually asking his little sister to explain them to him.

Not because he cared, of course. He just didn’t want you to think he was beneath you when it came to that crap.

You turned your gaze back to the line-up of smoothies. "Should be easy enough for you to understand, considering you and the crackhead share similar hobbies."

Oh, how badly Rafe wanted to shut you up and teach you some respect in a way that made his blood rush faster and adrenaline shoot higher.

He had skipped the fucking coke this morning on purpose, and he was still having these insane thoughts. Worsening by the minute.

"Real funny," he muttered.

You chuckled. "Who says I’m joking?"

Rafe scoffed. You were definitely doing this on purpose—acting all bratty, just to get a rise out of him. And he seriously questioned how the fuck you had the confidence to act like that when just earlier in his car, you’d been a stuttering, awkward mess after he'd caught you staring at his post-gym pic like you’d just pulled a legendary FIFA card.

“Feeling bold now, huh?” he said. “Funny, considering you were damn near drooling on my phone a few minutes ago.”

And the little side-eye you threw him? Brows furrowed, lips pressed together? Rafe drank that shit up like ice-cold water.

He raised his eyebrows in anticipation as you looked at him. Yeah, how were you gonna talk your way out of that one? With another I-I didn’t mean to, sorry, I just—

"I'm not ashamed to admit that Kelce has a nice build."

what.

Rafe didn’t even feel his smile drop or his brows furrow because the sudden rush of anger hit so fast, it short-circuited everything else.

Like, what the fuck.

Obviously, he hadn’t been talking about fucking Kelce. It had been his pic. Him your nosy little ass had been staring at.

Shit. No fucking way.

Had he been right to suspect something during that project session at Kelce’s? Did you actually have a thing for that fucker? He couldn’t wrap his head around it. Couldn’t fucking understand how—

You little shit.

The second that sly smile crept onto your lips, the tension in Rafe’s jaw eased.

Shit, how badly he wanted to shut your mouth. And you still crouching next to him only fueled the flashing images in his head.

"Hilarious," Rafe muttered with a scowl, gesturing toward the fridge. "Now have you finally picked one? They all taste the fucking same anyway."

And you had the audacity to chuckle in response.

God, you were eating away at Rafe’s last nerve, which somehow just worsened the pressure building in his chest. And the crazy part? It was the kind of pressure he usually only got rid of when he was knee-deep in some random girl.

And that thought triggered more images. Of you. Sounds you’d make. The way you’d get all flustered and—

Fuck this shit.

No way he needed to get off that badly that you ended up being the one his brain fixated on.

It was just pent-up tension. Yeah, that was it. Just because he hadn’t gotten the chance to take care of it last night—thanks to fucking Topper crashing in the guest room with him—and you just happened to be the nearest girl around for his brain to throw into those kinds of scenarios.

It’s fine, he told himself. Gonna take care of that shit later at home.

"Well, you claimed one of them helps with hangovers," you said, eyeing him with an amused smile. "How am I supposed to know which one to pick when they're called..." You leaned forward (Rafe took that as a green light to check out your ass) and squinted at the name tags on the dumbass smoothies. "Maxx Mass Mango, Triceps Tropic Thunder, or," you let out an embarrassed laugh, "The Triple Load."

Rafe let out a low chuckle because the way you'd said it—so innocent, so awkward—was fucking priceless. You getting flustered over anything even remotely suggestive? Stupidly hilarious.

"I think one load will be enough for you today," he said with a lopsided grin, relishing the way you immediately looked away with a frown, all awkward again. Then he reached into the fridge for the Thirst Aid bottle and held it out to you. "Now let’s get the fuck out of here before the first wave of lunchtime joggers comes crashing in."

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“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Rafe unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed his wallet from the center console, and reached for a backpack in the back seat.

Okay. Three funny things: One, he had clearly lied to you earlier at home because this definitely meant he was about to do something sketchy. Two, you still hadn’t recovered from those ridiculously named smoothies. And three… guess where you were?

Barry’s pawn shop.

Like yeah, you'd kinda figured he and Rafe knew each other with Rafe selling fucking coke to his classmates. And sure, Barry probably wasn’t the only plug in the Cut but still, funny coincidence that it was him.

Aka the same guy Cara got her weed from.

Aka the guy she lowkey tried setting you up with since you'd first met him.

Barry was chill and cool, and okay, objectively speaking, he had a pretty face if you ignored the tangled hair and commitment-issues beard. And yeah, okay, you did like him, but in a completely platonic way.

More like two bros. Except for that one very steamy dream you'd had about him once that we’re never, ever talking about again from this point on.

Okayyyyy, hahaha, moving on.

But since you were already here, you kinda wanted to say hi.

"The fuck are you doing?" Rafe snapped as he saw you unbuckle your seatbelt just as he was about to get out of the car.

You eyed him dryly. "Getting out?"

"No. I told you to wait here." Oh, this dude was DEFINITELY picking up drugs with that sudden change in tone.

"Yeah, I have ears," you said with a scoff, slinging your bag over your shoulder and reaching for the car's door.

Rafe’s jaw clenched. "I’m fucking serious. Stay here."

You chuckled at how ridiculous he sounded, your gaze flicking to the backpack on his lap. "Why? Because you’re about to do some sketchy shit in there?"

"Because I don’t need some girl clinging to my ass everywhere I go," he snapped.

Braincells = 0.

You blinked. "Correct me if I'm wrong but weren't you the one asking me to come along?"

He looked so dumb with his lips pressed tight, brows drawn, and hugging his backpack like a pissed-off schoolboy running out of patience.

Eyeing you with an irritated smile, he said, “You don’t actually think—”

“Okay, no,” you cut him off, body shifting back toward him. “Which part of what I've said offended you now?”

Rafe’s brows twitched. His brain was probably running a marathon trying to figure out why he was actually pissed off.

“I don’t have the fucking patience to argue right now,” he muttered, voice strained. “Just fucking stay here. I’ll be back in five minutes, okay?”

Considering his usual reactions, that was almost a polite reassurance.

“Well, maybe I’ve got business in there too,” you said, brows raised.

Oh, this idiot found that hilarious. His face lit up like a kid watching a clown trip over its own shoes. “Yeah, nah, I doubt that.”

You held his gaze without saying a word. He didn’t want a discussion? Fine. Let him stew in the awkward silence and realize how dumb he was acting.

National Geographic should honestly study this dude because the silent treatment riled him up more than anything else, and you were this close to snapping a photo of his dumb little expression.

He ran a hand over his face and nodded dramatically. “Fine, then come along, for fuck’s sake. Don’t piss me off. But don’t start whining if some crackhead in there gives you a dirty look.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to suppress a smile. He sounded mad, but: “So you were trying to keep me away from shady people. How heroic."

“If it helps the voices in your head,” he muttered, the most dramatic scowl painted across his face. “Now get your ass moving, don't wanna get stabbed out here.”

“I’ll be damned,” Barry said with a lazy grin as you and Rafe stepped into the little shop. “Country Club and Little Alley Cat showing up together? What is it—my birthday?”

You chuckled, heart skipping a beat for… WHATEVER REASON. OKAY, MOVING ON.

The shop was completely empty, aside from grumpy Larna who sat in the back room behind a desk, glancing up with a death glare before going back to whatever she was doing.

Fucking dumbass Rafe just blinked, flabbergasted and visibly disoriented. Apparently, he hadn’t expected you to know his plug, and for some reason, that made the whole thing feel like home turf.

“You two fucking know each other?” he asked, face scrunched like he’d just bitten into a lemon.

Barry chuckled, leaning on the counter. “You can bet your spoiled little ass on it.” Then he turned to you with a smirk. “And I see Little Kitty has finally gotten herself a guard dog.” He nodded toward Rafe. “Hoping you got him checked for rabies with that temper of his.”

Why did everyone just assume you and Rafe had something going on? You two weren’t exactly radiating happy couple energy. Then again, Rafe wasn’t known for having female friends (which you also weren't), so... yeah.

Rafe tilted his head toward you, ignoring Barry completely. “How the fuck do you know this fucker?”

You had to bite your lip not to smirk at the way he immediately got so worked up.

“Easy, pretty boy,” Barry cut in before you could even respond, clearly amused. “You better be nice to that lady or I’ll beat your rich ass.” He tapped his own cheek. “That bruise of yours? Don’t wanna end up with a matching one on the other side.”

OH. MY. GOD.

The butterflies in your stomach that usually went berserk for Rafe? Yeah, a few of them were dancing for Barry now. Because Dealer Barry stepping up for you in front of Dumbass Rafe? That was… kinda sweet, not gonna lie.

Rafe furrowed his brows, clutching the strap of his backpack like a schoolboy on his first day, about to throw a tantrum because he didn’t wanna go.

He squinted at you. “So what—you're secretly a fucking crackhead now, or what am I supposed to take from this?”

Seriously. Did this guy ever think before he spoke? Like, he literally dealt coke and snorted it himself, but you’re the crazy one?

At this point, you should question your own sanity for even crushing on this guy.

But the funny part wasn’t how hypocritical he was being, no, it was the fact that he chose to go after you instead of Barry despite him basically threatening Rafe. And there was no way Rafe would let a chance pass to put another guy in his place.

Which made the whole thing even more entertaining because, for once, he clearly didn’t have the upper hand. Usually, he carried this presence, this aura, that screamed “look at me wrong and I’ll beat your ass.”

But here? He seemed small.

Like a hyena baring its teeth at a lion.

Rafe Cameron, proud Kook and official Pogue-hater, actually keeping his mouth shut in front of little pawn shop owner Barry? Fucking hilarious.

“No. Sometimes I'm just tagging along when Cara's picking up her weed,” you said amused, watching the gears in Rafe’s brain grind themselves into dust.

“Miss Fancy Boots actually dropped by earlier,” Barry said. “Had her little mutt with her too.” He made a cupping motion in front of his chest, smiling all big. “Top barely holding on for dear life. Wouldn’t even tell me which backwood shack she was visiting.”

Oh, she was really trying to bag JJ Maybank this time. Best of luck, bestie.

You chuckled, but Rafe beat you to a response with a scowl, stepping forward and dropping his backpack on the counter. “Okay, fuck this. I’m not here to fucking chit-chat.”

Barry gave him a look, something sharp flashing in his eyes, but then he just laughed and peeked into the backpack. “Keep running that mouth and I’ll tell Lil’ Alley Cat who was whining on my couch just a few days ago.” He pushed the backpack back toward Rafe and nodded to the right. “Now move your ass to Larna. She's gonna take care of the rest.”

Rafe smiled bitterly, shaking his head. “Nah, that's not what—”

“I’m in a good mood today, Country Club,” Barry cut in, tapping the counter. “Don’t make me introduce you to the girl hiding under here.”

And somehow… you really didn’t think he was joking and you hoped Rafe knew how to behave.

Thankfully, he did.

With a scoff, he grabbed the backpack, threw you an unreadable look, and disappeared into the backroom where grumpy Larna was waiting.

"So, you and Country Club, huh?" Barry stepped around the counter, leaning against it with a lazy smile on his face. "Didn’t think you’d fall for a Kook prince."

After seeing his idiot side, I hadn’t thought so either.

You smiled sheepishly and adjusted the strap of your bag. “He’s not—I mean, there’s nothing going on between us.”

Barry let out an amused chuckle. “Was already wondering how he managed to get you to stick around, ‘cause that stupid boy?” He pointed his thumb toward the backroom. “Nothing but daddy issues and anger problems. Ain’t worth one look from an Alley Cat.”

Shit, that stupid nickname? Only Barry could make it sound right.

“Yeah, he’s an idiot,” you said with a soft smile, sounding like a widow reminiscing about her dead husband. “But he’s actually kinda fun to be around once you figure out how to deal with him.”

Were you seriously defending Rafe’s stupidity right now?

Barry raised his brows, eyes lighting up with the biggest grin. “Cat’s all smiley and dreamy over a boy. Didn’t think I’d see the day.”

“What? No, I just—” Heat crept up your neck and you shook your head with an embarrassed smile. “We were paired for a school project. That’s how I got to know him better.”

“Ain't seeing you doing school work right now,” Barry replied, his grin widening. “Must be serious if he’s letting you tag along to this stuff here.”

I actually annoyed him so much he just gave in.

You shook your head again, feeling like you were digging your grave deeper with every word. “No, I’m serious. This is just—”

“I’m just messing with you, Lil Kitty Cat. No need to puff your tail,” Barry said, raising his hands with a lazy chuckle. “But you should watch out. Wouldn’t call that fancy-looking boy my friend, but I know his type well enough to say—if he’s keeping you around, there’s a reason.” His tone shifted ever so slightly. “Don’t want my Alley Cat getting bitten by some spoiled hound dog.”

You eyed Barry quietly for a moment. Him warning you about Rafe stirred something strange in your gut, and part of you knew better than to ignore it.

But right now, you were too scared to question it, so all you did was offer a soft smile. “He’s more of a wired Doberman anyway. Big attitude, but pull the leash once and he gets all dramatic.”

To your surprise, Barry didn’t laugh. “A dog’s a dog. They bite if you’re not careful. And for a sweet kitty like you? That shit can turn bad real fast.” He nodded toward the backroom. “And Dobermans? You don’t wanna pull their leash too hard. Loyal and shit until they start thinking they own you. Then it ain’t cute no more. Had an uncle—couldn’t be around people without his mutt flipping out. Damn thing almost took my hand off once."

Your brows furrowed in irritation. It had been funny when Cara had joked about Rafe being possessive and jealous and all, but hearing Barry say it like a genuine warning... yeah, that hit differently.

And suddenly, Rafe’s weird behavior since yesterday started making sense.

Him getting mad when Topper asked you to come along. Him nearly beating the crap out of Rob for no reason. Him now suddenly wanting to spend time with you, being all flirty and suggestive and—oh god, please no.

Maybe this wasn’t about him liking you. Maybe he just hated the idea of someone else playing with a toy he’d throw away the moment he got bored, found another, or worse, shredded it to pieces. And until then, he'd bark at anyone reaching out for it.

The smoothie you'd drank earlier threatened to come back up. You didn’t want to be someone's toy.

“Aww, no. Didn’t mean to wipe that smile off your face, Kitty Cat,” Barry said, his lazy smile returning. “I’m just saying—be careful around a boy like that. Though, I trust you’ll know when to pull your claws out.” He knocked on the counter and chuckled. “Otherwise, just say the word, and I’ll introduce his fancy ass to my girl.”

Barry probably meant well, but your brain had already soaked up his words like a sponge, throwing them into a spiral, dragging them into the most anxious corners of your mind.

Still, you managed a smile. “No worries, Barry. I don’t think he even—”

You didn’t dare finish that sentence as Rafe came out of the backroom, a deep scowl on his face. He didn’t even look at you as he passed between you and Barry, only muttering, “Let’s go.”

“Nah, nah, nah, Country Club,” Barry said, raising his brows and pushing off the counter with a grin. “We ain’t done yet.”

Rafe stopped, turning back with a glare that practically screamed he was done with everyone. He towered over Barry, but somehow still looked small. “I got your shit. What fucking else do you wanna piss me off with?”

Barry ignored him, smiling softly at you. “Was nice seeing you again, Alley Cat. Don’t go running off too far.” He nodded toward the door. “Now get those little paws outta here, I still got some business with this boy.”

An uneasy feeling spread in your stomach, but you knew better than to argue, so you just smiled with a nod. “Yeah, see you around, Barry,” you said, trying to ignore Rafe’s burning stare on you.

You passed him quietly, trying to suppress the sudden thoughts threatening to tear open a pit you thought you’d buried not even a few days ago.

And while you’d entered Barry’s little pawn shop with a smile and warmth in your chest, you left it now with uncertainty in your eyes and a deep heavy feeling in your gut.

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“Okay, what the fuck is going on between you and Barry?” Rafe asked after the two of you had gotten back into the car.

And the reason for that question? Such a funny fucking story. And it started with you even knowing this fucker in the first place. You two apparently getting along—and oh, fun fact—apparently getting along really well, because guess what? Barry hadn’t kept Rafe in the shop to talk business. Oh no, he hadn’t just talked.

He had fucking threatened him.

Said stupid shit like he’d show Rafe how people in the Cut handled things when no one was looking if Rafe didn’t behave. If he dared to hurt or play with you or whatever fucking else Barry had preached like some back-alley saint.

Rafe couldn’t even wrap his head around what that fucking Pogue thought he was doing. Like if Rafe actually wanted to, he could send every cop in town straight to Barry’s crusty little pawn shop and have him write his bullshit threats on the damn cell wall.

Fuck. Like seriously, what the hell was that shit?!

You just shook your head, a weird smile on your lips that didn’t even come close to your eyes. “What? Nothing. Like I said, he’s Cara’s dealer. That’s how I got to know him.”

And now you had the audacity to lie straight to Rafe’s face in his car? Nah.

“He literally threatened to blow my brains out if I looked at you the wrong way,” Rafe said, tapping his temple with a confused laugh. “Like—what kind of crazy-ass psycho bullshit is that? And that weird-ass nickname? No way in hell he isn't your fucking boyfriend or some shit.”

The idea that you belonged to someone—Barry, of all people? That messed with Rafe’s head in ways he couldn’t even begin to explain. It filled him with such rage and confusion, he was so close to grabbing that damn backpack on the backseat, taking out a bundle of coke that stupid grandma had handed him, and snorting a line right off his Mercedes' hood.

But he was so thrown off by your sudden change of demeanor, your whole vibe completely off since Rafe had come back from the shop—strange, distant, almost... bitter—that he decided he'd rather demand some fucking answers.

And when you just smiled weakly instead of snapping back like usual, pushing his buttons, he knew something was up.

“No, that’s just how he is,” you said while buckling your seatbelt, the weird tone in your voice not sounding like you at all. “He only means well.”

Rafe blinked at you, his chest tightening as your eyes finally met his, but something was missing.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” he asked, his voice sharper than he meant it to be.

Your brows twitched, and there was a flicker in your gaze he couldn’t place. Again, that strange smile that didn’t fit your face. “What? Nothing,” you replied, shaking your head slightly.

Just nothing. Normally you’d say some shit like, ‘Why are you getting all worked up, I don’t owe you any explanation, blah blah’—but this? It confused Rafe. And it pissed him off that he couldn’t figure it out.

“Barry said some shit to you?” Rafe raised his brows.

That was the only logical explanation. You went in all cocky and smiley, and now you looked like someone had shot a puppy in front of you.

You shook your head again, and Rafe felt a sharp stab of disappointment from how empty you sounded. “No, I’m just tired. Guess the lack of sleep’s finally catching up,” you said with a soft smile.

Rafe clenched his jaw, fingers tapping against the console. He was this close to snapping, but he didn’t want to yell. You’d probably shut down completely. Wheezie did the same thing when Dad started raising his voice and Rafe hated witnessing that.

“Okay, something’s clearly bothering you,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “You’re always on about how important it is to talk shit out, and now you’re the one being all weird.”

Seriously, why did your behavior even bother him in the first place? Normally when some chick was trynna act sulky he’d drop her off at her place or kick her out immediately because he didn’t care about that shit.

But with you, he somehow couldn’t and that irritated the fuck out of him. Probably because I deserve some fucking answers.

“There’s nothing to solve because there’s no issue,” you finally said softly, clearly bullshitting.

Rafe clenched his jaw, running through every possible reason why you were suddenly acting like this. “Fuck that. There’s obviously an issue.” He tapped his chest with his fingers. “Did I say something that got the minions in your head running again? Shit, I was just pissed earlier because—”

“No, really. Everything's—”

“Fine? Don’t bullshit me. You were all bold and mouthy earlier and now?” Rafe furrowed his brows, trying to understand what the fuck was going on in your head. “Now you’re acting all wilted and melancholic like Topper after some chick rejects him.”

That got a chuckle out of you, and Rafe felt his features soften.

“I’m not acting wilted,” you said, a little amusement finally slipping back into your voice.

Rafe nodded. “You are. I’m guessing Barry ran his stupid mouth while I was gone.” He narrowed his eyes, another thought hitting him. “Or did that fucker creep on you?”

“What? Oh my god, no,” you replied, shaking your head, puzzled. “No, it’s just…” You held his gaze like you were the one with questions. After a second, you looked down at your fidgeting hands, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I guess you’re right. I’m probably just creating a problem in my head that doesn’t even exist.”

Rafe frowned. “What the fuck did he say?”

You looked up, pretty eyes somehow carrying that sad little shine again, and Rafe had to fight the sudden urge to storm back into Barry’s shitty shop and drag the guy’s face across the counter.

“I...He didn’t exactly say it… I mean, I’d already been wondering...,” you started, clearly struggling to continue.

Rafe was so fucking close to losing it. He shook his head and gestured to his chest again. “What, huh? Me dealing coke? Is that what suddenly has you all scared? Shit, I’m not some criminal like Barry, okay? I just—”

"No, that's not it", you cut in, voice lacking your usual attitude. "I mean, sure, it's—"

"Holy fucking shit, just spit it out." Rafe couldn't bear you dancing around the answer any longer. Aggressively he gestured toward the pawn shop. "If Barry didn't fucking harass you then I seriously can't fucking imagine what's got you acting like this."

You pressed your lips together, eyes wide, brows raised like some deer about to get shot. "I don't know how to phrase it without it sounding like I'm ... delusional or crazy."

Rafe scoffed amused, both hands gesturing toward you. "Shit, you are crazy. Now fucking spit it out or I'm driving the car into the next fucking tree."

"Okay," you replied with a laugh, the smile quickly fading as your gaze drifted to the fidgeting fingers in your lap. "Okay, I just—" You seemed to take a deep breath in. "What's your business with me?"

Rafe blinked. “What?”

“I…” You pressed your lips together, clutching your bag tighter. “I’m not saying there is any business," you said, a nervous chuckle escaping. "I’m just… confused. I mean, I know we’ve had this conversation before. I know it’s stupid, I’m just…”

You furrowed your brows, meeting his eyes again. “You need to understand, I’m not trying to piss you off. I mean, you're probably right. It’s just my brain spiraling over nothing again. It's just… shit, I know this here is completely casual, I mean we aren't even friends, I just..."

You let out a strained breath, voice unsteady. “I’m not trying to accuse you of anything. I really don’t wanna come across like I’m assuming something’s going on in the first place. I mean, you already think I’m crazy,” you said, a distant smile tugging at your lips. “But obviously it’s totally fine if you’re only looking for a chance at some temporary fun. It’s just… in the hypothetical case you actually do expect something to happen...”

Another awkward laugh slipped out, and you sank into your seat, brows furrowed as you smiled nervously, “God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry, I probably sound—”

“Holy fucking shit, you need to chill the fuck out,” Rafe cut in, staring at you like you’d lost your damn mind. Because this? How much fucking longer did you wanna go on?

This was absolutely insane. The way your brain made up all this shit. How the fuck did you even function at all?

He pointed to his temples, eyes wide. “Seriously, this is not just borderline crazy. This is straight-up insane. I mean I am going insane just by listening to this."

“Well yeah, that’s actually what I was trying to say,” you muttered, hands fiddling in your lap. “I just don't understand why you'd wanna hang out with me if I'm getting on your nerves—unless there's some other motive.”

Jesus Christ. Rafe didn’t know anyone with this level of anxiety and overthinking. Not even Wheezie came close.

But that wasn’t what really pissed him off.

Sure, if you were a little nuts, fine. It was even kind of amusing, honestly. At least you had the brains to think about shit.

No, what really pissed him off was that you were questioning him, even after he’d already told you the answer to this topic in school just a few days ago. He'd just tried to help you by suggesting to work at Tannyhill for the next project session but you fucking declined because you'd thought he was just trying to hook up with you.

Okay, yeah, maybe at this point the idea of sleeping with you wasn't exactly unwelcome—though with your nerves, you'd both probably have a mental breakdown halfway through—but it wasn’t about that.

It was about the fucking principle.

You were acting like his word meant nothing. Like he was just some lying, sleazy, piece-of-shit Pogue.

Rafe clenched his jaw, using every ounce of self-control not to snap. “There's no fucking other motive. You make it sound like I'm plotting some crazy-ass shit.”

Your brows twitched, lips pressing together. Somehow, you still didn’t look satisfied.

For a moment, you just stared at him, hesitation flickering in your eyes, but then your voice came out soft, so soft it made Rafe's chest tighten in a way he didn’t like. “I’m not trying to be annoying or—”

“You are,” Rafe interrupted, surprised by the lack of bite in his tone. His face twisted and he raised his shoulders, gesturing at his chest. “Like, I don’t fucking get why you’re questioning me when I already told you—”

“I know.” You nodded, frustration leaking into your voice. “I know and I really appreciate it, but I just… it’s my brain, okay?” You tapped your finger against your temple. “It talks shit and I start believing it and I just can’t stop it. And then I get anxious—especially when someone gives it something to chew on—and it’s just so frustrating because I'm definitely not trying to piss you off, I don’t wanna ruin—I mean, I’m just asking for some reassurance, that’s all.”

Your brows knit together. “But then again, I don’t want some fake reassurance either if you actually—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I like hanging out with you, okay?” Rafe pressed his lips together as the words left his mouth, not even sure why the fuck he’d said them. Why he even cared enough to listen to all this bullshit. But right now, all he wanted was to shut you the fuck up, so he didn’t bother filtering.

“I’m not trying to get in your pants, alright?” he added, wearing an irritated, almost amused smile. “I’d have to be fucking desperate to put up with all your messed-up crazy shit just for the chance to hook up with you. That's... fuck, I’m not that needy.”

He gestured to you, frustration seeping through his voice. “You piss me off, but I can deal with it. Shit, I think I even like it. You’re not some boring-ass gossip bitch like Ruthie.” He furrowed his brows, refusing to unpack what the hell that meant, now tapping his chest with his fingertips, voice strained. “But what I can’t fucking stand is not being taken seriously.”

Judging by your face, he hadn’t just shut your brain off, he’d completely nuked it. Your eyes were wide, lips pressed tight, and even your fidgeting had stopped.

He half expected you to start crying for whatever reason, but thank fuck you didn’t. You just frowned, that softness still in your expression. “I do take you seriously. That’s why I'm so confused. All these… I don’t know, suggestive comments and stuff. You say you don’t mean anything by it, but then you’re all teasing the next second. It’s confusing.”

Seriously, had you ever even interacted with a boy before Rafe?

He let out a frustrated smile, nodding. “Shit, yeah, ever heard of fucking flirting? That’s the thing people do because it’s fun. It doesn’t fucking have to lead to anything.” Rafe raised his brows. “Unless you want it to.”

And there it was again—that shift in you. Your whole vibe changed, whenever he said shit like this. And he couldn’t fucking tell if you were flustered, uncomfortable, or just weirded out.

You shook your head, a nervous laugh bubbling up like he’d asked you to strip in the backseat. “Of course, I know what flirting is. It’s just—In my head, this feels like… I don’t know mixed signals or whatever and—“

“Okay, fuck. Stop.” Rafe had hit his limit. He ran a hand over his face, voice tight with frustration. “I’m only saying this once, so fucking listen, alright?” He gestured to you again. “I fuck with you. You’re somehow fun to be around, even though you’re literally the least chill person I know.”

His brows twitched, a moment of hesitation flickering across his face, but he pushed through. He wasn’t gonna overthink—he wasn’t you. “And shit, yeah, of course, I’m flirting with you. You’re a cute chick. If you said the word, I’d be down to bend you over in the backseat right now, but why the fuck would I waste my energy on someone who’s clearly not into casual shit.”

Fuck. Now that he’d said it, he felt just as stunned as you looked.

Saying these words out loud ... it angered him. He'd basically just given in to you. But the thing that actually riled him up? The fact he'd just acknowledged out loud that he knew you weren't interested in him. That he couldn't get you into bed with some charm and a little flirting. That you were out of reach.

And fuck, this just made hanging out with you all the more confusing because why the fuck did he enjoy this shit if he was well aware that he wouldn't take you home later for some quick fun.

But worse than all of that was the way he found himself waiting.

Desperate for your response. Hoping you’d push back. Hoping you’d say something—anything—to let him know he'd just interpreted your signals wrong, that, yes, you did indeed find him attractive, that you actually enjoyed his presence, his flirts, and teasing. That you'd love to be his new friends-with-benefits-chick.

Jesus fucking Christ, he should go back inside Barry’s store and beat the shit out of that fucker for whatever the fuck he'd said to you that made you spiral this hard, and now Rafe was out here saying and thinking shit like this.

"Okay, now I'm even more confused," you said, smiling awkwardly. "You say you like spending time with me but at the same time, you also feel like you're wasting your time here."

Rafe was so close to smashing his head against the steering wheel. He raised his hands in exasperation. "And you say you're not trying to piss me off but right now I'm so close to losing my shit."

He aggressively tapped his finger on the middle console. "I just tried telling you that I'm not here because I'm looking for a chance at a fucking hookup, okay? Seriously, how much clearer do I need to be?"

“Okay. Just to clarify, for my own sanity,” you started slowly, voice soaked in nervous energy (Rafe was literally one second away from having a fucking stroke). “You like hanging out with me but according to your logic, you're not someone who's wasting his time with a girl if you're not gaining something from it."

With a pained expression, Rafe closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and nodded with a distressed "Uh-huh".

Maybe if he just continued agreeing with you, then you'd finally shut up, because clearly snapping back only seemed to continue dragging on this horrible limbo of yours.

Some strained chuckle escaped your lips. "And considering you're still asking me to chill with you even though you seem to be aware that I don't wanna be someone's pastime, does that mean… I mean, is what you're hoping to gain from spending time with me… a friendship?"

Rafe's head snapped up.

That was your fucking conclusion to all of this?

Fucking hell. Did he look like someone in need of more clingy idiots crowding his life? Topper and Kelce were already enough and he didn’t even receive anything in return for dealing with their bullshit.

And having a female friend without getting to bend her over once in a while? He'd never even considered it. The only girls Rafe had ever privately hung out with were the ones he'd benefit from.

And all of them either got so fucking annoying, he'd dropped them, or worse—they'd wanted more. Dates, gifts, PDA. A label. The title of Rafe Cameron's girlfriend.

They all wanted the benefits that came of being with him but none of them had actually wanted him.

But you? Well, he had to admit you were different. You didn’t do hookups. You didn’t chase him because of his last name and the benefits that came with it.

And the crazy part? That just fucking pissed him off more.

Because for some fucked-up reason he'd actually learned to tolerate your presence enough that he could deal with your crazy-ass brain outside of the project despite him not receiving some fun time in return. And now you assumed he wanted this to actually result in some permanent shit.

But for whatever reason, the idea that this might be over after handing in your project next week? That actually stirred something weird in his chest.

Right now, Rafe could still claim the project was the reason for you two spending time together (if you ignored the fact you weren't doing school shit at the moment). Sure, he’d admitted he liked you—but everything about the way you two had been hanging out this past week could still be chalked up to the assignment. But once that was over… then what?

Fuck, all of this was giving him a headache. And now you were pressuring him to define whatever the fuck was going on between the two of you.

Rafe shook his head in irritation. "Why do you even need a fucking label for some casual hangout? Can't we just fucking chill?"

You gestured to your chest, a distressed smile on your face. "Yeah, of course. I just… my brain needs to make sense of this somehow, so I can place this in either ‘okay, this ends when the project’s over’ or ‘alright, get ready to make space for this person, they’re gonna stick around.’ It’s fucking stupid, I know, but it helps me adjust to new people."

This right here was the biggest fucking test of patience in Rafe's entire life and he was so fucking sick of you demanding him to clarify shit when you were the one that made him question his sanity.

"Shit, I don't fucking know, alright?" Rafe raised his shoulders with an irritated smile. "I mean what the fuck do you want? You’re calling me confusing, but I don’t even fucking know if you actually like me or if you’re just tagging along because you’re too scared to decline because of some people-pleasing bullshit or whatever.”

Like he'd admitted all this fucking shit just now, but why didn't you? Why didn't you offer him some reassurance?

Your gaze softened, and that only irritated him more.

“I'm actually very capable of saying 'No',” you replied.

“Yeah, the fuck do I know.” Rafe threw his hands up. And then, a disgusting thought crossed his mind. “Or are you just tagging along because you're hoping for some attention of being seen with me?”

Finally, your frown returned—thank god. That little bit of fire he was used to.

“What? No!” You shook your head, clearly confused. “Aside from the fact that I couldn’t care less about shit like that, I’d rather jump off a cliff than draw unnecessary attention to myself.” Your expression softened again, lips quirking into a crooked smile. “I came along because I wanted to. Not because I’m trying to get some pics snapped of me being seen with an A-List celebrity.”

Just say it, Rafe thought, not even caring about your stupid comment. You were so fucking close to saying it. Tiptoeing on the edge of it. So damn close to saying what he needed to hear.

But you didn’t. And it pissed him off. Fucked with his head. Just—

Fuck all of that.

Maybe it sounded pathetic, maybe it was, but he didn’t care. He had to know. “So you actually do like hanging out with me?”

A soft laugh left your lips and your brows knit slightly. “Yes? I’m not spending my time with people I can’t stand.”

And just like that, something in Rafe finally let go. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. It felt like a win—even though he hadn’t actually won anything. Actually, he’d probably lost some fucking braincells discussing that shit.

He sank back into his seat, staring through the windshield, running a hand through his hair, no fucking energy left after this marathon of a discussion.

He tilted his head toward you with furrowed brows, motioning between the two of you. “So where’s the fucking problem, huh? We both like hanging out and neither of us is hiding some secret agenda or some shit.”

You smiled awkwardly. “Except you literally said—”

“Yeah, I know what I fucking said,” Rafe cut in, already regretting having voiced that he'd be down to bend you over. But whatever. It was out there now, so who the fuck cared.

“I’m not some horny perv who's unable to be in a room with a chick without trying to get in her pants,” he added, a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna pass up on a little flirting and teasing.”

You raised your brows slightly, chin tilting downward. "So—"

"YES, for fuck’s sake!" Rafe raised his hands, shifting up in his seat, absolutely at the end of his rope. "If that helps to end this fucking stupid discussion, then yes please, go ahead and tell your crazy-ass brain it can open a new fucking folder titled ‘I made Rafe Cameron lose his fucking mind to the point where I force-befriended him’. And put some big-ass lock on it because that shit stays closed from now on."

He let out a strained breath, an exasperated smile twitching on his lips. "There. Does this shut you up or do I need to craft you a fucking friendship bracelet with my name on it?”

The worst part: The image of you wearing his name around your wrist sparked fucking JOY in his fucking chest for some fucked-up reason.

SEE. YOU'RE MAKING HIM GO THIS FUCKING CRAZY, HE WAS GETTING EXCITED ABOUT STUPID FRIENDSHIP BRACELETS.

You just stared at him, lips parted slightly like your brain was still spiraling over the obvious. Rafe almost thought he’d have to go back into the pawn shop and ask Barry to blow his fucking brains out, but you simply shook your head, a gentle smile forming.

“I don’t think that’s necessary", you replied with a soft smile.

Rafe eyed you impatiently, waiting for you to go on and spiral into another damn monologue about how you had to figure out the right color for this mental folder, and which fucking font would best match the content—because god forbid you’d use some bullshit like Papyrus or—WHAT THE FUCK DID HE KNOW, JESUS CHRIST YOU MADE HIM THINK ABOUT THIS FUCKING BULLSHIT.

To top it all off, you had the audacity to stay quiet and Rafe could physically feel his nerves blow up. “That’s it?”

No fucking way that actually resolved this fucking discussion.

You eyed him amused like he’d just hallucinated this whole fuckass conversation. “Well, yeah.”

Rafe’s brows dropped to a scowl. “You're fucking kidding me, right?”

“No.” A small laugh left you, and that familiar glimmer was back in your eyes. “I just needed some clarity to calm my nerves. That’s just how my brain works. I’m okay as long as things make sense. But the second a thought enters my mind that could mess with that—even if it’s ridiculous—it sticks. And then it ruins the whole logic. And until the thought can be ruled out, it stays, and my head chews it up until it gets worse.”

That's it. You were officially the reason Rafe considered therapy just so someone could tell him why the fuck he even put up with your shit.

Like, seriously, Rafe had some fucked-up shit going on in his head, but you? Holy shit, if he had to deal with the crap your brain pulled every day, he’d fucking lose it.

Your head sounded like a fucking prison.

Rafe let out a distressed breath. "Now, care to tell me, what was the actual fucking reason for you spiraling this hard in the first place?" He gestured toward the pawn shop. "And don't fucking think about lying. Either you tell me or I'm gonna go back inside and beat the answer out of that fucker."

He wouldn’t, though. Barry might’ve looked like a little bum, but Rafe had seen it enough times—his threats didn’t usually stay just threats. And sure, Rafe might’ve had the upper hand physically, but Barry didn’t do fights.

He'd pull out a gun and even Rafe's fists had no chance against that.

You pressed your lips together, hesitating for a second. “He just told me to be careful around you. It wasn’t even really what he said, it was more the way he said it.” You shook your head, puzzled. “And I guess my brain just filled in the worst-case scenario because… well…” A flicker of uncertainty in your pretty eyes. “I mean, not to sound like a dick, but it’s just a fact that you don’t really hang out with girls. And when you do it’s like... you know.”

Yeah, that was true. Rafe didn’t deny it. But still, why the fuck did you have this fucking player image of him?

Sure, he did hookups once in a while—every few weeks maybe at some random party. And yeah, he’d had friends with benefits, but like four or five times at most in his whole damn life. But the way you made it sound? Like he was out here fucking someone new every night.

“So instead of just asking me straight up what’s going on, you’d rather fucking… what? Sulk and act weird as hell? What kind of childish reaction is that?” Rafe asked, face twisting in frustration.

You let out a short laugh. “I didn’t wanna piss you off by bringing this up. Which, clearly, I did.”

“Well, yeah, because I practically had to beat the answer out of you,” Rafe said with a scowl, motioning to his chest. “What actually pisses me off is when people won’t just say what the fuck they're trying to say.”

You nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, makes sense. I’m sorry for making this so messy.” A soft chuckle slipped out. “I guess we both value clear answers… just on different scales.”

Yeah, except Rafe didn’t have a mental breakdown when he didn’t get one.

“I just don’t fucking understand why you can’t just ignore these fucking thoughts,” he said, oddly calm for some reason. "When some shit starts bothering me, I just fucking ignore it. If I need to make a decision, I just do it. If some asshole pisses me off? I put him in his fucking place.”

He scoffed. “And your brain sounds like one big asshole. You just gotta show it who's boss.”

Surprisingly, you laughed—soft, genuine—and Rafe blinked, confused.

“What?” he asked. “I’m serious. It’s absolutely insane that your own mind is your worst enemy. That’s fucking fucked-up.”

He gestured to himself. “I mean that dude pisses me off so badly, I wanna smash his face into a wall just to get him to shut the fuck up. How the fuck do you let him pull this shit on you?”

“That’s—” You laughed again, and something weird flipped in Rafe’s stomach. “I appreciate the energy,” you said, “but honestly, I’m already good when people just have a little patience with me.”

Your expression grew distant. “When I bring stuff like this up, I’m not trying to be annoying. I’m just genuinely trying to find clarity in the chaos up here.” You tapped your temple, smiling gently again. “That’s why I really appreciate that you actually talked with me this time—even though I’m sure you wanted to smash my head through the window.”

He'd rather have your head pressed against some sheets to let go of this fucking pressure inside him but Rafe forced this thought down (see? easy).

So he just shook his head. “I did but I’d rather not have your dad on my ass because of that. That dude’s got some crazy aura.”

Another laugh slipped from your lips, and Rafe felt his features soften. “I guess. He served as a combat medic in the military, so I think some of that still lingers beneath the surface.”

Shit, that made sense. Rafe knew there was a reason that guy had given him the creeps the first time he'd looked at him. He seemed nice, sure—kind even—but deep down Rafe was certain that man could knock someone out cold with a single punch.

The weird thing was: Rafe actually felt less tense around him than around his own dad.

“Shit, another reason to keep my hands off you,” Rafe muttered with a low chuckle. “Don’t need Liam Neeson in Taken chasing me down.”

Another laugh. And damn, that made Rafe feel like some kind of winner.

“I doubt you have to worry", you said. "He actually seemed to like—”

Your phone started buzzing inside your bag.

"Cara," you said when you pulled it out with an apologetic smile. “I should take this.”

Rafe gave a reluctant nod, even though the sudden interruption annoyed the fuck out of him.

“What’s up?” you said, holding the phone to your ear. After a beat, you added, “I’m with Rafe.”

His head snapped up like he’d been struck by lightning.

That was... he couldn’t remember you ever saying his name out loud before. And now that he’d heard it—coming from your sweet voice—fuck.

It did something to him. A weird kind of something. Buzzing in his stomach, warmth blooming in his chest, and this deep, unfamiliar ache for something he couldn’t quite name.

“Really?” You laughed. “We’re actually close by—Yeah, at Barry’s—Girl, no—Yeah, I know he told me—Yeah, I know I was the one who asked you—Okay, yeah, sure—So I assume you're with—yep, thought so—Okay—Seriously?—Alright—Yeah, nah, let’s not.” You laughed again. “Okay—Yeah, see you in a bit.”

You hung up, your whole presence lighting back up.

“Sorry,” you said with a soft smile, slipping the phone back into your bag. “She’s at the beach nearby and asked me to join her. Or well... I kinda asked her earlier if we could hang out, so....”

Rafe felt a frown creeping in, disappointment taking over his entire body. You were about to fucking ditch him.

He raised his brows. “Now?”

You nodded, toying with your bag strap. “Well... yeah. She needs some backup.”

“What, her boots got stuck in the sand or some shit?”

You shook your head, chuckling. “No, she’s with some people and… well, she needs help with a boy.”

“Her?” Rafe scoffed, disbelieving. “She’s the most upfront and confrontational person I’ve ever met. What the fuck does she need help with?” He tilted his head. “And didn’t she have some thing going on with Topper?”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” you said, holding your hands up in amusement. “She’s super complicated when it comes to that stuff.”

Girls. Rafe didn’t fucking get them.

“So what, you want me to drop you off now?” He didn't even try to hide his disappointment.

Your smile faltered slightly. “Well, yeah, that’d be nice.”

Rafe clenched his jaw. You were actually going to leave him now—after he'd helped you get rid of your hangover, after he’d actually shown patience and calmed the voices in your head, after all his nerves were fried beyond repair.

You were scared he might play you? Nah, he was the one who felt toyed with right now.

But as much as Rafe wanted to call you out for it, snap at you for being all anxious and now daring to pull this shit, he just didn’t have it in him. No strength left. He really didn’t have the fucking energy or patience for another long-ass conversation with you monologuing about shit.

Sure, he could just decide to tag along, because when did Rafe ever ask for permission, but his gut told him that was a weird fucking move. He wasn't your fucking dog to accompany you everywhere.

Fuck, he didn't fucking know how to handle shit with a girl like you.

So he just nodded, buckled up, and started the engine. Letting out a tight breath as he pulled out of the parking lot, he asked, “Where to?”

You hesitated for a second. “Do you know where the western beach of the Cut is?”

Rafe scoffed and nearly stopped the car. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Of course, he knew where that fucking beach was. Sarah always went there after school to hang out with her stupid little Pogue friends.

So yeah, he could already guess exactly what kind of people Cara was hanging out with: those annoying-ass rats.

The thing that pissed him off the most wasn’t even you ditching him. It wasn’t driving you around like a damn chauffeur. It wasn’t even that you were trading him for a group of Pogue losers.

Nah. It was the fact that Sarah had once again managed to stick her nose into shit that didn’t fucking concern her. Because somehow this reeked of her meddling.

And the worst part? It felt like she was winning again. Like she’d won over their dad, like she'd won over Kie during her time at Kildare Academy by turning her against Rafe just for them to end up having some bitchy fallout shortly after.

Like she’d get to win you over too with some fake-ass bullshit.

And you, being prone to falling for shit like that with that brain of yours, would probably believe her too. Not because you were naive, nah, but because your head would probably soak Sarah's sweet words up, falling back into a spiral over Rafe's intention or some bullshit.

Fuck.

Rafe actually liked this weird acquaintanceship with you (THERE, THAT'S THE LABEL THAT FIT THIS SHIT). He didn’t need Sarah to ruin that—or worse—take you from him. Pull you into her little shitty-ass, feel-good Pogue bullshit friend group.

And the most fucked up thing? You weren’t even his. But the very thought of Sarah turning you against him anyway?

Nah. He wouldn't let that happen.

You said Rafe was hoping to gain some shitty-ass friendship from this? Fine. If that’s what it took for your brain to hold on to Rafe, he’d gladly be your fucking friend.

He’d throw every goddamn principle he had out the window before he let Sarah take something else from him before he even had a chance to claim it for himself.

Because for the first time in years, Rafe actually felt like he didn't wanna let go of a girl. Nah, he actually wanted to keep you around. Not as some warm body in his bed—it fucked with his head that you weren’t into hookups but he could accept that—but because somehow, you were the first girl who didn't hang on his ass to brag to her friends later about getting to ride his dick.

Shit, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were either a lesbian or just completely uninterested in sex altogether. Which only messed with his head even more, because if both of you were here willingly, what the fuck was the point if no one was gaining anything from it?

Like, why the fuck did Rafe feel this pull toward you? Not just sexually… more like—fuck, he didn’t even know. He also couldn't compare it to the short-lived whatever-thing he'd had with Kie either because he'd only ever seen her as some extension of Sarah that he tolerated. Thinking of her even remotely sexual had just felt fucking weird.

But you? Being around you came close to landing a hole-in-one during golfing, the feeling after being praised by his dad, the way his body buzzed after a line of coke. Which honestly made him wonder if the perfume you were wearing was laced with chemicals or some shit that messed with his head like that.

Fuck, this? Him thinking about this shit at all—that was your fucking fault.

Rafe just knew he liked having you around so there was no need to let you go.

For now.

So as much as he hated, despised, and loathed the idea of you ditching him for some beach party with dirty-ass Pogues and Princess Sarah, by now, he'd learned that if he kept his temper in check, his patience with you would pay off.

Shit, he'd even add a little bonus.

So, when you'd asked if he knew the way, he shot you a raised brow and a casual side-eye, and in the most unbothered tone he said, “Yeah, it’s just down the road. Assuming your friend's succeeding with that guy, I’m guessing you’re gonna need someone to pick you up later.”

And when your brows twitched and your eyes lit up, Rafe knew he was one step closer to keeping you around for real.

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ptergwen · 6 months ago

Note

Hi there, I'm SO HAPPY YOUR BACK! I was wondering if you could maybe write a Tom Holland Peter Parker x fem Stark reader based on this prompt?: You’re unconscious after a mission gone wrong, and Peter’s voice shakes as he desperately calls your name, when Tony comes. If you don't want to do it, its ok

stay

ask box | taglist | blurb masterlist | main masterlist

w/c: 2,005

warnings: mentions of blood, angst (happy ending!)

a/n: hi lovely thank you sm! you guys know i love my angst so i felt very in my element with this one hehe, thanks for the patience while i get used to writing again! feel free to keep sending in your reqs and chatting, i love hearing from y'all and will answer asap ♡

"y/n? it's over, i got him. i’ll come find you, okay?"

you don't answer.

"y/n/n? can you hear me?"

there's only silence on peter's end of the headset. peter isn't worried, not at first. he figures maybe you just got disconnected.

"y/n?"

nothing.

now that peter hasn't heard from you on the third try, he is starting to worry. the two of you had gotten separated during your mission. the plan was for you to distract your opponent and peter to web him up, but you lost him somewhere along the way. it was hard to stick together in the dark, twisty tunnels. he'd thought it would be best to take care of your opponent himself and find you after.

tony is going to kill him if he let anything happen to you. it's okay, though. he can just use his suit to track your location.

"friday?"

"yes, peter?"

"take me to y/n."

peter swings through the tunnels to get to you faster. friday guides him, which he's grateful for because he doesn't have a great sense of navigation as is. it's even more difficult underground. peter lands where friday tells him to, but he doesn't see you.

"are you sure this is where she is? i think she might've lost connection... maybe her location didn't update."

"y/n's watch is online, peter."

peter notices something on the ground, its blinking light catching his attention. he picks it up. sure enough, it's your stark tech watch, but where are you?

"would you like me to check again?"

peter makes out a figure a few feet away. it isn't moving. he takes a few steps toward the figure, reaching for his mask.

"that's okay. thanks, friday."

he removes his mask to see better, brows knitting together. something doesn't feel right. peter's senses confirm it, the hairs on his arms standing up and eyes focusing harder in the darkness. in peter's head, he already knows it's you. in his heart, he hopes it isn't.

peter crouches down and puts a hand on the figure's shoulder, rolling them over to face him.

it's you.

your spandex suit has some rips in it, and dirt is coating your back. your mask is pulled up part of the way. peter takes it off, revealing blood dripping down your forehead, your eyes just barely open. tears roll down your cheeks. peter cups your face tenderly in his hands, eyes desperately searching for yours.

"oh my god, baby, what happened?"

"that guy."

your voice comes out weak. despite the blood and tears staining his gloved fingers and the tightening in his throat, peter does his best to stay calm.

"what guy? the one we were fighting?"

"yeah."

"he did this to you?"

you hum in response. peter props an arm behind your head for support.

"it's okay. everything's gonna be okay."

"but... it hurts."

"i know, baby. but you're gonna be okay. we're gonna get you home and..."

your eyes flutter closed.

"hey, hey, hey. look at me."

peter strokes your cheek, willing you to stay awake. you grunt.

"tell me where it hurts so i can take a look. can you do that for me, y/n? where does it hurt?"

"my head. on top."

peter carefully parts your hair, searching for the source of your bleeding. there's a damp patch of hair near the top of your head. he moves it aside and finds a gash. it's small, but fairly deep. he doesn't think he can handle this on his own; he needs to tell tony.

"i’m gonna call your dad, okay?"

you don't respond. your eyes are closed when peter looks for them.

"y/n? you have to stay awake."

you don't say or do anything to indicate that you hear him. tears prick peter's eyes, threatening to spill over. he doesn't know much about head injuries, but he knows this isn't good.

"please wake up, y/n/n."

peter grabs both your shoulders and shakes, hard enough that it should wake you. nothing. you seem to have slipped into some sort of an unconscious state.

your watch starts to beep with an incoming call from your dad. peter accepts it with a shaking hand.

"friday tells me your vitals are suspiciously low, little lady. what's going on?"

peter fights to keep his tears at bay. he cradles your head with one hand, placing his other on your heart. he needs to feel your heartbeat to remind himself you're still here.

"it's me, tony."

"kid? where's y/n?"

a quiet sob escapes him, tears finally falling. tony doesn't need to hear anything else.

"i’m on my way."

it doesn't take long for tony to get to you and peter. he comes whirring through the tunnels, retracting his iron man suit when he lands. you lie on the ground, your head in peter's lap. you'd woken up shortly after peter spoke to your dad, but you aren't really responsive. peter is cradling your head gently in both hands and whispering words of reassurance.

he's so focused on you that he doesn't even notice tony is there until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"what happened, kid?"

tony kneels down next to peter.

"i... i don't know. the guy we were fighting... i didn't see, i think she hit her head."

"okay, okay. let me see the damage."

tony uses his watch to illuminate the dark area. there's dry blood all around the crown of your head, in your hair. it's worse than he expected. he doesn't let it show, though. he doesn't want to alarm you any more than you already are, or peter for that matter; he's a mess.

"i found this."

peter moves your hair to show your dad the wound on your head. tony shines the light on you to get a better look. concern flashes in his eyes briefly, but long enough for peter to see it.

"friday, call the med bay. tell them it's my daughter."

"yes, boss. it appears y/n may have a concussion. i've detected a large contusion."

you bring a hand up to your head, trying to feel the wound. peter coaxes your hand away with a don't touch, baby. you try to say something, but you can't. you're in too much pain. your dad and peter share a knowing look.

"we'll be there soon, fri. make sure they're ready for us. and call happy, tell him to pick us up asap."

"i’ll let them know right away, boss."

a bright light shines directly in your eyes, making you stir a bit in peter's lap. you whine and squeeze your eyes shut. fresh tears fall down your cheeks.

"it's okay, it's okay. it's just your old man."

you squint your eyes open.

"dad?"

"hey, y/n/n."

"what... what're you doing?"

"just gotta take a look at something. look up?"

you try to open your eyes again, but your eyelids feel heavy. tony holds one of your eyes open himself, then the other. he clicks his tongue.

"what's wrong? is she okay?" peter asks your dad.

"pupils are bigger than they should be. still reacting to light, though. that's good."

"what does it mean if her pupils are too big?"

"friday's right. she could have a mild concussion."

the light turns off, your body finally relaxing. peter's body stiffens.

"that's serious, isn't it?"

peter looks from tony to you, stroking your hair and cupping your cheek, then back up at tony. tony can see the fear in his eyes.

"it shouldn't be, the bleeding just gave us a scare. we'll know more when we get her home."

you grab at peter's knee. he places his hand over yours, thumb smoothing along the back of your hand. you look around the tunnel with blurry vision.

peter doesn't like the uncertainty of this. they don't even know the extent of your injuries, just that they might be serious. he knows you're going to be okay, that tony and the med bay team know what to do and you'll bounce back from this because you're you, but he's scared. you've never been hurt this badly before.

"happy's got our location. he'll be here as soon as he can," tony tells you, voice uncharacteristically soft. you blink your eyes in response. "how long is that gonna be?" peter asks.

"i’m not sure, kid."

hot, frustrated tears fill peter's eyes.

"we can't just wait around anymore. she's been like this for a while."

"trust me, pete. i don't like waiting either."

"then let's just bring her back ourselves."

tony gives peter a stern look.

"let's not."

"why not? it's faster if one of us takes her. i’ll swing her there right now."

peter is already scooping you into his arms, preparing to pick you up. you groan at the sudden movement. tony removes you from peter's arms and takes you into his own protectively.

"i said no. we're not flying her home, and we're definitely not swinging her. it isn't safe."

peter stays quiet, blinking back tears.

"you've gotta remember, y/n isn't like you. she doesn't have powers. for the stark's, it's just us out there."

he knows tony is right, of course he is. he forgets how vulnerable you actually are because you're always so strong. riding home with happy may take longer than peter wants it to, but it's safer for you. he needs to think about your best interest. putting other things first caused all of this in the first place.

if peter had found you earlier instead of finishing the fight, maybe he would have been able to get you help sooner. maybe you wouldn't be in this bad of a condition.

"i’m sorry, tony. i’m really, really sorry."

"no biggie, i get it. you're just looking out for her."

"no, that's the problem. i wasn't."

"what're you talking about?"

peter can't hold back his tears any longer.

"i wasn't there when y/n got hurt. it must've happened when we separated. when i found her, she... she was already like this."

"hey, kid. don't do that, don't blame yourself. you didn't know."

"i could've known if i paid more attention. i could've heard, or... or maybe she said something."

peter avoids tony's gaze, too ashamed to look at him, and too guilty to look at you.

"everyone gets caught up, pete. hell, you know i do. but you know what? you're here for y/n now, and we're taking care of her. that's what matters."

"you mean, you're not mad at me?"

tony surprises him by outstretching an arm and pulling him into a side hug. peter manages a small smile, wiping at his watery eyes.

"do i seem mad?"

"guess not. thanks."

tony pats him on the shoulder.

"time to go. happy'll be here any minute."

"okay, i’ll go ahead of you guys so you can see where you're going."

peter starts to collect your things while your dad helps you up. you're disoriented, head pounding, and you stumble a bit because you don't quite have your balance. tony is quick to catch you.

"easy, y/n/n. you're alright, yeah?"

"i want peter."

"he's right here, just leading the way. i’m gonna help you."

"no, i want peter."

peter's heart clenches. he looks to your dad for permission.

"alright, parker. i'll trade you. but be careful, she's precious cargo."

tony lets go of you, but he stays close just in case. he takes your things from peter. you fling yourself into peter's arms, hiding your face in the space between his neck and shoulder. peter hugs you to his chest. tony smiles at peter and nods in approval, making peter smile back.

"i got you," peter coos. "are you gonna need help walking, or you got it?"

"i dunno, i'm dizzy. carry me?"

"sure, baby."

peter picks you up bridal style, one arm secured under you and the other supporting your head. you loosely wrap your arms around his neck.

"can you stay with me when we get there?"

peter kisses the side of your head lightly.

"i’m not going anywhere."

tags (join my new taglist!)

@spidermans-gf @sacharinee @thollandsgirl2013 @pettypeety

#peter parker angst #peter parker fluff #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #peter parker writing #peter parker x reader #peter parker x stark!reader #tom holland angst #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland writing #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfiction #peter parker x you

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obsesssedblerd · 5 months ago

Text

when choso tastes you for the first time, he's immediately addicted.

contains: smut [MDNI], oral (fem receiving), overstimulation

he's a bit nervous at first; he wants to make you feel good the same way you make him feel good when you go down on him. his lips meet your soft neck, and he silently counts how many kisses it takes to reach your pussy. he lets out a soft sigh when he pulls your panties down, entranced by how wet you are. his eyes study the most intimate part of you for only a few seconds before his mouth slightly parts, eager to experience you.

the gasp and moan you release when his mouth meets your core for the first time fills him with liquid heat, and he suddenly wonders how many more sounds he can pull from you. his tongue slowly swipes across your soaked folds, tracing and memorizing every centimeter of you. you make another lovely sound when your clit is gently brushed, and choso quickly figures out that that's where you're most sensitive. he starts to experiment with his tongue to see what gets the loudest reaction; darting your clit with his tongue, licking vertically, wrapping his lips around it and gently sucking. due to the taste of your juices and your moans, he's the hardest he's ever been in his life; however, he ignores it. all that matters right now is you.

when you cum, he's elated. he sits up and watches with both shock and delight as your body trembles, your pussy gushes, and his name falls off of your lips. as you lay there, panting with your eyes shut and still trembling, choso's finger easily slips into you. you're far more slippery now that you've cum. when his finger curls against your g-spot, your back arches, and you release a delicious whine. "c-choso," you pant as you shift to sit up. "it's sensitive."

choso's large hands grab your hips and guides you to lay back down, which was easy since you're still weak from your recent orgasm. "need more," he mumbles as he spreads your thighs wider. "need you to cum again. can you do that for me?" before you can answer, he goes back to fingering you, using two fingers this time. you desperately call out to him again as you shake, and he leans forward to place gentle kisses against your sensitive, aching clit. "just need you to cum again for me, baby, please." he's using his mouth and his fingers now, and you're practically screaming for him now. your hands tangle into his dark hair strands, and you grind against his face. choso groans deliriously at that, and it vibrates against your pussy, pushing you closer to another hard orgasm. he feels like he'll cum in his pants at any second, and he does his best to hold back so he can fuck you later.

choso's free hand grips your thigh when you attempt to close him out, and he pulls his mouth away from your clit when you begin to tigten around his fingers, panting as he strokes your g-spot faster. your abdomen clenches, and your breathing picks up as your eyes squeeze shut once more. "there you go," choso encourages in-between pants as his thumb circles your clit. "just let it out. cum for me, i've got you."

it takes your mind a split-second to catch up with the pleasure exploding through you. you scream his name, and your body shakes more than before. this orgasm is far more intense than the first, and choso loves it. he patiently strokes you through it, then smiles down at you when your body exhaustedly collapses against the sheets. he kisses your lips a couple of times so you can taste yourself, then lays next to you, admiring your trembling form with half-lidded eyes. "a little break, then we'll go again," he whispers to you as he strokes your cheek.

god, it was going to be a long night. you hope that the neighbors aren't home.

#choso smut #choso kamo x reader #choso x female reader #choso x f!reader #choso kamo x female reader #choso x you #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #written by rey <3 #choso x reader #jjk choso smut #choso imagine #choso imagines

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dismalflo · 1 month ago

Note

In love with your writing and was hoping to send a request! For any of the marauders x fem!reader, my idea was an artsy reader where she is having a little art show at a local cafe and invites all the marauders and the extended friend group, including their one they’re interested in but no one shows up because they all got the date mixed up and she’s heartbroken. But they all figure it out last minute and show up as she’s taking it down. Proceed to there somehow being a love confession from the marauder she’s in love with somehow lol.

I hope this makes sense!!

thanks for requesting lovely, love this request <3

Remus Lupin x reader who takes part in their first art show ✩ 2k words

cw: hurt/comfort

Months of hard work. Months of stress, frustration, and aching wrists have all led to this moment. It should feel gratifying – you should feel proud, happy, fulfilled – but every good emotion is drowned out by disappointment.

Not one of your friends had shown up to your first art show. Maybe it was silly to expect everyone to come, you’re all adults with busy and complicated lives but you’d told them all when it was with plenty of notice to try to combat that issue. Maybe they just don’t care and this is how they’ve decided to tell you. They wouldn't be that cruel, you think, letting you ramble on for weeks about it, pretending to be thrilled for you.

You thought, hoped, Remus would be different. He asked questions, listened, encouraged you every step of the way. And still, he’s not here.

You’re trying desperately to put on a brave face. Putting on a smile when people wander past looking at your work, making small talk about the pieces, trying not to look towards the door in hopes of seeing a familiar face. Your bed and good cry are calling your name.

“Is this one yours?”

The voice is soft, but it cuts clean through your downward spiral, startling you slightly. You blink and look up, forcing the corners of your mouth into a polite smile. A woman stands in front of you, maybe a few years older than you are, wrapped in a caramel coloured coat. She’s pointing at the oil painting nearest her.

You nod. “Yeah. That’s mine.”

The woman tilts her head slightly, considering the painting with curiosity. It’s a library – tall shelves heavy with books rendered in thick, careful brushstrokes, the colour palette warm and golden, sun slicing through high windows. In the center, at a crooked wooden table, a man sits. He’s reading, unaware of the world. His face is half-obscured by the way the light cuts across it, but you know every line by heart. You painted it from memory.

The woman smiles. “It’s beautiful. You’re very talented.”

“Thank you,” you say, meaning it, but the words still feel hollow, swallowed up by the lump in your throat. You try to smile again, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

The woman seems to pick up on it, but she just gives a small nod, offers one last glance at the painting, and moves along.

You stay planted there for a little while longer. People drift past, admiring, chatting, sipping plastic cups of cheap red wine. You answer questions, make a few polite jokes, accept a couple of compliments with increasingly thin smiles. You pretend not to notice how everyone’s come with someone. A partner, a friend, a sibling. You pretend not to keep glancing toward the door.

Eventually, the flow of the crowd slows to a trickle, then stops altogether.

You let out a long breath and turn to face your work. All these pieces you poured yourself into – weeks of layering and scraping and starting over and painting through wrist cramps, through tears. You should be proud. That’s what they all say. You should be proud.

Instead, you just feel tired.

You lift your hand, touching the corner of the library painting, fingertips brushing over the dried texture of the canvas. His shoulders, his posture, the book in his hands. Remus. Even if no one else sees it, you know it’s him. You wonder if he’d even recognise himself. Probably not. He’d been so curious when you’d been painting it, always asking questions. Always kind. Always present.

You sigh, soft and defeated, and reach up to unhook the canvas from the wall.

Just as your fingers begin to lift the piece, the door bursts open. A flurry of familiar voices cuts through the quiet gallery like a sudden gust of wind.

“We’re so sorry! We got the date mixed up!” “God, we feel terrible–” “We were all talking about it, and somehow it just didn’t click.”

James, Lily, Sirius, and – there, right behind them – Remus, all rush in together, their faces flushed and apologetic. James’s usual easy confidence is replaced by something unsteady, Lily’s bright smile faltering a little, and Sirius looks like he’s ready to kick himself.

You freeze. Your throat tightens. It’s so sudden, so overwhelming.

They close the distance quickly. Lily steps forward first, her arms opening wide. Without thinking, you let yourself be pulled into her hug. James and Sirius follow suit, each of them offering warm, steady embraces.

“I’m really sorry,” James says, voice low and earnest. “We didn’t mean to miss it. We wanted to be here so badly.”

“We’re so proud of you,” Lily adds softly. “All of us.”

You want to cry – want to let the tears spill freely, but you force yourself to take a shaky breath instead. “It’s… it’s okay,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper. “I understand. These things happen.”

They all pull back slowly, relief mingling in their eyes.

James and Sirius wander off to look at your paintings, their chatter soft, as they take in each brushstroke. Lily follows, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of a canvas as she studies the colours.

Remus, however, doesn’t move. He stays rooted beside you, eyes fixed on your face.

You stare straight ahead, unable to meet his gaze. It hurts more than you want to admit, the fact he wasn’t here. That he missed this moment. It feels unfair and silly all at once.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence, soft and trembling. “I’m so sorry, dove.”

You blink hard and swallow against the knot in your throat, wiping beneath one eye quickly with the back of your hand.

“It’s fine,” you mumble, forcing a shrug. “Don’t worry about it.”

He hesitates, silence stretching out between you. Then you see, out of the corner of your eye, the slow rise of his hand – reaching out, pausing midair just above your shoulder.

But he stops himself. Letting his hand fall.

“No,” he says quietly. Firmer this time. “It’s not. Of course it’s not fine.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your jaw is locked tight, teeth pressed together, holding in everything threatening to spill out.

So he turns instead, stepping a little closer to the painting still dangling slightly askew on the wall. The library. Your library. His library.

He gazes at it for a long time, longer than anyone else did, long enough that you start to fidget, your pulse tapping a nervous rhythm against your ribs. He tilts his head just slightly, the way you’ve seen him do when he reads, when he’s concentrating so hard he forgets to blink.

“That one’s my favourite,” he says finally.

You’re not sure you were supposed to hear it. It’s almost a whisper. But you do.

Your lips part. You stare at the canvas, the gold-cut shadows, the sunlight on wood grain and worn spines. His silhouette, bent over a book. A world you created from memory. For him.

“It’s my favourite too,” you say, and your voice cracks just a little. You force a breath in, steadying yourself, then add, quietly, “It’s you.”

Remus turns to look at you.

His eyes, warm and amber, widen just slightly. You can see the way your words knock the air out of him. You glance up at him only for a moment before your gaze drops again. Your hands fidget at your sides, unsure of what to do now.

You half-expect him to say something clever, to make a gentle joke, brush it off.

But he doesn’t.

He steps forward, slowly, like he’s afraid to spook you.

“It’s me,” he repeats, voice quiet. He nods, just once. “I thought it might be. The first time you mentioned you were painting a library, I wondered…”

He trails off. You’re still not looking at him, heart pounding so loudly it drowns out the rest of the room. He inches closer again.

“I should’ve been here,” he murmurs. “I wanted to be. More than anything. I thought about it all week. Wrote it on the wrong day in my fucking calendar and didn’t even realise until Sirius texted in a panic ten minutes ago. I should’ve known. You’ve been talking about this for weeks.”

You shake your head, eyes hot. “It’s not your job to remember things like that for me.”

“It is when I care,” he says, and that finally makes you look at him.

His face is so open. Unapologetic. Not soft and tiptoeing around your feelings, but ardent and sure. “I care. About you. About everything you do. I hate that I made you feel alone tonight.”

You try to speak, but nothing comes out. He notices – of course he does – and gently continues.

“That painting’s my favourite because when I look at it, I don’t just see myself. I see the way you see me. You see things so beautifully, even when they don’t deserve to be seen that way.”

You don’t realise you’ve started crying until he reaches up, this time not hesitating, and brushes your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he says, so simply it knocks the floor out from under you.

You blink at him. “Remus.”

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I’ll get over myself I’m sure and–”

You shake your head, fast, before he can finish.

“Don’t,” you say, the word catching halfway out of your mouth. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend I painted you like that because I don’t love you.”

Remus freezes. His hand is still resting against your cheek. You can feel the warmth of it, the steadiness of him, and you can’t believe it took you this long to say it. To show it, maybe. Every hour bent over a canvas, every glance across a cafe table, every stolen moment you tucked away and pressed into brushstrokes.

He breathes out, a little disbelieving laugh, eyes going soft at the edges. “You do?”

You nod, slow but sure. “I do. I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

His smile blooms, tentative at first, then wider, brighter, as if every worry is melting off of him. His hand slides from your cheek to cup your face, thumb brushing your skin gently.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he whispers, voice thick with awe.

You close the small distance between you, breath mingling.

His eyes search yours, asking, needing, and you answer without words. Your lips part, trembling slightly, and then you lean in, the warmth of his hand steadying you as your lips brush together in a tentative, gentle kiss.

It’s soft and slow, full of everything. The ache, the hope, the quiet joy of being seen and loved for exactly who you are. You wrap your arms around his neck, and he pulls you closer, fingers threading into your hair as if to make sure you’re real.

When you finally part, your foreheads rest against each other, breaths mingling, and you smile, a real, full smile that reaches your eyes and creases them in the corner. It’s lovely and–

James makes a loud, exaggerated coughing sound making you both pull away from each other.

“Hate to break up whatever’s happening over here, but someone needs to explain to me how you made that one” –he points to a painting with bold, bright colours and abstract shapes–“and also made that one.” He gestures to the quiet, sun-drenched library piece. “It’s fucking mental.”

You laugh – really laugh – for the first time all night, and Remus’s hand slips into yours. Firm and warm.

Lily turns from another painting, smiling. “We’re taking you out, by the way. You don’t get to argue. Drinks are on us.”

You glance around the gallery. Your work. Your friends. Your heart finally steady. Then back to Remus, who’s still watching you like he can’t quite believe anything that’s happened.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Let’s go.” masterlist <3

#flo'sfics #marauders au #marauders fics #marauders fanfiction #marauders era #remus lupin x reader #remus x reader #remus lupin x self insert #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x you #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin fic #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin hurt/comfort #remus lupin

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darnell-la · 5 months ago

Note

May we have some Logan, maybe Old Man Logan x fem!reader with: breeding kink, non-con or dub-con, forced orgasms, and cumflation? Logan fucks her so hard, for so so long that she starts looking pregnant from how much cum he's pumped into her but he never pulls out so it stays in her?

note: ngl, this Logan has a slight baby-trapping kink when it comes to finding a mutant so young and pretty that wanted him in the first half.

DO NOT READ THIS IF CNC MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE!

———

Logan had been fucking into a girl he picked up from the bar, for hours. When they talked, she could’ve sworn he was a gentleman and would give her the best sex she’d imagined. Only one of those was true.

Logan had been pounding this weak woman for hours. He’s been at it for so long, that when one hole went sore, he switched to the next. He’s been all around the world four times, never giving her a break.

Every now and then, y/n would moan, and make noise, letting Logan know she was still functioning. That never stopped him, though. It only made him want to go further.

“P-Please,” y/n let out for the thousandth time after Logan spilled in her. “Please what? You want more?” Logan asked, knowing she wouldn’t be able to speak a full sentence.

“C-Can’t,” y/n’s weak voice forced anything she could out. “But, you can — I know you can, Bub — I can’t just stop when you’ve given me so much- just feel yourself, princess,” Logan said as his hand brushed against y/n’s heat as his cock kept pushing in and out of her upper hole.

“L-Logan,” y/n whined, only making Logan groan low at his name rolling off of y/n’s tongue. “You know I can’t let you go after this, right, Bub? You’re gonna come on the road with me,”

Because y/n couldn’t speak anymore, she whined, not knowing what to do or think about Logan wanting to take her with him.

She doesn’t have a family, and she’s also a mutant. It wasn’t hard for Logan to figure that out. Maybe that’s why he was so obsessed with her. He’d never run across a mutant this young who’d want to even look at him.

“I’ve got room at my place, baby, don’t worry — We’ll even continue there,” Logan said as he felt his cock twitch once again. Before he released, he flipped y/n over and slammed into her cunt, making sure every inch of him felt the inside of her.

“Fuck,” y/n cried low, feeling Logan fill her up again, and each time, it seems like it was more. “Fuck, Bub — Just look at you,” Logan said as he placed his hands on Y/n’s stomach, softly rubbing across to see her shift.

“I bet you could hold so much more, baby. Can’t you?” Logan asked, instantly making y/n shake her head. She swore if he kept going, her body would shut down. Sadly, her orgasm spoke for her as she gushed around Logan’s cock.

“That’s it — I knew you love me just as much as I love you,”

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midnightquips · 1 month ago

Text

Flight Risk

Bob Floyd x Reader

Summary: For you, Bob Floyd is just the kind of guy you want. Smart. Sweet. Soft-spoken. The kind that won't break your heart. For Bob, you're the kind of woman that takes his breath away. Calm. Cool. Stunning. The kind you'd want to sweep off her feet. So this should be easy, right? Right?

Themes: Dagger Squad teasing, slow burn, jealousy, sexual tension, meddling

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, nsfw, praise kink, soft aftercare, oral sex, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: Happy Saturday everyone!!! Let me know your thoughts!! ❤︎❤︎❤︎

💫 Flight Risk Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 2: Close Call

It’s been three days.

Three days since Bob asked you out. Three days since you said yes. Three days since absolutely nothing has happened.

You’ve been patient. Hell, you even gave him a pass for not texting the night after. Maybe he was recovering from the emotional whiplash of having a whole bar cheer him into a potential relationship. But now? You’re starting to wonder if he forgot.

That is, until you spot him.

It was late afternoon, sun dipping lower behind the hangars. You round a corner near the mess hall just as Bob’s heading in the opposite direction, files clutched to his chest and hair slightly wind-tossed. He sees you and visibly startles, papers almost slipping from under his arm.

You grin.

“Easy, Floyd. You look like you just saw a ghost.”

His smile spreads slowly and sheepishly, glasses slipping just a little down the bridge of his nose. “No, just… I wasn’t expecting you.”

You fall into step beside him, breezy as ever. “Didn’t peg you for the ghosting type.”

He goes red instantly. “Wait—what? No—I didn’t—I mean—”

You laugh and nudge his arm. “Relax. I’m teasing.”

He exhales. Probably grateful you haven’t turned on your heel and walked away. You let the silence sit for a beat, then toss him a sideways glance.

“So… still planning on asking me to dinner? Or was that a Hard Deck fever dream?” you ask with a teasing tone to mask the hesitancy

Bob stops walking for half a second, panic flashing in his eyes before he recovers. “I—I do want to. I mean, yes. I’m just… figuring it out.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Is this one of those military ops that requires precision timing?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Something like that.”

Before you can tease him again, someone calls your name from across the courtyard. Kari is waving you over.

You flash Bob one last grin. “Well, when the op is greenlit… let me know.”

And then you’re gone. Bob stares after you like you just stole his oxygen.

Bob walks in and immediately regrets it. Not because of the work, but because the entire Dagger Squad is already there. He’d honestly take spreadsheets and engine diagnostics over most things.

Phoenix is stretched across a bench, Rooster tossing a ball off the wall. Hangman and Payback are mid-laugh. Fanboy’s tinkering with something nearby, and Coyote’s sipping coffee like he’s here for the tea.

Bob tries to slide past unnoticed but fails spectacularly.

“There he is!” Rooster announces. “Lover boy!”

Bob visibly winces. “Please no.”

“Oh we’re way past that,” Hangman grins. “You publicly asked out one of the hottest contractors on base and then did nothing. We need answers.”

“She did say yes, right?” Payback confirms.

“She definitely said yes,” Phoenix says without looking up. “I saw the eye contact. There was full-body yes energy.”

Fanboy glances over. “So did you chicken out?”

“No!” Bob says too fast. “I just… haven’t figured out how to actually ask.”

Everyone groans.

“You did ask her,” Coyote reminds him. “You just forgot the part where you follow through.”

“I didn’t forget,” Bob mutters.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Phoenix says, sitting up now. “She likes you. You already did the impossible part. You got her attention without doing anything.”

“I don’t want to screw it up,” Bob admits, voice low. “She’s confident. Charming. People notice when she walks in. I’m not exactly…”

“Stop right there,” Rooster says, pointing. “You’re Bob Floyd. You fly like a beast, you’re smart as hell, and you blush like it’s an Olympic sport. Women love that.”

“Y/N loves that,” Fanboy adds casually. “She looks at you like you’re a cinnamon roll she’s afraid to crush.”

“She’s literally just waiting for you to text her,” Payback says. “You think she’s out there pining, or you think she’s just gonna move on and ask us to dinner?”

Bob narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh I would,” Hangman grins. “But only to prove a point.”

Phoenix sighs and reaches for Bob’s phone. “Give me that. I’ll text her for you.”

“No!” Bob snatches it back, clutching it like it’s a flight manual. “I’ll do it. Just… give me a second.”

“Tick tock,” Coyote mutters.

Bob walks away from the group, ducking into the corner of the hangar, heart pounding way harder than it should.

You’re across the base in the cafeteria where Iris and Kari complain about Bob for you

“I’m just saying,” Iris says, stabbing her salad with unnecessary aggression, “you’re braver than me.”

“I haven’t even done anything,” you say, sipping your iced tea.

“That’s exactly it. You said yes to a man who asked you out and then ghosted you for seventy-two hours,” she says. “That’s bravery.”

“He didn’t ghost,” you defend. “He’s just… processing.”

Kari arches a brow. “He’s Bob. If you don’t keep nudging him, he’ll probably thank you for your time and never touch you again.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“I’m not worried,” you say. “I knew he’d need a little time. I’ve already waited this long. Another day won’t kill me.”

“But a week might,” Kari mutters. “Text him first.”

“Nope.” You smile. “He said he’d ask. I want him to do it. His way.”

Iris leans back, smirking. “So we’re basically in a period piece?”

“Apparently.”

Bob stares at his phone like it might detonate.

Then he finally types:

BOB: Hey. Would you still want to get dinner this weekend? If you haven’t changed your mind.

He doesn’t send it right away. He stares at it for a second, thumbs hovering over his phone screen. Deletes “this weekend,” changes it to “Friday.” Adds a smiley. Deletes the smiley. Replaces it with a period.

Finally, he just hits send even before he can talk himself out of it. He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath.

A minute passes. Then two.

Then—

ANN: Took you long enough, Floyd.

He stares at the reply, heart stuttering. He doesn’t even get the chance to reply when another text pop up.

ANN: You free Friday at 1900? Or does this require a formal op plan as well?

He lets out a laugh under his breath, thumbs flying.

BOB: 1900 works. No mission briefing required. ANN: Perfect. Wear something cute.

Bob blushes, then grins. He instantly walks back toward the squad like he just won something.

“Well?” Phoenix asks.

“She said yes,” he says, quiet but proud.

The squad cheers like he just landed a fighter jet on a tightrope.

You are not the kind of woman who overthinks what to wear.

But right now, you’re standing in your room, staring down three dress options like you’re about to attend a military gala. Kari’s sprawled on your bed with a drink in hand. Iris is sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through her phone and occasionally looking up like she’s a judge on a fashion reality show.

You hold up the third option. It’s a simple, fitted, cotton dress. Sleeveless & midthigh. You glance at your reflection. The dress is nothing dramatic. It’s grayish neutral, soft fabric that hugs in the right places without trying too hard. You pair it with your worn white Keds and tie your hair back loosely. “It’s not too casual, right?”

Kari doesn’t even look. “Nope. That one’s perfect.”

Iris nods. “It says ‘I’m cool, confident, and I could outrun you in Keds if you broke my heart.’ Which, let’s be real, is very your brand.”

Still, the nerves are there. You inhale deeply.

“Ugh, I can’t believe I’m worrying,” you mutter

Kari is now lounging on your bed, head resting on her hands while she watches you. Iris, on the other hand, is swiping left and right on Bumble, looking for a potential date.

“You’re overthinking this,” Iris says without looking up. “You could walk out there in a trash bag and that man would ask you to marry him.”

“I’ve never been nervous for a date like this,” you admit, smoothing your hands down your sides.

Kari and Iris exchange a look. A knowing one. But they don’t say it aloud.

Instead, Kari shrugs. “Because this isn’t just a date. You like him.”

You try to play it off. “I mean, he’s cute.”

“And sweet,” Iris adds.

“And clearly obsessed with you,” Kari finishes.

“Is he though?” you asked uncertain

“The man blushes every time you’re within a 12ft radius of him.” Iris insists

You give them both a look, but your mouth twitches into a smile.

Bob is a man under siege.

Phoenix holds up two shirts. “This one says you’re trustworthy and clean. This one says you lift things.”

Hangman is hovering, fixing Bob’s hair with an intensity that rivals pre-flight prep. “Tilt your head, lemme see. Okay, not bad. Damn, our boy’s got cheekbones under here.”

Rooster shouts from across the hall, “I feel like we’re watching our baby go off to prom.”

Payback throws in, “Somebody get the camera.”

“I hate all of you,” Bob mutters, staring helplessly at his reflection.

Fanboy enters just to offer a final judgment: “White shirt. Rolled sleeves. It’s over for her.”

Coyote: “Just remember not to say anything about plane engines at dinner.”

Bob glances between them. “You’re all making this worse.”

Phoenix pats his shoulder. “Relax. She said yes already, Floyd. Now just charm the hell out of her.”

Bob goes red instantly.

You spot him the moment you step inside the pottery studio. It’s an unexpected but pleasant surprise. Bob is already standing by the front counter, wearing a white shirt neatly pressed, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, dark jeans, clean boots. His hair looks like it’s been nervously styled and then re-tousled by accident.

He turns and freezes.

Your dress hugs in all the right places, effortless but arresting. You meet his eyes and smile. Bob swears his brain short-circuits.

“Hi,” you say, stepping closer. “Lieutenant Floyd.”

He stares for a beat. “You look…” He trails off.

You smirk. “Still me under the dress, you know.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he mutters, cheeks flushing.

The instructor greets you both and leads you to your wheels. You slip into the seat beside him, tying your apron, stealing a glance at the way his shirt stretches slightly when he reaches for the sponge.

You clear your throat. “Didn’t peg you for a pottery guy.”

“I’m not,” he says. “Phoenix suggested it.”

“Phoenix is brilliant.”

He chuckles. “Don’t tell her. She’ll never shut up about it.”

The first fifteen minutes are chaos.

Bob is almost regretting it as his clay spins too fast then collapses into a sad lump. Yours wobbles, mud splattering everywhere. You’re both trying not to laugh, but when Bob accidentally launches a chunk onto the floor, you lose it.

“You okay over there?” you grin.

“I’m fine. Just—this clay hates me.”

You slide off your stool and slowly step behind him. “You’re gripping too tight. Here—”

Your hands close over his while your body pressing to the side of his arms. His breath catches.

“Gentle,” you say softly, adjusting his pressure. “Control the spin. Don’t fight it.”

You feel him nod, slowly. Your right hand gently guides his in molding the clay, smoothing out edges, shaping the chunk into a somewhat solid foundation.

You lean in and murmur, “This feels dangerously close to Ghost, doesn’t it?”

Bob makes a sound like he’s swallowed a breath wrong.

You laugh softly. “Relax. You’re totally Patrick Swayze here.”

“I don’t dance,” he whispers, flustered.

“Makes two of us.”

You smile at him, still close, and as he looks at you with eyes wide & lips parted. You catch something in his gaze, not just nervousness but almost a want.

Then he blurts, “You smell really nice.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—you just—you smell good. Not strong. Just… you. Clean. A little flowery. It’s distracting.”

You blink.

Then laugh. “Wow. I hope that’s not part of the better filter update.”

“I was trying to compliment you,” he says helplessly.

“You are adorable when you’re flustered.” You chuckle

“Can’t seem to help it.”

“Don’t change,” you say, nudging him. “I like that about you.”

He exhales like he just defused a bomb.

You fall into rhythm eventually.

The instructor moves around the studio, checking in on others. But your corner of the room feels like its own little world. Your arms brush when you reach for tools. His knee taps yours under the table. You throw clay at each other like kids. At one point, Bob laughs so hard he snorts, and you nearly collapse from how cute it is.

You dab a streak of clay on his jaw. He retaliates by brushing your hair back and marking your cheek. Still, you don’t move away.

There’s a comfort in it. Something sweet. Something assuring.

As the class ends, Bob wipes off his hands, standing beside you, and tries to say casually, but clearly rehearsed:

“You hungry? Because I was thinking… sandwiches?”

You’re surprised again but try not to show it as you grin. “Look at you, making decisions.”

He shrugs, feigning cool. “It’s mostly because I don’t want the night to end.”

You pause because that one lands deep.

“Good,” you say softly. “Me either.”

You both end up sitting at a bench on the waterfront, unwrapping warm sandwiches from a nearby truck. The wind teasing your hair while the city lights blur against the horizon, a comforting silence enveloping settling between you. The air smells like sea salt and toasting bread. Lights reflect on the water, flickering gold.

Bob is quiet, but content. He likes that you don’t seem to push for forced conversation. It comforts him that he doesn’t have to try too hard. And that is the truth, because you’ve learned to recognize the way he relaxes. Recognizing his looser shoulders, slightly parted mouth, tracking you with eyes even when he’s not speaking.

“I have to admit,” Bob says between bites, “this was better than karaoke.”

You smirk. “I didn’t even know that was an option.”

“It was almost the choice.” he chuckles

“I’d still probably like to hear you sing.” you assure him with a smile

“Maybe next time, only if we’re alone. And far from judgment.”

“So there might be a next time?” you ask hopeful

“I… want it to be.” he shares hesitantly

You glance sideways at him. “You always this cautious?”

He shrugs. “When it matters.”

You hum because you don’t want to push. So you take comfort in the small courage he’s seemed to muster up with those words.

You chew for a moment, then say, “This place has the best sandwiches,” you say around a bite. “I could eat here forever.”

He smiles. “I’ll remember that. Always good to know what you like.”

You grin. Then add, almost offhand, “Won’t help with fitting in the clothes if you get me more of this but I’d be lying if I say it’s not worth it.”

It comes out light. A joke. But Bob’s eyes flick toward you sharply. There’s something behind your smile and for a second, he catches a flicker of something more fragile. He stops chewing.

You blink at him. “What?”

“You don’t actually think that, do you?” He asks directly, as if you’ve offended him.

You’re a bit thrown off that you have to suddenly explain yourself. “I mean, it’s not like I’m runway model material, Bob. People love the confidence. But it’s… y’know, curated.”

He stares at you like he’s hearing something he didn’t expect.

“You’re…” he starts, then falters. “Y/N, people notice you the second you walk into a room. Not because you’re loud. Because you… are. I’ve seen grown men forget their names when you smile.”

You blink, as the warmth in your chest spreads.

“I always figured you knew that,” he adds. “That you could feel it.”

You swallow. “I do. Sometimes. But even confidence needs maintenance.”

He nods slowly. “I get that.”

You stare at him for a second or two. He’s not trying to flatter or appease you. He really believes it and understands.

Your throat tightens a little. “I didn’t think you’d notice things like that.”

He exhales a soft laugh like it’s directed at himself. “I notice everything about you.”

You’re stunned into silence.

Then, smiling softly, you nudge him with your shoulder. “See, now only you can do this to me.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Shut me up when I’m holding this perfect sandwich.”

He laughs—deep, unguarded. “I am a criminal for that.”

You both lean back against the bench backrest railing, elbows touching.

A quiet takes over again. Still comforting but also, more intimate. A vulnerability flowing between you.

Then, after a pause, as if speaking before he can change his mind, he blurts, “Can I take you home?”

You glance at him and find his eyes are steady. There’s no pressure, just intent.

You nod with a smile. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

The drive back is still quiet, in the kind of way that makes you feel full.

Bob plays some mellow, low-volume playlist. Some Fleetwood Mac, maybe a little James Taylor. You sit in the passenger seat, legs curled up, watching the road blur past while the warm silence fills the air. Not awkward. Just... gentle. Just like him.

He doesn't reach for your hand, but his fingers drum against the wheel occasionally. An apparent consideration about it as if he's working up the nerve. You glance at him as the truck turns down your street, much slower than it needs to be. Then as if a switch turned on, you feel the tension slowly radiate off him.

“You always drive like this after a date?” you tease.

Bob huffs a nervous laugh. “Trying hard to not be distracted by you right now.”

You raise a brow, lips tugging into a smirk. “That so?”

He nods, eyes still on the road. “Difficult to think straight with you sitting there looking like that.”

You feel an opening to reciprocate his boldness so you pretend to adjust your dress, running your hand down your thigh deliberately. “You’re cute when you try to flirt, you know.”

He goes quiet for a beat. “I’m trying really hard not to say something dumb.”

“Say it,” you grin encouragingly.

Bob glances at you, swallows hard then quickly back to the road. "I've been really wanting to hold your hand the entire night.”

You maintain your smile as you reach out to his free hand, "That can be easily arranged."

You entwine your fingers in his. He only smiles while the silence between you crackles.

By the time he pulls into the curb in front of your building, neither of you make a move to get out.

“Thanks for tonight,” you say first, voice soft. “I had fun.”

He takes the time to look at you, still bashful. “Me too.”

The air shifts slightly, thickening, prickly your skin. You feel the moment is leaning.

You reach for the door handle, then say, “Do you... wanna come up? Just for a bit?”

Bob's eyes widen just a little. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Your place is dim and quiet, still smelling faintly like the cinnamon candle you lit the night before. You kick off your Keds by the door and toss your jacket on the hook. Bob follows, careful and polite, standing awkwardly in the entryway like he doesn't want to touch anything. The tension has somewhat cooled, but still lingers.

“Want coffee or tea?” you ask, somewhat comfortingly

He hesitates, then smiles. “Tea. If that’s okay.”

You disappear into the kitchen and return with two mugs a few minutes later, finding him still standing by the couch like he doesn't know the rules. You hand him one of the mugs, turn on the lamp beside the sofa, casting a soft yellow glow.

“You can sit, you know,” you smile.

He clears his throat and does, holding the cup as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. You watch him blow on it and attempt a sit.

You sit close beside him, but not touching. As if a silent dare to touch the other first.

You sip your tea, eyes looking at him from behind the mug.

"So... you date much?" you start

Bob is caught off-guard. "Um. Not really. A few people here and there. It usually never got past two or three dates."

"Because?" you ask.

"Because I think I overthink it. I like slow. I like knowing someone before making the next move."

You giggle, "Yeah, I can see that."

"So," he says after a moment, "how about you?"

You raise an eyebrow playfully. "What about me?"

Bob takes a sip again and places the mug down beside the lamp.

He shrugs, giving a small smile. "Just seems like everyone wants to date you."

You lean back, cup warm between your hands. "Don't know about that. Honestly? I don’t usually date military and it's really difficult to be dating outside that category when you're moving a lot."

His head tilts slightly, curious about the lack of military dating. "Why not military?"

You shake your head. "Too close. Too complicated. Everyone knows everyone’s business. I’ve always kept my distance."

Bob nods slowly, absorbing that. "But you said yes to me."

You smile unashamed. "Wanted to before you even asked."

He watches you quietly. "Do you regret it?"

"Can’t regret something I want."

Bob flushes. You watch him, waiting. The energy between you hums. A shift that makes you hyper aware.

You shift your knee a little closer to his. He doesn’t move away. Instead, his gaze flicks to your mouth and lingers there a second too long.

“You know, it’s dangerous to look at people like that” you ask, voice low and teasing.

He swallows. “I don’t look at anyone like this.”

You bite your lower lip coyly. His throat bobs. Then he clears it, voice a little steadier, as if gathering courage when he says, “You know, you could kiss me. If you want.”

Your eyebrows rise slightly. “You’re stealing my lines now?”

He grins, a little lopsided, a little braver. “Maybe. I mean... only because I really want to kiss you.”

You set your tea down and turn to him. Then, you lean in and kiss him.

Bob is surprised but is quick to respond when he feels your lips on him. It's soft at first. Your lips moving against his gently, testing before leaning into it further. Then his hand lifts to your jaw, pulling you closer. You shift, turning into him. Your knees press to his thigh. The heat of him seeps into your skin.

Without hesitation, you crawl closer, swing one leg over and straddle him.

He inhales sharply, hands flying to your waist, fingers digging in like he doesn’t trust himself to move. Your lips tracing his gently. His mouth opens under yours, and suddenly the kiss is deeper. Hotter. Lips parting, tongues brushing, breaths catching in rhythm. The soft sounds of your mouths moving together fill the room.

Your hands run through his hair, pulling him closer. He lets out a soft, raw groan into your mouth, and it sends a shiver down your spine. One of his hands slides up your back, the other holding your hip, grounding you against him.

You rock slightly, just once, and feel him harden beneath you. He inhales sharply against your lips, eyes fluttering shut. You kiss him harder, chasing the way he gasps when your teeth graze his bottom lip.

“Y/N,” he murmurs in between kisses, barely audible. His voice is wrecked. “You’re…”

“I know,” you whisper, breathing heavy, against his lips

You both slowly come to a pause. Foreheads pressing to each other. Chests heaving. Hands still tangled. Lips swollen. The moment is fire and restraint all at once.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispers, voice rough against your jaw.

You smile, nose brushing his. “The feeling is obviously mutual.”

Then—softer, reluctantly—you add, “We should… probably slow down.”

He nods, eyes still closed. “Yeah. We should.”

But you don’t move yet. You stay there, breathing each other in. His hands move in comforting strokes, while yours press steady to his chest.

You both agree you’re not yet ready. But close.

So damn close.

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xoxomilesteller · 3 months ago

Text

it’s not such a bad thing

stepdad!beau arlen x reader | MDNI

cw: stepdad x stepdaughter, mentions of a toxic mom, big ole age gap, cheating, slight manipulation, sub!beau? (KINDA? maybe at least at first?), oral (m receiving), pet names (hon), fingering, mutual masturbation, unprotected p in v (no balloon no goon), cursing, praising

def has grammar mistakes!

wc: 4.1k

your mom got a new boyfriend when you were fifteen. you didn’t really care, as long as he didn’t become too much of an authority figure in your life. he has a daughter, not too much younger than you, about 5 years apart. again it didn’t really bother you because as soon as you graduated high school, you were leaving montana.

beau is actually really sweet. you didn’t interact with him much back when he first moved in but the few times you did, he was such a sweet man.

so why was he with your mom?

unfortunately for you, your mom has always been a better girlfriend/wife than a mother. she didn’t necessarily abuse or mistreat you, but there are little jabs and clear evidence on where her priorities lie. men.

your father left her when you were a toddler, left you physically, but was always a call away.

but of course you didn’t know that since your mom told you he left both of you.

didn’t find out until she accidentally told on herself when she got too drunk.

he left because he couldn’t handle her toxicity, in your eyes, she was a decent mother when she didn’t act up.

in his eyes, she was jealous of you. jealous that he paid more attention to you than her.

you didn’t actually notice this until beau moved in with his daughter, emily. your mother glared at her whenever beau would say at the dinner table that he’d sleep in emily’s room since she was scared.

beau never noticed though. your mother is subtle about it. she knows that if she were to ever make emily feel uncomfortable, she’d lose beau.

you weren’t blind though, obviously beau is cute, but that’s really it. he has short hair, freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks, green eyes, and a short stubble. he was retired and was simply looking for a woman. he called you hun and had a subtle southern accent but would become thick whenever he’s tired or stressed.

sure you developed a small little crush on him. it was hard not to. he is the man that stepped up: taught you how to drive, fixed your car when it wouldn’t start, taught you how to pump your tire, showed you how to shoot a gun, made you a burger on your birthday because he knew you didn’t like sweets so much.

but things didn’t go as planned.

your dream college out in california rejected you. but your best friend cheered you up. you both moved into a small apartment together after graduation, since you were both eighteen, and attended the local community college and then would transfer to a four year.

however, the transfer would mean that you’d have to move back in with your mom since you can’t pay for your university fees and rent. but you really value your education, so that’s exactly what you did when your final semester was over.

within the two years that have passed, you distanced yourself from your mom, which included emily and beau. your mom was slightly upset that her twenty year old daughter is moving back in, but you promised her you’d be out before she knew it.

your mom cooked up some pasta and chicken, you, her, and emily. no beau. not yet. he’s coming home late from the station.

he comes in with a gentle opening of the door, no rush, as you guys are halfway through your meal. your mom stands up to go make him his plate.

”sorry, traffic was insane,” he chuckles as he takes off his boots. he walks over to kiss your mom.

and your jaw drops.

he looks unbelievably different. older. he’s grown out his beard and hair, that’s it.

but it makes all the difference in the world.

emily giggles, “i know i’m still not used to his new caveman look too”

”uh huh,” is all you say as you stare at him, feelings from when you were younger resurfacing.

”you two talkin’ crap ‘bout me?” he laughs and walks over to the table, “hey em,” he places a kiss on the top of her head, “hi hon”

you blink at him, “hi”

his freckles have faded away a bit, there are more wrinkles present on his face, specifically by the corners of his eyes.

he rubs his beard with his hand, “c’mon,” he smiles at you, “it can’t be too bad”

you shake your head, “just new”

new and hot.

your mom sits down, setting beau’s plate out in front of him and you suddenly forget how to eat. in fear of choking on your food, you pick at the pasta and chicken, moving the pieces of pasta and chicken around on your plate with the fork. you zone out on beau’s deep voice, him talking about how there’s a new case and he can’t really give too much details but it’s looking very dangerous.

his voice is deeper, the years of smoking cigarettes catching up to him. you are the only one who knows about that habit. you caught him outside one time when you were sneaking out.

you guys made a deal, you told him where you were going, who, what, why and shared your location with him, you wouldn’t bring it up, just forget like it ever happened.

you weren’t going to regardless, but you got caught sneaking out, he’d tell your mom.

so you agreed on that deal.

and the way he speaks now too, you don’t know if it’s new or if it’s you noticing something you never noticed before, but he’s so confident when he speaks. he uses his hands, takes pauses so everyone can follow with him, speaks softly but with an authoritative tone, acknowledges people.

acknowledges you.

”hon,” he breaks you out of your thoughts, “you done eatin’?”

“um,” you look up at him, who has his head tilted and eyes flickering over your face, “yes i am done”

you’ve never been a good sleeper.

neither has beau.

you lay in your bed, texting your best friend and watching netflix. you sit up, adjusting the straps of your silk nightgown to head out into the kitchen for a glass of water.

or maybe just a shot of tequila to help you sleep.

but as you open your door, you see colored light coming from a room, specifically beau’s office.

you and beau had always ran into each other in the night. or well, you ran into beau. after emily fell asleep, he’d go into his office to work on his case, like a true workaholic.

you’d listen to him talk to himself, sitting beside the open door so he couldn’t see you as he tried to figure out time frames or why someone would do something, since his voice brought you peace.

of course, beau knew this. he heard you every time. he didn’t know why or even tried to figure out why, but you didn’t disturb him, you didn’t disturb anyone. so if you just wanted to sit out by his door, he wouldn’t care.

he just wanted to make sure that you felt safe and if you needed anything, you’d come to him.

but tonight you did not have a reason to go to bed. so you creep up, peeking at him.

he has files in one hand and the other hand is near his mouth, thumb playing with the hairs of his beard just below his lower lip.

”how much trouble would someone be in if they had a shot of tequila and were underage?”

he looks up at you, giving you a are you joking look and returns his focus to the files in front of him

”if you wanna sleep i’d suggest some melatonin, not underage drinkin’”

you look around in his office, ”may i come in?”

”are you gonna keep askin’ questions ‘bout crimes you wanna commit?”

”i can give you a nice shoulder massage,” you grin

he brings his gaze back onto you, “you jus’ wanna read my files,” he chuckles, the warmth and trust reflecting in the soft sound.

he has no idea about your crush on him.

you dramatically gasp and widen your eyes, “God no,” you cross your arms, “that’s an invasion of privacy. can’t believe you think i’d ever do that”

he sighs, “c’mere,” he says playfully defeated

you tip toe in, looking around at the paintings and the new plus rearranged furniture that got here since you moved out. you tread carefully in front of his desk.

”do not read my files hon,” he looks at you through his eyebrows, wrinkles forming on his forehead

”have some more trust in me beau”

he cocks a brow, “i can’t,” he smiles, “i know how nosy you and your mother are”

you don’t like being put on the same boat as your mom, but how would beau know? your mom puts on an amazing front.

so you ignore it and walk behind his chair, placing your small palms on his broad shoulders.

”speaking of, why are you not sleeping in her bed at this moment? i mean like, you haven’t even changed out of your work clothes”

he leans back into your touch, “findin’ someone’s missin’ daughter is more important than sleep”

”well if i had a missing daughter i’d want the sheriff in charge of her case to be fully aware of what’s going on,” you mumble

“‘m’aware,” he grumbles

he’s everything but aware. he’s unaware of your crush on him. he’s unaware of your mother’s jealousy on both you and emily, his own daughter.

but your mother hasn’t said or done anything to emily, so you keep quiet.

you start moving your fingers in soft circular motions, ”well did you notice that on your sticky note you wrote 5:69 PM?”

he furrows his brows and leans in, you follow, keeping your hands on his shoulders, to the yellow sticky note he placed on the corner of his computer

“well i’ll be damned,” he pokes his cheek with his tongue and runs a hand through his long locks, “guess you are right”

taken by the way his hair behaves and falls into the right places, you also run your hand through his hair.

beau is a bit shocked, but he lets it happen. since he grew it out, he’s known a lot of people that have grown very fond of his hair and want to touch it all the time.

he likes the fact that he’s built a safe enough space around you that you’re comfortable around him.

but what fully catches him by surprise is when you move your thumbs to the nape of his neck, applying pressure in short up and down motions that follow your four other fingers that scratch the bottom of his head, where his long hair ends.

he stifles a groan by biting down on his inner lip. you don’t know this, but head scratches are his weakness. he involuntarily lets his head rest forward, fluttering his eyes shut.

”why do you like my mother beau?”

his eyes shoot open at the question, but he keeps his head dangling forward, “she’sagreatwomanhon,” he mumbles, “treatsmeright, emright.”

you huff at his response

he lifts his head up at the sound, “there some’ i should know ‘bout?”

”no, nothing.”

beau turns on his office chair to face you, taking his big and calloused hands and wrapping them around your wrists, but keeping them near his shoulders.

”uh uh,” he shakes his head, “don’ gimme that, talk,” he raises his brows

“it’s not that important, if you think she’s a good woman then okay,” you shrug and make an attempt to remove your wrists but his grip doesn’t allow it.

”tell me” he demands

you don’t know if it’s the way he’s manspreading or how he’s holding onto your wrists, but you settle down on his left thigh.

he loosens his grip on your wrists, green eyes widening, “hon- what-“

your fingers scratch his head joined with the small gentle massages at the back of his neck that make him melt, head tipping forward.

”she treats you and em right, right?” you whisper softly

”hon,”

”right?”

he grips onto the edge of his desk, knuckles turning white, “correct,” he exhales

you hum, “she ever tell you why my dad left?”

he shakes his head, slowly picking it back up to look at the open door of his office, “never had to, heard a man left his family, stopped her right there, didn’t need to hear more”

you move your hand, so one of them is cupping his bearded jaw, making him look at you instead through his hooded eyes, “probably for the best, she woulda told you a lie”

”what d’you mean?”

his lips stay parted

you lean in, closing your lips around his.

his keeps his parted, eyes widening again, “hon we shouldn’t,” he whispers

”why not?”

”’cause i’m with your mother, i’m your stepfather”

”she lied, lies, to you beau,” he turns his head, getting a better look at you, “she’s jealous of your own daughter, she’s jealous of me because my dad gave me more attention than her”

“why didn’t you tell me this before?”

”’cause she never hurt emily. if she did, i would’ve told you the second it happened.”

he nods, “that doesn’t make this, what you’re tryna do okay”

”then take me off of your lap,” you glide both hands down to his shoulders, resting them there

”how has she hurt you? tell me,” he pleads, placing his hands on your waist

you hesitantly kiss his lips again, which he gives into slightly, “do you want me to get off of your lap?” you ask for clarity

he looks into your eyes, confused, “stay”

your hands tangle up in his hair at the back of his neck, pulling him into a soft and gentle kiss.

beau hasn’t fully given in. he knows this is wrong. so wrong. his lips stay still, just letting you kiss him.

which you notice.

so you remove your mouth from his, bracing yourself on his shoulders to get up.

he quickly tightens his hold on your waist, ”woah why’re y’leavin’?”

you tilt your head, confused, “well you’re not kissing me back, so you don’t wanna do this which is fine”

his hands go down to your thighs, spreading them to adjust you so you’re fully sitting on his lap. then he places one hand, cupping your cheek, “do whatever you want, but you’re tellin’ me how she hurt you”

”whatever i want?”

”whatever you want,” he reassures

you places your mouth over his, his lips still staying still but after a few seconds, they move in sync with yours. his hands move up and down your back gently.

your hips start rocking back and forth, slowly to test the waters, over the growing bulge in his khaki pants, earning a soft groan from his mouth that makes the ache between your legs grow. your hands are on either side of his jaw, feeling it move with each kiss he feeds you and tracing circles with your thumbs on his beard.

you pull away gently, dragging one of his lips between yours, “she told me my dad left us,” your hands go to the buttons of his shirt, while your mouth kisses and nibbles the skin of his neck but careful to not leave marks, “made me think he stopped loving us”

beau moves his hands to the lace trim of your nightgown, still hesitating.

his mind is racing. he’s your stepdad. he knows this is wrong. but with the way you’re kissing his neck, soft, delicate, hands exploring his shoulders and what you’re telling him?

he couldn’t care if it’s true or not, his mind is clouded by how wrong this is, but he cannot help it. he wants you. he never did before, never looked at you in this way.

he’s worried about himself, worried why he wants this to happen.

he’s so caught up in his mind that he doesn’t realize you unzipped his pants. he doesn’t realize until you run your thumb over the rid tip, tracing a circle that snaps him out of his thoughts.

he shakily exhales. you get off of his lap, lowering yourself on your knees, in between his legs, “you’re stuck in your head”

”can you blame me hon?”

you keep tracing circles over his sensitive tip, collecting the pre cum, “she makes jokes that aren’t funny as a way to make me feel bad,” you lick his tip and one of his hands find your hair, stifling a moan, “doesn’t work”

you lean back, admiring his cock, the girthiness of him, the vein running straight down and another few weaving around the organ.

you’re afraid you’re going to get lockjaw.

but beau’s definitely worth the risk.

you look up at him, noticing how his head is tipped back and he has one hand over his forehead, thumb and index pressed over his eyes. he’s stressed.

and his beard is so well kept.

you keep your eyes on the under side of his jaw as you inch closer, taking in the head of his dick into your mouth. he twitches and his grip on your hair gets tighter.

”..hon..,” he whispers, not making eye contact with you

you swirl your tongue over his sensitive tip, lapping up the salty pre cum you spread with your thumb and take him further into your mouth.

beau bites down on his lip, to the point he tastes blood, to limit the amount of noise he wants to make. his entire body is scrunched up. brows furrowed, eyes squeezed tight, his entire body is rigid, to the point he feels like his hamstring is about to cramp.

his mind can’t focus on anything besides staying quiet and your mouth sucking on him in the most perfect way ever.

his stepdaughter’s mouth around him.

and he hates that he’s enjoying it. he hates that he cannot tell you to stop because he wants this just as bad.

but God, it’s a sight for you.

and you want to hear him.

so your hands go to his balls.

he moans. loud.

your thighs press together.

before beau can get too lost in the pleasure, he leans over, abdomen pushing your head down him slightly, and he rearranges things on his desk, clearing out a space.

then he places both hands in your hair, letting you bob your head a few times more before tapping you, signaling you to stop. he rubs his hand on the back of your head and takes the hem of his button up to wipe your face clean.

”there we go sweet thing,” he coos, “all cleaned up now, yeah?”

he watches your lips move with every drag of the cotton. he slips off his shirt, discarding it somewhere and he lifts you up, placing you on his desk

he groans when his still hard cock grazes the hem of your dress, so he slides his hands under and removes it, wasting no time in attaching his warm mouth around your hardened nipple.

you arch your back into his mouth, lips parting at the feel of him sucking and flicking his tongue around your nipple.

his hands reach the waistband of your panties, peeling them off of you while his mouth moves up to your neck. they slide all the way down, falling onto the floor.

with his index and middle finger, he spreads your puffy, wet lips, “you’re s’wet,” he mumbles. once his fingers are coated in you, he slips them in, quietly groaning at your tightness.

you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, digging into them, as his fat fingers thrust in and out of your tight pussy, hitting the exact spot that makes your toes curl; the sound of your wetness and stifled moans filling the room. the heel of his palm bumping into your clit at each calculated thrust.

beau steps closer to you and embraces you with his left arm, pulling you into his chest to muffle the sounds you can’t hold back. his hand presses your head into his skin, feeling the sheer coat of sweat building up on him.

”you’re doin’ amazin’ hon,” he kisses the top of your head

you tilt yours down, noticing how his cock is throbbing.

you slide your hands down his body, making him sigh, and wrap your hands around him. his mouth falls open on your hair and you start giving him slow stokes. he thrusts his fingers in timing of your strokes, still holding you as close as he can.

”slow? that’s how you want it?” he whispers

”yes,” you half moan

he presses his mouth into your scalp to not make any loud sounds and he lets you have your fun, stroking him slowly while his fingers thrust in you.

each time your hand reaches the tip of his dick, you run your thumb over the slit, earning a sharper thrust of his fingers each time you do that.

then beau scissors his fingers.

you yelp and grip his cock tighter.

”shh,” he drags his lips down your head, nosing some of your hair out of the way, “i know hon, just give me a sec, gotta stretch you out f’me”

you nod, placing your hands on his chest to brace yourself. he twists his wrist with each scissoring motion to ensure you’re well prepped.

”lay down hon,”

you lay flat against the hard wood of his desk, a few papers sticking onto your back. beau places his hand under your right knee, taking that leg and pining it to his desk, your other leg hooks around him.

he hovers over you, using his free hand to grab your wrist, “gotta stay quiet, right?” he places your palm over his mouth and then places his hand over yours and slides into your wet channel.

both of you moan painfully loud.

your hand almost falls from his mouth, but he takes his teeth, biting into your skin, then he releases it.

”you’re s’tight,” he groans before burying his face in the crook of your neck

he stills, letting you adjust to his thick size

he starts rolling his hips, slow, yet hard, making you moan loudly regardless of being muffled.

beau removes his hand from your mouth and gives you a hard thrust, tip hitting your g spot and before you can even moan, he sticks two fingers inside your mouth.

he opens his mouth against your warm skin, beard nipping at it, ”i know hon, s’hard bein’ quiet,” his voice is strained, “bite down on ‘em, door’s still open,” his eyes flicker to his open office door.

his heart rate quickens, he doesn’t know if it’s because of the door being open or just being inside of you, but his thrusts remain slow and hard.

he also bites down on you, his teeth sink into the soft flesh of your clavicle to keep himself quiet.

everything is so overwhelming to you, having to stay quiet, door open, having your stepdad inside of you.

but he feels amazing.

his cock stretches you to a point you didn’t think was possible, his tip hits that spot that knocks the air out of your lungs, his hand thats on your leg is gripping onto you tight that there will be bruises.

it all adds to the knot in your belly that keeps getting tighter and tighter.

the only sounds audible in the house are the fans running in your mom and Emily’s room, the sound of beau’s cock thrusting inside of you, and muffled moans from both of you.

your walls start clenching around him, so beau starts sinking his teeth down further. your mind is too focused on how good he’s making you feel that the small pain quickly turns into pleasure.

beau starts rubbing your clit in rapid circles, completely different from the pace of his hips, but it tips you over.

tears well up in your eyes and your walls hug his cock as tight as they can as you cum all over his cock. your body spasms, hips arching off his desk and nails digging into your own skin.

he follows shortly after with a grunt that gets stuck in his throat, hips stuttering, the feeling of you cumming practically milking him dry.

he rides out both of your orgasms, chests heaving and heavy breathing, “there we go sweet thing,” he pants, “feelin’ good?” his voice is thick

it takes you a minute to respond, “yeah”

”good girl,” he lazily smiles, “good girl,” he repeats, much softer this time and places a kiss on your forehead.

AN: can’t say much besides i myself am bouncing off the walls at what i’ve just written here!

wavy banner by: @anitalenia

straight line banner by: @elleisdesigning

tags: @redhairedgardenfairy

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