#like even just floating someone a 'like' every now and again... like this is not TikTok you need to interact friends

[flowergirl1243]

i miss it, i miss you

SUMMARY: Facing terminal illness, you and Oscar chase one last bittersweet adventure together, holding onto love, loss, and the fragile hope written across the sky.

PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader

WARNINGS: major character illness (terminal cancer), death, grief, mentions of hospitals/medical treatment

NOTE: I was listening to chemtrails by Lizzy Mcalpine, and oh my gosh, that song makes me feel so ill, I cannot.

You didn’t cry when they told you.

You watched the doctor’s mouth move like it was underwater, slow and rounded, clinical and soft. Every word landed like a feather, and still, somehow, each one managed to bruise.

Stage four. Aggressive. Unlikely to respond. Best to prepare.

She didn’t meet your eyes. She looked just past your shoulder, the way people do when they’re afraid of becoming part of the story. Like if she made it impersonal enough, you’d stay a statistic and not a person unraveling right in front of her.

You didn’t cry.

You just stared at the wall behind her, at the framed photo of two golden retrievers chasing a tennis ball down a sunlit stretch of sand. The ocean was bright and endless behind them. You wondered if they were still alive. If they still ran like that. If she knew what it felt like to say terminal to someone and keep breathing like she hadn’t just stolen the air out of the room.

You nodded politely. Like she was explaining a cracked pipe or an insurance clause. Like this wasn’t your body she was talking about, your life, your time, now mapped out in clinical estimates and worst-case timelines.

Oscar didn’t cry either.

He sat to your left, knuckles pressed white against his knee, jaw so tight you thought it might shatter if he moved. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the floor like if he could burn a hole through it, maybe he’d fall through to some version of the world where this wasn’t happening. Where you were okay.

He helped you out of the chair when the appointment ended, though neither of you could say what had really been said. His hand hovered near your back the whole walk to the elevator, not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the heat of it. The way it shook.

You walked in silence through the lobby. Past people laughing at the café. Past a little girl with a sticker on her cheek and an ice cream in her hand. Past the parking meter that wouldn’t print receipts.

Everything felt normal. Ordinary. Unbearably so.

In the car, you buckled your seatbelt with hands that didn’t feel like yours. The air was too still. Oscar didn’t start the engine. He just sat there, eyes forward, like he wasn’t ready to move. Like if he turned the key, the world would keep going, and you weren’t sure either of you could handle that.

You reached for the AUX cord.

You weren’t even sure why. Habit, maybe. Instinct. You fumbled it between your fingers, like you’d forgotten how it worked, like maybe music could press rewind on the day and take you both somewhere simpler.

“Let’s just go home,” you said.

The words felt weightless coming out of your mouth, not empty, exactly, but hollowed out. Like they had once meant something and now they were only shape and sound. You barely recognised your own voice. It didn’t tremble or shake. It didn’t beg or break.

It just…floated.

Oscar turned toward you slowly, eyes rimmed red, lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to begin. Then he broke.

No warning. No drama. No sound, not at first.

Just a sharp inhale. A full-body wince. Then the dam cracked.

He folded forward over the steering wheel like someone had taken the ground out from underneath him. His whole body shook, silent at first, then loud, gulping sobs that scraped their way out of his throat like they’d been waiting all day to be let out.

He cried like he was trying to reverse time. Like if he said your name enough, over and over again, soft and desperate, like a question and a prayer, the story might change.

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching across the console. Your fingers curled around his hand. His knuckles were ice. “I’m still here.”

He gripped your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His head turned just enough to press into your palm. He didn’t say anything, couldn’t, but he nodded once, a jerky, broken thing that made your chest ache.

You didn’t cry then, either.

Not because you weren’t sad. Not because you were strong.

But because somewhere, deep down, you knew if you started, you wouldn’t stop. And you had to stay in the moment, had to hold him there, keep both of you from falling off the edge of it.

“I’m not gone yet,” you said, softer this time.

But the yet hung in the air between you, louder than anything else. It wrapped itself around your words like smoke. It curled into the corners of the car. It pressed itself into Oscar’s lungs until he was crying again, quietly now, the kind of grief that lingers after the first wave crashes and recedes.

You rested your forehead to the window and closed your eyes. The silence wasn’t comforting, but it was honest. And for now, that was enough.

That night, the house was too quiet. Not peaceful, hollow. Even the hum of the fridge felt loud, intrusive. The shadows on the walls stretched longer than they used to, like time had started pooling in the corners.

You lay curled on the couch, your body tucked into Oscar’s like you were trying to disappear inside him. Or maybe he was trying to pull you in. His arms were wrapped around you tight, chest pressed to your back, one leg hooked around yours as if anchoring you there. Like if he stopped touching you, even for a second, you might evaporate.

His hand rested at your waist, fingers spread like he was trying to memorise the rise and fall of your breathing. His nose was buried in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing skin every time he exhaled. He hadn’t said much since the hospital, just stayed close, unbearably close, like he could feel the clock ticking and was trying to run out the timer by holding you still.

You both stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing the familiar cracks and shadows like they might suddenly shift into answers. A message. A reason. Something. Answers written in the cracks you’d never noticed before. A message only meant for the dying. Or the ones they’d leave behind.

You were the one to break the silence, your voice soft and steady, like a confession whispered into a pillow. “Is it weird,” you said, “that I feel more sorry for you than for me?”

Oscar flinched like the words physically hit him. His arm tightened instinctively around your middle. “Don’t,” he said, rough and quiet. “Please don’t say that.”

“But it’s true.” You shifted just enough to look back at him, your cheek brushing his. “I wish I could… make this easier for you.”

He shook his head once, sharply, jaw clenched like he was chewing glass. “You’re the one—”

“I know.” Your voice cracked just a little. A beat passed. Then another.

You reached up, covering the hand he had on your waist with your own. “But I’m not the one who has to stay behind.”

Oscar’s breath hitched.

And then he did what he’d been holding back from all day — he pulled you in tighter, impossibly so. One arm wrapped around your shoulders now, his hand flat against your chest, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat like he was afraid it might stop mid-beat if he let go.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered again, voice breaking apart on the edges. “Please don’t.”

So you didn’t.

But the truth settled into the space between you anyway — undeniable and brutal. You were going. Not today. Not yet. But soon. And he would be the one left behind.

You felt his lips press against the back of your shoulder, lingering like a goodbye he wasn’t ready to say. His hand gripped yours like it was the only thing keeping him afloat.

You turned your head and leaned into him, until your forehead touched his, until your noses brushed, until the space between your breaths disappeared completely.

“I’m still here,” you whispered. “Right now, I’m still here.”

Oscar closed his eyes. Let out a shaky breath. “I know,” he said. But he didn’t loosen his hold. Not even a little.

Because the truth was still there, heavy and quiet and cruel.

You were still here.

But not for long.

The first thing you lost was your appetite. It didn’t happen all at once. Not like flipping a switch, but like the slow dimming of a light you didn’t know was fading until the room was almost dark. Meals became chores, not comforts. You’d pick at food, a bite here, a bite there, but the taste wasn’t there anymore. The flavours felt muted, as if everything you put in your mouth was wrapped in cotton. Even the smell of cooking, once a signal of warmth and home, turned sour, twisting in your stomach before you could swallow. Oscar watched you shrink away from the dinner table, but he still made your favourite meals. Sometimes he even sat with you, trying to force the ordinary back into the day. He’d laugh quietly, sharing some dumb meme on his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his hopeful smile. But the meals grew colder. The laughter faded. And you stopped pretending to be hungry.

The second thing you lost was your mornings. Not just the hour when the sun climbed over the horizon, but the feeling mornings used to bring, the soft promise of a new day, wrapped in sunlight and warmth and slow sips of coffee. You used to wake with a smile half-formed on your lips, a tangle of sheets and hair and quiet contentment. Now, you woke with a weight in your chest that pressed you back into the mattress, breath shallow, muscles heavy. Oscar learned to keep the room dark. He’d draw the curtains tight to keep the early light from cutting through your closed eyelids. He’d sit beside you, gently tugging socks over your cold feet, the touch light as a feather but filled with the fierce love of someone trying to protect a fading flame. Sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, you’d hear him whisper your name like a prayer, or feel the brush of his lips on your temple as if saying goodbye just in case.

The third was the ordinary, the everyday moments that used to fill your life with quiet joy. The small rituals you never noticed until they stopped: the way your fingers tapped rhythmically on the edge of a table when you were lost in thought; the stacks of books gathering dust beside your bed; the music that once wove through your days now silenced or forgotten. You stopped caring about the little things. The routines that made life feel safe, predictable, yours, unravelled thread by thread. Oscar saw the spaces widen between who you were and who you were becoming. He tried to hold onto those fragments, a laugh, a glance, a sigh, as if gathering pieces of you might keep you whole.

He tried so hard to pretend everything was normal. He still made you tea, even when you couldn’t bring yourself to drink it. He still sent you ridiculous memes from across the room, knowing you’d smile, even if only for a second. He kissed the top of your head every time he passed, pressing his lips like he was trying to seal a promise into your skin. Every touch was a silent vow to stay, even as the world slipped away.

But you knew. You saw it in the way his eyes searched your face when you thought he wasn’t looking, desperate to memorise every line, every flicker of emotion. You felt it in the way his thumb brushed the nape of your neck when he tucked you beneath the blankets, as if trying to imprint himself on you. You heard it in the quiet shudder of his shoulders when he thought you were asleep, the weight of a grief too big to carry.

He was memorising you. Not just the person you were now, but every version of you he’d ever known. Every laugh, every softness, every half-smile held like a secret treasure. He was folding your voice into the quiet spaces of his heart, turning moments into keepsakes, laughter into lasting echoes. He was grieving you already, before the world had even finished telling the story.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. But it was happening anyway. And some days, the only thing you could offer him was a smile, small, fragile, fading, that said I’m still here. For now.

One day, you found him sitting on the cold tile floor of the shower.

Fully clothed.

Silent.

The water ran relentlessly over him, a steady, unyielding torrent that blurred the hard edges of the world and washed away everything but the weight in his chest. His clothes clung to his skin, soaked through, heavy like the grief pressing him down, pinning him to the floor. His head lolled forward, chin nearly resting on his chest, eyes closed tight against the flood inside.

You didn’t say anything.

You just stepped in, the water immediately soaking your pajamas, plastering your hair to your scalp, chilling your skin in contrast to the hot cascade. You moved slowly, as if afraid your presence might shatter the fragile moment, and curled into his lap, folding your body against his like two pieces desperate not to lose their shape.

Your arms wrapped around him, trembling but fierce, as if your hold could keep him anchored to the world. His breath hitched in his throat, shaky and uneven, a broken sound swallowed beneath the steady rush of water.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, voice cracked and raw, like he was admitting defeat for the first time.

“Yes, you can,” you said, though your own voice shook with the weight of the truth you wished wasn’t real.

He shook his head slowly, barely audible. “Why do I have to?”

You didn’t have an answer. There was no reason that could fill that hole. No explanation to soften the unbearable.

Just the two of you.

Just the warmth of your skin against his, the soft pulse of your heartbeat beneath his ear, a quiet, steady drum in the silence.

I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m still—

The words caught in the thick wet air between you, unfinished and fragile, the ache of everything left unsaid hanging heavy.

He pressed his face into your shoulder, the tremor of his body slowly loosening in your arms. You could feel the heat of his tears mixing with the cool water, hear the soft hitch of his breath as the grief broke through his walls at last.

And in that moment, in the quiet surrender of everything he’d been holding inside, you both felt the full weight of what was coming.

The terrifying, endless stretch of days where time would slip away like water through your fingers. The nights stretched wide and empty, echoing with the absence of what could not be fixed. The slow fading, piece by piece, of everything you loved about each other.

And still, you held on.

Not because you had strength left to fight.

But because you couldn’t let go.

Because the last thing you could do was be there, raw and broken and real.

Together.

Even as the water ran cold and the world narrowed to the two of you, clinging to the fragile hope woven between whispered promises and shared silence.

I’m still here.

And sometimes, sometimes, that was enough.

The decision was sudden but not surprising. After weeks of drifting through hospital visits, scans that blurred into one another, and tired days that felt longer than nights, you looked at Oscar with a spark of something almost like rebellion in your tired eyes.

“Let’s get out of here. Just for a little while.”

His eyebrows knitted together, like he was trying to puzzle out if you were serious, or if this was just another passing daydream you might let go of by morning. His eyes searched yours, wary but hopeful, like he was trying to catch a glimpse of the ‘you’ that existed before the hospital rooms and the whispered diagnoses.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked, voice low and careful, as if afraid the walls might hear and pull you back.

“Anywhere but here,” you said, the corners of your mouth twitching into a small, tired smile. “Somewhere I can feel the sky.”

Oscar blinked, a slow smile breaking through the tension. “The sky, huh? That sounds good.”

You both knew it wasn’t about the place. It never was. It was about a break from the endless waiting rooms and the smell of antiseptic. About breathing air that didn’t taste like fear. About catching a few stolen moments where the future wasn’t hanging over your heads like a storm cloud.

Packing was quick, no big plans, no suitcases, just whatever fit in a bag tossed on the passenger seat. You slipped into your favourite jacket, the one with the worn cuffs and the scent of home, and Oscar tossed you the keys with a grin that was equal parts nervous and excited.

The car hummed to life and pulled away from the hospital’s heavy gates, leaving behind the relentless buzz of machines and hushed voices.

Windows down, wind tangled in your hair, you felt something flicker inside — a small pulse of freedom, fragile and bright.

Oscar glanced over, catching the light in your eyes, and reached out to squeeze your hand.

“Where to?” he asked, grinning like a kid about to take you on an adventure.

You laughed, soft, real, and a little breathless. “Anywhere that feels like we can just be. No doctors, no tests. Just us and the sky.”

He nodded. “Let’s find it.”

And with that, the road stretched ahead, endless and wide, and for the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe, just maybe, the weight could lift for a little while.

One evening, you sat on the balcony, the sky a wild canvas bleeding orange and pink into the horizon, the sun slipping slow and stubborn toward the edge of the world. The air was salty and heavy with the smell of the sea, thick with the gentle lull of waves crashing far below.

Oscar’s hand found yours, fingers curling around yours like he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold tight enough. His squeeze was gentle, careful, a silent question, an anchor.

“You look happy,” he said softly, voice low as if he didn’t want to disturb the delicate peace.

“I am,” you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear — something solid in a world that felt like it was tilting.

He kissed the top of your hair, the touch feather-light but full of everything words couldn’t hold. For a moment, time folded in on itself, past, present, future blurring into a quiet, sacred now. There was no illness, no prognosis, no shadow looming over what came next. There was only this, this fragile, perfect breath of life.

You breathed it in, the salt in the air, the distant cry of a gull, the rough grain of the balcony railing beneath your fingers, and the warmth of his body curled close beside you.

“Dance with me?” he murmured, voice rough with everything he was holding in.

You nodded, unable to find words that could hold the weight of the moment.

There was no music except the distant crash of waves and the whisper of the night breeze, but it didn’t matter. He moved with a careful grace, one hand on your waist, the other holding yours like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Your bodies swayed together, slow, unsteady, but sure, like the world had paused just for this. Your head rested against his chest, feeling the pulse of his heart under your ear, steady and real. You closed your eyes, letting the rhythm of him, of the night, of the fragile life between you, carry you.

His breath warmed your skin as he whispered, “I don’t want to let go.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone, voice barely above a whisper. “Then don’t.”

And for those quiet, suspended moments, with the sky fading from gold to ink, and the stars just beginning to blink awake, you danced.

Not because the future was promised, But because right now, this was enough.

On the last night, the world outside faded until it was just the two of you, the quiet hum of the night air, the whisper of the ocean, and the soft rhythm of your voices.

You stayed up late, tangled in blankets and memories, talking about everything you’d never made time for, dreams you’d dared to whisper in the dark, regrets folded tight inside your chest, the little things that made your life yours.

Oscar pulled you close, his breath catching as he spoke. “I don’t want this to be goodbye.”

“Neither do I,” you said, voice thick but steady, every word wrapped in the weight of love and loss tangled together.

“But if it is…” His voice cracked, raw and broken.

“You’ll carry me,” you promised, pressing your hand over his heart. “In the sky, in your heart, in everything.”

He nodded, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes, held back by sheer will. He held you tighter, like if he let go, you might really disappear.

And under that vast sky, with the world so wide and quiet around you, the two of you held on, to each other, to the moments, to the fierce, impossible hope that love could outlast even the darkest nights.

You slipped away on a morning so soft it almost felt like a dream, a quiet that wasn’t quiet, a stillness so delicate it threatened to break under the weight of all that had come before.

Oscar was right there beside you, his fingers intertwined with yours like they were trying to hold your soul tethered to the world. His thumb traced small, endless circles on your skin, slow, steady, a silent rhythm meant to steady the breaking. “I’m here. I’m here,” he whispered, over and over, like those words could pull you back, could slow the slipping, could make the unbearable pause just a little longer.

The room was hushed, the kind of hush that presses into your chest, heavier than silence. The only sound was the slow, steady beeping of machines, heart monitors and oxygen levels, a mechanical heartbeat echoing in the stillness. A lifeline counting down seconds neither of you dared to measure.

And then, suddenly, the beeping stopped.

The world tilted on an invisible axis, time fracturing in that fragile space between breaths.

Oscar’s hands, so full of trembling life, moved instinctively to close your eyes, his fingertips brushing the long lashes as if afraid the faintest touch might shatter the fragile peace.

He bent forward slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, soft and broken and sacred. The same kiss he had given you a thousand times before, but now it held the weight of a thousand goodbyes. It was a thank you for every smile, every whispered secret, every brush of fingers in the dark. A goodbye without words, heavier than anything either of you could say. And an I love you, fierce, fragile, and absolute, folded into the quiet spaces between them.

His breath hitched, a soft, broken sound swallowed quickly, but the tremble in his body betrayed him. The weight of everything, loss, love, fear, pressed down like an ocean, and for the first time, he let himself collapse into it.

The room felt colder now, emptier. The light slipping through the window seemed too bright, too sharp, cutting through the haze of grief that wrapped around him like a shroud.

He stayed there, holding your hand long after the machines went silent, as if by holding on, he could keep you from truly leaving.

Minutes passed, hours maybe. Time blurred and folded in on itself.

He whispered your name, again and again, like a prayer, a plea, a thread back to you.

And in that fragile, aching dawn, all that was left was the echo of your touch, a whisper on his skin, a ghost of warmth he could never quite forget.

The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac in Australia, but Oscar felt like he was still falling, endlessly, spiralling through a darkness he couldn’t escape. His chest was tight, his lungs gasping for air as if the very atmosphere was too heavy to breathe.

His hands clenched so tight around the strap of his bag that his knuckles blazed white, fingers digging into the worn leather as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality. Around him, the airport hummed and buzzed, people rushing past, rolling suitcases and distant chatter swirling in a chaotic current, but it all felt muffled, as if he was submerged underwater, watching the world drift farther away.

He moved forward with a hollow weight, stepping through the sliding glass doors, and was immediately hit by the thick, humid air of the late afternoon. It wrapped around him like a damp blanket, sticky against his skin, carrying the sharp scent of eucalyptus and salt from the nearby sea. The sounds of cicadas droned in the background, persistent and relentless, but the familiar noises, the calling birds, the rustling leaves, felt foreign, distant, like fragments of a dream he couldn’t quite reach.

Everything that should have felt like home, the sky stretched wide and heavy, the heat clinging to his clothes, instead sliced through him like shards of glass. The ache inside twisted deeper, sharper.

When he finally reached his mum’s front door, his hand hovered over the handle, trembling. His heart pounded fiercely, a wild, desperate drumbeat that threatened to shatter his ribs from the inside. The silence around him pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint creak of the wooden porch beneath his feet.

Before he could knock, the door swung open.

His mum stood there, her face a mix of surprise and dread. The usual warmth in her eyes flickered and faltered when she saw the hollow emptiness in his gaze, the way his shoulders slumped, carrying invisible burdens too heavy for words.

“Oscar,” she breathed, voice soft and catching somewhere between heartbreak and fear.

He didn’t answer. He barely nodded, stepping inside like a ghost crossing the threshold of a place that should have been sanctuary but felt more like a tomb. The door closed behind him with a hollow, final thud, the sound echoing in the sudden, suffocating quiet.

The walls were lined with photos, frozen smiles from holidays long past, birthday candles flickering in bright colours, moments captured in laughter that felt impossibly distant now. He barely glanced at them, his eyes glazed over, as if the memories pressed too close, too sharp.

And then, without warning, he broke.

Tears spilled free, hot and unrelenting, streaming down his face in thick rivers of grief. He sank to the floor, collapsing into himself, shaking violently as sobs tore through his chest like knives. The sound was raw and ragged, a primal cry of loss and desperation that filled the empty room.

His hands covered his face, fingers digging into his skin as if trying to hold the pieces together, but the weight of everything shattered him again and again.

His voice came out as a broken whisper, ragged and pained, repeating you name like a fragile lifeline, a mantra to keep you near.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

His mum was there in an instant, sitting down beside him, arms wrapping around his shaking shoulders like a fragile shield. Her own tears fell silently, wetting his hair, and in that moment, two broken souls found solace in their shared grief.

They stayed like that, locked together in the unbearable silence that screamed everything they couldn’t say aloud. Minutes stretched into hours, time bending under the weight of sorrow and the fragile thread of comfort between them.

Oscar didn’t know how to move forward, how to find air again in a world that had suddenly stopped breathing with him. He didn’t know how to live without you.

All he knew, in that quiet, shattering moment, was that here, in this room filled with memories and loss, he could finally fall apart.

Because if he didn’t break, completely and utterly, he wasn’t sure how he’d survive at all.

The cheers still echoed around him like a distant storm as Oscar stepped away from the podium, trophy cradled awkwardly in his arms. The flashes of cameras burned behind his eyelids, but his vision felt blurred, not from sweat or adrenaline, but from the tight knot of something raw and hollow inside.

Out there, under the dazzling lights and roaring applause, he was the champion. The winner. The man who had crossed the finish line first.

But here, in the quiet of the cramped, dimly lit corridor behind the scenes, the victory felt fragile, a beautiful mask stretched thin over the ache in his chest.

He sank down onto the cold floor, back pressed against the rough concrete wall, the trophy resting beside him like a cold, distant relic. His hands trembled as they unfolded from his lap, and the weight of the moment finally crashed down, the victory and the loss tangled impossibly together.

His breath hitched as the tears came, slow at first, then spilling free like a broken dam. No one saw. No one could see the way his body shook with grief, how every sob was a quiet scream for you.

He whispered you name into the silence, a fragile prayer, a desperate call across the distance between now and then.

I did it. I’m here. But I wish you were too.

The memory of you smile, soft and steady, flared through the dark like a candle flickering against a storm. The way your hand felt in his, the warmth of your voice in the quiet moments, the laughter they’d shared in those impossible, beautiful times.

He pressed his forehead against the wall, breath shallow, heart breaking in slow, jagged pieces.

There was no crowd here. No cameras. Just the quiet, the unbearable stillness that screamed louder than any cheer.

And in that stillness, he allowed himself to grieve. To miss you. To feel the weight of the empty space beside him that no trophy could ever fill.

Because winning without you was its own kind of loss, a victory marked by absence.

Slowly, painfully, Oscar wiped the tears from his face. He picked up the trophy, fingers curling around the cold metal, and for the first time, he let the grief and pride coexist, two halves of the same fragile truth.

He wasn’t just racing against others now. He was racing against the shadow of what had been taken.

And maybe, just maybe, holding onto that ache was the only way to keep running.

Late at night, when the world finally softened and the noise of the day fell away, Oscar sat alone in the quiet of his room. The darkness pressed close, swallowing everything but the small, smooth stone resting heavy in his palm, cold and unyielding, a cruel reminder of all he had lost.

He traced its worn edges, fingertips lingering over scratches carved by time, each one a ghost of a memory, a fragment of a past he could never reclaim.

His mind drifted to mornings they’d never have again. The way sunlight once spilled warm and golden across the sheets, catching the dust in lazy beams. The soft weight of your head against his shoulder, the quiet rhythm of breath mingling in the stillness before the world woke.

He missed that lightness. The effortless comfort of ordinary days where love was as simple as a shared smile or a hand held tight.

He thought about the laughter that once filled rooms, bright and unrestrained, now only an echo in the hollow chambers of his heart.

The ache was sharp and raw, a jagged pain that settled deep and refused to fade. It twisted through his chest like a slow, relentless burn, hollow and heavy all at once.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight with the weight of unshed tears, and whispered into the silence, to the shadows, to the empty space beside him, to the ghost of a voice that had once been his world —

“I miss it. I miss it so much. The way things were, the way you were. I miss every quiet morning, every stolen moment. The way love felt like breathing, easy, natural, endless. I miss you. More than words can hold. More than I can bear. Sometimes it feels like my heart is breaking all over again, a thousand small fractures in the same place. I want to hold onto it, this ache, because it’s all that keeps you alive inside me. But God, it hurts. It hurts like hell.”

His breath hitched, tears spilling slow and steady down his cheeks, soaking into the dark fabric of his shirt.

He closed his eyes and let the grief wash over him, fierce, unyielding, endless, because in that brokenness, in that aching longing, there was still love.

And love, even when it’s pain, is never truly gone.

Every race day, before the engines roared and the world blurred into a frenzy of speed and adrenaline, Oscar found a moment of sacred stillness.

In the dim light of the garage, surrounded by the hum of preparation, he’d reach for his helmet.

On its sleek, polished surface, tucked near the visor, was a small but unmistakable mark: a delicate symbol, something only he truly understood. It was his homage to you, a silent thread connecting him to the memory that fuelled every lap, every corner, every heart-pounding moment on the track.

Before pulling the helmet down over his head, he’d press a soft kiss against that mark, his eyes closing for a brief, trembling second. A whisper in the chaos. A promise carried in the brush of his lips.

“I’m here. I’m racing for you.”

And after the race, whether triumph or struggle, when he peeled off the helmet and the roar of the crowd faded into distant echoes, he’d bring it back to his lips again.

That kiss was a benediction, a thank you, a quiet “I miss you” folded into the space where words failed.

Those around him began to notice the ritual, the way his eyes lingered on that mark, the gentle reverence in his touch. They understood, without needing explanation, that behind every fearless driver is a story of love, loss, and the rituals that keep us grounded.

And for Oscar, that small, sacred mark on his helmet was the tether to a love that still raced beside him, lap after lap.

Life moved forward, slow, uneven, and beautifully imperfect. It wasn’t a sudden leap or a sharp turn, but a gradual unfolding, like a sunrise pushing through the horizon after a long, dark night. Each day brought new colours, new sounds, new moments that slipped quietly into the spaces left behind.

Oscar met new people, strangers who became friends, conversations that blossomed into laughter, and faces that softened the edges of his loneliness. He learned to smile again, not because the pain had vanished, but because it had found its place beside something hopeful, something gentle.

He laughed, sometimes unexpectedly, a lightness that surprised him. He loved again, too, though not the same way, not the way he once had. It was quieter now, slower, a love shaped by loss and tempered with gratitude for every small connection.

But beneath all of this, beneath the smiles, the new beginnings, the growing light, there was always a space in his heart that belonged only to you.

A soft, sacred corner, untouched and unwavering. No matter how full his life became, that space remained, a silent sanctuary where your memory lived on, tender and alive.

Sometimes, in the stillness of evening, when the sky faded to gentle shades of lavender and gold, Oscar would find himself pausing. He’d look out at the vast expanse above and feel a quiet presence, as if you were there, watching, whispering in the soft rustle of leaves or the warm brush of a summer breeze.

You weren’t gone.

You had simply changed form, no longer beside him in the way he wished, but woven into the very fabric of the world around him.

A part of the light that filtered through the trees, the warmth that lingered long after the sun had set, the hush of night folding gently over everything.

In that knowing, there was comfort, a subtle, enduring truth that love doesn’t vanish. It shifts, it transforms, but it never truly leaves.

And so life moved on. Not perfect, never easy, but filled with the quiet grace of memories carried softly, like whispers carried on the wind.

Because love, real, lasting love, holds a space for forever.

And in that space, you remained.

Always.

Um, I think I'm evil what the actual heck did I write. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. As always, I am always open to suggestions and thanks for all the support!

[back2bluesidex]

Crawling back to you 2 - A Rebound - MYG

Pairing: Rapper!Yoongi X Fem!Reader

Type: Drabble series.

Theme: Break up au, pining, so much angst, exes to lovers.

W.C: 1.9k

Summary:

"It's sad to see you go Sorta hoping that you'd stay"

Alternatively:

All the time you thought Yoongi was in love with you - he was in love with his best friend.

Warning: Extreme Angst!! You might want to strangle Yoongi. 🙂

Based on Do I Wanna Know by Hoizer (Yes, the cover because that sounds more melancholic)

Series Masterlist | Masterlist (1) (2) | Patreon (For early access) Posting every Saturday

A/N: AN EARLY UPDATE AGAIN BECAUSE WHY NOT!!!!

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“How many secrets can you keep? 'Cause there's this tune I found That makes me think of you somehow”

Everything reminds you of him - the cold bitterness of iced americano in the morning, the missed meals during emergency rush, the lit up billboards with his handsome face painted all across at night - everything reminds you of Yoongi. 

Even though, nothing.. Probably nothing reminds him of you. 

You check your phone whenever you can, you wait for the message or the call that never comes, you crave to hear the “I’m sorry, please come back to me, I miss you” in his voice. But no, each day passes with no effort from Yoongi’s side. 

Like a stupid lover, you thought those were his words of anger when he asked you to leave him alone. You thought he would crawl back to you if you disappeared from his life, if you give him an absolute silence - but again, you have been wrong. 

It’s been more than two weeks since you walked out of his life, he has been out of reach ever since. 

And now you wonder, if it has ended already. You wonder if you should stop waiting altogether. 

Your mind says yes, your heart objects - for it still beats for Min Yoongi, it still bleeds for Min Yoongi. 

So, you give yourself time. If he doesn’t reach out to you within two more weeks, you will consider your two year long relationship as dead. 

Although, at this point, you aren’t sure when it was ever alive. 

“Doctor, you okay?” a gentle hand presses itself on your shoulder. 

You regain your wandering focus and look up to find your department’s head nurse smiling gently at you, “yes. I’m fine, just tired, Miss. Kim. Do you have anything to tell?” 

The nurse nods, “yes, professor Shin asked you to see him at his outpatient cabin. One of the VIP patients has scheduled an emergency appointment. They must be here at any moment.”

You sigh, “is that so?” 

Opening the system to check the appointments, you look for the mentioned VIP patient’s name. And because of some devine joke, it’s Yoongi whose name floats across the screen. 

“Min Yoongi?” your voice turns uncharacteristically loud. 

“Yes, the rapper. You remember he had a surgery at our hospital two years ago? He came to regular check ups for six months too.” the nurse prompts. 

Her words vanish somewhere on the path from your ear to your brain. 

All you can think of is Yoongi. Is he fine? Is his shoulder troubling him again? Has it swelled? 

His injury was pretty severe but he had healed nicely then why now? Has he… has he got injured again?

You reach for your phone, opening the contact list you almost tap on the call button. But then you recall…

“...stop being so clingy and demanding! I have a life out of you, for god’s sake! Leave me the fuck alone!” 

The words come back to you like a brutal scene from a nightmare. Your fingers pause.

Your attention is not what Yoongi wants. He already has the one he needs beside him… someone that’s definitely not you. 

Is this fate’s way of telling you that things aren’t completely over yet? 

You are finally seeing Yoongi after two weeks of radio silence, after a stretch of a cold war but not as his girlfriend - as his doctor. 

Your hands fidget with each other as you stand beside your professor’s chair. Yoongi may come at any moment. 

And the moment comes instantly as a soft knock rings on the door before being pushed open. Yoongi walks in, concealed in a bucket hat and a mask. You expect Yi Jeong, his manager, to accompany him but the figure that walks in, holding onto his upper arm is Inhye. 

Your blood runs cold at the sight. 

You forget to greet, as you stand still like a mannequin. Yoongi’s eyes find yours, he stares at you for a moment but he does nothing to shrug Inhye’s hand off of him. 

She sings her greetings, you bow half-heartedly. 

She knows who you are. She has met you once already but her ignorance, and her apparent claim on your boyfriend makes you wonder if she is just shameless or if she is forgetful. 

Inhye sits Yoongi down, touches his injured shoulder gently - does everything that you should be doing. 

Yoongi accepts it all. 

When he peels the mask off, you see no sign of annoyance on his face. He is as quiet as usual but his posture is relaxed as if… as if he is relieved that it’s Inhye beside him and not you. 

Both of them ignore your presence like you are an invisible ghost. 

You try to blink your unshed tears away. 

There’s not much for you to do other than handing the charts and typing notes down whenever professor Shin asks you to. 

So, your eyes keep falling on Yoongi and Inhye, no matter how much you try to keep yourself poised. Your professional and personal boundaries blur when you realize Inhye keeps holding Yoongi’s hand the whole time. She recites how Yoongi slipped and fell down, how he kept his mouth shut about the pain and how she convinced him to get checked. 

They did an x-ray previously, so the doctor only reviews that and tells him to use his injured shoulder as little as possible to stay safe. He suggests some medication. And that’s all. Then they are saying their goodbyes. 

No. no! Yoongi can’t leave you like this. 

You won’t let him. 

You two are still together, no matter how bad your relationship has gotten. He can’t date someone already. He can’t behave like a married couple with his best friend. 

He can’t! He can’t! 

“Sir, I need to use the restroom quickly.” you bow to your professor and dash out of the room. 

They are almost at the end of the corridor when you reach them. 

“Yoongi, I need to talk to you.” your voice is loud enough for him to hear but not too much to gain unwanted attention. 

Both Yoongi and Inhye turn around. She acknowledges you first. 

“Doctor, is something wrong?” her question pins the fact down that she clearly doesn’t recall you. 

You only huff a laugh, “I need to talk to Yoongi” you walk closer to them, “not as a doctor but as his girlfriend. We met once, Inhye, but you probably don’t recall me.” 

Your tone is sarcastic, you know. Yoongi closes his eyes in apparent frustration. 

Realization draws on Inhye’s face, “Oh! Oh right! Y/N! No wonder you looked so familiar. Sorry, I am not good with faces.” 

You nod, then look back at Yoongi, his eyes are boring holes in you, “Yoongi… please?”

He sighs, “Inhye, wait for me in the car, hm?” 

Inhye nods and smiles brightly at him. Yoongi’s eyes crinkle in something that resembles a smile as well. 

You feel like you are interrupting a sweet moment between a couple, even though it’s Inhye who has interrupted your life, your love and left you scrambling for Yoongi’s attention. 

“Have you been cheating on me with her?” getting these words out of your mouth is more painful than you assumed. 

Yoongi’s jaw ticks, he cards a hand through his hair in frustration. Now that both of his hat and mask are gone, you can see him fully - he looks good. He looks better than he looked when you were still in his life, bothering him with your attention. 

“No.” he answers briefly. 

“Then why… why is she the one who gets to be with you and not me?” tears start spilling from your eyes. You can’t take it anymore. You really can’t. 

Yoongi doesn’t answer. So you continue. 

“You two looked like a couple in there and I watched from the sidelines, Yoongi. It hurts, it hurts a lot. She is where I should be. And I don’t even know what I did wrong to be pushed away like this.” you pause to inhale, “what is it that you feel for her, Yoongi? I really need to know. I deserve to know!”

“I am in love with her. I have been in love with her for as long as I can remember.” Yoongi’s admission falls like thunder over your head and it pierce like a dagger slicing your heart in two uneven parts. 

At first you think you heard it wrong, “what? What did you say?” 

“I said I am in love with her, Y/N.” he finally looks at you, with jaw tight, eyes clear, shoulders straight. 

You know he is serious. 

“Then.. then me? What about me? We have been together for two years and all that time I thought you loved me, you were in love with her?” your throat feels extremely tight and dry, the words make it out of your mouth with great difficulty. 

Yoongi, ever the honest man, nods, “I confessed to her shortly before my accident. But she turned me down and we had a fall out. When I met you I thought… I thought I could move on. So I started seeing you.” 

“So you're telling me that I am nothing but a rebound? And you dated me to forget her for two fucking years?” anger, hurt, pain flare through every vein of your body. 

Your head starts spinning, you find it hard to breathe. 

“I am sorry.” Yoongi gulps. 

“But you used to say that you loved me.” a loud sob chokes out of your throat. 

“And I did. I started liking you genuinely but when Inhye contacted me again, I realized I still- I still love her." he avoids looking into your eyes probably out of shame, "I know it’s not justified by any means and I am just the worst person to treat you the way I did but I can’t keep deceiving you, Y/N. I think we should let each other go, for both of our sake.” he states as if nothing matters to him more than getting you out of his life. 

“I can’t- I can’t believe… I loved you so much. I love you so fucking much and all of it is going to waste. Two years of my life, so much of my emotions, countless nights, all those physical affection - everything… everything went straight to the garbage.” you fall on your knees, Yoongi rushes towards you to hold you. 

“Y/N-”

“Don’t touch me please. And please… please go away. I can’t stand breathing the same air as you anymore. Please… leave me alone.” Yoongi’s hand, which reached out to touch you, retreat in hesitation. 

“I’m sorry. I really am.” he murmurs again before keeping your request of leaving you alone. 

The door of the emergency exit closes with a loud thud signifying his disappearance. And once he is gone, you break down. 

You cry and cry and cry sitting on your knees. 

You loved a man who never loved you back, you dreamt of a life with him while he always belonged to someone else. 

Yoongi walked away and took away a big part of your heart. 

The pain rips through every pore of your being. 

You were nothing but a rebound… Choi Inhye has always been the main character in Yoongi’s life. 

Read the next chapter on Patreon now!

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[asthroophile]

bubblegum: bonfire — SAJA BOYS

WC: 4k+

SUMMARY: a forgotten bond, fated to endure.

PART: I. SEASONS, II. LOVE, III. LILY

It’s been ten days since they started crashing at your apartment, and in those ten days, the public somehow figured out that you are their manager.

Every time you tried to go out alone, one of them would tag along—sometimes all of them. The result? A public frenzy, a storm of online theories, and a very unwanted spotlight on your life.

Now you're viral.

Fanfic versions of you are floating all over the internet. Some fans love the idea of you; they romanticize everything, shipping you with different members depending on the day. Others… not so much. They say you're unfit to manage them, unprofessional, unworthy.

Oh please, they don’t know what it’s like wrangling overgrown children in adult form. And the worst part? You won’t admit it out loud— but you’ve grown fond of them.

They made your once-quiet apartment feel less like a space and more like a home. The mess, the noise, the endless ramen packets… somehow, you didn’t hate it.

Currently, you're sitting in the living room, laptop open, working together on a new song titled "Your Idol", an idea Jinu brought up while chewing instant noodles at 3 a.m.

"Alright, alright. What if the lyric goes ‘I will love you more when it all burns down’? That could be Mystery’s part—his voice is soft, it'd really land with impact,” you suggest.

Mystery hums a bit, testing the line. The others nod in approval.

“Kay what about the concept for the outfit?” you ask.

“Jinu said he’d take care of that,” Mystery replies casually, flopped sideways on the couch.

Just then, Jinu walks out of your bedroom wearing your oversized hoodie again like he owns the place. “Heard my name,” he says with a lazy grin. “Don’t worry about the costumes— I have a vision.”

You squint at him, "Is it a good vision or a fever dream?”

He shrugs, “Why not both?”

You sigh. “This group is going to be the death of me.”

But still, you keep typing until finally the lyrics were done— mostly because Jinu insisted you wrap it up quickly, and honestly, you didn’t protest. You wanted a break too.

“Why does it feel like this song is for someone, though? Especially the part, ‘You know I’m the only one who’ll love your sins / Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin,’” you said, raising a brow.

Jinu, who was now lounging nearby, turned his head as if you were accusing him directly, looking genuinely confused.

“It’s for his lover, duh,” Baby chimed in, leaning against you while scrolling on his brand new phone—the one you bought for him after you finally got paid by Jinu, thanks to their soda sponsorship deal.

“We’re not dating,” Jinu replied flatly, already strumming your acoustic guitar like he wasn’t just dragged into a minor interrogation.

“Yeah, whatever you say,” you muttered before shifting your attention. “Abby, come sing your part.”

Abby, who had been sketching out stylized abs in your notebook looked up. “Which part?”

“The opening lines—‘Keeping you in check’ and after that, Mystery comes in, then Romance, followed by Jinu, and Baby with the rap,” you instructed, going through the lineup mentally.

Abby nodded and set aside your notebook before starting to rehearse. Ever since the public found out you were the manager of Saja Boys, your social media had been flooded with sponsorship offers—probably because no one had ever figured out the boys' accounts. You were even offered an official building just for the group. You didn’t turn it down, but you did feel a bit sad at the idea of leaving your cozy apartment.

“Okay, rehearsal’s over. Everyone, go rest at your official building now,” you said while gathering all the lyric sheets scattered around the room.

“You kicking us out?” Romance raised a brow.

“No? I mean, you guys already have your own building, your own lightsticks, your own brand, so...?”

“We’re already comfortable here,” Mystery cut in calmly.

“Oh come on, don’t say things like that. If you all insist on crashing on my apartment’s tiny couch, you're just asking for back problems. Right, Jinu?”

Jinu, who had been quietly tuning the guitar, gave a nod. “She’s right, guys. We should appreciate the people who offered us the space. Besides, (Name) will visit us whenever she wants. She’ll even watch us during practice.”

“Yup—and Jinu, stop sneaking out every night,” you added, shooting him a look. “Are you secretly dating someone and hoping we won’t find out?”

The room went dead silent.

Jinu paused mid-strum on your guitar, one brow lifting ever so slightly. “Sneaking out? I was just… taking walks.”

“Walks at midnight wearing sunglasses and a hoodie?” Romance quipped, tossing a pillow at him.

“Ooooh, sus,” Abby grinned while making exaggerated detective noises. “What are you hiding, Jinu?”

“Maybe he’s got a secret girlfriend,” Mystery added in a deadpan tone.

Baby, still leaning lazily against you with a lollipop in his mouth, made a casual but deadly assumption, “What if that girl’s one of the Huntrix members?”

“WHAT? WHO?” you stared at him in disbelief. Baby always sounded unserious—but somehow, his wild guesses tended to hit close to the truth.

“I mean, think about it,” Baby shrugged. “Since we first met Huntrix, he’s been, like, laser-focused on their leader… what’s her name again?”

“Rumi?” you echoed in shock. “WAIT, RUMI? Seriously, Jinu? You had the guts to get close to her? She’s literally an A-lister!”

You turned to Jinu like you’d just discovered a criminal in your own house. He looked cornered— eyes darting, caught mid-breath like a deer in headlights.

“Wow,” Abby gasped dramatically. “Are we witnessing an idol crossover scandal in real time?”

Romance leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “If there’s a dispatch article tomorrow, I’m sending the link to everyone in our group chat.”

Mystery raised a single eyebrow. “This explains the sudden effort you’re putting into your skin care routine.”

Jinu groaned, covering his face with both hands. “Guys, we’re not dating. Yes, I’ve been spending time with her, but it’s not what you think. We’re just… meeting up.”

You crossed your arms. “Meeting up? Like a secret project? Or a secret relationship?”

"We talk music and deep talk but not romantically.” Jinu finally confessed. There was a beat of silence. Then—

“Sounds exactly like dating,” Baby mumbled around his candy.

“Yep, that’s a date,” Abby nodded.

“Romance confirmed,” Romance added.

“You guys are impossible,” Jinu muttered, flopping backward onto the couch and dramatically throwing a throw pillow over his face.

“Alright, that’s enough, all of you,” you said firmly. “Let’s go, back to your official base— because officially, you guys have your own place now.”

Romance let out an over-dramatic sigh. “So we’re getting kicked out again.”

“You were never supposed to live here in the first place,” you retorted.

“But your place is homey,” Abby said, already sprawled across the couch like a cat refusing to be moved.

“Cozy,” Mystery added, sipping his drink without looking at you. “The light hits better here.”

Baby leaned into your shoulder and mumbled, “I vote stay.”

You rolled your eyes. “You literally have your own dorm now. Free meals, game room, gym, real beds. And you're choosing my creaky couch?”

Jinu finally pulled the pillow off his face and sat up. “Let’s just go, guys. She's right. We need to start treating this seriously, we’re idols now. Public image and all.”

The rest of the boys groaned in unison like you’d just announced their summer was canceled.

“But…” Baby pouted. “Can we come back sometimes? Like… for dinner?”

You sighed, trying not to smile. “Only if you bring dessert.” They cheered like you’d just given them an encore stage.

You regularly visited their new base to monitor the progress of their latest song. Day by day, you found yourselves growing closer—and with that, the chaos only intensified. Now that they had their own official space, things had somehow gotten wilder. Rooms that staff had just cleaned would turn into disaster zones in a matter of hours.

“You’re making progress faster than I expected,” you admitted, flipping through your notes and nodding. “Good, let’s call it a day.” The boys let out a chorus of cheers.

Romance tossed himself dramatically onto the couch. “Finally, my brain was starting to melt.”

“You're doing nothing,” Mystery deadpanned, already scrolling through something on his tablet.

“I was providing emotional support!” Romance argued, pointing at you. “Right, Manager?”

“Don’t drag me into this,” you muttered.

Jinu stretched his arms behind his head, his usual calm demeanor cracking slightly into a tired grin. “We deserved this break though, yeah?”

Before you could reply, a loud crash echoed from down the hall.

“…What now?”

“I think that was the sound of Baby trying to microwave bubblegum again,” Abby offered nonchalantly.

You stared at him. “Again?!”

He shrugged with a guilty smile. “It’s for science.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and exhaled. “I swear, one day I’m going to handcuff you all to your beds just so I can have a single peaceful visit.”

“Sounds kinda intense, Manager,” Abby smirked. “Not that I’m judging.”

“Out! Everyone, out of the studio! Now!”

They scrambled like school kids, laughing as they disappeared down the hall—except baby, who returned with a sticky piece of melted gum stuck to his sleeve.

"Baby, what the hell were you thinking microwaving bubblegum again?" you snapped as you marched toward him, taking in his disheveled appearance and the half-melted gum clinging to his sleeve.

"I just wanted to know what warm bubblegum tastes like," he replied with zero shame, licking a bit off his thumb.

You grimaced. "Stop this madness."

Grabbing his arm, you dragged him out of the studio before he could argue. "Go change. Now. I’m not letting melted gum be your signature look on the next livestream."

“But I think it’s fashion-forward,” he pouted.

“Do it before I tape a ‘Do Not Microwave’ sign on your forehead.”

As you shoved him gently toward his room, Abby passed by, eyeing Baby’s state with an amused snort. “Is this what you call creative expression?”

“I call it a hazard,” you muttered.

You turned back toward the kitchen just in time to see Mystery stuffing something suspiciously shiny into his pocket.

“Mystery.”

He froze.

“What did you take?”

“Nothing,” he said too quickly.

You narrowed your eyes, “Hand. It. Over.”

Mystery sighed and pulled out a half-melted silver spoon. “I wanted to see what else the microwave could handle.”

“WHY are all of you obsessed with microwaving things today?!”

Romance peeked his head in from behind the door. “For the record, I was reading a romance novel this whole time and didn’t commit any crimes against appliances.”

"Congratulations, you're the only one with brain cells left today."

“Thank you, I try.”

You sighed deeply. “I need a vacation or a therapist or both.”

As you turned away, Jinu leaned against the wall with that unreadable look again. “You sure you don’t need a hug?”

You stared at him. “I need peace.”

He just smiled faintly. “Same thing, right?”

"Shut up."

Now everyone was busy minding their own business, but you still had to monitor things—anything could happen because of them. Even tasks that were supposed to be handled by staff were being dumped on you, since they claimed they couldn’t handle the job anymore. Thankfully, none of them had quit yet.

You were scrolling through your social media, seeing how your account was getting more crowded with interactions, as well as the official Saja Boys account you created. You felt bad for your phone, which wouldn’t stop buzzing with notifications—until Jinu came over and sat beside you.

"What now?" you ask without looking up from your phone.

"Do you think I'm a good person?"

"In what sense of 'good'?"

"Like… understanding someone, caring about someone."

"You are good. It depends on how you define it. You can’t force someone to be good— it’s a choice they make," you say, finally turning to look at him. "Why are you asking this out of nowhere?"

Jinu shakes his head. His somber expression fades briefly, replaced with his usual annoying smirk.

"Can you touch me again?"

You're clearly shocked by the sudden request. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I'm perfectly sane, I just want to know if it still works."

"If what works—" Before you can finish, Jinu grabs your hand and places it on his cheek. A strange sensation rushes through you at the contact.

“Do that again and I'll punch you,” you mutter, pulling your hand away and scooting back a bit.

Jinu doesn’t answer. He stares at his own hand for a while, and you start to wonder if there’s something genuinely wrong with him.

"I didn’t mean to bring up the topic again, but… the pattern weakens when you touch me. It comes back soon after, though— because of Gwi-ma."

"So you’re saying that because I’m his daughter, I can somehow suppress the pattern? Jinu, honestly, I can’t accept that I’m his daughter. It just doesn’t make sense. Gwi-ma’s just a story from my grandma. If he really was my father, why’d he leave? Who was he really? What did he do that made my mom die? My grandma never even told me the reason."

“If you remember the story, honmoon can be sealed with the voice of the chosen hunters. The chosen were Huntrix, and Rumi... she’s a half-demon hunter—"

"Wait, what? Rumi's a hunter? Mira and Zoe too?" you ask, stunned. Jinu nods.

You still can’t believe it. “Okay, I know your sense of humor sucks, but this? This is insane. And what do you mean she’s a half-demon hunter?"

“Remember the hot spring incident? I fought her… I tore her sleeve, and I saw the pattern on her arm.”

You go silent. Just when you hoped your brain could rest from all the madness.

“Look, Jinu, it’s not like I see you guys as weird just because you’re demons. But the idea itself— of you being demons— I can’t accept it even though I’m trying to. How is that even possible? Rumi is a Hunter who's part of demon and I’m Gwi-ma’s daughter? It’s all insane. How could I be a demon’s child? He abandoned me and my mom, and my mom died because of me—and he didn’t care. Not even a little.”

You pause your words, "Please promise me, just stop dealing with Gwi-ma. Even if I keep being stubborn, even if I keep denying it— denying that all of you are demons…” your voice trails off for a moment, your eyes searching his face, desperate for any hint of guilt or regret.

“…I’m still trying to understand you. So stop doing things behind my back, stop risking everything like none of this matters.”

Jinu doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes dim slightly, as if your words hit a place he’d buried deep.

“I mean, come on—look at you guys,” you say, attempting a smile despite the weight of everything. “You look like normal people. Since when do demons have faces that attractive?”

It’s a weak joke, a desperate one. But it works—just a little. Jinu blinks at you.

“You think we’re attractive?” Jinu teases, “So you have been staring.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, glowstick. I was talking about them,” you jab your thumb toward the rest.

“Right,” he says, expression unreadable.

You let out a long sigh after your words, the air still heavy between you two. Neither of you said anything more—until Abby appeared, casually slinging both arms over your shoulders.

“You two are way too tense. Idol Awards are around the corner, so how about not acting like you’re in a cold war?”

“We’re not,” you both replied at the same time—awkwardly, of course.

“Tch, exactly what someone fighting would say,” Romance teased from behind the door, clearly eavesdropping. One by one, the others started to gather, watching you like hawks. Wait, why were you the one getting stared down.

“What’s with you guys? Chill!” you blurted out, trying to deflect the attention. “I just… need time to process some crazy info, that’s all. Anyway! Let’s focus—tomorrow’s gonna be chaos, and don’t even think about starting anything. My kitchen pans miss smacking some of you in the head.”

They all exchanged glances, some grinning like guilty kids, others wisely keeping their mouths shut.

Mystery raised a brow. “Should we be concerned that you have multiple pans dedicated to violence?”

“Ask yourself why I even needed to in the first place.”

Baby gasped in mock offense. “I’m the picture of peace!”

“You’re the reason the microwave cried.”

Baby looked annoyed at your response, clearly not amused. You stood from your seat and faced them all, clapping your hands lightly.

“Alright, give it your best tomorrow, okay? I’m really looking forward to your performance.” You flashed them a thumbs-up.

Your watch beeped right then, signaling the end of visiting hours—you had to head back to your apartment.

“You leaving already?” Romance asked.

“I have work outside of babysitting you guys, you know,” you replied. But the way Romance narrowed his eyes, clearly not satisfied with the answer, made you second-guess saying that.

“Well, see you all tomorrow.” You grabbed your sling bag from the table and turned to leave—only to feel a tug on your shirt.

You looked back. “What is it now?”

Baby didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at you with unreadable eyes before asking softly,

“Do you think… you’d be okay with it?”

“Okay with what?”

“A hug.”

You blinked. For once, Baby wasn’t joking. His tone was gentle—not his usual cheeky self, not the chaos-bringer everyone knew. It was… vulnerable?

Your first instinct was to laugh it off. But something about the way he asked made your breath hitch just slightly. His hand still gripped the edge of your shirt, like he was afraid you’d leave without answering.

You stared at him for a beat longer.

“Well…” You exhaled, your voice caught between teasing and softness. “…You’re asking for permission now? That’s new.”

Baby didn’t say anything, just tilted his head slightly like he was waiting—nervous, maybe. It wasn’t like him at all, and maybe that’s what made you pause.

You glanced over your shoulder. The others were pretending not to watch but were definitely eavesdropping from the couch—Romance leaning dramatically behind the cushions, Jinu pretending to check his phone upside down, Abby munching on chips way too loudly to be casual, and Mystery not even bothering to hide the way he was observing you like a hawk.

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, just one, a short one.” The moment the words left your lips, Baby stepped forward and pulled you into a quiet hug. Not too tight, just… warm.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until your cheek lightly brushed his shoulder. For someone usually sticky with melted candy or chaotic ideas, Baby felt oddly calm in that moment. Like he just needed this. Like you maybe needed it too.

“…You smell like bubblegum,” you muttered against him.

“I am bubblegum,” he mumbled back, tone dry.

You snorted, patting his back. “Alright, that’s enough.”

“That wasn’t even a full minute.”

“Baby.” You gave him a warning tone, and he pulled away, albeit reluctantly.

Then your gaze flicked to the four other boys, who were definitely watching you now—like kids who saw someone get a cookie and were waiting for theirs.

You sighed. “Okay, alright. Come on, all of you. One at a time."

Romance lit up like a firework. “I knew being annoying would pay off!”

He bounced over dramatically and wrapped you in a theatrical embrace, even spinning you a little.

“Put me down before I revoke this!” you scolded through laughter. He obeyed—barely—then stepped aside for Mystery, who was already standing silently in front of you.

You braced for something awkward, but to your surprise, Mystery’s hug was firm and quiet, solid like a wall of quiet reassurance. No words exchanged—just understanding.

Next was Jinu, who gave a small chuckle. “I thought you’d never offer.” His hug was easy, familiar, and warm in that quiet, grounding way that only Jinu could manage.

Abby was last, but he didn’t hesitate. “Bet you saved the best for last,” he joked, squeezing you a bit tighter than expected and grinning against your shoulder. “We’re gonna do great tomorrow.”

You smiled, pulling away and giving them all a final look. “I know you will. Just… try not to set anything on fire. Emotionally or literally.”

Romance saluted. “No promises.”

You rolled your eyes, finally walking toward the exit. “I’ll see you all tomorrow. Rest well, okay?”

“Goodnight, Manager!” they called in chaotic unison.

And as you stepped out the door, you couldn’t help but smile. They really were a mess—but they were your mess. A hug, such a simple thing and yet it felt like something shifted tonight.

You shook your head, laughing under your breath, "Boys."

You came home from their base feeling genuinely happy—thankfully, they hadn’t caused chaos this time. You relished the rare peace until a sudden, deafening sound pierced your ears. It was so loud it felt like your eardrums might burst. You clenched your eyes shut, hands flying up to your ears in pain.

Then, everything went silent.

When you opened your eyes… you were no longer in your room. You stood in a pitch-black place.

“You’re just as stubborn as your mother,” a deep voice said.

“…Gwi-ma?”

“Yes, it’s me… my child. Didn’t I warn you not to grow attached to anything? In the end, it only brings you suffering.”

“What do you mean? If you’re talking about them—”

“Your little boyband?” Gwi-ma sneered, having caught on to what you were saying. “What you’re doing is a grave mistake. Supporting them at that final event will only weaken the seal on Honmoon. And then, I will finally conquer this world.”

“You’re insane,” you spat. “I don’t care if you’re immortal or what—but you’re a lunatic and a horrible father.”

“You don’t bear my mark,” he said darkly, “but you carry half of what I am. I should have destroyed you. But your mother… she was too stubborn. She chose to die in your place.”

“YOU’RE THE REASON SHE’S DEAD?” you shouted, your voice trembling with rage. The weight of guilt—of knowing she died because of you—turned to fire in your chest.

“For five lifetimes,” Gwi-ma said calmly. “Think how foolish we’ve been. Your mother, trying to keep you untainted… and me, letting you roam free. In the end, all you’ve done is bring me closer to victory. Just watch, my child—those boys you care for? They’ll forget you. Once Honmoon shatters, I’ll erase the voices—and with it, their memories of you.”

You stood frozen. As much as you wanted to scream at him, every word he spoke sank into your bones like poison. It was true—he was your father. But hearing him say he was the reason your mother died… was unbearable.

“Choose,” he said. “Give in… and become one with me. Or die, like your mother, because of that foolish attachment inside you.”

You clenched your fists.

“I’d rather die,” you growled, “than become anything like you—selfish, cruel, and drunk on power.”

Gwi-ma laughed—a deep, echoing roar that shook the void around you.

“The hunters will never seal me, (Name). Your defiance means nothing. I am this close to victory.”

“Then if they can’t stop you,” you snapped, "I will. As your child— I’ll be the one who destroys you.”

His laughter stopped. He growled, voice now filled with rage, and in the next second—he hurled you out of the darkness.

You jolted awake, gasping for breath, heart pounding violently in your chest. You were back in your bed.

“…What the hell was that…?” you muttered, your head throbbing from the force of being thrown.

Your hands were trembling. You could still feel his presence. Still hear his voice.

You threw yourself onto the bed, unable to handle the truth that had just been forced upon you. You were Gwi-ma’s child. No matter how many times you tried to deny it, there was no escaping it now.

Your chest felt heavy. Suffocating.

"How did Mom ever fall for something like him... for five lifetimes?" Your voice trembled. Then, a terrifying thought clawed its way into your mind.

"Wait..." your eyes widened. "Baby once asked me if I had forgotten him... Does that mean—what Gwi-ma meant by five lifetimes... is them? All five of them?"

It all started to click, like puzzle pieces snapping into place. Your past lives, the boys, Gwi-ma’s sudden return. There was something ancient tied to all of you.

You let out a long, exhausted breath.

"How the hell am I supposed to erase Gwi-ma from existence..." you muttered, dragging your hand down your face. "No one deserves a father like him. World's worst dad, no competition."

Your gaze shifts toward your closet, something glinting from a narrow gap like it was calling out to you. You squinted suspiciously. "What now..." you stepped closer, slowly pulling the door open.

“…A bow?” you muttered in disbelief, blinking at the object leaning neatly against the back wall.

You picked it up, brow furrowed. “Why the hell do I even have this?”

Then it clicked. “Oh—right. This was from Grandma… before she left for good.” Your voice softened at the memory.

As soon as your fingers fully curled around the bow's shaft, a strange sensation rushed through you—like something ancient had just reconnected. A sudden weight pressed behind your eyes. You gasped as a soft voice, smooth and steady, echoed faintly in your ears:

"We’ve waited so long for this moment, (Name)… Please use it. Use my bow. Forgive me for the burden I’ve passed onto you, but when it ends, you’ll be free. Truly free—and at peace.”

Your breath hitched. That voice—gentle, low, almost sorrowful— it felt like the kind of voice ghosts have when they’ve waited centuries.

You swallowed hard. “Oh God, what kind of mess do I have to clean up this time..."

You dragged your hand down your face, tired and annoyed, then looked back down at the glowing bow in your hand.

You? With a bow? You didn’t even know how to use a bow, let alone how to fight with one. And now what? You were expected to wield this like some chosen warrior?

“…God help me,” you muttered. "If what that voice meant was killing Gwi-ma… with this weapon, with my own hands," you groaned, staring down at the bow in your grip. It felt heavy—not in weight, but in meaning.

"I don’t even know what he looks like… but does this count as premeditated murder?" you muttered sarcastically, joking with yourself to take the edge off your spiraling thoughts.. But your laugh faded quickly, because deep down, you knew it wasn’t a joke.

The bow vibrated faintly in your grasp—like it understood everything you just said. Like it was agreeing.

You stood there in silence, the weight of what you were being asked to do crashing in. You were just a manager. A tired, overworked, slightly underpaid human being. And now apparently chosen to end something ancient, something no one dared name out loud.

You exhaled sharply.

“Right, sure. Because this is normal, totally something people go through on a Tuesday night.”

You stare at the bow in your hands for a full minute before exhaling sharply through your nose. “Okay. Let’s say I believe all this, let’s say I really am supposed to kill some ancient demon-father-monster thing. What then? Am I supposed to just know how to use this?”

You hold the bow up, awkwardly, turning it in your grip.

"...Right. The string goes this way, I think?"

It creaks slightly, like it’s been asleep for a long time. You frown, then spot the lone arrow still lying on the closet floor, half-glowing with a soft gradient of violet and pale blue. Its pointed tip gleams faintly with a pink shimmer, casting a subtle glow on the floor. The moment you pick it up, a strange warmth buzzes up your arm—not hot, but like the feeling of being seen.

"Okay, arrow, bow, me. Yeah, just like a video game, right? How hard can it be?"

You walk to the center of your living room, push aside your laundry pile with your foot, and hold up the bow in front of your body.

Your arms shake just from pulling the string back. The bow resists you—not in a violent way, but like it’s measuring you. Testing you.

"Ugh, this is embarrassing," you mutter. "If someone walks in on me right now I swear—"

Your fingers slip. The arrow looses itself—not at a target, not even close.

It sings through the air, crashing into your favorite bookshelf with a loud thud. A few dusty pieces of old fanmerch tumble down in its wake.

You stand there, jaw dropped, arrow humming where it's now impaled halfway into the wall.

"Holy sh—"

The crack still echoes in the air, sharp and violent. You stare at your poor wall, the arrow now buried halfway into the plaster, humming like it’s laughing at you. A hairline fracture spread from the impact, dust trailing down like snowflakes.

You stepped back, examining your handiwork—or lack thereof. The arrow hummed faintly where it had embedded itself, as if pleased with the damage it caused. Of course, the wall hadn’t done anything to deserve that.

You’re just about to try pulling the arrow out when—

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

You flinched. Another knock, louder this time.

“Miss? Everything alright in there?”

Oh no.

You rush toward the door and crack it open just a bit. Outside stands your neighbor from 5B—the old man who always waters his plants three times a day and glares at everyone like they’re walking sins.

His eyes squint at you. “Did something fall? It sounded like an earthquake just hit your unit. Again.”

You force a smile. “Oh! No, no! Everything’s fine! Just, uh… trying a new stretching routine!”

“…That sounded like a wall cracking in half.”

“Well, I’m very dedicated to my fitness,” you say, still blocking the open door with your body like it’s some kind of crime scene. "Cardio. With style."

The old man doesn’t buy it. You can tell by how his nose twitches, like he can smell your lies through the door.

He sniffed the air, eyes narrowing further. “Smells like something’s burning, metal?”

You blinked. Crap. That must’ve been the bow—or the arrow. Or maybe the strange magic binding them together. Whatever it was, it wasn’t scented candles.

“Essential oils,” you blurted. “Helps with stress.”

A long pause.

“…Kids these days,” he muttered before turning away, shaking his head. “If you burn the place down, I’m not helping carry your furniture."

You quickly shut the door behind him, heart pounding.

“…Note to self,” you say aloud, turning back to the mess. “No more practicing indoors unless I want to be exorcised by the building committee.”

You turned back to the wall. The arrow was still there, but the glow around it had faded. You stepped closer, fingers brushing the shaft—and the moment your fingers graze it, the glow surges—light coils around the shaft, twisting upward like ivy, and then poof—it vanishes, leaving nothing behind but a neat hole in your wall and the strange echo of a voice in your head.

“Better aim next time.”

You blink.

“…Did I just get mocked by a weapon?”

The bow, resting innocently nearby, vibrated faintly. As if laughing.

You sigh and drag a hand down your face. "I’m losing it, completely. I just got roasted by a medieval stick.”

Still, something inside you is shifting. The bow feels lighter now, and you didn’t feel as unsure holding it.

Even if the idea still terrified you.

“If I’m dreaming and all of this is just some fantasy hallucination, please—God—wake me up. I don’t want to live in a fantasy world,” you muttered under your breath, dragging your feet toward your room.

You set the bow down gently, right where you found it—half-hidden in that strange crevice in your wardrobe. It didn’t glow this time. Didn’t vibrate. Just rested there, quietly, as if pretending it hadn’t just sent a crack through your apartment wall five minutes ago.

You stepped back, staring at it like it might come to life again.

“…Stay,” you told it, like it was a disobedient pet.

Then, with a tired sigh, you turned off your light and collapsed onto your bed face-first.

Everything felt surreal. The kind of weird that clung to your skin and refused to be washed off. The voice in your head. The glowing arrow. The magical explosion. And now, a bow that mocked your aim and vanished arrows into nothingness.

Maybe it was a dream, or maybe you were losing your mind.

PART: I. SEASONS, II. LOVE, III. LILY

🧘🏻‍♀️ ALRIGHT better get yourselves ready for the next chapter XDD🐈‍⬛

tag list XD : @luluprincess230lp, @snowy-violet, @brights-place, @kashasenpai , @nubyeol

© asthroophile 2025. All rights reserved. Do not copy, redistribute, or reproduce without explicit permission.

[namilettes]

Make a Sayori! Reader x any forsaken character, and make it So Sayori! Reader was brought to forsaken after Monika intensified Sayoris depression

Haven’t seen any Sayori readers out here so I’ll do it myself!

Anyways go drink water

Taph x Reader that's like Sayori

[It's okay to feel sad.]

I think the person most fit for someone like Sayori is Taph..-

I love sayori they did my girl dirty im telling you.

Warnings: mentions of suicide, depression, implied hanging ''Rope burns''

It's been a few months after you've gotten forsakened. Everyone seems to be adjusting to the horrible living situation, but if you're being honest all that matters to you is that everyone feels safe, that everyone is happy. If anything, you haven't really noticed or paid mind to how horrible this situation is, how horrible you feel. All you've been worrying about is making everyone feel included and happy. And so far your plan has been going rather nicely-

except that one person- guy? Girl.. Who knows, it's like he never uncovers his face anyway.. Not that you wanted to talk bad about anyone, it's just worry, mainly.

Worry that he thinks you're a freak, worry that he thinks anything but good about you. Not that you really mind if people bully you, you mainly want everyone to be happy, that's all that matters. But for that to happen people would need to view you in a more positive light.

It was raining the day you disappeared. Or… maybe it wasn’t. Time gets weird when you’ve been crying for so long, your heart starts forgetting how to beat like it used to.

One moment you were in your room- arms wrapped around your stuffed plushie, the papers you weren’t supposed to write still open on your desk. You weren’t supposed to tell them how you really felt. But it didn’t matter anymore. They'd already seen. Already changed everything.

But you're here now. Not dead. Not alive. Just… floating in a world where you're forced to be happy, again. Always smiling, always pretending.

.

.

.

It's been.. What- another few weeks?.. You walk to the kitchen during night time after another session of trying to cry yourself to sleep, you groggily stumble down the stairs of the main cabin to try and find a midnight snack to put you to sleep. You didn't understand what was wrong, usually you always fell asleep once you cried for an hour or so. Maybe the stress of this situation did actually get to you?... Even so, that wasn't relevant. You needed to focus on how others felt like.

That's what you always told yourself. You flip the light switch to see the one person who never talked or even acknowledged you by a simple nod, spooning a tub of peanut butter. It was.. A rather funny sight to see- a man who you've always thought about as intimidating and tough eating in such a funny way.

It.. Made you happy! You weren't sure if it was because of the funny sight, or if you were just happy to see that he was also at home. Enough- at least. Nevertheless, you felt happier than before that is.

You're still stuck with the same condition you were left in after your suicide, you still claw at the rope burns on your neck every now and then.

The man doesn't seem embarrassed in the slightest- like he was confident about casually eating peanut butter, in fact, he pops another spoonful in his mouth as you walk to the kitchen. He senses something is off despite you smiling and laughing your pain off.

See, being mute gives you a lot of abilities like analyzing people more closely, he sees through your constant facade but never says anything about it.

You cheerfully walk in, laughing and joking about how both of you should be asleep at this time. You see him start to sign something-

Whether or not you knew sign language, your eyes were much too groggy to register anything, Taph of course, noticed this as well and brought in his notebook to write a simple ''Are you okay?''

It was simple but.. It made you sentimental. You still shook your head and laughed it off with a simple ''Yeah! I'm fine!''

He murmurs, writing up something else in his notebook after a little shake in his head. ''You're one of the ones who lied to themselves.'' He casually writes and shows it to you. You sit down and smile, as if not to know exactly what he was talking about. He murmurs again- wondering if his handwriting is just bad.

''You’re bleeding from a place no one can see. You think if you smile hard enough, it’ll scab over. It won’t.'' He writes this time- Taph sits nearby. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t comfort you like your friends used to. Just watches with a tilt in his head.

He offers you a spoonful so casually. You break in tears and nod, hesitantly taking his offer like you haven't eaten in decades.

Maybe things rot differently in here, but even rotten things can smell like sugar.

[ceristelle]

✧ even in life or death, i’d still choose you. → ft. amane “hanako” yugi

being in love with a ghost was never part of your plans. but neither was falling for someone like him.

dating hanako means living with the constant presence of a ghost who’s made your life his favorite playground—and your heart, his permanent residence.

he doesn’t let you live a normal school life. where’s the fun in that? and so, that’s how you will end up with pens that float just out of reach during tests, lockers creaking open dramatically the second you’re near, and sometimes—your own reflection winks at you. (spoiler: that’s not you. it’s him. always him.)

he’s smug when he gets reactions out of you, especially when you fluster easily. call him cute once and he’s already floating upside down above your head, grinning like the menace he is. “you admit it now~? gosh, i should’ve died again today.”

hanako gets jealous, too. not in a dangerous way, although he’d maybe be somewhat possessive—while turning into a pouty, obviously overreacting way afterwards. kou can say hi in the hallway and suddenly your ghost boyfriend’s right there like, “wow, guess i’m invisible now. so tragic.” the fix? affection. peck his cheek, hand squeezes, even flick his forehead— (don’t unless you want him to get back at you)—he’ll go right back to being his menace self. works every time.

if you’re in real danger, you can bet that hanako’s protectiveness spikes to 100. all the teasing, the joking, it disappears in a flash. what’s left is a ghost who’s still carrying guilt under buried depths within his soul, who will burn down anything that tries to take you from him. and when it’s quiet again, he softens. you can see it in his eyes even if he doesn’t ask out loud. are you scared of me? do you regret this? regret loving a ghost? he won’t say it, but you’ll feel it in the way he holds you a little tighter after.

and oh, does he love affection. hanako clings in private, floating behind you like a backpack, cheek squished into your shoulder, mumbling dumb ghost jokes while you do homework. in public? less clingy since you probably tell him to behave, but you will feel the weight of his gaze from your mirror, your shadows, your side.

one of his favorite things is just watching you live. laugh with your friends, walk with that small bounce in your step, get excited over things like snacks and sunny days. he aches for it—because he can’t have it. not in the same way, at least. but he can have you. and that, to him, is the most precious thing of all.

amane isn’t perfect. he hides things. he can be childish. is burdened with guilt and grief. he doesn’t always know how to be happy—doesn’t always believe he deserves it. but he still chooses you. and he will, in every lifetime he gets to spend with you.

[alltimefail-sims]

Not to be a negative nelly on main BUT this is a reminder that interaction on simblr is encouraged otherwise people lose their motivation to post 😬. Like I didn't want to be the one to say it... but I'm gonna.

The "boops" made it clear that interactions have always been possible, people are just choosing not to. Which of course is your right... it just stings a little 🙃

[icewindandboringhorror]

Various images of things

[guliexe]

━━━SHORELINE 18+

Surfer!Sim Jaeyun x Female!Reader

.ᐟwarnings/tags: friends to lovers, summer, soft dom!jake, making out, dry humping, dirty talk, praising, unprotected sex, p in v, angsty a little, fluff, oral (f), fingering, aftercare

♡ you've loved jake for years, but he's never looked at you the way you wish he would. one summer night, he finally does, and everything changes.

.ᐟwc: 8.8k (no proofread)

It’s mid-July, and everything feels a little unreal. The kind of heat that sticks to your skin like honey, the air salty and sweet, the ocean loud but somehow comforting in the background of every moment. The days stretch long and slow, sun-drenched and golden, and the nights are warm enough that no one really goes inside anymore. You’re part of a tight-knit friend group that’s been orbiting the same beaches and bonfires all summer. Surfboards, smoothies, sandy towels, music from portable speakers. Mornings blur into late afternoons, and someone always brings drinks when the sun starts to dip behind the horizon. And then there’s Jake. Jake Sim—tanned, black hair curling over his forehead, bracelets always clinking on his wrist, board under his arm like it’s part of his body. He’s been your friend for years, technically. But you’ve spent most of those years trying to ignore the fact that you’re completely, hopelessly in love with him. You’ve never told anyone. Not even your best friend. Not even yourself, out loud. Because Jake? Jake doesn’t see you that way. Not when there’s girls like her around. Bright, gorgeous, loud—the kind of girl who fits next to him. She’s the one who always throws her arm around his shoulders in photos, who surfs as well as he does, who laughs just a little too hard at his jokes. You tell yourself that it’s not a big deal. That it’s fine. But it’s not fine. Because no matter how much you try to play it cool, how much you smile and laugh and act like Jake is just another guy in the group, your heart still skips every time he looks at you too long. Every time he says your name, grinning around the bottle of water he’s drinking from. Every time he pulls his shirt off without thinking and runs into the waves, sun hitting his back like he was made to be here.

You weren’t supposed to hang out alone today. The whole group was meant to come, but everyone canceled one by one. Lazy. Busy. And now it’s just you and Jake. Alone. And he’s waiting by your door, board propped up next to him, shirtless. “Ready to hit the water?” he says, tossing you a smile that makes your knees weak. “You promised I’d get to see your legendary surf stand today.” You roll your eyes, laughing to cover the panic in your chest. “Legendary in how bad it is?” “Legendary because you’re cute when you fall,” he teases. And just like that, you’re drowning—and you haven’t even stepped into the ocean yet.

The water is warm when you wade in, the kind of warmth that wraps around your legs and pulls you in deeper. Jake walks ahead of you, board tucked under one arm, wet hair already curling at the ends. You try not to stare at his back, the way his shoulder blades shift, the water beading down his tanned skin. You fail miserably. “Alright, coach me,” you say, trying to sound confident. Jake smirks, turning around and offering his hand to help you up onto the board. You hesitate for a half-second before taking it. “You already know the basics,” he says, treading water beside you. “Pop up fast, keep your balance, don’t panic.“ “Okay.” He lets go of the board and gives it a little push. “Go ahead.” You paddle forward, managing to catch a baby wave—and, just like that, you’re on your feet for all of three glorious seconds before you wobble and tumble straight off the board with a splash. You come up sputtering, hair in your eyes, and Jake’s already laughing. “You almost had it that time!” he calls, floating closer. You flick water at him. “Shut up.” He grins, eyes crinkling, and swims over to steady the board. “Alright, alright. Try again. I’ll help this time.” You crawl back on, breathless and wet, trying not to think about how close he is as he floats next to you. He places one hand gently on your lower back to steady you and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

“Keep your feet wide,” he murmurs, guiding your legs into position. “Yeah, like that.” You nod, eyes glued to the water. Anywhere but his face. “And pop up—now.” You try, really try, but your knee slips and suddenly you’re falling again, off the board and straight into him. You crash into his chest, your hands landing on his shoulders, and his arms wrap around you instinctively to keep you both from going under. For a moment, everything stops. You’re pressed against him, chest to chest, his hands firm around your waist, ocean swirling around you. The sun glows somewhere above, but all you can feel is Jake. His eyes are on yours. So close. So dangerously close. Salt on his skin. His breath fanning over your lips. You blink. He doesn’t move. And then, awkwardly, too quickly, you laugh. “God, I suck at this,” you say, trying to twist out of his arms. He lets go slowly, like he doesn’t want to. “Nah,” he says, voice quieter now. “You’re doing better than you think.” You swim backward a little, pushing your hair out of your face, cheeks burning. He watches you like he’s trying to figure something out, but the moment passes, and soon enough, he’s teasing you again. Splashes you. Challenges you to a race. Makes you forget for a second that anything happened at all.

You spend a little longer in the water, drifting between lazy splashes and playful teasing. Jake tries to dunk you once, fails, and you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. “This is probably the worst surf lesson of all time,” you tease as he floats beside you, arms stretched behind his head like he has all the time in the world. He shrugs. “Nah, I’ve had worse.” “Oh yeah?” you smirk. “Name one.” He grins. “This one girl nearly drowned me because I was ‘correcting her form.’ Real aggressive.” You snort. “She sounds kind of hot.” He raises a brow at you. “She is.” Your chest tightens, but you splash water in his face before he can see it. Eventually, the sun starts dipping lower, turning everything a honeyed gold. You both float there for a few more quiet seconds, water rocking you gently. Then Jake nudges you with his shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s head out.” You make your way back to shore, water dripping from your limbs, the sand soft and warm beneath your feet. Jake walks ahead to grab his board, and you follow, pulling your hair back, skin glistening in the fading light. What you don’t see is the way he looks back at you when you pass him. His eyes trail over your curves, still wet and gleaming under the sun. The way your bikini clings to you. The curve of your hips, the slow sway in your walk as you brush your towel off. His jaw tightens slightly, brows twitching like he’s thinking something he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t look away. Not until you sit down. You drop onto your towel with a soft sigh, brushing your hair out of your face. Jake joins you a moment later, flopping down beside you, his board sticking out of the sand nearby. Everything smells like sea salt and sunscreen and him.

The two of you sit side by side, toes buried in the warm sand, wet hair dripping onto your shoulders. The waves roll in and out, steady and soft. The sun is lower now. Jake leans back on his elbows, looking out toward the horizon. “Good day.” he says softly. You glance over at him, and it hits you again—just how pretty he is in this light. His profile, the way his lashes catch the last of the sun. How at ease he looks here, like the ocean is the only place he’s ever belonged. “Yeah,” you say, heart thudding a little too hard. “It is.” For a few moments, there’s only the sound of waves and birds and the quiet hum of tension between you. “Wanna come to mine?” you say, nervous. Jake turns to you slowly. “I’ve got beers, chips, probably some ice cream too.” He smiles, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Your beach house feels cooler once you step inside, the salty breeze drifting in through open windows, mixing with the familiar scent of sunscreen and lemony soap. Jake’s already tossing his towel over the back of the couch like he lives here—because in a way, he kind of does. He’s been here more times than you can count, post-surf showers, movie nights, late dinners with the group. But tonight feels different. You grab two beers from the fridge and toss one to him as you walk past “Thanks.” You plop down onto the couch beside him, legs curled under you, and he stretches out, shirt sticking to his still-damp skin, hair a little frizzy from the salt water. The TV flickers in the background—some nature documentary neither of you is watching. The only light comes from the screen and the tiny lamp you always forget to turn off. It casts the whole room in a soft orange glow, warm and sleepy. He cracks open his beer. “So. On a scale of one to complete embarrassment, how would you rate today’s surf lesson?” You shoot him a glare over your bottle. “I’d say a solid seven. But only because I didn’t actually drown.”

He chuckles. “A win’s a win.” You sip, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He looks relaxed. His head is tilted back, the curve of his jaw catching the lamplight. That bracelet he never takes off is still wet, clinging to his wrist. His thumb runs lazily over his beer bottle. You clear your throat. “Thanks for teaching me. Again.” He glances over. “You’re getting better.” “Liar.” He smiles at you softly. “Okay, you suck. But you’re trying. And you looked like you were having fun.” You nod, lips quirking. “I was.” For a while, the two of you just sit there, sipping quietly, shoulders nearly touching. The breeze flutters through the curtains, and outside, the last of the sun has melted into the ocean into something darker, quieter.

He turns slightly toward you, voice low. “Crazy how long we’ve been doing this.” You glance at him. “Surfing?” He gives you a look. “This. Us. Hanging out. It’s been, what—five years?” You nod slowly. “Yeah…damn. Five.” You both go quiet for a moment, the weight of that time hanging in the air between you. So many summers. So many inside jokes. So many chances you didn’t take. He breaks the silence first. “Remember that one time we all snuck into the pool at that hotel?” You laugh instantly. “When you splashed the security guard and nearly broke your ankle jumping the fence? Yeah.” Jake chuckles. “I swear we almost died that night.” You’re both smiling now, warmth bubbling up between you—not just from the drinks, but from this. From the years of comfort, the way you know each other so well it’s easy to forget the ache under the surface. You shift slightly to face him more, leaning back against the couch. “I’m glad we’re still like this,” you say quietly. “Even if everything else’s changed.” Jake’s eyes meet yours. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.” The air feels heavier now. Not awkward, but charged. His eyes drop to your lips for just a second before flicking back up.

Your head’s tipped back against the couch, skin flushed and warm from the drinks, your lips still tingling from laughing too hard at something dumb Jake said ten minutes ago. The room spins just slightly in that way it does when you’ve had just enough, soft edges, soft thoughts, everything blurring like a dream. Jake’s next to you, turned toward you now, one arm thrown lazily along the back of the couch. He’s watching you. You can feel it more than see it. “You’re drunk,” he murmurs. You snort. “No I’m not.” He smiles, the corners of his mouth tugging up in that slow, teasing way that always makes your heart ache. “Yes, you are.” And then his hand reaches up gently and he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing just barely against your skin. You freeze, breath catching. His eyes don’t leave yours. And then, so quietly you almost miss it, “You’re so pretty.” Your whole body stills. “…What?” You look up at him, blinking, heart hammering. You can feel the blush rising in your cheeks like a wave, hot and immediate. Jake just smiles wider. And then he lets out the softest laugh and leans in. He kisses you. Warm and slow, his lips pressing softly into yours like he’s been waiting to do it for years. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw, and your eyes flutter shut, the taste of him, beer, salt, Jake, sinking into your skin like a secret.

He kisses you like he means it, like he’s been dying to, and the second his hands slide around your waist, you already know where this is going. His grip is firm but careful, fingertips pressing into the skin just above your hips, still damp from the ocean. You feel him shift beneath you, then suddenly you’re being pulled into his lap. You let out a soft gasp, steadying yourself with your palms on his shoulders as your knees straddle him, your bikini-clad body settling over his swim trunks. He exhales hard through his nose when your thighs tighten around his hips, and you can feel him underneath you already, half-hard, hot, pressing right up against your barely-covered center. “Fuck,” he breathes, his head tilting back as he looks at you. “You’re so pretty like this.” You’re already blushing, your skin buzzing from the heat of the alcohol, the air, him. He brings a hand up to push a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering along your jaw. “You always are,” he murmurs. “But right now? Sitting on me like this? You’re unreal.” You can’t say anything. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when every part of your body is screaming for more. So you slowly move. Your hips roll forward, just once, dragging the soaked fabric of your bikini bottom against the rougher texture of his swim trunks. The friction makes both of you shudder.

His grip on your hips tightens instantly. “There you go,” he murmurs, voice low and thick. “Just like that, baby.” Your stomach flips at the praise, at the way his voice drops when he says it—baby. Like it belongs to you now. Like he’s never called anyone else that before. You do it again, a little more confidently this time, grinding against him with a soft whimper slipping past your lips. Jake groans deep in his chest, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Fuck, that’s it,” he says. Your hands slide up into his hair, wet and soft under your fingers, and you kiss along his jaw—down his neck, where his pulse beats hard against your lips. He tilts his head to give you more space, his breath catching when you kiss a little harder. His cock twitches beneath you and you feel it, all of it. And it’s so good, so intense, that your hips move without you even meaning to, searching for more pressure, more friction, more him. He hisses through his teeth, pulling you down tighter against him. “Keep doing that baby, fuck—” he murmurs. You moan softly, your pace picking up, slow but steady, dragging yourself along him as you kiss down his neck, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses over sun-warmed skin. The heat is building fast between you, sweat and seawater mixing with the electricity sparking under every touch. “Jake,” you whisper, lips brushing his collarbone. He leans in, breath hot against your cheek. “Let’s go to your room, yeah?” he says, voice rough. And when you nod, eyes wide, lips swollen, he lifts you, arms firm under your thighs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Jake carries you down the hall with your legs wrapped tight around his waist, your bikini still damp and clinging to your skin, his lips brushing yours between heated, breathless laughs. When he nudges your bedroom door open, the only light in the room is the soft, low glow of your lava lamp, a dreamy, slow-moving mix of purples and pinks that cast shifting shadows on the walls. He sets you down on the bed carefully, like you’re fragile, like he’s trying to keep it gentle, but the second your back hits the sheets, he’s on you. He climbs over you, his body caging yours in with easy strength, and he dives in—his lips on your neck, hot and open, kissing and sucking until you’re gasping. He nips at the skin just below your ear, your collarbone, working his way down with messy, hungry kisses. “Jake,” you whisper, voice already shaking. “God,” he groans into your neck, hands sliding up over your stomach. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” Then his hands find your chest, his thumbs dragging along the edge of your bikini top before he squeezes your tits through the fabric, hard enough to make you gasp. His mouth is still at your neck, kissing and biting and panting against your skin like he can’t get close enough.

You arch into his hands, your hips already shifting beneath him, grinding up against where he’s hard and heavy between your legs. Even through the fabric of your swimsuits, the pressure is blinding. You rock your hips again, more desperately this time. He groans low and filthy, and grinds back down into you. “Fuck, baby,” he growls, one hand leaving your chest to grab your hip and hold you still. “You’re gonna make me lose it.” His fingers dig into your waist, guiding your hips as you move against him, his cock thick and pulsing through his swim trunks, pressed perfectly against your core. You’re soaked already, the thin fabric of your bikini barely a barrier at all. Jake palms your tits roughly through your bikini top, groaning low in his throat like he’s waited too long to touch you like this. Then, without a word, he slides his fingers under the fabric and pushes it up, taking it off of you. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dropping to your now-bare chest. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” And then he’s on you again—his mouth hot and hungry, lips wrapping around one nipple as he sucks it deep into his mouth. His tongue circles, wet and relentless, and your back arches off the mattress as a moan tumbles out of you. “Jake,” you gasp, threading your fingers into his damp hair.

He groans at the sound of your voice, switching sides, licking and sucking at the other nipple now while his hand slides up to squeeze the one he just left—fingers rolling it between his fingertips, firm and perfect and too much in the best way. He’s messy with it, sloppy, he doesn’t care, just needs to taste you. His teeth graze your sensitive skin and you writhe beneath him, grinding up into the hard line of his cock pressed against your center. “You sound so good,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice rough and low. “So fucking sweet, baby.” And then, his hand trails down. Over your ribs. Over your stomach. Straight under your bikini bottom. You suck in a breath the moment his fingers slide through your slick folds, already soaking wet from how badly you want him. He groans. “Fuck. You’re dripping.” His middle finger finds your clit and starts rubbing slow, steady circles over it, perfect pressure, and your hips jerk up instantly, a whimper slipping from your lips before you can stop it. Jake’s mouth crashes back onto yours, swallowing every sound as he kisses you harder than before—tongue curling into yours, his hand between your legs never stopping, working you into a mess beneath him.

You can’t stop the sounds now—soft gasps, broken moans, the way your body starts rocking into his touch. “Jake, please,” you whimper, tearing your mouth from his, eyes glassy. “Tell me what you need,” he says, kissing along your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I’ll give you anything, baby. Just say it.” You’re panting beneath him, your hips rolling helplessly into his hand as his fingers circle your clit, while his mouth stays glued to your neck. He’s so deep into you—touching, kissing, tasting—you don’t even realize how close you are to falling apart until the words tumble out of your mouth, broken and breathless. “Jake,” you whimper. “Want you to fuck me.” His hand stutters, just slightly, but he keeps going, his breathing getting heavier against your cheek. He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours, and you feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. You blink up at him, barely able to breathe, and whisper, “Please, Jakey.” He whimpers. Actually whimpers—a soft, desperate sound pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, like the sound of his restraint finally snapping in two. “Holy fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s moving, yanking his hand from between your legs, reaching down to hook his fingers under the sides of your bikini bottoms. “You can’t—fuck—don’t call me that.” He slides your bikini bottoms off in one smooth motion, tossing them somewhere behind him, and his gaze drops between your legs. His jaw clenches at the sight of you, wet, flushed, bare for him. “Jesus Christ, baby…”

Then he’s on his knees, pushing his swim trunks down, and your eyes drop instinctively. Your breath catches. He’s big. Thick and flushed and so fucking pretty, the tip already slick and leaking as he wraps a hand around the base and strokes once—slow, like he’s trying to calm himself down and failing miserably. You let out a soft, shocked moan, eyes locked on him. Jake notices—and he smirks, that cocky little flash of teeth you’ve seen a hundred times before but never like this. He leans over you again, kissing you slow, deep, while he lines himself up between your legs, the head of his cock dragging through your wetness. “Want me to fuck you ,baby? Yeah?” he breathes against your lips. You nod fast, almost trembling. “Yes. Please—want you so bad, Jakey.” He groans and pushes forward, just barely. And it slides in—slow and easy, your body opening up for him, so warm and wet around him that he nearly chokes on a moan. “Holy fuck,” he gasps against your mouth. “You feel—so good. So fucking tight.” You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, hands digging into his back, and when he bottoms out, it feels like something inside you clicks into place. You’re full. So full. He doesn’t move for a second, just breathing hard against your neck, his body trembling from holding back. Then he pulls out halfway—and thrusts back in, sharp enough to make you gasp.“Jake—!”

“That’s it,” he grits out, one hand grabbing the headboard above you as he starts to move. “Let me hear you.” He starts fucking you slow but deep, his hips rolling into yours like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. Every thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, the one that makes your back arch and your breath catch in your throat. He groans, eyes dark, sweat starting to bead at his temples as he picks up the pace, his strokes getting rougher, needier, deeper. “You take me so fucking well,” he pants. “Knew you would. Knew you’d feel perfect.” The sound of skin on skin fills the room, the wet slap of his hips meeting yours over and over, and you can barely think—your body rocked by every thrust, every word, every kiss he presses to your cheek, your neck, your mouth. You moan his name again, broken and breathless. And Jake loses it. He starts fucking you harder, faster, his cock slamming into you at just the right angle, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub circles over your clit. You’re barely holding on. You can’t even form words anymore—just soft, broken gasps of his name. “Jake… Jake, I—” You claw at his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open as your whole body tightens. He leans down, breath hot on your neck. “That’s it, baby. Let go. Lemme feel you.”Your back arches off the bed as the orgasm crashes into you. Your thighs tremble around his hips, and you cry out, your entire body clenching around him as your release hits you like a wave.

You’re dazed, ruined, barely aware of anything except how full you feel, how perfect he feels, how you never want this to end. “Fuck,” Jake groans, voice strained. “You feel so good—holy shit—I don’t think I can last—“ He pulls out suddenly with a desperate grunt, wrapping a hand around his cock, and you barely manage to open your eyes in time to see him come completely undone. “Fuck, baby,” he gasps, head falling back as hot, sticky ropes of cum spill across your stomach, your tits, painting your flushed skin in a messy, breathless finish. He strokes himself through it, breathing hard, his eyes locked on the sight of you laid out beneath him—glowing in the purple light of the lava lamp, glistening, ruined, perfect. You blink up at him, still dazed, your chest rising and falling with every shaky breath. Jake looks like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. “Jesus,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “You fucking wrecked me.”

You must’ve fallen asleep wrapped up in him. One minute, Jake was still kissing your shoulder, fingertips brushing lazy shapes on your waist, and the next, your eyes are fluttering open to the faint glow of early morning bleeding into your room. The sky outside is that soft, pale indigo. The same dreamy light that washed over you both last night is back, but now it feels different. Colder. You blink, stretch your legs beneath the sheets, still drowsy and warm, and then you realize—He’s not there. Your hand reaches instinctively to the other side of the bed, but it’s cold. Sheets wrinkled but empty. His clothes are gone from the floor. Your heart drops. You sit up slowly, blanket falling around your bare chest, the ache between your thighs a lingering reminder of everything that happened hours ago. Your skin still smells like him. You still feel his hands on you. His mouth. His words. But he’s not here. And just like that, the warmth starts to fade. The bedroom feels too quiet, too still. Your throat tightens. You try not to let your mind spiral, but it’s impossible not to. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to him.

Maybe it was just the alcohol. Just the tension. Maybe he went back to her. Maybe he regrets this. You swallow hard. You tell yourself to stop, to breathe, to wait—but the sting is already rising behind your eyes, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek. Then another. And then you’re silently crying, chest tight, fists curled in your blanket as you sit there in the soft light of a morning that suddenly feels so cruel. You knew he liked that other girl. You’ve seen the way he looks at her—how can he look at you the same way and still want someone else? You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, frustrated with yourself for feeling this much. For hoping. Because last night, for just a little while, it felt like you were everything to him. And now…he’s gone.

By midday, the sun is high and blinding, casting golden light across the waves. The beach is buzzing again, boards scattered across the sand, friends stretched out on towels, someone grilling lunch, music playing just loud enough to drown out your thoughts. You sit a little off to the side, legs curled beneath you, sunglasses hiding your tired eyes. You’ve barely said a word since you joined everyone. You nod when people talk. Smile when it’s expected. But you’re not really present. Not when you can still feel the ghost of Jake’s hands on your body. Not when the last thing you remember from last night was falling asleep tangled up in him, thinking maybe, finally, he was yours.

And now, now it’s like you’re watching him from the outside again. Like you always have. Jake’s been hovering nearby all morning—offering you drinks, asking if you’re hungry, tossing you gentle smiles like he’s trying to check in without making it obvious. But you’ve kept your distance. And it’s killing him. You see it in the way he keeps glancing at you, confused, a little hurt. Like he doesn’t understand why everything feels different. Like he’s searching for the version of you from last night, the one who moaned his name and kissed him like she’d been waiting a lifetime. Now you barely look at him. You can’t. Because you don’t trust yourself not to break. He comes over at one point, shirtless, hair still damp from a swim, sitting beside you with a hopeful smile. “Wanna walk down to the rocks with me later? It’s kinda nice over there.” You don’t meet his eyes. “Maybe later,” you say, soft. He hesitates. “You okay?” “Yeah,” you lie. Jake stares at you for a second longer, his brows drawing together like he wants to press harder, but doesn’t. He nods once and gets up again, joining the others. You finally exhale. And you sit there the rest of the afternoon feeling like you’re floating just out of reach—like everyone else is on the shore and you’re out in the water.

The party starts just after sunset. It’s beautiful, really—how quickly the sky shifts from orange to dusky pink to deep navy. Someone brought lanterns and fairy lights, and now they’re strung along the trees and tied to sticks in the sand, flickering like stars. A bonfire crackles near the center of it all, throwing golden light across everyone’s faces. Music’s playing, and someone’s passing around a bottle of vodka. Plates of food rest on towels and tables. Coolers overflow with beer and soda. People are laughing, dancing, shouting over each other. It’s the kind of night that should feel perfect. But it doesn’t. Not for you. You’re standing a little off to the side, near the edge of the fire’s light, holding a drink that’s already gone warm. You’ve been trying to act normal all evening, but you feel it—how different everything feels now. Or maybe it’s just you that feels different. You haven’t spoken much. You haven’t even tried to talk to Jake. And he hasn’t really come over, either. Not since earlier. You keep pretending not to watch him. Pretending not to care that he’s across the circle of people, beer in hand, laughing at something someone said. At something she said. She’s right beside him—the girl. The one you’ve always had a quiet ache about. The one he used to flirt with before. The one you thought he moved on from after last night. But now her hand is wrapped lightly around his arm, and she’s leaning in close, laughing at something he said like he’s the funniest person alive. You can’t hear what they’re saying. You don’t need to. Your chest goes tight. Your stomach turns. Jake doesn’t push her away. He doesn’t lean in either, but he smiles. And that smile makes something splinter in your chest. Maybe it meant nothing to him. Maybe last night was just a moment. Maybe she’s the one he wants after all.

You can’t take it anymore. You quietly slip away from the group, no one notices. They’re too busy drinking and dancing. You walk farther down the beach, shoes in hand, until the noise fades behind you. Until it’s just the sound of waves, soft and rhythmic, and the wind in your hair. You find a small outcropping of rocks half-hidden by tall grass and sit there, your arms hugging your knees, heart full of things you can’t say out loud. The sand is cold. The air has a bite to it now that the sun is gone. But you don’t move. You just sit there quietly, aching. Until you hear footsteps in the sand behind you. You don’t need to look to know it’s him. Jake says your name gently, like he’s afraid you’ll run. You close your eyes. “Can I sit?” he asks. You nod without speaking. He drops into the sand beside you, knees bent, hands on the ground behind him. For a few moments, neither of you says anything. Then he murmurs, “Why’d you leave?” You shrug, still not looking at him. “Just wanted some air.” “I noticed you were gone.” He pauses. “I’ve been noticing a lot of things lately.” You say nothing. He swallows. “Did I do something?” You don’t answer. You can’t. Because your throat is already tight, and your eyes are already burning, and you don’t know how to tell him that watching him with her tonight shattered something fragile you were still trying to protect. You just whisper, “I don’t want to talk about it.” Jake looks at you for a long time. Then he says softly, “Okay. But I’m not leaving you out here alone.” And so he stays. Quiet and still, right beside you, just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.

You sit beside him in silence, the ocean humming softly in the distance, moonlight casting silver over the waves. The party is still alive far down the beach, music pulsing faintly, voices rising and falling, but out here, it’s just you and Jake. The air feels heavy. Like the moment is pressing in from all sides. Jake picks at the hem of his shorts, stealing glances at you like he wants to speak but doesn’t know where to begin. You can feel the weight of his gaze, his confusion, his worry. And suddenly, you can’t take it anymore. Your voice is small—barely audible over the water—but it cuts through the space between you like lightning. “Did it mean anything to you?” He freezes. Your eyes stay fixed on the ocean. You can’t look at him. If you do, you’ll fall apart. You swallow hard, voice trembling. “Last night…when you—when we…” You hesitate. “Was it just a hook-up to you?” Jake turns toward you fully now. You still don’t meet his eyes. There’s a beat of silence. “What?” he says, like the wind got knocked out of him. You finally look at him, and his expression shatters something in you. He looks stunned. Crushed. Like he never saw this coming. “I woke up and you were gone,” you whisper. “And then today you just acted like everything was normal. And then tonight, you’re with her—laughing, letting her touch you—like nothing happened between us. Like I imagined all of it.”

Jake’s mouth opens, then closes. He’s speechless. You look away again. “So just tell me. Did it mean anything to you?” The silence stretches, and you feel your stomach twist. Then his voice breaks through, soft and shaking, “Of course it meant something to me.” You blink. Jake exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know you felt this way. I thought you’d be weirded out. I thought maybe I crossed a line. I didn’t know what to do.” You look at him, and he’s not smug or cool or collected. He looks wrecked. “I wasn’t with her,” he says quickly. “Not like that. She grabbed me. I didn’t even realize it would look bad. I wasn’t thinking, I was just…I was looking for you.” Your chest tightens. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all day,” he says, his voice rising just a little. “But you kept shutting me out. I thought maybe you regretted it. That I fucked everything up.” Your breath catches. “I left because I didn’t want to wake you. That’s it. I was scared if I stayed, you’d wake up and regret it.” You’re both quiet for a moment, the weight of everything between you settling in the sand. Then he adds, barely above a whisper, “I’ve liked you for years. I just didn’t think I had a chance.” You stare at him, barely breathing. His words keep echoing in your head. It doesn’t feel real. Like maybe you dreamed this whole thing. Like your brain made it up just to protect you from the ache in your chest. But then Jake smiles. Soft and sheepish. Like he’s been holding this in forever and finally let it out.

You blink, eyes burning again—but this time for a different reason entirely. “You…you liked me?” you whisper, voice shaky. “This whole time?” Jake laughs under his breath, shaking his head like he can’t believe you don’t see it. “Are you kidding? You’ve been driving me crazy since the first time we met.” A breathless sound escapes you, half laugh, half sob, and you don’t even realize you’re crying until Jake reaches out and gently wipes a tear from your cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs, scooting closer, his hand cupping your jaw. “Don’t cry, baby.” You lean into his touch without thinking. Your heart is racing, chest rising and falling fast, and you can barely look at him without tearing up again. “I thought I lost you,” you whisper. “You never did,” he says. “I was yours before last night. You just didn’t know it.” Your lips part like you’re about to speak, but then Jake leans in, his forehead brushing yours, and he kisses you. Soft and gentle. His lips warm and slow against yours, he’s trying to tell you everything he hasn’t said with just one kiss. You melt into it, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt as he pulls you closer. When he finally pulls back, his lips are still brushing yours as he whispers, “I’m not going anywhere this time.” He leans back just slightly, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek, catching the last trace of tears before they can fall again. “Wanna go back to the others now?” he asks, voice low and soft. You nod, your heart finally light again. “Yeah.” He smiles and laces your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You both stand, still barefoot, brushing off the sand. The moon is higher now, and the wind cooler, but with Jake’s hand in yours, everything feels warm again. He doesn’t let go. And as you walk back toward the lights and the fire and the laughter, you swear the world feels a little different—like something shifted quietly inside it.

The party’s still going strong around the fire, but everything feels quieter now. Jake’s hand hasn’t left yours since you came back from the rocks. Every now and then he bumps your shoulder or leans close to say something soft, like he has to keep touching you just to believe you’re really still there. And every time your eyes meet, it lingers. There’s no awkwardness anymore. No guessing. No more pretending. Just heat. Raw, familiar, and simmering just beneath the surface. You’re sitting beside him on one of the big towels, watching the flames crackle and the others still half-drunk and laughing. But you don’t really care about any of it. Not when his fingers are trailing slow circles on your bare thigh. Not when you keep glancing at his mouth like you want to kiss him again—properly. You feel him shift beside you, and when you look up, he’s already watching you. “Wanna leave?” he murmurs, voice low against your ear. You bite your lip, nod once. “Yeah.” He stands up without another word, tugging you gently with him, and neither of you tells anyone goodbye.

The walk back to your place is quiet but not awkward. Just heavy with anticipation. Your fingers stay laced. He keeps stealing glances at you, and your heart won’t stop racing. By the time you get inside, the door’s barely closed before he turns to you, eyes dark, soft smile. Jake cups your face and kisses you, slow and tender. His hands trail down your sides, slipping under the hem of your dress, touching your skin like he missed it. You let your arms wrap around his neck, fingers threading through his hair as you sigh into his mouth. This time, there’s no rush. No foggy drunk blur. He doesn’t break the kiss as he picks you up—hands gripping the back of your thighs, holding you against his chest like you weigh nothing. You gasp softly against his mouth, arms tightening around his shoulders. He walks the familiar path to your bedroom, only the soft light of the hallway guiding the way. When he gets there, he gently lowers you to the bed. He pauses above you, one knee between your legs, his gaze sweeping over your face “You’re sure?” he asks again, voice low but steady. You nod, breath shaky. “I want you.” Jake lets out a soft exhale, like he’s been holding it in all night. “Good,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “Because I’m not letting you go this time.”

He leans down and kisses you again, slower and deeper. His mouth warm and sure, hands trailing along your waist, slipping beneath your dress to touch your bare skin. His lips move to your neck, dragging along the sensitive skin just below your jaw. “You smell so good,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Feel even better.” Your fingers dig into his shoulders. And when he slips a hand beneath your dress, eyes locked on yours, his voice drops to a whisper that sends shivers straight to your core, “Let me make you feel good again, yeah?” His fingers slip, sliding over your panties—and the moment he feels the dampness there, he lets out a low groan. “Fuck,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours for a beat. “Already wet for me?” You nod shakily, unable to speak, hips twitching as he rubs slow, deliberate circles over your clothed slit. The pressure of his fingers through the thin fabric has you gasping, legs parting on instinct. Then he presses a little harder, and your breath hitches, your body arching into his hand with a quiet, needy whimper. Jake smiles against your neck, voice low and warm. “Sound so sweet f’me, baby.”

Your thighs tremble. He slides your panties to the side, fingers finding your soaked folds, and then slowly, he slips two fingers inside. You moan softly, walls clenching around the intrusion, and Jake groans in your ear feeling how tight you are. “Shit,” he breathes, starting a gentle rhythm, curling his fingers with every stroke. “So fuckin’ soft around me.” You’re already squirming, hands fisting the sheets, barely able to process the pleasure building as he fucks his fingers into your gummy walls. Then his thumb finds your clit, pressing and rubbing in slow, perfect circles, and your head falls back with a whine. He kisses down your neck, messy and hungry, teeth scraping lightly over your skin. “There you go,” he murmurs between kisses.“Makin’ all those pretty noises just f'me.” You moan louder at that, your body completely at his mercy now—hips rocking up to meet every thrust of his fingers, desperate for more, for all of him.

You can feel it building, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, seconds away from falling apart completely, but then Jake pulls his fingers out. You gasp, whining at the loss, trembling with frustration. “Jake—” you whimper, breath ragged. He leans in, voice thick with heat. “Shhh, baby.” Before you can even beg, he’s already moving, kneeling between your legs, eyes locked on you as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs. Then your dress. He pushes it up and over your head, leaving you completely bare for him. Jake just stares for a moment—drinking you in like you’re something holy. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted. “Fuck,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “You’re so fucking perfect.” He pulls his shirt off in one swift motion, tossing it aside. His skin is warm and golden in the low light, muscles flexing as he shifts forward, settling himself between your thighs like it’s where he belongs.

You shiver as his hands slide up your legs, thumbs brushing gently along your inner thighs. Then he leans in close, until his breath is hot and heavy right against your dripping cunt. He doesn’t touch you yet. Just breathes. Watches. Fingers ghosting up and down your slick folds as you writhe under him, desperate and aching. “Look at you,” he murmurs, completely entranced. His thumb swipes gently through your wetness. “My sweet girl.” You bite your lip, a whimper slipping from your throat. And then, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, soft and lingering, before sliding his tongue slowly up your slit, groaning low against you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

The moment his tongue touches you, it’s over. He moans low against your pussy like he’s tasting something he’s been craving for years. He starts slow, teasing licks through your folds, lips wrapping around your clit just enough to make your whole body jolt. And then he does it again. And again. Each time a little rougher. A little wetter. A little more desperate. “Fuuuck,” he groans into you, hands gripping your thighs, keeping you open for him. “You taste so fucking good.” You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, hips lifting off the bed as he sucks your clit into his mouth. It’s messy, obscene—the sounds of him licking you echoing through the room, wet and filthy and perfect. Then suddenly, he’s slipping two fingers back inside you—pushing in deep, curling them up in just the right way, and your moan breaks into a whimper. “Ngh—Jake—!” He groans again, like your voice alone is enough to make him lose it. Then he adds a third finger.

Your back arches, legs trembling as he fucks them into your soaked cunt fast and deep, his palm smacking softly against your skin with every thrust. His mouth never leaves your clit—tongue flicking, sucking, devouring like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go, baby,” he mumbles against you. “Wanna feel you.” You’re already so close. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t stop yourself from grinding against his face like your body’s got a mind of its own. The pressure snaps. You cry out, thighs clenching around his head as your orgasm crashes into you. Your fingers tug at his hair, your hips jerk, your moans breaking into soft, high-pitched whines as you fall apart in his mouth. But Jake doesn’t stop. He keeps licking. Keeps fucking his fingers into you like he wants to memorize the way you cum. And when you finally start to go still, trembling and breathless beneath him, he pulls back just enough to kiss your inner thigh, lips swollen, chin glistening with your slick. He crawls back up your body, kissing a trail from your trembling thighs to your stomach, over your chest—leaving warm, messy kisses across your skin before finally reaching your mouth. He kisses you hard. Hungry, deep, desperate, his lips still slick from tasting you, his tongue dragging over yours like he needs more of you in every way.

You can feel how hard he is now, pressed between your thighs. It’s driving you crazy—every movement, every breath just making it worse. Still kissing you, he breaks just long enough to whisper, breathless, “Need to be inside you, baby. Can’t wait anymore.” You nod, dazed, still catching your breath. Jake shifts back, and in one smooth motion, he pushes his shorts and boxers down, finally freeing his cock. You can’t help the soft gasp that leaves your lips, and Jake smirks through heavy breaths. He leans down again to kiss you, while his hand slides up your thigh. Then suddenly, he grabs one of your legs, lifting it over his shoulder. His other hand cups your breast, fingers squeezing, thumb brushing softly over your nipple as he lines himself up. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with heat. You do. And then he slides in. Slow at first, inch by inch, until he’s buried deep inside you, your walls fluttering around him. You moan his name, back arching off the bed.

Jake’s jaw clenches, his hand tightening on your thigh. “Fuck, baby…” he groans, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “You feel—so good—fuck.” His hips start to move, deep, rolling thrusts that drag every inch of him along your soaked walls. He keeps your leg hooked over his shoulder, the angle letting him hit every sweet spot, his other hand still cupping your breast like he can’t get enough. “So perfect…so tight for me—fuck!” he pants, voice all praise and heat. You moan louder, nails digging into his arms as he starts to pick up the pace—hips slapping against yours, breath hot and ragged, all while he keeps watching your face like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Jake’s rhythm starts to falter, his hips snapping faster, rougher, his breathing growing messier with each thrust. His brows are furrowed, lips parted, hair falling into his eyes as he fucks you like he’s starved for it.

“Oh my god—fuck,” he moans, head dropping forward. “You feel so fucking good, baby—shit, you’re so tight—oh fuck—” The way he says it, so breathless, whimpering, makes your whole body react. Your walls clench down around him instinctively, squeezing him hard, and it pulls another choked moan straight from his throat. His voice breaks again. “Ohhh fuck—just like that—holy shit—” He sounds so good. Ruined. Wrecked. Like he’s completely unraveling inside you. You’re a moaning mess beneath him, gasping for air, thighs trembling as he pounds into you deep and fast, hitting that perfect spot with every stroke. Then he brings his hand down, finding your clit like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are messy, fast, rubbing tight circles in sync with his thrusts. You cry out, arching under him, clutching at his biceps as he holds himself over you and keeps fucking you through it. “Jakey—!” you sob, voice high and desperate. He groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. “That’s it, baby,” he pants, kissing your jaw, your neck. “Come on—cum for me again—please, I need to feel it—need to feel you fall apart on me.”

You’re so close, your legs starting to shake, your fingers gripping him like a lifeline, your moans breaking into breathless little whimpers. And all you can hear is him—moaning, gasping, whimpering, praising you like he’s gone completely stupid from how good you feel. Your whole body locks up as that final wave crashes over you—tight and hot and overwhelming. You cry out his name, legs shaking, back arching as you cum hard around him, fluttering and pulsing deep on his cock. Jake chokes on a moan—high, broken, wrecked. “Fuuuck—so good—so fucking good, baby, oh my god—” He pulls out just in time, gritting his teeth through a loud, desperate groan as he fists himself and spills all over your pussy and thighs—sticky, thick ropes of cum painting your skin while his hips twitch and his breath catches in short, ragged pants. He collapses forward slightly, chest rising and falling, eyes still glazed with pleasure. Then his gaze drops down, seeing the mess he made of you, and he groans again, softer this time, like it’s too much to handle. “Shit,” he breathes. “You’re so fucking perfect…” He leans in and kisses you slow and warm. His hand brushes your cheek before moving to the nightstand, grabbing some tissue from a pack you kept there. “I got you” he murmurs. You hum softly as he wipes you clean—gentle, patient, still pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, your shoulder, anywhere his mouth can reach. And when he’s done, he tosses the tissues aside and crawls back into bed, settling in beside you. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you into his chest like he has to keep you close. You feel his breath in your hair, slow and steady now. His hands finds your waist, his thumb stroking lazily over your skin. Then he whispers, barely audible in the dark, “I’m yours…I’m not going anywhere.”

© guliexe

[pepurika]

i wanted to thank you all for being patient with me, today i managed to ink half a page and made this small doodle!

it's been very difficult to get into that mindspace of being excited about comics and drawing. my main worry is that there might not be book two or three of tigers.

i've been trying to look for an agent to help me with the hiveworks and seven seas contracts and to give me guidance on how to move forward with all of this, but no luck so far! i've been sending emails right and left just hoping that someone would answer, but i know it's a long game anyway. my main driving force is that all the people who have bought the first volume deserve the rest of them in their shelves too. a single volume would look so sad haha! like a failure of some sort! and your money wasted somehow!

but today when i was drawing i forgot all about that for a little moment. i just drew and drew and i got that excitement again, that i can't wait to show this page to you. to see what people think about the story. and i felt so lucky that i have the opportunity to experience that communication between the creator and the reader, even if i've chosen to be a silent observator mostly, your comments and interactions mean so much for me. my way of talking to you is the comic itself, in a way.

i cannot promise you that the rest of tigers will ever be printed, but if it happens, it happens! for now i'll let all of this float slowly forward, maybe it will end up somewhere, maybe not. i hope you will be understanding with this issue, i am doing my best but sometimes things might not work out!

but i feel my excitement coming back today. the small hiatus was much needed, but i miss the comic so much and i miss this small internet world of our strange communication. i cannot even begin to explain how you have helped me through a slump after slump, during all these years. this has been the worst, but now it's finally starting to loose its grip from me.

so, you have my most sincere thank you. please know that tigers wouldn't have gotten this far without every comment, fanart, fanfic and interaction i've had with you.

only two more chapters to go- i hope you will keep enjoying the finale of the comic. i'm working very hard to deliver it through the finishing line, and i'm so, so excited to be able to show you this strange world of sea sponges, dramatic siblings and elder gods.

thank you!!!

[sweetlyvibe]

✎ . . . lazy makeout sessions with HAIKYUU BOYS .ᐟ.ᐟ

- 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭. 𝖪𝖾𝗇𝗆𝖺 𝖪𝗈𝗓𝗎𝗆𝖾 ⋆ 𝖭𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗈𝗒𝖺 𝗒𝗎𝗎 ⋆ 𝖲𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖪𝗈𝗌𝗁𝗂

Kenma :

It starts the same. You’re lying on his bed, the world quiet except for the low hum of his laptop and the occasional shift of blankets as you both breathe.

Kenma’s hood is up, his face half-hidden, but his eyes are on you. Always on you. He’s quiet, but his fingers trace little shapes against your hip, absent-minded and gentle. He’s thinking, but not about the game on his screen—he’s thinking about you.

You shift a little, turning toward him, and your hand reaches up to brush the hair from his eyes. “You okay?”

He nods, then leans in. “You’re distracting.”

The kiss starts soft—barely there. Just his lips brushing yours, featherlight. He kisses like he’s trying not to wake you, even though you’re both wide awake. But then your hand curls into his hoodie, and your lips part just a little, and something shifts.

His hand moves to your waist, not gripping—just resting. But it’s heavy, like a silent don’t leave. You deepen the kiss, slow and gentle, your lips parting again as his tongue brushes yours, shy at first. He tastes like tea and quiet sweetness.

Kenma sighs into your mouth, and the kiss grows just slightly heavier. His body melts into yours, one leg sliding between yours, his chest against yours. He’s warm. Soft in the way only someone completely comfortable can be.

His hands stay slow—one curled around your hip, the other lazily trailing up your spine under your shirt, his touch light enough to make you shiver. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Everything is said in the way he kisses you. Like time doesn’t exist. Like the world outside his room can’t touch either of you.

Eventually, he pulls back just an inch, eyes half-lidded, breath mingling with yours. He whispers, voice barely audible:

“Stay right here.”

And you do.

౨ৎ

Nishinoya :

You didn’t even mean to start kissing. One second you were watching some movie, the next, Noya’s fingers were brushing your cheek, and his lips were on yours—quick, excited, barely controlled. Like he couldn’t wait anymore.

His kisses come fast and eager, all tilted heads and laughing into your mouth, like he’s having fun. His hands find your waist and pull you onto his lap without a second thought, and then it’s on.

You’re straddling him, his back pressed to the wall, and your hands are in his hair—messing it up even more than it already was. He groans when your fingers tug, then kisses you harder in retaliation. His lips are warm, a little chapped, moving fast against yours—hungry, but never rough. He kisses you like he can’t get enough. Like he needs one more, and one more, and then ten more after that.

His hands slide up your back, under your shirt, warm and grounding as they spread over your skin. One of them rests right between your shoulder blades, holding you to him like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You both pause for a moment—just a moment—to breathe. You’re panting against each other, foreheads touching, and he’s smiling.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod. Then kiss him again—slower this time, deeper.

His hands grip your hips like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered. His mouth moves with yours now in a more deliberate rhythm, slower, thicker with emotion. When your tongue brushes his, he moans softly, the sound muffled against your mouth. He chases you every time you pull away, leaning forward to steal more, more, more.

When you finally pull back, his lips are red and swollen, and his eyes are glazed over.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he breathes.

You laugh—and kiss him again.

౨ৎ

Sugawara :

With Suga, it always starts slow. Romantic. He pulls you into his lap on the couch, wraps a blanket around both of you, and kisses you like it’s the only thing on his schedule. Like the world can wait.

His lips are soft. Gentle. He tilts his head just enough to deepen the kiss, and his hand finds your jaw, thumb stroking just under your cheekbone like he’s savoring the feel of you.

You shift in his lap and he lets you, pulling you closer, pressing your chest to his, letting you lean all your weight into him. He kisses you like he’s memorizing you. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just endlessly affectionate.

But then your fingers tangle into his shirt and pull. Just a little.

And something in him flickers.

The kiss deepens, shifts. His hand slides down your spine slowly, and his tongue slips past your lips—exploring, deliberate, slow. You hum softly against his mouth and he smiles through the kiss.

He breaks away only to press tiny, trailing kisses down your jaw, behind your ear, across your neck. Lazy, teasing little brushes of lips that make you melt into him.

“Suga—”

“I know.” His voice is low and warm. “I just want to kiss you everywhere.”

You lose track of time like that. Wrapped in each other, kissing like the world doesn’t need you back yet. His hand holds the back of your head like you’re precious, his mouth moves like a prayer, and your body feels boneless against his.

Every kiss says: I’m yours. I’m here. I’m not letting go.

[boyfiechan]

[21 Questions]

...or the one where your hot one-night stand gets trapped inside with you during a storm.

Notes: Romantic comedy brainrot meets “what if your one-night stand accidentally had boyfriend energy” vibes but dirty, I guess? Pretty much porn that pretends to have a plot. Bang Chan x Reader Content Warnings: AFAB reader, explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, face riding, dry humping, dirty talk, question-based escalation, creampie. [8.1k words]

The rain is already loud when you wake up, but it’s the thunder that makes you sit up too fast—your body protesting with a dull ache and a rush of confusion and for a moment, you forget where you are, blinking against the soft light that filters through pale curtains stirred by wind. Then you remember the man lying next to you. The one with the tousled brown hair and the silver chain still clinging to his throat, half-buried beneath the white sheet he’d stolen most of in the night. Chris. His name floats up through the haze of sleep and lingering heat and half-faded memory, the syllables settling heavy in your chest and you’d meant for last night to be a clean break, something fleeting, something fun—but now it’s morning and the world outside is a mess of lightning and rising water and all exits, apparently, are blocked.

You shift carefully, pulling the sheet with you like it might shield you from the awkwardness of waking up next to someone you barely know, but Chris doesn’t look awkward at all. He looks like he belongs there, face still soft with sleep, lips parted just slightly like he’s caught in a dream he doesn’t want to leave, his hair is a disaster and his arm is slung over your pillow like he’d meant to hold you and missed. And maybe you’re still drunk on the way he’d touched you last night—like he already knew how you wanted to be handled, like he’d been reading your mind with every slow drag of his mouth over your skin, but now the tension is different, the air is heavy with the storm and something else you can’t quite name. Something not-so-temporary.

Chris groans softly when the thunder cracks again, brow creasing as he stretches, and you get a front row seat to the slow reveal of muscle and skin and that faint trail of ink on his ribs. He blinks up at you, eyes half-lidded and pretty brown in the gray light. What time is it? he asks, rough and warm and entirely too familiar for someone you just met. You shrug, reaching for your phone with fingers that are still trembling a little, not from fear, just the residual adrenaline of being alone in a house with a man who kissed you like he could rewrite your whole damn story if you let him. Does it matter? you murmur, holding up the screen. Storm’s not letting up. Roads are flooded. There’s a beat of silence, then Chris hums like it’s not the worst news he’s ever heard. Guess I’m staying for breakfast.

And it should be awkward, it should be that fumbling, clothes-on-backwards, this was fun kind of goodbye you’d practiced in your head but instead, Chris rolls out of bed like it’s his own room, scratching the back of his neck and scanning the floor for his shirt with a sleepy smirk. You got anything edible? Or are we on a strictly coffee-and-regret diet this morning? he asks, and you laugh, the sound surprising even you. There’s eggs. Maybe toast if the bread survived the humidity. You’re already pulling on one of your old t-shirts—something oversized and faded and absolutely not cute, but Chris gives you this once-over that makes you feel like you’re in silk as he follows you into the kitchen barefoot, steps quiet, and there’s still a weight to him that makes the room feel fuller somehow, like his presence bends the space around him just a little.

You move around each other clumsily at first, two strangers pretending you haven’t already seen each other naked, but it settles quickly into something easy, comfortable. You hand him a pan without thinking, and he flips it in one hand like he’s done this a hundred times. So what do you do, he asks, cracking eggs like a professional, when you’re not picking up mysterious men at bars and rescuing them from natural disasters? You shoot him a look over your shoulder, but your smile betrays you. I’m an illustrator, you admit. Freelance. Mostly book covers and concept stuff. He raises a brow, looking impressed. That explains the art on your walls. I thought you were just trying to seem deep. You bump your hip into his and he laughs—really laughs, head thrown back for a second, the sound warm enough to cut through the storm still howling outside.

Breakfast takes longer than it should, between the burnt toast and the failed attempt at pancakes and the way Chris keeps trying to juggle eggs when he thinks you’re not looking, the kitchen becomes a little world of its own—bright with laughter and low teasing and the kind of unspoken intimacy that feels like it’s been there longer than a single night. He sits at the table while you pour the coffee, fingers drumming on the wood like he can’t quite sit still. You know, he says, eyeing you over the rim of his mug, I was supposed to fly out today. Back to Seoul. Meetings, rehearsals. All that glamorous idol life crap. You glance out the window, as rain streaks down the glass in frantic patterns, wind battering the trees sideways. Storm says no, you offer, and he grins, like that’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

You end up on the couch, legs tangled under a shared blanket, the empty plates abandoned somewhere behind you. The power flickers once, twice, and then holds and at some point, Chris had ducked into the other room to make a quiet call—checking on someone, just to make sure they were safe in the storm. It shouldn’t have surprised you, but it still made something in your chest ache a little and now, as he shifts beside you, arm grazing yours, it’s quieter—the kind of quiet that feels like waiting, like choosing. He doesn’t push, doesn’t lean in, but when he looks at you it’s soft and curious and a little cautious, like he’s wondering what this could be if it wasn’t just a one-night stand and a thunderstorm, and you don’t know either. But you like the way he watches the lightning like it’s a show, the way he turns toward you with that slow smile that’s more promise than performance. You don’t know if the roads will be clear tomorrow, yu don’t know if this will last past the rain but for now, there’s warmth, and coffee, and a very content Chris beside you like he’s meant to stay.

He eats like someone who hasn’t had a real meal in days, half-sleepy and quietly appreciative, the kind of silence that says more than any compliment could. Every so often he hums, low and pleased, like even the mediocre toast is some kind of hidden delicacy. I think... he mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, this might be the best breakfast I’ve had all year. You glance at him, one brow raised. That’s a low bar. He shrugs, grinning around his coffee mug. Yeah, well, my standards are shot. I live off protein bars and takeout most days. He says it casually, like it’s a joke, but something in his eyes dims around the edges and you file that away somewhere quiet in your chest.

Then he sniffs at the mug and makes a face, setting it down with a quiet sigh. Full disclosure? I don’t even like coffee. You blink at him, mid-bite. Then why drink it? He shrugs, sheepish and a little guilty, like a kid caught faking his homework. Felt like the kind of morning where I should be holding something warm. Thought maybe it’d make me look normal. He hesitates, then adds, Tea’s not any better, by the way. Tastes like regret. You laugh and offer, There’s juice in the fridge, but he just shoots you a slow smile and leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving yours. Think I’ve had enough sweet stuff for one morning, and the line hangs there between you, light but deliberate, and when you arch a brow, he doesn’t take it back, just lifts his mug again like he didn’t say anything at all, even though you’re both still smiling into the silence.

The wind picks up again, another sharp gust rattling the windows, and the lights flicker like they’re considering betraying you. You look over your shoulder, half-expecting a blackout, but they steady as Chris catches your gaze, leaning forward on his elbows, bare forearms braced against the table. Scared? he teases, but it’s soft, more curious than mocking. Of the storm? you ask, tipping your head. Not really. I like it. Makes everything feel... slower. Like the world’s taking a breath. Chris watches you for a long moment, something thoughtful in the way his eyes trace over your face like he’s committing it to memory. That’s a nice way to put it, he murmurs. I think I forget how to slow down.

You end up back on the couch with two mugs of reheated coffee and a blanket that still smells faintly like clean laundry and the detergent your mom insists on mailing you in bulk as he lets you pick the movie, something old and a little ridiculous, more comfort than content, and by the time the opening credits roll, he’s already slid a little closer, his thigh pressed lightly against yours beneath the blanket. I haven’t watched a movie on an actual home couch in months, he admits, almost sheepish. Hotel beds don’t count. Too sterile, always feels like I’m trespassing. You look at him, really look, and for all the easy smiles and casual confidence, there’s something in the way he curls slightly inward, like he’s still waiting to be asked to leave.

So… what’s it like? you ask, tilting your head against the back cushion. Being you. Idol life. Cameras. Fans. Endless protein bars. He laughs, but it’s quieter now. It’s loud, he says after a pause. Even when it’s quiet. There’s always something. A performance, a deadline, someone waiting for you to screw up so they can clip it and post it out of context. His voice is calm, but you feel the weight of it, heavy and real between you. Don’t get me wrong. I love it. Music saved me, still does. But sometimes it feels like I forget who I am when the lights go off.

You nudge his knee with yours. And who are you right now? He glances at you, then away, like he’s not used to being seen like this—barefoot on someone else’s couch, coffee he doesn't even pretent to drink anymore in hand, weathered by rain and time and the strange intimacy of survival. Right now? he echoes, a little surprised. I’m… just Chris. I think. His mouth twitches, like he’s almost amused by the sound of his own name out loud in that context. Not Bang Chan, not leader, not hyung. Just… a guy who ate eggs in someone’s kitchen. You nod like that’s enough. Like it means more than it should. Well, you say, lifting your mug in a mock toast, cheers to Just Chris.

He bumps his mug against yours, eyes warm with something that looks a lot like gratitude as the movie plays on in the background, half-forgotten, and you both settle into the kind of silence that isn’t awkward—it’s tentative, sure, but there’s an unspoken agreement not to break the spell just yet. His arm ends up behind you on the backrest, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the quiet hum of presence that anchors you in place and when your shoulders brush, neither of you pulls away.

You know, he says eventually, eyes still on the screen, I didn’t expect to like you this much. You blink, caught off guard by the blunt honesty. I mean, he adds quickly, the tips of his ears slighly pink, not that I thought I wouldn’t like you. But last night… it wasn’t supposed to turn into this. He gestures vaguely, encompassing the coffee, the couch, the storm still raging outside like a protective barrier between this moment and the rest of the world. It was just supposed to be one night. A good distraction. You swallow, unsure whether to laugh or let the weight of it settle. Yeah, you say. Me too.

But the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re not just a chapter break but maybe a plot twist—it makes something shift in your chest. Something dangerous and soft and utterly unplanned. So what happens, you ask quietly, if the storm doesn’t let up? He smirks, eyes flicking toward the window before turning back to you. Guess we'll keep distracting each other, he says, and his hand finally brushes yours beneath the blanket, fingers curling slightly like a question, and you don’t hesitate when you answer. You let him.

The movie drifts on in the background—some half-forgotten rom-com playing at half volume, all overly dramatic meet-cutes and orchestral swells that feel far too on-the-nose given the weight in the air, and the storm hasn’t eased. If anything, the wind howls louder now, rattling through the eaves of the house like it’s trying to crawl inside, but you’re warm, not just because of the blanket or the coffee or the body beside you—but because something is building. Slowly, unspoken, the kind of tension that hums under the skin like an electrical current, soft but insistent, curling into the spaces between breath and glance and word.

Chris shifts beside you, his arm still draped casually along the back of the couch, but you can feel the subtle change in his posture, how he’s turned slightly more toward you, how his knee now presses firmly into yours instead of just brushing. His fingers are close enough to yours that you can feel the heat from them, the faint tremble of restraint in the way he hasn’t closed that last inch of distance as you risk a glance, and he’s already watching you—not smiling, not teasing, just looking, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing again. Like he’s debating something he already knows the answer to.

You’re kind of hard to read, you know that? you murmur, letting your voice drop just a little, the edge of a smile curling at your lips. His brow lifts, intrigued. Yeah? Most people say I’m too easy to read. His voice is quieter now too, dipping into something husky, a little rough. Too open. You tilt your head, feigning thought. No… you give people just enough to make them think they’ve got you figured out. You feel bold now, watching his expression shift—curious, then interested, then something more primal flickering just under the surface. But there’s always something you’re holding back.

He leans in a fraction, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your cheek, and when he speaks again it’s low and deliberate. What do you think I’m holding back? And you want to be coy, want to toss back some flirty quip and pretend like your heart isn’t beating faster with every syllable that falls from his mouth—but the air between you is too heavy now, charged with something that feels inevitable as you shift to face him more fully, knees drawn up beneath the blanket, and he mirrors you, his hand finally brushing yours beneath the fabric—just a soft drag of knuckles, but it’s enough to send a little shock up your spine.

I think you want to touch me again, you whisper, the words slipping out before you can think better of them. But you’re trying to be good. Chris huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it—just tension, tightly wound and dangerously close to snapping. Yeah, he says, voice rougher now, throat working as he swallows. I’ve been trying real hard not to. And that admission, that little crack in his carefully controlled exterior, does something to you. You shift closer, just slightly, enough that your knees press between his, enough that the blanket slips a little off your shoulder and his eyes follow the movement like he’s been starving.

But you’re not that good, are you? you tease, soft and breathy, like you’re testing the line just to see if he’ll cross it. And then his hand is on your thigh beneath the blanket—slow and deliberate, fingers curling against bare skin where your oversized t-shirt rides up, he doesn’t rush, just drags his palm upward with agonizing patience, his eyes never leaving yours. Not even close, he says, and it’s more confession than warning. You shift into his touch, lips parting on a quiet breath, and the way he looks at you now it’s like the storm has moved inside the room, all pressure and heat and the dangerous thrill of surrender.

Still, he waits. That last sliver of distance remains, his lips close but not touching, his fingers warm but not daring yet, you can see it in his eyes—the way he’s giving you the choice, the way he’s already halfway gone if you want to meet him there and something about that restraint, that aching pause, makes your skin burn. Come here, you whisper, and that’s all it takes.

He kisses you like he’s been holding it back all morning, all night, maybe longer, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t do it now, he might never get to again, his hand slides up further, anchoring at your waist, pulling you into his lap with a fluid kind of urgency that still manages to feel careful. His lips are warm, a little chapped, but he moves like he knows exactly what you need, tongue teasing at the seam of your mouth until you let him in, until the taste of him floods your senses and you forget everything else. Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groans softly against your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your whole body.

The blanket falls away, and the storm outside rages louder but inside, the world narrows to the press of his body against yours, the slow grind of hips, the heat rising fast and thick between you like it’s trying to suffocate the space where words used to live. You don’t know where this is going, don’t know what happens after the rain. But you know how he kisses, you know the way his hand slides up the back of your shirt with reverence and hunger, how he breathes your name like a promise he hasn’t figured out how to keep yet. And right now, that’s enough.

His mouth breaks from yours with a reluctant drag, breath heavy against your cheek as his lips skim the edge of your jaw. The storm batters the world outside, wind clawing at the glass, but here, on this couch, wrapped in each other and the remnants of a morning that wasn't supposed to last, everything feels slow, thick with a new kind of tension. His hand has slipped beneath your shirt now, not urgent, but reverent, fingers tracing up your spine in slow, deliberate lines that make you shiver, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, but he stops there, teasing, waiting.

You know… he murmurs against your neck, punctuating the words with a lazy kiss just below your ear, ...we barely know anything about each other. You huff a breath that could almost be a laugh, tipping your head back to give him more access. Funny time to bring that up. His teeth graze your throat, the gentlest bite, and he smirks when you gasp. Just trying to be a gentleman, he says, all faux innocence while his other hand slides up the inside of your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles where your skin is most sensitive. Maybe we should get to know each other first. You know, before we really do this.

You glance down at him, raising a brow even as your hips shift against his lap, finding the heat of him through thin layers of cotton. What, you want to play 20 Questions while you’ve got your hand up my shirt? His eyes glitter with mischief. Twenty-one. Gotta keep it spicy. You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips as you settle more fully against him, legs straddling his hips now, thighs bracketing his as the blanket slips off entirely. Fine, you say, voice a little breathless as his hands find their way to your waist, thumbs dragging slow along your ribs. But I go first. He leans back slightly, arms resting along the couch, a picture of casual sin. Hit me.

What’s your biggest red flag? you ask, grinning as you slowly grind down just enough to watch his expression falter and Chris groans, head tipping back briefly before he looks at you from beneath heavy lashes. You’re evil. You just shrug, hips rocking against him, slow and tempting. Answer the question.

He exhales a laugh that curls low in his chest, fingers tightening at your waist. Okay… red flag? His tongue flicks across his bottom lip as he thinks, and your eyes follow the motion helplessly. I work too much. Like… too much. I disappear into it sometimes. Not great for relationships. There’s honesty in it, even as he slides one hand back under your shirt, thumb grazing the curve of your breast again, still not touching you fully, just circling around it like he’s trying to drive you crazy. Your turn. You shift, barely resisting the urge to lean into his hand. Hmm… what’s your question?

Chris hums, considering. Biggest turn-on.

You tilt your head, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him twitch before you answer, Confidence. Teasing. Someone who can make me laugh and lose my mind. You roll your hips again, slow and purposeful, and he curses under his breath. Your turn, he growls, hands sliding lower now, gripping your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. Better make it a good one.

What do you think I taste like? you whisper it near his ear, just to watch him shudder. His hands still on your body, eyes snapping to yours, suddenly darker as he swallows hard, fingers digging in just a bit. You want the honest answer? he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. Obviously.

Chris leans in, lips brushing yours without kissing, like he’s tasting the air between you. Like trouble. Like something I shouldn’t get addicted to but already am. His hand drags back up your thigh, higher now, brushing between your legs over your underwear, just enough pressure to make you gasp, but still maddeningly light. Like heaven with a little hell in it.

You clench your hands in the fabric of his shirt, breath catching as he rocks up against you, heat meeting heat through frustrating layers. Fuck, you whisper, hips stuttering. That’s not fair. He smirks again. I said I was bad at being good. You dip your head to his neck, biting lightly at the skin just below his jaw as you murmur, Then stop pretending and show me just how bad you can be. But Chris just chuckles, fingers hooking under the waistband of your underwear before he stops again, teasing, waiting, torturing. Only if you answer the next one.

You groan. You’re the worst. He grins. Next question. What are you most afraid of right now?

And it’s unfair, how he can drop that kind of weight right when his fingers are slipping beneath your panties, how he can make you feel completely exposed even before he touches you properly as you blink, breathless, caught in the twist of sensation and honesty. Getting too close, you admit quietly. Wanting more than I should. He stills, his hand resting gently between your thighs now, no pressure, just presence as his gaze softens, searching your face like he’s looking for something hidden beneath all your teasing. Me too, he says. And then—finally, finally—his fingers move with purpose, and you stop thinking altogether.

His fingers move with an ease that makes you curse your own memory, like your body already remembers him, already trusts the rhythm, the pressure, the subtle curl of his touch. He’s slow with it, maddeningly so, dragging the pads of his fingers through your slick just to feel how wet you are before he even really does anything. Jesus, he murmurs, almost to himself, eyes dropping to where you’re straddled in his lap, shirt rumpled, underwear pushed aside, heat pressed tight to the bulge in his sweatpants. And you’re telling me we’re just getting to know each other? You roll your hips down against his hand and smirk. Exactly. I’m an open book, remember? But your voice catches at the end when one of his fingers slides inside you, slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on yours as you clench around him with a broken little sound you wish you could play off as cooler than it is. Chris just grins, lazy and pleased, like he’s won something. Sure you are, sweetheart.

And then he fucking pauses again.

Just holds there, buried in you up to the knuckle like he’s content to keep you right on the edge of madness as you glare at him, lips parted, already shifting your hips for friction, but his free hand comes up to steady you at the waist. Nuh-uh, he warns, teasing. You’re the one who agreed to twenty-one questions. You’re not getting out of it just because your legs are shaking. You blink at him, somewhere between aroused and outraged. Are you seriously going to edge me over a quiz game?

Chris has the audacity to laugh, pressing another finger inside you with a slow, cruel twist that makes you forget what planet you’re on for a second. That’s question twenty-two, he says, voice all wicked sweetness. But I’ll allow it. You swear under your breath, grinding down again because two can play at this game. Fine, you bite out. Truth or dare. He raises a brow, interested. We’re switching formats?

Answer it. Chris smirks, lips dragging over your jaw as he pumps his fingers in a slow rhythm that’s almost enough, but not quite. Truth. You narrow your eyes at him. Who’s your embarrassing celebrity crush?

He laughs, really laughs, breathless and boyish and warm in a way that makes your chest ache through the haze of want. Jesus, okay, he says, eyes scrunched, still slowly fucking you with the kind of patience that feels like punishment. This is going to haunt me, but… it’s the girl from Scooby-Doo. The live-action one. Velma. You blink at him. You mean Linda Cardellini? He groans. Yes. The sweater, the glasses, the sass—don’t judge me. You’re laughing too hard to speak for a second, which becomes very inconvenient when his thumb brushes against your clit in a lazy circle that makes your laugh crack into a moan. Okay, you breathe. That’s fair. Honestly? Valid.

He leans in like he’s about to kiss you, but instead he whispers, Your turn, and curls his fingers just right, making your hips jolt forward against his palm. Would you rather, he says, clearly enjoying your ruined expression, have sex in a public place and get caught, or accidentally send your mom a sext? You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a wheeze. Oh my God, what kind of demon are you? He just grins, smug. Answer carefully. You’re half-laughing, half-dying as you try to think through the haze of building pressure between your legs, his thumb not letting up for a second. Okay, okay, public sex.

Getting caught. Bold, he says, watching your face tighten when his fingers thrust a little faster. That says something about you. You gasp, breath hitching hard in your throat as you press your hips forward again, unable to stop yourself. Shut up, you gasp, helpless. You knew I wouldn’t say mom sext. You set me up.

Guilty, he murmurs, kissing along your neck now, open-mouthed and warm. Next question. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever masturbated to? You freeze against him, eyes going wide. Oh my God.

C’mon, he coaxes, mouth curved into a devilish smile. I told you about Velma. Don’t leave me hanging. You hide your face in his shoulder, but he doesn’t let up with his fingers, still moving inside you, still making you gasp even through your mortification. Fine, you groan. There was this audio clip, some guy reading from a tax fraud legal deposition with a deep voice and—don’t look at me like that. It was weirdly hot, okay?

Chris actually chokes laughing, full-body shaking, but his hand never stops, and now it’s infuriatingly good, rhythmic and deep and filthy enough that you start to lose the ability to laugh along. Oh my God, he wheezes, still grinning. That’s incredible. That’s like, top-tier trivia material. He leans in again, brushing his nose against yours, watching you with heat and fondness in equal measure. You’re insane. I think I’m obsessed with you.

You open your mouth to answer, but your words melt into a strangled moan when he presses just right and your body clenches down around him, thighs trembling on either side of his hips as he watches you unravel with greedy eyes, his mouth hovering just over yours, breath mixing with yours as your orgasm shudders through you, sharp and wet and aching. Fuck, you whisper. You're the insane one.

You’re welcome, he whispers back, then kisses you like a man who plans on earning another twenty-one answers. Your breath is still shaky, ribs rising too fast under your shirt, your thighs quivering where they’re slung over his lap, and he hasn’t even pulled his hand away yet. His fingers are still inside you, slow and wet and fucking obscene, curling lazily like he’s not done teasing your body just yet, like he wants to feel every aftershock and memorize the way your walls flutter around him, greedy and overstimulated. And the worst part if you don’t want him to stop, not even a little.

Chris watches you with that smug curve to his mouth, but there’s something darker in his eyes now, hotter, hungrier, like the teasing has started to backfire on him too. You’re so easy to mess with, he murmurs, like it’s a compliment, like he’s impressed, his free hand comes up to brush the damp hair from your face, thumb stroking your cheek with a gentleness that doesn’t match the filth of his other hand. And you still owe me another question.

You laugh, breathless, hoarse, but defiant. You’re still playing the game?

Chris grins, slow and wicked. Don’t act like you’re not into it. Come on, next one. Or I stop. His fingers shift inside you, one last teasing thrust before he slides out completely, leaving you empty and aching. You glare at him, hips twitching forward on instinct. Okay, okay. You pause, breath catching as you readjust your weight in his lap, only now realizing how hard he is beneath you, thick and straining against his sweats, twitching under the press of your soaked panties.

Your brain short-circuits a little, but you recover fast. If you could only use your mouth or your hands during sex, never both again, which would you pick? Chris whistles low, eyes flicking down to your lips like he’s imagining either option in vivid, detailed color. Cruel one, he mutters, shifting beneath you just to feel more of your heat. But I’m gonna say mouth. There’s something about making a mess of someone with just my tongue. Something about control, seems like. His hands tighten at your hips as he leans up, lips grazing yours without committing to the kiss. And I think you like being teased too much for me to give that up.

You open your mouth to argue, or moan, but he silences you with a single, filthy swipe of his thumb over your clit, barely there, just enough to remind you who’s in charge of your pulse. You grip his shoulders to steady yourself, blinking down at him like you hate how much he knows you already. My turn, he says, voice low, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your ruined underwear and he doesn’t touch, just hovers there. What’s the dirtiest thought you’ve ever had about me? You stare at him, startled. We’ve only known each other, like, twelve hours. Chris raises an eyebrow. You’ve definitely had thoughts.

You look away, cheeks flushed, your body still warm from the orgasm and the press of his cock trapped beneath you. Fine, you mutter. It’s from this morning. When you were standing in the kitchen, still sleepy, shirtless… stretching like that. He smirks, already smug. And I thought about getting on my knees, you continue, forcing the words past your throat, and just pulling your sweats down while you were mid-yawn. Making you lean back against the counter and letting me suck you off before you even woke up properly. His jaw flexes, hands gripping your hips so tight it makes you whimper. Fuck, he breathes, almost like a warning. You trying to kill me?

You smile, dragging your hips slowly against his, grinding the slick heat of your core over the length of his cock through the fabric. I dunno. You said we’re getting to know each other. He groans, deep and broken, eyes fluttering closed for a second. Okay, he says. New rule. Every time you don’t answer a question honestly, I get to put my mouth somewhere new. You blink. That’s the punishment?

Chris slides his hands up your shirt in one slow motion, finally lifting it over your head and tossing it aside. His gaze drops to your chest, hungry and reverent as he leans forward, brushing his mouth against the swell of one breast before licking a slow stripe over your nipple. It’ll feel like a punishment soon, he says, dragging his teeth gently across the skin until you arch into him. Now ask me something hard. Your voice is trembling now. What’s your biggest kink?

Chris looks up at you, mouth still warm and wet against your skin, his eyes dark with intent. Praise, he says. Control. Watching you fall apart because you want to, not because I’m forcing you. He licks again, sucks a little now, and your fingers sink into his hair like you need to anchor yourself. And right now? he murmurs, pulling back with a soft pop. Hearing you beg. That might top the list. You swallow, completely undone, grinding harder now just to feel more of him, leaking through your panties onto the front of his sweats. Next question, he says, voice wrecked now. How many orgasms do you think I could pull out of you if we stopped playing and really got started? And suddenly, you don’t feel like teasing anymore.

You can’t even remember what number you’re on, somewhere past twenty-one and deep into uncharted territory, half the questions aren’t even questions anymore, just confessions and dares passed between kisses and breathless moans, your body curled around his like you’ve forgotten it wasn’t always yours to hold. Chris still got that look in his eyes, wild and focused, like he’s reading every flicker of reaction off your face, adjusting his touch with surgical precision and the game—if it can even be called that anymore—is just another way to keep you strung out on tension, anticipation, the high of not knowing what he’ll ask or do next. Okay, he says, voice low and almost tender as he kisses your thigh, lips trailing dangerously close to where you’re soaked through and twitching. Would you rather have me use my mouth and take my time, or let you sit on my face and lose control? You laugh, wrecked, hoarse, practically vibrating with need. Is that even a real question?

Answer it, he says, lips brushing the edge of your underwear like a threat. Or I’ll pick for you. You glance down at him, his face between your thighs, his eyes bright and dark at once and something about the way he looks like he wants to be overwhelmed by you makes the answer easy. Your face, you whisper. I wanna ride your face.

He hums, low, approving, and pulls your underwear down so slowly it’s practically cruel, dragging them down your legs like he wants to savor every inch of bare skin. You’re lucky I like the sound of that, he murmurs, kissing up your inner thigh, hands gripping your hips as you shift to straddle his face, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the storm still raging outside. He settles back against the couch cushions, eyes fixed on you, and his voice is husky when he says, Don’t hold back.

And then his mouth is on you, devouring you with a hunger so intense it makes you cry out, your fingers flying to his hair for balance as your thighs tremble on either side of his head. His tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking and circling your clit with a precision that has you shaking, gasping his name before the first full minute is up. He moans into you like he can’t get enough, like the taste of you is something he’s needed all fucking day, and when you grind down harder, chasing the heat, he just grips your hips tighter and lets you.

You lose yourself in it, completely. Your head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as you rock against his mouth, every muscle in your body pulled tight with tension. Fuck, I—I can’t, you gasp, already close again, already ruined. You can, he growls against your cunt, the vibration of his voice shooting straight through your spine. You’re gonna come in my mouth, baby? I've got you. And when you do,it's shameless and desperate, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes over you, mouth open in a broken moan that echoes off the walls, raw and frantic as you ride it out against his tongue. He doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, until you’re whimpering, until your body slumps forward with every nerve alight and his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

When you finally slide off his face, your legs barely work, and he’s panting beneath you, flushed, hair messy, lips glistening with you. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like he just won the fucking lottery. Still counting the questions? he teases, voice rough and hoarse and yu laugh weakly, collapsing into his lap with your chest still heaving. I think we passed twenty-one a long time ago. Chris leans in, kissing you deep, messy, filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue before pulling back just enough to whisper, Then maybe it’s time we stop pretending it’s still a game.

It’s not a game anymore, but neither of you stops playing, even as he lifts you into his lap again, even as his hands drag across your waist and down your spine with a hunger that makes your skin burn, you’re still trading words, still throwing questions like gasoline on a fire that’s already too big to contain. What do you want me to do to you? he asks, voice low and rough as he kisses the edge of your jaw, lips dragging down your throat, chest, teeth grazing over the mark he left earlierl you breathe out something between a laugh and a whimper, fingers curling in the waistband of his sweatpants. Want you inside me. Deep. Slow. Until I can’t even remember what I was supposed to ask next.

Chris groans, like the words knock the wind out of him, and you barely get the chance to tug his pants down before he’s helping you, lifting his hips, cock springing free, thick and flushed and so hard it makes your breath catch in your throat. He wraps a hand around himself just to tease you, dragging his palm slowly along the length, the tip smearing precum across his skin, eyes locked on yours. You sure? he murmurs, voice tight with restraint. 'Cause I want you, but I’m not gonna last long if you keep looking at me like that.

You nod, almost dizzy with need, sinking your hips until the head of his cock catches at your entrance, slick and warm and perfect as you lower yourself onto him in one slow, devastating slide that punches a moan from both of you. Fuck, he hisses, head dropping back against the couch. You feel—holy shit—so tight. You clench around him on purpose, just to hear him swear again, and he thrusts up into you shallowly, hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear. Next question, you breathe, rocking your hips gently, letting him get used to the rhythm of you. If I told you to come inside me, would you?

Chris blinks at you like he can’t believe you said that, like the words physically affect him as his jaw flexes hard, and he thrusts up deeper, rougher, like you just snapped the last thread of his restraint. Don’t say that unless you mean it, he growls, voice raw. Because if you tell me to, I will. I’ll fill you up so deep you feel it for days. Your next breath stutters as he hits that spot again, as your walls flutter around him, your body already trying to pull him deeper. You’re insane, you gasp. And I might be worse.

Another question, he says, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts again, slower now but harder, making your whole body jolt with every movement. If I told you I wanted to fuck you on every surface in this house before the storm ends, what would you say?

You laugh—moan, really—your fingers digging into his shoulders for balance. I’d say you’d better start with the kitchen counter and work your way through the rooms alphabetically. He groans, the sound almost broken, and his hands slide down to your ass, guiding your hips as you bounce on his cock with slow, grinding rolls, the kind that drag every inch of him through you with a rhythm that borders on cruel. Fuck, he mutters again, kissing your shoulder, your collarbone, your mouth. I’ve never wanted anyone like this.

Maybe it’s the storm, maybe it’s the heat between your bodies or the way your souls feel too close already, but the words don’t scare you, they anchor you, drive you forward. Then show me, you whisper, lips brushing his. No more holding back.

And he doesn’t. He flips you onto your back on the couch with a roughness that makes you gasp, cock slipping free for only a second before he’s guiding himself back inside you in one hard, smooth thrust that makes your eyes roll back and he fucks you, slow, deep, rhythmic, his body pressed tight to yours as his hands roam everywhere at once. What’s the first thing you’re gonna do after this? he pants into your ear and you laugh, legs wrapped tight around his waist. Probably pass out.

Wrong answer. He pulls almost all the way out, waits for you to open your eyes again, then slams back in. Try again. Your head spins. Shower, you choke out. With you. Maybe round two against the wall if you're strong enough. Chris grins, breathless, sweat dripping from his brow as he picks up the pace. Better. He kisses you hard, messy, tongues tangling, and he swallows your next moan when he grinds in deeper, just to feel the way your body clenches around him. Your turn. Ask me something, he says. Hurry. Before I make you come so hard you forget how to speak. You’re already close again, body arching, nails dragging down his back, but you manage to gasp, What’s your favorite part of me?

He thrusts deep and stills, buried to the hilt, his cock twitching inside you, his voice shaking when he answers. Right now? This. His hand slides down between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing slow, tight circles. But if you mean really... he leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, his voice going soft even as his thrusts turn sharp again. It’s the way you look at me, like I’m already yours.

And then he makes you come again, loud and trembling, your body clenching so hard around him that he groans and follows you seconds later, spilling into you with a long, broken sound that feels like surrender. You cling to each other through it, hips still twitching, mouths still searching, and somewhere between the kisses and the breathless laughter, you realize you stopped counting the questions a long time ago.

The world is soft when it settles, like the storm outside finally gave up, like the air around you folded into something warm and quiet and real. Your bodies are tangled on the couch, skin damp and flushed, still pressed together in the kind of closeness that feels more like a conversation than anything you’ve said out loud and he hasn’t moved much, still half on top of you, head buried in the crook of your neck, one arm slung heavy over your waist. His breathing is slow now, steady, like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your heart with his cheek against your chest as you trail your fingers lazily through his hair, feeling the way his curls cling to your skin with sweat and time, and somewhere in the mess of it, you smile.

Hey, you whisper, voice raw, your throat a little ruined from all the gasping and laughing and moaning. If you had to rank that on a scale from one to ten— Chris groans, shifting just enough to lift his head and glare at you, but the edge doesn’t stick, he’s too blissed-out for sarcasm. Don’t make me throw you over this couch and do it again just to prove a point.

You snort, brushing a kiss against his temple. So… eleven? He sighs dramatically, flopping back beside you, arm still wrapped tight around your middle as he turns his head to look at you. His eyes are soft now, still playful, still glowing with that dangerous charm, but slower, gentler. I stopped counting, he says. Somewhere around the time you said you wanted to ride my face. Everything after that was just… instinct.

You laugh, a real one, breathless and a little unhinged, your hand sliding across his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. So what happens now? you ask, and you don’t mean for it to sound so honest, but there it is, naked between you. Storm’s still going, you’re still technically trapped here. Chris glances toward the window as the rain still lashes against the glass, wind howling down the alley like it’s not done being dramatic. He hums softly. Guess we’re stuck with each other.

Tragic.

Devastating. He nudges your thigh with his knee, smirking. We could watch something. Recharge. Maybe eat something that doesn’t involve my head between your legs. You fake a groan, tossing an arm over your eyes. Boring.

Okay, fine. He laughs, twisting to kiss your bare shoulder. But only if you ask me another question. You peek at him from beneath your arm, grinning. Why are you still here? He goes still for a second, the quiet between you deepening, thick with something unspoken and his voice lowers, more serious than you expect. Because this didn’t feel like a one-night thing.

Your breath catches, soft and small but he hears it, because of course he does. You roll onto your side to face him, his arm adjusting to keep you close. Yeah, you say, quieter now, eyes searching his. It didn't. For a while, neither of you says anything as the storm rolls on outside, wind still battering the windows, but it feels far away now, like the noise can’t touch this, can’t reach whatever this bubble is you’ve both fallen into. Chris shifts, brushing hair from your face, thumb tracing your cheek with the same tenderness he used hours ago, when everything was still new and charged and uncertain.

And then he smilesl soft, a little shy. New rule, he says. Every time we see each other… we have to play twenty-one questions.

You raise an eyebrow. We suck at keeping count.

Exactly, he murmurs, kissing your forehead like a promise. That’s how I’ll know it’s working.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Look at Me Like That Again

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Waitress!Reader

Summary: Bucky desperately needs your attention while you’re on shift in his bar.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: so much longing; Bucky is a man in love; mild alcohol use; bar setting; Bucky being a dramatic kicked puppy

Author’s Note: Oh I enjoyed writing this so much. Thank you for the idea, my lovely!! I hope you like what I made of your cute little prompt ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

It’s the fifteenth time you've passed him.

Fifteen.

And Bucky Barnes is counting.

Because you don’t look at him when you pass.

And it’s been over an hour since you walked in wearing that stupid little apron that hugs your waist and the shirt he hates because it’s too tight and too low and everyone looks at you too long when you wear it. Everyone except him, of course.

Bucky doesn’t look.

He watches.

There’s a difference, you see.

You breeze through the bar as though you’ve got the whole damn place in your pocket, and maybe you do. These guys love you. They light up when you laugh, when you lean in to hear them over the music, when you call them hon in that voice soft enough to sew people back together.

You’re the only brightness in this place and you don’t even know it.

Your hair is already starting to come loose. You are balancing three empty glasses in one hand and a notepad in the other, reciting someone’s order from memory while still smiling, still glowing.

Bucky is leaned up against the bar like a damn decoration. He’s been standing here, useless, for at least twenty minutes. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes strained on your every step. You haven’t spared him so much as a glance since the jukebox changed songs, now crooning some worn-out rock ballad from two decades ago. Since the light shifted and the golden hour crawled in through the windows as if it was chasing you.

God, you look good in gold.

He doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He’s cleaned the same spot three times. Cleaned the same glass four times before he realized he wasn’t even holding it anymore. He doesn’t even drink soda but the can of Coke next to him has been sweating beside his hand for half an hour. Warm now. Forgotten.

Just like him apparently.

You walk by. Don’t see him. Or maybe you do - but you don’t stop. Don’t smile just for him.

He can’t have that.

Not when you just smiled for that asshole in booth seven who licked his lips when you placed his beer.

He doesn’t know what his expression might look to others but he doesn’t care. He is sincerely displeased.

Sixteenth time. You float past, apron flaring, pen poised, eyes stitched to your tray or the screen or the sticky table by the window, but it’s never him.

He doesn’t like that. At all. He needs your attention, and he needs it now.

So when you swerve past again, too busy balancing an order for the back booth where one of his patrons is dramatically retelling some story to the others like he isn’t loud enough for the whole bar to hear, Bucky does what any reasonable man would do.

He pokes you. Right in the side.

You jolt mid-step, the drinks on your tray tilting before you balance them out. “Bucky.”

But he doesn’t hear the warning edge in your tone. Because your eyes meet his and suddenly everything inside him goes very, very quiet.

“I've been standin’ here,” he says, calm as ever, trying to sound like someone who isn’t folding from the inside out. “Watching you walk past me like I’m invisible. That’s cruel, sweetheart. Cold-blooded.”

You roll your eyes, though there is amusement tugging at your mouth. “You’re not invisible.”

“Oh, good,” he drawls, leaning forward, eyes shining beneath dark lashes. “Then I don’t have to haunt the place. Thought maybe I died and no one told me.”

You sigh. “You’re a child.”

“You’re the one ignoring me in my own damn bar.”

“I’m working, Barnes,” you emphasize.

He shrugs, a slow, unapologetic shift of his shoulders. “And I’m just standin’ here. Bein’ patient. Watching you ignore me in new and creative ways.”

You step back, turn, face him fully this time. He meets your gaze like he’s been waiting for it all night. Maybe all week. Maybe always.

You stare at him as though he’s something between a hurricane warning and a kicked puppy at your feet.

“You poked me,” you deadpan.

“Did,” he says, grinning. Not even a little sorry. “Would’ve waved, but my hand’s all tired from waiting.”

You huff. But it’s not annoyance. It’s the laugh you’re trying not to give him. The soft kind. The one that lives behind your teeth when he says dumb things with that mouth that should know better.

His chest warms. Truly warms. As though someone struck a match behind his ribs and the light spills into his bloodstream.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you, Bucky. But I do have work to do, alright? So you’ll have to excuse me.” You don’t look that apologetic either when you turn around again and trek down the bar to the booth where people are waiting for you.

But he’s waiting for you too. Tragically so. He doesn’t take his eyes off you when you place the drinks, when the guys thank you, when you smile that smile back, when you turn and walk away, when you are about to pass him again.

Poke.

You sigh as if you expected it.

He leans in slightly, as if he could soak in your heat and keep it. But your smell already makes him dizzy. “I’m not gonna stop poking you until you give me some attention, doll.”

You stare at him as if you want to throw a napkin at his face. Or kiss him. He prefers the latter. Although the former surely would be a privilege since it’s you throwing it.

“I do give you attention, Barnes. I’m literally talking to you right now,” you counter, slightly exasperated, but there is that fond smile forming, you just don’t let it out fully.

But it still does things to him. Hits his heart first, then spreads - to his cheeks, his fingertips, down his spine. That smile is a gift, a spark. It makes him foolish. Hopeful. It makes him dream in full color.

Bucky taps the counter, shaking his head. “You know you’ve walked by eighteen times now?”

“Eighteen?”

“Eighteen. I counted. Steve’s my witness.”

You glance behind the bar. Steve’s got two glasses in his hands and is pretending not to watch. Is pretending not to smirk.

There’s a pause. You’re still close enough to touch. The fabric of your shirt brushes his arm when you move. You smell like citrus and cinnamon gum and whatever soap you use that’s probably way too fancy for a dive like this.

But you don’t belong in places that are easy.

“You’ve been runnin’ around like you’re holding the ceiling up,” he says quietly, not even meaning to. “Just wanted to remind you I’m still here.”

And for a breath - a half-second crack in the wall you’re keeping up - you look at him. Really at him. He might even believe you see the thing he’s too afraid to name, but you don’t run from it.

“I know, Buck,” you say, smiling sweetly. Like a secret sunrise just for him.

And his body shuts down. Doesn’t even let him take in some air. Who needs that anyway when he’s got you?

Your eyes catch and hold. The noise of the bar slips sideways. Everything tilts.

Then someone calls out your name - loud, without the care he uses when saying your name, just another order. You turn with a smile already forming on your lips, moving back into your orbit, back into theirs.

But before you go, you look at him over your shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to ruin him for the rest of the night.

He watches you walk seven steps to the bar's edge.

He grins. Leans back. Taps his boot against the counter.

That’s alright, baby.

He’ll be here waiting.

Poking.

Always.

[haologram]

hanging by a moment 🍻 j.ww [m]

synopsis: it's been a few years since you've been home for your birthday, and wonwoo can't wait to see you...right? genre: estranged childhood friends to lovers au. fluff, angst, suggestive themes. pairing: photographer!jeon wonwoo x fem!baker!reader | side pairing: kim mingyu x chou tzuyu word count: 15.8k rating: 18+. minors please do not interact. warnings: swearing, alcohol. food mentions. mentions of jealousy, breakups. wonwoo is a little bitter. pet names (sweetheart, honey, etc.) kissing. what to listen to: here is gone - the goo goo dolls ; over you - daughtry ; broken - lifehouse ; hanging by a moment - lifehouse ; long way home - 5 seconds of summer ; say yes - seventeen author's note: happiest birthday to my baby @wqnwoos ♡ i hope your birthday was full of wonderful memories and you had lots of good food, please continue staying healthy and i love you. [star dividers by @/cafekitsune here on tumblr!]

– LAST YEAR: GOYANGI SWEETS, HARLEM, NEW YORK.

"Since when do you celebrate Valentine's Day, Y/N?" Jeon Wonwoo's voice was staticky on the other end, and you rolled your eyes as you kept swiping icing on the red velvet cupcakes you'd been agonizing over for six days. Trying and dumping mixes, failed taste tests, a few burnt practice rounds all led up to this: you, up at two in the morning on FaceTime with Wonwoo, who was just now starting to finish up his work day.

You hadn't meant to move so far away, truly – or at least, not for this long. Your best friends were all back home, and the drastic time difference did work for some of them – but you rarely managed to catch Wonwoo. He would usually spend his time holed away in his bedroom or out with Kim Mingyu. However, since Mingyu moved in with his fiancée, Chou Tzuyu, three years ago – Wonwoo had the apartment to himself and you were his only company.

"Since when don't you, Jeon? No hot date for Desperation Day?"

"You watch too many movies, there's no such thing. Anyway, shouldn't you be sleeping? You open in, like, two hours." He was right, you did open in two hours.

There was just something comforting about hearing Wonwoo's voice so late in the night. It makes you feel warm, less alone.

And it's not like Wonwoo knew about your recent fight with your boyfriend.

It wasn't anything serious – just you telling him to get a fucking job, and him insisting that his job was rubbing your feet after a long day at work. It annoyed you so bad that you asked him to leave the apartment for the weekend. It's not that Wonwoo doesn't like Euijoo, but he certainly isn't his number one fan. You argue that you can't dislike someone you don't even know, but Wonwoo has made it clear that Euijoo is simply never going to be a part of his life if you're not present to make it happen. It's always been that way with Wonwoo, though. He quietly disapproved of most of the men you dated, even when you were back home – but he never made you feel bad about his perspective. He simply shared when you asked, and he didn't sugar coat it.

Before Euijoo, there was his clubmate, Hansol Chwe. Before Hansol, there was his teammate, Choi Seungcheol. Before Seungcheol, there was Mingyu. 

And every single one got a side-eyed glance, even his best friend.

Slowly, you stopped talking to Wonwoo about guys, because he always seemed to be right about you deserving more. To be frank, you weren’t too keen on not doing what you wanted to do, much less who. 

You and Wonwoo never breached that friendship line, and while you found solace in his irrevocable appreciation for you as a friend, you found it odd that around the time you began preparing for your relocation across the world, he floated away.

So much so that he hadn't even gone to the airport to say goodbye, or give you a hug. You hadn't seen Wonwoo in the weeks leading up to it after you told him you'd be leaving, and he always had an excuse as to why he couldn't call or hang out. You tried time and time again, only for him to eventually say he just didn't have time.

He did. You knew he did, because you saw him all over Mingyu and Tzuyu's Instagram stories. You saw him playing chess with Yoon Jeonghan. You saw him at the art museum with Xu Minghao.

You saw him soft launch a girl on his Instagram story the moment you boarded your plane. His story had been posted twenty minutes before, while you were getting your heart ripped out. You’d gone to New York with eyes full of tears, and not just because you were leaving behind everything you knew. 

Wonwoo was home, and you wouldn’t have him with you.

Nevertheless, Wonwoo was never…directly the reason behind your breakups – at least, to your understanding. You never toed the line of flirting with him and vice versa, you never made your friendship out to be something it wasn't.

You and Mingyu broke up because of school but stayed extremely close. You met his then-girlfriend,Tzuyu, six months into freshman year, and you were the first person Mingyu ever told that he wanted to marry her. You even helped Mingyu build a Pinterest wedding board when he would visit you and Wonwoo.

The others? Seungcheol made the mature decision and broke up with you because of jealousy issues on his part. Hansol broke up with you with an apology and nothing more, and you tried your best to take it in stride. However, taking things in stride is not your forte – which is how you ended up with Euijoo.

Hansol broke up with you at the airport the day you left for New York, the guilt taking over his features as your eyes widened and filled with tears. You had muttered that you understood, that it was fine – but the fourteen-hour flight from Seoul to New York was full of tears and sniffling. You're sure the woman next to you had been wondering if you were okay, but you're also almost positive that the fourteen-hour loop of 5SOS' Close As Strangers through your headphones spoke for itself.

You had met Euijoo at a bar a week after you landed in New York. Your apartment had long been ready and furnished, waiting for your arrival. You sullied it that same night by bringing him home, the aura of the apartment darkening the longer he stayed. And stayed, he did. It's like he had nowhere else to go, and you were far too nice about it, too. 

Hence, how he became your 'boyfriend' and how he 'moved in with you.' 

Bullshit; he went home to his mother's one-bedroom condo and picked up a dusty Playstation and a pillow he liked – that was his 'moving in.'

As for why Wonwoo doesn't like him, it's obvious – Euijoo is a loser. He has no goals, no sense of urgency, no whimsical nature – nothing like you. At least, that was what Wonwoo told you the first time you called him from New York…which was over six months since you left Seoul.

You wanted to believe there was a twinge of jealousy in Wonwoo’s voice when you told him about Euijoo. His brows furrowed, he sucked his teeth more times than you could count, and he refused to meet him when you offered to have him say hello.

You couldn't lie to yourself, you knew your relationship with Wonwoo was dwindling. Your calls were growing sparse, he didn’t tell you anything about his personal life, and you still hadn’t gone back home. To him, to your friends, to your parents. The two of you had grown up together, just slightly out of each other's circles. There were two or three people who were your 'friends of friends' that connected you, before Mingyu was the first official bridge between the two of you in the seventh grade. You went on to date Mingyu for three years during high school, before you wound up going to a different university than he did – but attended with Wonwoo, instead. You hated to admit it, but you knew that you clung to Wonwoo like gum did a shoe. You hid behind his broadening frame at fraternity parties, you would ask him over to your dorm (and later, your apartment) for game nights. You eventually started baking for him – cookies, cupcakes, the like. And then you met Seungcheol, on your way to Wonwoo's apartment. You slammed into him, painting his white t-shirt and shorts in pink icing – and you remembered stuttering over your words as you watched his brows furrow while he wiped icing off his stomach. He ended up clicking his tongue, nodding his head and shrugging.

"I guess you can call it avant garde, right?"

The two of you exchanged numbers, and you wound up being late to Wonwoo's place – but at that time, it didn't matter. Not when you scored a date with an older boy that had pouty lips and the thickest thighs you'd ever had the pleasure of seeing. Wonwoo had noticed you were giggly that night, but chose to brush it off when he walked behind you and saw you typing away to an unsaved number.

You and Seungcheol ended up dating for about a year, but the jealousy issues began before your relationship even started. He knew Wonwoo, and they were on the same soccer team – but something about the way Wonwoo spoke about you seemed to tick him off. No matter how often your lips were on his, your hands on his body, your body in his bed – Seungcheol's eyes always narrowed at the sight of Wonwoo floating around you for whatever reason, even if you initiated contact. 

You cheered at all his games, but Wonwoo was also there even if you wore one of Seungcheol's jerseys. You invited him to your bake sales, yet Wonwoo was always the one taste testing your recipes. You invited Seungcheol to your birthday dinner, and Wonwoo was naturally there.

Wonwoo recounting memories of you as a kid at dinner was what made Seungcheol make the decision to break up with you the following week. He paced around his apartment while you sat on his couch, rattling off all the ways that Wonwoo spoke about you that meant so much more than just a platonic love.

And you didn't comfort Seungcheol, or refute his thoughts. 

In fact, you denied them. You said there was no way Wonwoo saw you as anything more than his friend, you insisted that Wonwoo seeing you in the worst moments of your life was enough to make him feel icky about dating you.

It wasn't until Seungcheol crouched in front of you, holding your hands in his that you understood that he wasn't kidding. He told you that part of growing old together and being in love is seeing each other in those situations and still choosing to care and stay. He told you that Wonwoo holding your hair back as you threw up, Wonwoo knowing all your siblings' names and their favorite things, Wonwoo seeing you riddled with the flu and gross stomach bugs…

Wonwoo cared about you far more than he let on.

You left Seungcheol's apartment that night with a heavy heart and holding the stained white shirt from the first day you met him in your hand. It was still soaked in his cologne, and you remember crying yourself to sleep for two weeks straight.

Wonwoo had been there, and when you told him everything Seungcheol had said – he'd apologized.

He didn't deny anything. He didn't refute any of Seungcheol's feelings.

He apologized, for both making Seungcheol feel that way as well as being the straw that broke the camel's back. You hadn't known what to say, so you just offered to let him stay over and bake cookies with you.

He did, and the two of you gorged yourselves on white chocolate chip cookies while watching White Chicks. You cried again while he was there, and he wiped your tears and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. He held you close as you pouted into his shirt, the soft scent of patchouli from his cologne settling into your skin as a blanket of comfort.

You also remember peering up at him through teary eyes, and his lips instinctively pressing to your hairline. His mumbled words never left your mind, either.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay.”

You didn't date again for a bit after that, and Wonwoo made it a point to introduce you as his friend any time the two of you hung out. It made you feel odd, the way he forced the agenda that you were his friend and nothing more when you had no issue just going with the flow. You understood he didn't want a repeat of your relationship with Seungcheol, but it felt like he was forcing something more than just the label of your friendship.

People often asked if something had happened between the two of you — of which you always denied casually. If they asked Wonwoo, he would scoff, as if he were offended anyone would ever think you were more than just his friend. As if it was gross, or repulsive, to see you as a woman and not just the girl he grew up with. You met Hansol the next school year, a cheeky cinematography freshman that frequented your bake sales. Wonwoo met him there as well, and was the reason you and Hansol met formally. Apparently, Wonwoo and Hansol were both in the AV Club, where Wonwoo also met his first girlfriend: Lee Jaehee.

Lee Jaehee...  

She had also been quite the frequenter of your bake sales. She enjoyed your slutty brownies and the strawberry blondies you made, and the two of you had been so close to becoming friends when Wonwoo asked her out. He'd even asked you to bake something for her and you did it happily, free of charge. However, Wonwoo asking her out meant her finding out that you and him went back over two decades, and the same look that settled in Seungcheol's brows, settled in hers. It was painful, to see how she would tense at your presence at Wonwoo's soccer games, ones you'd always attended. It hurt your feelings to see her give you a quick smile before passing by your booths at the bake sales, not bothering to stop by for a nibble or a chat.

It pained you to know that Wonwoo missed your birthday dinner that year to spend the weekend with her, instead. You wound up going over to Seungcheol's apartment that night, and he comforted you as best as he could – by offering a drink and inviting his friends Jeonghan and Joshua over to entertain you. Despite it all, Seungcheol never really held any resentment towards you – but he did have zero problem telling you how blind you were.

You ignored it, too.

You didn’t like the odd feeling you got in your chest thinking about Wonwoo in any way that wasn’t platonic. You weren't stupid – Wonwoo was incredibly profound with a hint of goofy humor. He was smart, and tall…and handsome…God, he was so handsome, it made you want to bite your fist.

So the idea of his hands on you? His lips on yours, his bed being more than just a drunken sanctuary…

It was too much for you to handle. 

You started dating Hansol during the first semester of your senior year of college. He'd just become a sophomore, and everyone around him had been incredibly surprised that the senior sweetheart at the bake sales stopped making her incredibly soft peanut butter cookies. The reason? Hansol, and his allergy to peanuts.

No one said shit after that, only cooing at your boyfriend's blushy cheeks from your attention.

Your relationship with Hansol also came as a surprise to Wonwoo, and he found out in the strangest way – by walking into your apartment using his spare key and seeing the two of you getting frisky in the kitchen and covered in flour. You hadn't heard him come in, and didn't seem to sense his presence in the threshold of your kitchen. You don't know it, but Wonwoo has the image of you burned in his mind. The slope of your neck as Hansol kissed down it, the way your shirt was pushed up to reveal flour-covered handprints on your bare chest, the way your thighs were flexing around your boyfriend's waist… The sound of your whimper into Hansol's mouth.

He then made his presence known by coughing exaggeratedly, and you and Hansol almost slipped. Wonwoo rolled his eyes as Hansol yanked your shirt back into place, clearing his throat and greeting Wonwoo.

"How long have you been there?"

"Long enough to know that there is no way eating flour out of each other's mouths is sexy." Wonwoo had come over to tell you that he and Jaehee broke up, and he did tell you – but on his way out of your apartment. You could barely hear him as the door closed, but you were also trying to finish what you and your boyfriend started in the kitchen — so you filed it to the back of your mind as you invited Hansol to join you in the shower.

It wasn't until after graduation that you decided to open a pastry shop. However, you were unsure that your at-home learning was enough to satisfy a gaggle of clientele – and decided to start applying to pastry schools. You’d already obtained a business degree, which made the idea only cement further in your head. Hansol had been incredibly supportive, even going as far as sending you applications and fee waivers while he was in class and you were driving around Seoul with Wonwoo looking for work for the time being.

Then you got a letter back from a pastry school in New York City, and Hansol was ecstatic. He paid for your flight and even took a week off school to go visit it with you. He wound up setting up meetings with realtors so you could get an apartment, and the two of you even went as far as looking at empty lease spaces where you could open a business.

You accepted the offer, and the school covered your flight back to Seoul and then back to New York City. Your parents covered your first year of rent at an apartment in SoHo, after you sent back videos of you spinning in the SeaGlass Carousel and having dinner at Shuka.

However, something changed when you went back to Seoul to pack your things. You also realized you had done all of this without even mentioning it to Wonwoo, who seemed slightly distant when you finally met him for dinner at his place after packing up your apartment. Mingyu and Tzuyu had also been there. Hansol also seemed distant for a few days, not bothering to answer your messages or calls. You showed up at his apartment, only for Seungkwan to answer the door with a knowing look and tell you he wasn't home. You remember scowling, and pushing past Seungkwan to see Hansol asleep in his bedroom, tucked away with a Star Wars blanket you'd bought him for his birthday. 

You picked a fight, and Hansol wasn’t having it — said he wasn’t in the right headspace to have this conversation, and asked to rain check it for a better time. You argued there was no better time than the present, and his swollen face (whether from tears or sleep, you were unsure) was enough to make you back off for the time being. He quietly asked you to join him in his bed, and you reluctantly kicked your shoes off and did just that.

He promised he still cared, and promised he still loved you, but it felt different, the way he held you. Like a last hurrah, like a ‘goodbye’ and not a ‘see you later.’ Like things were going to end and there was nothing you could do to change his mind.

You couldn't say you were surprised that Hansol broke up with you a month later, but you were certainly hurt. Wonwoo was also nowhere to be reached at this point, your calls going straight to voicemail and your texts going unread. You assumed he'd finally landed a gig, but it was still unlike him to not respond to you, of all people.

At least, you thought that was what had happened, until you saw his Instagram story.

You stopped wondering where he'd been after that.

It had been four years since then. You hadn't gone back to Seoul once, not even for Christmas or when your parents begged you back. You called for birthdays, you sent gifts out two months in advance. You sent photos of your shop, of your apartment, of you and Euijoo.

Your parents didn't really care about the ones Euijoo was in.

You finally opened your pastry shop in the middle of Harlem – two years after arriving in New York, tweaking your recipes to cater to the local clientele. Your shop was always full of customers and you loved what you did – but most of all, the people loved you. They loved seeing how easily you won people over, how you celebrated your accomplishments by putting even more effort into your business, how your employees cared about you and your shop.

You truly became an essential part of some people's lives – Ms. Julianna who came in every morning for a chocolate éclair; Mr. Cortéz came in every Saturday morning for a box of mixed empanadas and one butterscotch cupcake for his granddaughter, Elisa; Mrs. Stegenga sliding in every Tuesday for a strawberry tart and a cup of unsweetened whipped cream for her dog, Harley. 

Euijoo came in everyday as well, but not for a pastry – but to bug you. You'd kicked him out a few times, shoving a warm cinnamon twist into his mouth or an iced matcha with cheese foam into his hand – but he always floated back.

Which was odd, since he didn't have a car and it took thirty minutes to get from your apartment in SoHo to your shop in Harlem. Where he was getting the money for the taxi, or to load his Metrocard was beyond you – the son of a bitch didn't lift a finger.

Now, you're here. You're still at your shop, while Euijoo is likely sprawled out on your king-sized bed, with his outside clothes still on. You're grimacing to yourself as you smooth icing out on one of the cupcakes, your brow furrowed as you hear Wonwoo sigh.

"I miss you." And just as fast as it was said, he moved on.

"Since you're not going to sleep, how was your birthday? I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to call, I've been slammed with projects. Tzuyu booked me for engagement photos, isn't that crazy?" Much like your friends missed out on your life, you missed out on theirs. Mingyu and Tzuyu opened a restaurant in the middle of Seoul, and you missed it. Mingyu and Tzuyu had their first daughter, and you missed it. Mingyu and Tzuyu got engaged, and you missed it. You wouldn't be surprised if you missed their wedding, too.

Wonwoo? He opened a photography studio. He did weddings, all sorts of parties, maternity shoots. He did boudoir shoots for a bit, before handing them over to his business partner, Saerom. She had been introduced to Wonwoo through a few contacts at your old university, and he took her on as an apprentice. She now accompanies him to many shoots and gigs, usually taking the reins if Wonwoo loses his patience or gets too overwhelmed.

You'd seen his photos displayed at a few galleries after you left for New York. Your mother went and took pictures of his exhibits, his shy smile hidden behind flutes of champagne. You congratulated him via text, only to receive a thumbs up in response and nothing more.

"Yeah, that's crazy. Listen, Woo, I'm gonna try and focus on this. I'll call you later, yeah?" You sighed, frustration evident in your voice. You watched as Wonwoo struggled not to roll his eyes as he tongued his cheek, before nodding.

"Sure thing. Get some rest."

He hung up before you could respond, and you looked at the FaceTime log. Eight missed calls from Wonwoo over the last few days, three missed calls from Tzuyu and two from Mingyu.

Your friends missed you, across the world. You were missing every precious moment of theirs.

And instead, you were here. Frosting cupcakes at almost three in the morning, while your do-nothing boyfriend enjoyed the warmth of your apartment. Frosting cupcakes, while your parents begged you to come home for a few days at the very least.

The money here was good. It always had been, and you'd built such a good connection with your clientele and you couldn't imagine abandoning it all because you were homesick.

But you missed home. You missed your mother's hearty soups, you missed your father serving you dinner instead of you serving Euijoo after a long day of doing that for strangers. You missed Tzuyu's light laughter, Mingyu's warm embraces…

Wonwoo. God, you missed Wonwoo.

You remember sending him a photo of your storefront as the sign was finalized, the baby blue calling to the eyes amongst the red brick.

Msg To: Jeon Wonwoo ♡ [11/09] look at it! goyangi sweets is officially in business! (read: 1:09PM)

Msg From: Jeon Wonwoo ♡ [11/09] goyangi?

Msg To: Jeon Wonwoo ♡ [11/09] what the fuck are you doing awake? it's 3am in seoul [11/09] yeah, goyangi. i miss you (read: 1:10PM)

He hadn't answered after that.

Sighing, you clicked your tongue and leaned against your stainless steel counter. You grabbed a cupcake off the cooling rack, prying the warm dessert in half and smearing a bit of frosting on the inside, shoving it into your mouth. You closed your eyes as you chewed, letting your shoulders sag at the sweet treat that made all the stress worth it.

It was worth it, right? The money and the love from the locals, the feeling of physical success…it was enough. It was worth the lonely nights you yearned for 

You wiped your hands, moving to the front of the shop and dragging the metal divider down to block the view of outsiders. You weren't opening the shop today, no. You're going to go home, and kick Euijoo out of your bed and sleep.

That's all you need. Some sleep.

– SOPHOMORE YEAR: SEOUL HAWKS VS YONSEI EAGLES, SEMIFINALS.

"We have No. 08, Choi Seungcheol approaching the goal area for the freekick. Choi is the team captain for the SNU Hawks, and the only PreMed student on the team. He has also scored fifty-six percent of all game-winning goals this season, and we're hoping this kick gets them into the Championship bracket."

You were on the edge of your seat, your frame being swallowed by one of Seungcheol's jerseys. You were alone in the stands for the first time – Mingyu and Tzuyu were stuck at the concessions stand. Unfortunately, you were also the only person on this side of the field wearing an SNU jersey, and trying not to tweak out as you listened to Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin talk about your boyfriend over the PA.

"Oh, oh, looks like Choi is not taking the freekick after all?" Jimin's voice was clear, and the crowd collectively sighed as Seungcheol analyzed the players and shook his head.

You were barely able to sit down as you watched him jog over to his referee, making motions with his hands and arms when you saw Wonwoo crossing the field in a sprint. He slid next to Seungcheol, who pulled him closer into the circle and kept talking. Wonwoo's brows were furrowed as he nodded, breathing heavily before wiping his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. "It seems Choi has nominated No.17, Jeon Wonwoo, to take the freekick instead. Jeon is the second in command, dedicating two years of his college career to this team. He's scored sixteen percent of the game-winning goals this season, opting to stay in the shadows." You didn't like that.

"Alright, alright…it seems we're lining up…Eagles are looking fine this year, aren't they?" "Jeon, that's inappropriate." "What, man? You're going to look at Kim Yugyeom and say I'm wrong?" "Jungkook, they can hear you."

"Hey, shit. Here's your soda." Tzuyu slides in next to you, and you don't unglue your eyes from the field as you reach and fumble for your drink. The straw poked your hand as Mingyu slid past you, making you scowl as you swatted his leg for him to sit down.

"Wonwoo's taking the kick? I thought it was going to be Cheol." Mingyu muttered, taking a bite from his hot dog. You nodded, watching as Wonwoo shook his head while still talking to Seungcheol. His hands were moving rapidly, likely explaining why Wonwoo didn't want to make the kick. Your boyfriend only gave Wonwoo a stern look, and you could make out the words falling from his lips.

"I believe in you. Kick the fucking ball."

You watched as the Eagles made their wall, their goalie shaking his legs out. Kwon Soonyoung, you remembered – you'd met him at a frat party at Yonsei a few weeks back. Seungcheol had gone with you, making friends with the enemy (more like scoping out his competition. Sneaky bitch.) "C'mon, Woo." You mumbled to yourself, grabbing Tzuyu's hand for support as she shoved a nacho into her mouth. You were too amped up to eat, this kick was the one that would settle the score – and it was all on Wonwoo.

You knew Seungcheol wouldn't put anyone he didn't trust on this sort of line. Yeah, he had an issue with how close you and Wonwoo were, but his team was important to him – he'd built this one on his own, handpicked, the best of the best. You trusted Seungcheol knew what he was doing, and that he wouldn't set up Wonwoo for failure…

…And he didn't, as you watched Wonwoo's kick bounce off the goalpost and straight into the net – just barely missing Soonyoung's fingertips.

"THE HAWKS ARE GOING TO THE CHAMPIONSHIPS!"

You cheered happily, the only one besides Mingyu and Tzuyu – and earned the nastiest of glares from Yonsei students as you ran down the steps of the bleachers. Seungcheol was jumping with his arms around Wonwoo and another player, Wen Junhui, when you pushed past them to get to your friend.

"Wonwoo! That was fucking amazing!"

He just shook his head, aiming the water bottle into his mouth as he gestured towards Seungcheol.

"That's all Cheol's idea. Mastermind behind it all." You whipped around to see your grinning boyfriend being shaken by Mingyu, trying to pry himself from your friend's embrace as you felt the cold splash of the water cooler being poured on Wonwoo. It went down your back as well, making you squeal as you jumped out of the way. Seungcheol reached his arm out to you, and you grabbed his hand as his teammates picked a soaked Wonwoo up and onto their shoulders.

"We'll meet you at the parking lot!" Mingyu yelled as he and Tzuyu trailed after them, and Seungcheol only gave a thumbs up. It was customary that the entire team went to dinner together, usually still in their stinky and sweaty jerseys but Seungcheol had long refused to let the team be represented that way. Everyone went home to get themselves together, then he footed the bill.

"Cheol, that was great! You're going to the championships!" Your smile was hurting your cheeks as he nodded, pulling you into his chest. He was sweaty and overwhelmingly warm, but you didn't care as he plucked the fabric of your wet shirt off your back in greeting.

"You know…you could've greeted me first." "Oh, not this again! Seungcheol, Wonwoo is just my friend." "I know he is, Y/N." Seungcheol said pointedly, but you felt scrutinized under his arched brow. You felt your lip jut out into a pout, and he sighed, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"C'mon, you can come over to mine and change." He swept your hair back over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your neck. You frowned, your hands floating to his wrists as he shook his head.

"Tell me you love me, Cheol." "I love you, honey. Come on."

It wasn't a lie. Seungcheol did love you, but it'd slightly become less of a romantic love as the months pressed on. He couldn't get over the odd feeling in his stomach when he saw Wonwoo's soft gestures towards you, the way Wonwoo served your drinks at the parties you went to, the way Wonwoo behind a camera made you smile easily – far easier than necessary for someone that was just your friend.

He hated how you didn't see it, the way Wonwoo was in love with you. He could see it, and he knew it was the truth: Wonwoo would visibly tense at the sound of your name. Seungcheol remembers when Junhui asked him his plans last week, and how Wonwoo grimaced when Seungcheol said he was taking you on a date night.

He didn't like feeling this way. He didn't like feeling like his jealousy was festering in the pit of his stomach while you saw it as nothing more than just friendly banter. Granted – Wonwoo never flirted with you, never touched you inappropriately, he never crossed the line.

But the soft compliments he gave you? The gentle swipe of your hair off your face and the adjustment of your necklaces?

The way he calmly called your name, or sweetheart from across the room…

And you listened.

It wasn't your fault. Seungcheol knew it wasn't, and he felt like a fool to keep feeling so much resentment towards Wonwoo – especially when Wonwoo also made it strictly known that everything he felt was platonic.

It just didn't feel that way.

"I love you, Cheol." "I know, honey. Now…let's get dinner?"

– FIVE YEARS AGO: INCHEON AIRPORT TO LAGUARDIA, NEW YORK.

"I'm sorry."

You were standing in the middle of Incheon Airport, your duffle bag tucked over your shoulder when Hansol dropped the bomb.

"Sorry?" You whispered, your voice shaky as the reality of his words sank in.

It'd been a few days since you packed your last box and dropped it off at your parents' house. Hansol had gone with you, warmly greeting your parents and sitting in your living room, your mother showing him baby photos. You remember feeling your heart race at how Hansol traced your face in the pictures, before glancing up at you.

The wild beating in your chest hadn't been positive, and there was a glint of knowing in Hansol's eyes. The relationship was over, it was just a matter of who pulled the plug, and when. It had been a month or so since you settled everything in New York, and a month since either of you spoke about it. You had gone to his apartment and looked to pick a fight – but the fight never happened. He pulled you into him, and you had snuggled in his bed. You kissed, you watched movies…

But it was a goodbye and you denied it. In your heart, in your mind, you wanted to deny it. It was a good thing, wasn't it? To be in New York and know that Hansol had connections there? His sister lived there. If he wanted…if he wanted, he could come with you. Transfer to a university in New York, and it would be worth it. To study in a place he once called home, to breathe in the inspiration of the city that has been the background of hundreds of films, the breeding ground of insane creativity? And if not…what about you? Were you enough to want to move in with? Did he see a future with you where things were more than just college sweethearts who stayed over at each other's apartments more than four times a week? Did he understand who you were, to the depths – the need to love, because you were overflowing with it?

Did he see a future where you were more than just attached at the hip with Wonwoo?

The truth was, he did. He saw it all with you – the apartment, the marriage, hell, even a kid or two. He saw all of it, a ring and a career alongside you and to see all your hopes and aspirations grow into something tangible. He saw it.

You didn't.

"I know it's shitty of m-me to do this, especially n-now." He held back his tears, but his voice shook with bitten back sobs anyway. "But I can't. I c-can't do long distance."

Somehow, he knew you knew that wasn't the real reason. He knew, from the way the back of your eyes filled with hurt and betrayal, the grip on your duffle making the strap burrow into your hand. The way you bounced on your toes, once, twice – before nodding. A singular tear rolled down your face.

"It's okay. I understand." Your voice had been surprisingly steady as he hesitated, before reaching his arms out. You stepped into them, and somehow felt the weight off your shoulders as he hugged you tightly. "I'll miss you, Sol." "I miss you already, babe. Please call me when you land, okay? I'll be up, I swear."

You had called him when you landed. He'd arranged to have a car pick you up and take you to your new apartment. He finally cried on the phone, and you sobbed with him as you made your bed and settled in.

After six hours of reminiscing and crying on the phone, you hung up for what you thought would be the last time. He wished you good luck, and to call him whenever you wanted. And God, you wanted to.

But just like Wonwoo, you left it alone. Six months, not a single word.

– PRESENT: LAGUARDIA AIRPORT TO JEON WONWOO, HOME.

You looked into the empty space you used to call your second home. Gone were the calming periwinkle walls, the gold-detailed pastry cases. Gone were your cherry wood bar stools, the wicker recliners in the corner, the play areas for children. 

Your shop was gone, and you held the keys in your hand one last time.

"End of an era, huh? Where are you going to go now?" Mr. Cortéz was next to you, holding his granddaughter on his hip as you sighed.

"I'm not sure. I'm going to miss Harlem, but I know that…this isn't home." You said sheepishly, running a hand through your hair. He nodded, patting your shoulder with a sympathetic smile.

"We're going to miss you here, mija. You will always have a place in Harlem with us." To say you wanted to cry was an understatement, but you just blinked the tears back as you allowed him and his granddaughter to envelope you into an embrace. "I left my cupcake recipe with your wife, so you can always make them for Elisa. I'm going to miss you."

"Be safe, okay? Don't give up on your dreams." He patted your back softly, and you held back a sniffle as your leasing agent gave you a soft smile. Goodbyes were never something you were good at, but you couldn't say anything more as you handed your keys back to the leasing agent and turned to your packed car. You grimaced at the sight of Euijoo's neck pillow still in your passenger seat, and you reached in through the window to grab it and shoved it in the trash.

You sighed, glancing up at your empty shop once more before slipping into the driver's seat, gripping the glittery wheel cover. You blinked once, twice, before shoving your key in the ignition and pulling out of your parking spot. 

You truly had no idea if this was the right decision. In your mind, you weren't sure.

But your heart?

You broke up with Euijoo a few months ago, and kicked him out of your apartment. You slowly started selling everything in the apartment, only packing your essentials and finding a wholesale thrift to take all your furniture from the pastry shop. You closed the shop officially a week ago, and did a mass bake sale to finish all your products. 

You went back and forth to Seoul without telling anyone, finding a cozy apartment in Gangnam and meeting with a leasing agent there to open a shop. Your parents long stopped asking you to come home, but you couldn't help and feel giddy as you walked around the city – gorging yourself on hot street food and buying furniture for your new apartment without interference.

Now? You just had to board your plane. You'd sold your car to Euijoo's brother, Hyunjin, and he was waiting at the airport to take it once you left. You had zero plans of telling anyone anything, and you'd be landing in Seoul the day before your birthday. You could catch up on any sleep, and then visit Mingyu and Tzuyu's restaurant. Maybe get dinner there, maybe catch up with the couple…

Maybe surprise Wonwoo.

Yeah, that sounds like the plan.

"Nice change of scenery, finally took a vacation?" Wonwoo's voice is once more staticky through FaceTime, and you've got him propped up in your new bathroom. You hadn't said anything about leaving New York yet, but you shrugged as you carefully lined your lips.

"Mhm, could say that. Finally get to do shit without Euijoo weighing me down. What are your plans tonight? Going to Gyu's?" You ask nonchalantly, but you can feel your hands trembling as you put down your lipliner. If Wonwoo notices, he doesn't say anything.

"Actually, I'm going to swing by the restaurant in a bit. We always call you for your birthday, you know, so it's funny you called me first." He nods lightly, but you know Wonwoo too well to think he's not even slightly suspicious. "Wanted to beat you to it, I guess. I feel alone here a bit, the resort is super nice but I'm so…ugh, I don't know. I might go out for a beer, see what kind of trouble I can get myself into." You wiggle your brows in the camera, and Wonwoo snorts. He swings his keys in front of him, shaking his head as he speaks.

"Not too much trouble, I hope. Have you talked to your parents yet? I know your mom misses you, you've been even more MIA since you and Euijoo broke up. I commend it, don't get me wrong, but still. Where the hell have you been?" "Healing." You shrug, smushing your cheek with the palm of your hand. Wonwoo doesn't look like he believes you, but you only give him a soft smile. He tries to bite his back, tonguing his cheek as he huffs. 

"You look happier. I like that." "I feel happier, Woo." It's not a lie. You feel so much lighter being back in Seoul, knowing that your family and friends are no more than a train ride away.

You pretend to check your watch, sucking your teeth.

"Shit, I'm going to miss my dinner reservation. Will you still call me when you get to the restaurant? I miss you guys." You pout, tucking your hair behind your ears as Wonwoo nods.

"Yeah, no worries. Be safe, and don't get too tipsy. I can't hold your hair when you throw up from all the way over here, you know." He scolds, making you giggle.

"Got it. I'll see you, yeah?" You nod, and he does the same.

"See you, sweetheart." The call goes dead as your heart registers the pet name, but you immediately rustle out of the bathroom to catch a taxi. You're wearing a black crew neck over a nice pair of jeans, paired with your favorite dirty Chucks in forest green. You grab your winter coat off the hook by the door, tugging it on and shoving your phone in your pocket. Checking the coat pockets for your wallet and keys, you find both in the left pocket and practically slam out of your apartment.

Not having been to Mingyu and Tzuyu's restaurant definitely proved navigating there to be difficult. You got out a block away from the actual spot, tugging a face mask over your face and pulling the hood of your coat over your hair. You take a deep breath, taking a step forward when you see a tall man step out of a taxi, a black coat covering broad shoulders. Thick frames sit on his nose, the lower half of his face covered by a black mask. You squint your eyes to see closer as he hands the driver a wad of cash, and the crinkle of his nose proves it's exactly who you're looking for.

Jeon Wonwoo.

You stay rooted in your spot as he walks coolly into the restaurant, holding the door open for a woman and her daughter to slip out. The daughter's eyes widen as he moves past them, her cheeks flushing as her mother rushes her off the sidewalk. What a funny thing, to see someone else experience the same things you do.

Over the year that you decided to leave New York, you spoke to Hansol and Seungcheol a lot – even after promising 'this is the last call,' you called them again and again. As it turns out, he too felt that Wonwoo was a bigger part of your life than he could ever be, but it didn't hit him until he found out Wonwoo had missed every single AV Club meeting in the two weeks following him finding out that the two of you were dating. Wonwoo didn't speak to Hansol directly for over a month, until Hansol confronted him and got the answers he was looking for.

Wonwoo had long been in love with you, and had gone over to your apartment initially to, yes, tell you he'd broken up with Jaehee; but he also went over there to confess to you. He'd brought over a bouquet of pink camellias, but left them on the porch in case he caught you at a bad time – and Hansol later found out he threw them away on his way out of your apartment complex.

At first, Hansol had nothing to say on the matter. You were his girlfriend — but he couldn’t lie to himself, the guilt of knowing Wonwoo had been in love with you for so long was starting to eat away at him. With a reluctant heart, he ended things; only for Wonwoo’s dumbass to not make a move and let you slip away to New York.

You'd also heard from Seungcheol and Hansol that he hadn't kept a girlfriend around for too long since – nothing to write home about. He didn't introduce any of them to anyone, just soft launched here and there on social media but mostly kept the "situationships" to himself. 

The only hope you had in your belly was that your plan would go, well, according to plan. You'd ordered a bouquet of flowers, pink camellias, to be delivered to Wonwoo at the restaurant after you arrived. After that…okay you didn't plan anything after that, but spontaneity is cool, right?

You wipe your palms on your coat, taking a deep breath as you walk towards the door. Yanking it open, you hear the doorbell alert the people inside – only to see a few people scattered around. Mingyu is wiping a glass down behind the bar and Tzuyu is sitting on a barstool next to Wonwoo, her left hand sitting atop her belly.

With a huge rock on her ring finger. "Welcome to Hana's! Have a seat anywhere, we'll be right with you!" Her voice is just as warm as ever, and you find yourself forcing your feet to move, ducking your head as you head towards the back of the restaurant. You see Mingyu lean over to grab a bottle off the wall, and you slide into one of the booths where you're out of sight but they're not.

You can hear them start to talk about you, Mingyu pouring Wonwoo a beer and sliding it across the bar.

"Has Y/N spoken to either of you?" Tzuyu asks, and Wonwoo clicks his tongue.

"Yeah, she called me earlier. It was a little odd, considering we always call her. But it's her birthday, I'm not going to badger her for answers. Plus, she's on vacation for once. Can't complain." He shrugs, and Mingyu laughs softly.

"Vacation? Where? Did she say?" "I didn't ask." Wonwoo replies, and Tzuyu snorts. "You'd be a horrible spy, Jeon. Here, I'm going to call her. She's gotten better at answering."  You watch Tzuyu grab her phone off the table, and quickly lower your ringer as far as it will go. She faces the phone towards all of them, and Wonwoo looks unamused as you feel your phone start vibrating in your hand. 

You deny the call, quickly texting her that you're driving to dinner and will call her when you get to the restaurant. A lie, and you can see her frown sadly next to Wonwoo. She puts her phone down, sliding off the bar stool – likely on her way to you.

"Gonna take this order, I'll be right back." She grabs the notepad off the bar, but the ringing of the doorbell grabs her attention. A delivery man with a huge bouquet of flowers slips in, holding the baby blue gift card in his hand.

"For Jeon Wonwoo? Is there a Jeon Wonwoo here?" Wonwoo's eyes go wide, before he clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. That's me, thank you. Does it say who they're from?" The delivery man hands him the card, bidding everyone a good night.

"Well?" Mingyu leans over as Wonwoo puts the flowers down on the bar and flips the card open. His eyes dart back and forth as he reads it, before handing it to Mingyu, who reads it out loud while Wonwoo thumbs the petals.

To Wonwoo,

Thank you for always being someone I can count on, even when I'm halfway across the world. Thank you for looking out for me, and for loving me more than you let on.

Always yours, Y/N.

P.S. Don't forget to call me back!

"Huh." Mingyu clicks his tongue, and Tzuyu grabs the card and scans it. She sighs, holding it to her chest.

"Camellias…" Wonwoo pouts, before his eyes narrow. "They're her favorite. It's like she's trying to tell me something." "Okay, mind reader. What could she possibly have to say that isn't already in the card?" Tzuyu waves it around, and you take it as your chance to slide out of the booth, hands in your pockets. You walk towards them quietly as Mingyu and Tzuyu begin to theorize, and neither of them look your way as you slide into the barstool diagonal to Wonwoo's.

"She probably wants to know what a girl's gotta do to get some service around here." You mumble, and Tzuyu flushes, about to apologize when you carefully slip your mask off.

"But I guess you can treat me, since it is my birthday." You shrug, Mingyu's eyes widening before he covers his face and sinks to the ground behind the bar. Tzuyu scoffs out a laugh, her eyes filling with tears as she pulls your hood off your head, her hands smoothing your hair down gently.

"You're home." She whispers, her belly getting in the way as she pulls you into her. You feel your eyes burn with tears as she buries her face in your hair, your hand moving to pat her back. "I am, I missed you guys." You murmur, and Mingyu hops over the bar to also crush you in his embrace. You can barely see out of your teary eyes, but you can see Wonwoo's cheeks flushed almost as pink as the flowers, the shock in his demeanor evident but he just clears his throat and looks away.

"How long are you here for? A week? A month? Please say a month, you have to meet our kids." Mingyu begs into your hair, and you can barely conjure words as Wonwoo stays silent. "Shit, I'll even buy you a new ticket back to New York if you stay for two months." You don't respond, waiting for the couple to pull away. You wiggle lightly, making them both move back as you wipe your eyes. "I'm here for good. I have a new place in Gangnam, and I'm opening a shop a few blocks from here. I'm…I'm sorry I didn't tell any of you guys." You gesture towards Wonwoo as well, who only tongues his cheek before running the tips of his fingers around the rim of his beer. He nods, "Yeah. Welcome home, sweetheart." "You're not even going to hug me? Some friend you are." You try to joke, and Wonwoo scoffs,before reluctantly sliding off his stool. Tzuyu says something about getting you dinner, skirting out of the way. It seems Mingyu also gets the hint, moving away with the promise of a nice beer.

You're overwhelmed by the same patchouli scent on Wonwoo’s clothes, sweetened with notes of peach as he wraps his arms around your waist. Your own wrap around his shoulders, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest as he breathes you in softly. He nestles his head next to yours, and his breath is warm against your ear as he speaks.

"I've missed you so much, Y/N." He mumbles, and you feel his arms tighten slightly, as if you're going to slip away. "We need to have a serious conversation, though, because I am mad at you."

You scoff slightly, trying to hide your tears as you bury your face in his neck. He rubs your back gently, before pulling away and wiping your eyes carefully. "Later." You only nod, watching Tzuyu carefully walk over with a bowl of hot tofu stew, and Mingyu slides a pint glass across the bar for you.

You spend the next three hours consoling an emotional Tzuyu, and telling Mingyu all about the delicious dishes you tried in New York. He jests that the restaurant would love a pastry chef if you're willing to share your recipes, and you only snort and turn him down softly. You tell them all about Euijoo, only earning scoffs and huffs from the couple as Wonwoo nurses his beer silently. 

You tell them about your shop in Harlem, and how it was actually a call with Wonwoo last year that made you realize that you were unhappy – which made his cheeks flush, but he remained quiet, only nodding along. Tzuyu squeezes his shoulder, and he just nibbles on his lip as you keep talking about all the regulars you had. You tell them about your SoHo apartment and how you often visited the Seaglass Carousel if you were feeling stressed. You promised to take them there someday, if they ever wanted to see what your life was like when you were gone.

They fill you in about their own lives – planning their wedding, having their second daughter in a few weeks. They talk about their oldest, Eunha, and how she's growing up to be just like Mingyu. You hold back tears as they eagerly talk about their budding family and their beautiful relationship, often sharing looks full of adoration and admiration for one another as they spoke. You listen carefully, and Tzuyu even asks if, since you're back, you'd like to be a bridesmaid.

You agree, when Mingyu finally brings out a thick slice of his infamous chocolate cake – one that actually got you into baking but you'd never admit it. At least, not to him.

"Happy Birthday, Y/N! We're so glad you're home, seriously. It's been so dull without you." Tzuyu cheers, allowing Mingyu to light the pink candle in the middle of the slice. You smile softly, tucking your hair behind your ears as they sing to you softly – Wonwoo mouthing along from his stool.

"Make a wish." Mingyu holds it up to you, and you can't help but realize that he's a father now. Tzuyu is a mother, and they have their whole lives figured out. They're so gentle, loving, passionate…and you're still trying to figure yourself out.

Ah, but comparison is the thief of joy.

You close your eyes, sighing before conjuring your wish in your mind. 

You don't notice when Wonwoo takes a quick photo, the flash hidden by Tzuyu's shoulder.

You blow out the candle quietly, opening your eyes to see the couple clapping softly. Tapping the plate, you clear your throat.

"Can I get this in a box? I have some things I need to sort out before the night ends."

Mingyu and Tzuyu share a look, before she glances over her shoulder. You nod as she looks back at you, and she smiles.

"Well, we'll see you more often, right? You have to meet Eunha, and the baby." 

"Absolutely." And you mean it. You mean it as Mingyu boxes up your slice of cake, sealing it into a brown paper bag for you. You inch closer and closer to Wonwoo as the goodbyes become extensive, before splaying your hand across his back. He glances over his shoulder, a jump in his brows as if to say, ready to go?

You bid Mingyu and Tzuyu a good night, and you promise them you'll even try to come by in the morning for Mingyu's mother's oxtail soup. Mingyu says he can't promise there will be any up by the time you come by, but you make Tzuyu promise to save you a bowl. She does.

"When did you sell the shop?" Wonwoo asks as the two of you step out into the street, the cold air making his breath visible as he speaks. "And why didn't you tell me?" You look at the flowers in his arms, how he holds them like a baby.

"I was worried you'd be upset that I gave up." You murmur as the two of you begin to walk seemingly with no direction, earning a sigh from Wonwoo.

“I’m upset that you didn’t even think to tell me anything. I’m supposed to be your friend. One of your best friends, if I’m not mistaken. You move across the world and suddenly that doesn’t matter anymore?”

“Wonwoo, it’s not like that. I just…I should know what I want out of life. I should know where my heart calls home, but it’s only been a person. I’m not sure if the place matters.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair as Wonwoo flags down a taxi.

“Your place or mine?” He mutters, opening the door for you to slide in.

“Yours.” You mumble back, giving the driver a quick smile as Wonwoo shuts the door. He rattles off his address — and it’s the same building as yours.

“…I live there, too.” You whisper, and he clicks his tongue.

“Good to know.” He shrugs, before reaching over and tugging your seat belt on. He clicks in place, choosing to stay silent as the taxi weaves through the busy roads. You want to say something, and you attempt to several times — but he just shakes his head, pressing a finger to his lips as if to say wait.

And wait, you did.

You let him pay the taxi driver and help you out of the taxi. You let him lead you into the lobby, the security guard giving the both of you a curt nod as you duck into the elevator.

Wonwoo only lives a few doors down from you.

“Interesting.” You murmur to yourself. It’s like I’ll always find my way back to you.

He unlocked his door, holding it open for you to slip through. You did, silently toeing your shoes off in his foyer before stepping into his living room. Shrugging your coat off, you watch him flick the lights on.

Everything is so him. From stacked consoles on the side of his television, to a bookcase full of acoustic guitar records and a few thick books. A few of his cameras are strewn on his kitchen table, popped open and film exposed. His record player sits in front of his window, the blinds and curtains pushed open and the window slightly ajar to circulate the air. There is a mug on his coffee table, half full of what you assume to be green tea.

It smells like patchouli, peaches, and home.

His hand takes the bag from you, and he walks past you to place the flowers and the cake on his kitchen counter. He closes his eyes as he tugs his coat off, and you avert your eyes from his form-fitting shirt — opting to turn around and hang your coat on the rack by the door.

“Are you actually here for good? Or was that just something you said to appease Mingyu and Tzuyu?” He mutters, thumbing at the petals of the flowers once more. You sigh, crossing your arms as you sidle up next to him. Your hip bumps his as you lean on the counter, and his eyes avoid yours as you look up at him.

His shoulders are tense.

“I’m here for good, Wonwoo. I missed it here, I missed Mingyu and Tzuyu and I missed my parents.”

“What about me? Did you miss me?” 

His voice is so soft you almost can’t hear it, and you purposely bump your hip to his to garner his attention.

“Of course I missed you.” You whisper, a smile twitching at your lips as he nibbles on his lip.

“Then why didn’t you visit? Why did it take you six months to call me when you first moved? Why…Why did you date Euijoo?”

You feel your chest ache at his questions, the furrow in his brows making you push off the counter, straightening. Sighing, you rest your head on his bicep, the muscle tensing beneath your cheek.

“Sometimes we do things to fill a void, you know? Sometimes we hide from the things we know could be good for us, and look for something we think could be enough, so we won’t ruin or sully what we have already.” You shrug, and he looks down at you again.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I wish I would’ve realized how you felt about me before I left. I mean, I would’ve still gone but I would’ve visited more. I would’ve come back often, tried to make it work. I’m sorry.”

You peer up at him through your lashes, and he just shakes his head.

“My feelings here don’t matter, I’m talking about you.”

“You are a huge part of me, of my life.” You remind him, your hand ghosting over the small of his back as he huffs.

“So you abandoned your life in New York, your dream, for me?” Wonwoo sounds almost offended, and you scoff.

“I abandoned my life in New York because I missed home. I missed my parents, my friends. I miss talking to my friends when we’re all staying up late, not just when I am and I have to go to bed when the gab gets good. I…I missed walking around in the middle of the night with you, and getting heartburn from eating spicy noodles at two in the morning. Can’t I miss home, Wonwoo?”

He clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers on the counter. “I guess you can. But you said home for you is not a place, but a person.” 

“I did say that.”

He doesn’t say anything, picking at his nails silently before sighing.

“Did Hansol tell you about the flowers?” He murmurs, and you nod.

“You could’ve talked to me, especially between boyfriends. You had lots of chances, Seungcheol literally aired you out.” You say pointedly, and he rolls his eyes.

“You didn’t believe him, and I wasn’t going to ruin our friendship because I was feeling something you weren't.”

“And how do you know that I wasn’t?” You raise a brow, and he scoffs. He shoves his hands in his pockets, moving out of the kitchen to go sit on his couch. He leans his head against the wall, closing his eyes as you make your way over and perch on the edge of his mahogany coffee table.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday dinner that one year. I thought if I missed one, it’d be easier to start getting used to not seeing you. I was fully committed to getting over you, to moving on, even if I wasn’t happy with…fuck, I forgot her name.”

“Jaehee.”

“With Jaehee.” He ran his hand over his face, and you sigh.

“That was ages ago, Wonwoo. We move on.” You pat his knee, and he lifts his head to face you. His cheeks are slightly flushed as he takes a breath.

“I don’t want to move on, that’s the problem. You think I haven’t tried? Do you know how many relationships I’ve been in since you’ve left?”

“Mmh, I don’t. Do tell.” You nod, inching slightly closer, resting your elbows on your knees and clasping your hands together. He doesn’t look amused, running an exasperated hand through his hair and closing his eyes.

“I look for you everywhere, and I’ve never even had you. I can’t help but compare every single woman I’ve ever been with to you, Y/N. It’s driving me fucking insane, being in love with you.”

He’s hiding his face in his hands, and you feel your chest grow hot as you hum in response. You shift slightly, your knees bumping his and making him sigh.

“I mean, for years it's been like we're in this odd mesh of limerence and denial. You do something that makes me think, oh, maybe she's into me? You'd seek me out for comfort, for help, for whatever, and I was there. I am there, like an idiot, hoping you'll just get it. Then you date people who are in proximity to me – my best friend, my team captain, the secretary of my AV club. Then you leave. You left, Y/N." 

"I know." You can't recognize the thickness in the back of your throat, the way you swallow around it as he fiddles with one of his rings. "You didn't even come say goodbye, Wonwoo. Hansol ripped my heart out and handed it to me, because of you, and you weren't even there." "I didn't want to see you cry." He mumbles, and you only shake your head.

"You've seen me cry, you've seen me laugh. You've been the reason behind the tears and the laughter. You've seen me in all these weird spots in my life, you watched me date all these men. You were most of the reason as to why these men broke up with me. Yet, you never once thought that I was looking for you?" "Why would I ever give myself that much importance?" He scoffs, and you shrug. "Maybe because I give you that much importance, Wonwoo."

He sighs shakily, leaning back on the couch cushions and swallowing hard. "Did you know I got a few collections displayed in a museum after you left? Your parents went, did they send you photos?"

"Some. I liked the one of Tzuyu and Mingyu in the flower fields." He got up, skirting around your knees and walking up to the bookcase next to his TV. He scours the leather bound books, before a soft aha! falls from his lips, pulling out a green one. He flips it, and you realize it's a photo album.

He hands it to you, sitting back down on the couch. You open it tentatively, your fingers trembling as the photos come into view. They have that digital camera feel to them, a bit grainy and dated. The first photo was old, you could tell just from the image: it was you and Mingyu, sitting around a bonfire at a waterfall you would hang out at during the warmer months, one that went into a lake lined with boulders. You were dating here, and your nose had melted marshmallow swiped across it while Mingyu grinned in the corner of the photo.

"This is an old photo, Wonwoo." "They're all old, you haven't been around." He retorts, before flipping the page.

Another photo of you smiling as you laid out on the flat boulder by the edge of the lake, another of you on the handlebars of Mingyu's bike – you remember that one, it was Mingyu's seventeenth birthday. Another of you with Tzuyu solving a puzzle during one of Mingyu's visits, you and Hansol sharing a cup of lemonade during a snack run after one of Wonwoo's soccer games, you and Seungcheol swinging on a hammock in the park – where you often bumped into Wonwoo taking photos of birds, flowers, life.

There was photo after photo of you, in every moment of your life. There was a photo of the pink camellias he'd gotten for you, there was a photo of his student apartment packed up but one of your cardigans, bright red, stark against the cardboard boxes. This album, full of memories of you through his eyes – without a singular glimpse of Wonwoo, until the last photo.

It wasn't like the other photos – this was high definition, and you remember this photo being taken. You were wearing a pink t-shirt that had belonged to Wonwoo, and a necklace that Wonwoo had given to you for one of your birthdays. You were sitting on his couch, surrounded by Mingyu and Tzuyu. You had a bag of honey mustard pretzels that Wonwoo bought you in your lap, your smile shy and your fingers holding a napkin.

It was the day you finally told them you'd be leaving, just moments before.

And you remember how quietly he'd put his camera away after that, and your friends had settled uneasily around you. Wonwoo sat on his coffee table, eyes worried but masked with a soft smile – just like you were, now.

The album was empty after that, with only two or three pages left to complete it.

"This was an exhibit I arranged for the museum, but I never submitted it. I called it Hanging By A Moment, because that's what…" He takes a deep breath. "That's what this feels like. I feel like I'm just waiting for the moment to end, and I'm not sure in which direction I would prefer it to happen. Sometimes I would stay awake and wonder why I didn't go visit you, but I knew exactly why." You set the photo album on your lap, giving him a gentle look.

"You didn't want to see something that would break your heart." "I didn't want to see you happy with someone else, somewhere else." His voice is thick, and you move to speak but he shakes his head. 

"I didn't want to go somewhere and see you living so well without me, when I'm in shambles without you. I couldn't sleep most nights the first year that you were gone. I found myself still walking towards your apartment with Hansol. Hell, I've even hung out with Seungcheol, routinely, just to feel the influence of you. The essence of what you are, imprinted in the people you've graced with your presence." He's looking down at his hands, a singular tear rolling down his cheek. You feel like you can't breathe around the lump in your throat, as he glances up.

"I don't think I can handle this anymore. I need you to say nothing is ever going to happen between us, that the moment is over. I need you to end this, because if you don't, I never will."

You can't speak, but it doesn't matter – because he keeps going.

"I'd be perfectly content having you within arm's reach for the rest of my life, as long as you're happy. You could be across the world, hell, across the fucking universe and I'd never stop missing you, or yearning for you, or loving you. Befriending you all those years ago has got to be one of the biggest mistakes I have ever made, because I can't imagine a life without you. But loving you, being in love with you? Y/N, that has got to be the biggest grace I've ever been given by whatever God is out there. Nothing has ever been easier than loving you has been, but it is the most painful thing I've ever experienced. So, please. End this, I'm begging you." Your throat hurts from holding back your tears, a soft sob escaping your lips as you turn away. You let the tears run down your cheeks, using your hand to muffle your cries as he just lets his tears drip onto his jeans. You can see, through blurry eyes, the way he wants to reach for you, the way his hands clenched into fists before he shoves them under his thighs. 

It's silent for a moment, aside from shaky breathing and a few sniffles from Wonwoo. You wipe your eyes carefully, trembling hands gripping the edges of the album as you slide it onto the coffee table next to you. He grabs it, using it as an excuse to stand up and move around – Wonwoo always needed to do that after talking. Like he felt the need to exert all his feelings physically.

You also stand, his rug soft under your socked feet as he slides the album back in place. He doesn't turn back around, his hand lingering on the spine of the album as you round the coffee table. You're right behind him, seeing the buried tension in his back and shoulders as he feels your presence. You clear your throat as best as you can.

"I don't want the moment to end." He doesn't move, and you find yourself stepping in front of him, between the bookcase and his chest. He doesn't look at you, but allows your hands to find home on his chest. You smooth his shirt cautiously, before patting him gently.

He glances down.

"You're my home, Wonwoo." You say softly, feeling his breath hitch in his throat. Your hand moves to his jaw, your thumb gently tracing circles into his cheek. He has a bit of stubble, despite the cool scent of his aftershave. You can't help but let the sacred words slip from your lips as his eyes bore into yours.

"I love you." He looks away, a shaky sob from his lips making your heart ache as you rest your head on his chest. He instinctively wraps his arms around you, so used to your physical affection in years past that it's just muscle memory at this point – despite his own reserved affections. You're surrounded by his scent, his warmth, him.

"I know it won't be easy. I've been gone for five years, and I've missed so much of your life. I know my apologies count for near nothing at this point, but you can't sincerely believe that I haven't yearned for you every step of my journey away." You're slightly muffled, feeling the metal of his necklace under his shirt as he holds you closer, tighter. He doesn't reply, so you keep going.

"I love you, Wonwoo. I'm sorry I didn't allow myself to feel it before, and I'm sorry that I've made you wait so long. I'll wait, as long as you need me to. As long as you want me to wait, even if I die waiting–" "I'd wait an eternity for you." He murmurs into your hair, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

"You shouldn't say that, Wonwoo." "But I did, and I will. I'd die waiting for you, if that's what it takes."

You sigh, pressing your forehead to his chest. "Are you still mad at me?" For the first time in years, you hear him laugh softly. Your arms tighten around his waist reflexively, a pout on your lips as you peer up at him. "I missed your laugh." He huffs, cheeks tinging pink as he avoids your gaze, carding his fingers through your hair. "I'm still mad at you. I bet you paid a shit load of money for a cab from the airport, didn't you? You could've just told me to come pick you up. I would've done it." "I wanted to surprise you." "Well…what about your apartment? I didn't even get to recommend this place, you probably went through some real estate guy–" "You're just grappling at things to be mad about, aren't you?" "No. I am mad." He grumbles, his lip jutted out in a pout as you smile up at him.

"You sure? Can't I change your mind, my good sir?" You wiggle your brows, and he scoffs, but you see the twitch of a smile on the corner of his lips. He tongues his cheek as your hands move to his face, making him look down at you. "I'm sorry, Wonwoo." He rolls his eyes, your hands squishing his cheeks together. "Prove it." You quirk a brow, "Prove…what?" "That you love me. Prove it." He shrugs, moving your hands off his face and letting them go at your sides. You scoff, gesturing to the air.

"I'm here, aren't I? Isn't that enough?" You cross your arms, a defiant look crossing your features as he sighs. His fingers are warm as they tuck a stray curl behind your ear, your skin prickling as he thumbs at your earlobe.  "Of course it's enough." He mumbles, "You'll always be enough. More, even. More than enough for me."

You think he mumbles I love you.

Your face grows hot as he scans it, eyes heavy with purpose and love. For the first time, you allow yourself to realize how nervous Wonwoo makes you – your heart racing in your chest as you lean closer to him. He doesn't back away, his hand now gently holding your jaw. His thumb rests on the corner of your lip, the weight so comforting. "Kiss me." You do just that, your lips crashing into his as he steadies your body. Your hands fist his shirt as he kisses you slowly, walking you back into the bookshelf. Your back hits it gently, his hands cupping your face softly as he pulls away. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as your fingers circled his wrists. "I missed you so much, sweetheart." "I missed you too, Wonwoo."

He struggles to bite back his smile, your lips pressing a chaste kiss to his before peppering them all over his face. "You can't stay mad at me forever, you know." You speak through kisses, his nose scrunching as you press your lips to it.

"I can certainly try. You know I can hold a mean grudge." "Mingyu ate your leftovers once, Wonwoo. He literally cooked for you everyday of college, you need to let it go." "You're taking his side? Some friend you are." He scoffs, his hands pushing your hair off your shoulders. You wrap your arms around his waist, your chin in the center of his chest as you pout up at him.

"I flew all this way, I confessed my love…and I'm your friend?" He tongues his cheek, swallowing his laughter as he shakes his head. "Well, no. A friend wouldn't leave me for five years and then suddenly show back up–" "Wonwoo." " –And expect me to just forgive her. You could at least try and get in my good graces." You huff, "So you hate me." "No, no. I'm very much in love with you, actually. However, though love is merciful…I am not as much. You said you'd wait." "Wonwoo–" "Ah, ah. You said you'd wait. So you will." He shrugs, running his hand through your hair. He twirls a piece around his finger, "I know that you know how I feel about you, from other people's minds and mouths. I think it's best if I get to show you, truthfully and openly. Don't you?" You say nothing just yet, choosing to stare up at him with a hint of worry in your eyes. He glances down, the hand in your hair coming to gently hold your jaw. "What if you realize you don't want me?" "Oh, sweetheart. I'd be a fool not to want you. Let the sky fall the day I make that stupid decision."

You sigh, moving to rest your cheek on his chest. He hums, running his fingertips across your scalp. 

"It's not everyday you find a muse in someone the moment you meet them. Don't worry about me ever not wanting you, me ever not needing you." You don't reply, feeling your nose burn as your eyes fill with tears. He pats the back of your head, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Come, I need to take your picture. You need to fill the last few pages of that album."

And, you comply. You let him wipe your tears, pressing kisses to your eyelids as he sits you at his kitchen counter. He pulls out a gold candle from his kitchen drawer, sticking it in the cake slice from the restaurant and lighting it carefully. He pushes your hair back, and pulls the pendant of your necklace out to rest in the middle of your chest.

"Smile, sweetheart." He murmurs behind the camera, and you do. You smile, glossed lips swollen from the kisses, eyes full of stars as you stare at Wonwoo behind the flash. "Make a wish, quickly." You lean forward, closing your eyes when you see another flash behind your lids. Smiling to yourself, you blow the candle out, quickly taking it out of the cake slice. He offers a fork, and you lean on your elbows as he takes out a few bottles of soju.

"What'd you wish for?" He asks, unscrewing one of the lids off the bottles. You smirk around a bite of cake, shaking your head as he turns away to rummage for shot glasses.

"I'm not telling you, it won't come true." He scoffs, pulling out a set of shot glasses you'd given him during college. They have Snoopy and Woodstock doodled on the sides – he was always Woodstock, you were Snoopy.

"Oh, come on. Tell me, I'll make it come true." "What are you, a magician? Tell me what else I missed while I was gone." He rolls his eyes, running his tongue over his lower lip as he slides the Snoopy glass over, filled to the brim with fresh soju. You take it carefully, and he raises a brow.

"Tell me your wish, Y/N." You huff, before reaching over to cheers your glass with his. You both knock back the liquor, and you scrunch your nose as you slide it back over to him. He fills it again, and you shift in your chair.

"If I tell you, you'll have to do it." "Stop being so ominous, I hate it when you do that."

He slides the glass back over, only half full as he sidles up next to you. Your hand instinctively wraps around his bicep, and you rest your cheek on his shoulder.

"Promise me you'll make it come true, Wonwoo." "I promise. It's your birthday, sweetheart. I'd bring down the stars if you asked."

– SIX WEEKS LATER: GOYANGI'S HOME, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA.

Wonwoo had done exactly as you asked on your birthday – he kept his word, and tried his best to make your birthday wishes come true. Granted, you underestimated him: he would get both done within the six weeks it took to get your shop open.

After the two of you finished off the thick slice of chocolate cake, Wonwoo asked you to spend the night. You did, and a part of you held back tears as he held you in his arms – mumbling in his sleep. Mumbling about how he loved you, how long he'd waited…

How scared he was you'd slip away, like sand in an hourglass timer.

You'd spent the last month and a half glued at the hip. He took you to visit your parents early in the mornings, who bawled uncontrollably and demanded you'd stay all day. Wonwoo hadn't minded, and he stayed with you for dinner several times – and took many odd photos. He never showed you any of them, but he couldn't let you out of his sight, either.

He accompanied you to all your furniture shopping for the shop, he helped choose the paint, he even went as far as taking your website photos. Which, of course, included photos of you – in the kitchen, in your uniform, making a mess of flour and powdered sugar.

Powdered sugar that he kissed off your lips.

Because neither of you could go more than an hour without seeing each other, you practically moved into his apartment. You were spending almost every night there despite your own bed calling your name like a child does its mother. Wonwoo hadn't been kidding about making you wait, either. He let you kiss him, he told you he loved you, yes – but the dates were casual outings. Dinner, picnics, movies. You had a few game nights, and even went over to Hana's for drinks. You'd decided you were each other's plus ones for Mingyu and Tzuyu's wedding, and submitted such information on your RSVP placards.

You spent time together in copious amounts, something you couldn't ever find a fill of. You made him pastry after pastry, coffee cup after coffee cup, back massage after back massage to ease the tension in his shoulders. He gave you a silver necklace, a small letter W hanging from the center. 

You wore it with pride. He didn't ask you to be his girlfriend, and he didn't let you ask any questions about it, either.

Instead, he made your birthday wishes come true – he asked the Museum of Arts if they still needed an exhibit for the season. When they said yes, he submitted his Hanging by a Moment gallery – with a few new additions. You'd loved it, and had proudly gone to the museum at least twice a week to see it.

Now?

You're both standing in your unopened shop, showing your parents everything. The walls are a muted terracotta with a few tangerine accents, to match the feel of the digital photos of your life through Wonwoo's eyes. You asked him to make copies of the photos for you as well, framing them in thick, gold frames.

All but one, that sat in the middle of them all on the wall. "And this is the final installment." He spoke to your parents softly, before gesturing to a photo split in the middle. One half was you, dressed in all black with the silver necklace he'd given you three weeks ago, and holding Wonwoo's digital camera up to your face. Your smile was peeking out from behind your hand, directed right at him.

And the other half was him. The only photo of him in the entire exhibit – of him holding his digital camera vertically against his face, slightly messy hair and a beige t-shirt that was two sizes too big for him but you loved anyway. You'd taken this photo at a street food stand, and he remembers how softly you kissed his cheek right after.

You stood next to him with a soft smile on your face as your father perused the photos, his eyes watery as he looked at the ones of you in college. Your smile, so young and carefree. Your eyes, full of the same shimmer and light you have now – but now, it's brighter. You seem lighter.

Happier.

You seem like you're home.

"What do you think?" You ask gently, wrapping your hand around Wonwoo's arm. He instinctively covers your hand with his, and your father nods.

"I think you're in love." He shrugs, and Wonwoo's cheeks flush almost instantly. You chuckle, squeezing your hand around Wonwoo's arm before patting his chest.

"I've got some new pastries in the oven, shall we? I'm trying a new recipe." You wiggle your brows at your parents, who both smile as you extend your hands to them. They take them gingerly, letting you guide them into the kitchen. You look over your shoulder, sending Wonwoo a quick wink as you slip inside with them.

And, Wonwoo knows.

He knows you love him, as he stands in this shop – named for him, by you. Walls covered in you, by him. He knows you love him as you smile warmly at him, your eyes sparkling in a way he'd only ever seen with him – never with Seungcheol, or Hansol, or Mingyu.

Just him.

So, what does it matter? The moment, why does it matter? Why not hang onto it, as long as he can? Why not take in every ounce of your light so long as you allow it, and reflect it right back to you? Why not be a mirror of your love, a beacon of the same hope you hold, a star in the sky that also tells you there is something to wish upon?

Why waste it, when he can savor it – the way you look at him, the way you kiss him, touch him, the way you make him feel? How he's gone absolutely mad just looking at you in the mornings, slowly waking up by his side, burying your face into his bare chest? Why waste the moment when he can capture it – your smiles, your tears, the way you cover your face shyly when he compliments you.

Why not live in the moment – the feeling of your lips against his, the way you claw his shirt off, the way you whimper beneath him while fully clothed and untouched? Why not live in the moment, where he gets to hear you laugh like no one's listening, watch you dance like there is no tomorrow? Why not, when you ask him to take the long way home and roll the windows down, singing along to his playlist and feeling the air whip your hair around until your face is frosty from the wind.

Why not live in this moment – when you're so irrevocably in love with him, and he doesn't have to ever question it because you don't even need to tell him? Where you've related him to a cat that always finds its way back home, where you're supposedly the home and you are – but you are also the cat that finds her way home all on her own?

Why not? "Wonwoo? Are you listening?" "Huh? Sorry." He rubs his neck sheepishly, before noticing he's sitting at the bar of your shop, a dulce de leche éclair sitting on a plate in front of him. Your parents are in the corner, holding their own pastries and analyzing the photos once more. You're leaning your back on the bar next to him, your elbows holding you up as you reach over and gently carding your fingers through his hair.

"I said, I love you." "Now, why does it sound like you're scheming? Tell me what you really said." "It is, promise." You chuckle, your hand coming to pinch his cheek softly. He frowns, only making you coo up at him as you brush your lips to his. He glances up quickly, seeing your parents still enthralled by the photo of you and Mingyu at the waterfalls all those years ago. He looks back down, seeing you absently scanning his face as your thumb continues to rub circles into his face.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, before your father turns around and clears his throat. You look over your shoulder lazily, and your father has the pastry plates in his hand. "Your mother and I are going to start heading out now, honey. We've got a long drive back, and I'm sure you want to clean up a bit around here before your big opening tomorrow." "You're right, Dad. Thank you for coming, I'm glad you two could be the first to see it." Your voice is so warm, he can feel all the stress from his days just melting right off him as you walk your parents to the front. He follows suit, lingering behind as you and your parents say your goodbyes. He interjects his own, enveloping both of your parents in a hug before pulling away. You both wave as they get into their car, your mother waving back as they pull into the street and all the way down the road, before their car turns out of sight.

You turn around, your arms crossed as you look up.

"Goyangi's Home. What a name, isn't it?" You sigh, before glancing over at Wonwoo. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you into his chest. Your giggle is like music to his ears as your hands rest on his chest, your lip tucked beneath your teeth as you look up at him.

"Well, you're home, aren't you?" "Aren't you, Wonwoo?"

"I am. I love you, you know."

He feels his chest ache in the best way possible, his heart beating twice as fast as you wrinkle your nose at him.

"I know. I love you, honey." So it's fine. It's fine, as Wonwoo lets you kiss his lips once, twice, three times before you slip back into the shop. It's fine, as Wonwoo walks in behind you, his fingers locking the front door so no one mistakes the shop as open. It's fine, as you hand him a broom and make him sweep the shop while you roll out the dough in the back, your hands coated in flour when he comes to steal a kiss.

Or two, or three – until you're pushed against the industrial fridge, his hands wrapped around your thighs as yours tangle in his hair. He doesn't care about the flour. He doesn't care that you'll both be here late to roll out the stupid dough, he doesn't care as long as you're with him.

He doesn't care about the time differences anymore. The kilometers of distance, the aches of missing you. He doesn't care, and he'd do it ten times over just to be worthy of you. 

He doesn't care about how pathetic he might sound as he kisses down your neck, begging you to be his girlfriend, begging you to never, ever leave him again.

He doesn't care about all the painful moments he used to hang onto, because you are the best moment to ever capture.

He cares when you promise that you'll never leave him again, your lips soft against the shell of his ear. He cares when you say yes, you'll be his girlfriend. You'll be anything he wants, for as long as he wants it. So yeah, he'll live in this moment. He'll keep it, hold it, cherish it forever as more whispers float off your lips to one another. I love you.

haologram © 2025 || no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

in his corner

words: 2.7k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, boxer!rafe, established relationship, p in v sex, semi public sex, violence but not in great detail, unprotected sex, mentions of rafes anger issues

rafes head is down as you step into the locker room. it's dark and gloomy, no need for bright lights that just illuminate the blood and grime more.

the fleeting sunlight peeking in through the windows only casts light upon the dust floating in the room as you close the door behind you, causing rafe to finally look up.

his eyes shift from pure focus to something softer. “hey.” his voice is still low, slightly hoarse from not speaking most of the day.

“hey.” you move the rest of the way into the room, your footsteps sounding thunderous in the silence that always cloaks the gym before a fight, especially one like this.

“ill be safe.” you see a hint of humor in his eyes now as you roll yours. you always tell rafe to stay safe before a fight, it's become such an expectation that he beats you to it.

“do you have your gloves?” you ask, looking towards his gym bag, wanting to rifle through it to make sure rafe has everything he needs, even though you packed it for him.

“of course.” rafe smiles, wrapping his hands around the back of your thighs and pulling you closer into him, his forehead pressing against your stomach.

“you're nervous for this one.” rafe states. he doesn't need to ask, he can tell just by your energy, the way your breathing is more frantic, your eyes opened ever so slightly wider than normal.

“im not the one in the ring.” you hum, hand coming to the back of his neck, stroking over his hairline, taming it despite knowing it's only a few minutes before it's going to get messed up again, either by rafe rubbing at it or the opponent.

“i know.” rafe looks up at you, a soft smile on his face. “but ya love me.”

“mmm, unfortunately.” you joke, a smile flashing across your lips before you drop your head to press your mouths against rafe, the kiss hungry and desperate, knowing it may be your last for a while if rafe gets his lip busted open.

“okay-” rafe sighs, pulling away, restraint in his voice as his insides call to continue kissing you. “it's almost time. love you.”

“love you too.” you back away but keep your eyes locked with rafe until your back is pressed up against the door. “win for me.”

you step out, eyes flickering around his team, waiting in the hallway for you, knowing better than to interrupt your moment with rafe.

“he's ready.” you nod to rafes coach before ducking out of the way as they file into the locker room.

you can hear the noise of the crowd grow as you walk into the arena, rows of seats all facing towards the central octagon. none of the security stops you to ask for a ticket as you walk to the front, rafe has become a headliner at the boxing gym, and you a vip along with it.

you take your seat, a coveted one, right in rafes corner. you know he has supporters, and while you appreciate most of them, the female ones who fawn over him anger you every time they shout his name or try to give him their number, but his quick shut down of advances always washes away the brief resentment.

“hey y/n.” rafes coaches brother, lewis, sits next to you, your de facto personal bodyguard. you insisted you didn't need someone looking over you, but rafe was always worried about a fight starting in the crowd. it certainly wouldn't be the first one that has broken out at a boxing gym.

“hi lewis.” you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and lean back in your seat as the prematch comes out, beginner fighters to keep all the early attendees from getting impatient while the crowd grows and seats fill.

overall, it's a professional arena. not on a pro level by any standards, but the best you can get in the area without making boxing full time. it certainly puts the smaller gyms rafe started out in to shame.

you were the one who originally suggested it. any sort of contact sport to work through some of his anger. you saw it bubbling under the surface, and you knew rafe would never do anything in your presence, even if he wanted to scream and punch a wall, he'd bottle it all in just to not scare you.

you clap as the first round comes to an end, ever the good supporter and attendee. it's part of the reason the gym likes rafe so much, he's no fuss, no personal drama, just pure fighting.

there's more rounds as you wait to see rafe, the rest of the seats being filled along with standing room in the back for anyone getting in late. 

a new referee steps into the ring, a professional with years of experience who doesn't bother with the lower level fights, saving himself for the main event. 

you sit up a little straighter in your seat as your eyes move to the door, a smile stretching over your cheeks as rafe steps out to applause and the thumbing base of a rap song. you applaud as well, keeping your eyes on rafe despite knowing he won't look at you, not until he gets in the ring, some sort of superstition that he's developed as he keeps his head down.

the other fighter comes out to the booming announcement of their name, a silly nickname you immediately disregard. clearly someone trying to rise the ranks and become a well known name, but you can tell just by his stature that rafe will take him down.

you breathe a little sigh of relief as rafe climbs into the ring and looks over to you, a slight smirk you're sure only you can see. he knows just as well as you do that this will be an easy day.

the official facilitates the handshake between the opponents before they're back to their corners to tape wrists and put on gloves, getting everything prepared. you keep your eyes on rafe, of course, taking in his every movement.

you feel a stirring in your stomach as he stands, tank top stretched tight across his body while his shorts are looser, allowing him to move easily around the ring.

you hear a woop coming from the back but know better than to divert your attention, rafe surging forward right when the official starts the round. he wastes no time throwing quick punches before defending, stepping to the side to miss the opponents swipes.

rafe lands a few more blows, but you don't cheer yet. you've made the mistake before of thinking he's in the clear too early.

the movement of rafes body is almost a dance, one driven by passion. his biceps bulge with every punch, swear gathering on his chest, making your mouth water as you watch.

the officials whistle to end the round makes you jump, too wrapped up in rafes looks to pay attention to the fight like you know you should.

you really do try to shift your attention back, but as the next round starts, you're quickly drawn back to watching rafes body and smooth movements. 

every punch he throws makes your legs tighten further, hoping the pressing of your thighs offers you some sort of relief, but any comfort is fleeting.

your body responds for you when the fight comes to end, rising to your feet and clapping as you snap back to attention. rafe of course wins, the opponent not even getting a punch to his face other than a brief touch on his jaw that didn't even knock his mouthguard.

“i knew you'd win.” you smile and step forward as rafe comes to the ropes, leaning over to press his lips against yours.

“let me talk to the team and shower then we'll get out of here, yeah?” rafe kisses you again before leaning in to whisper into your ear. “i can tell you're turned on.”

--

“how'd you know?” you question as rafe shifts the car into drive, his free hand immediately coming to your thigh as he pulls out of the parking spot and onto the road.

“that you were- are turned on?” rafe smirks, keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead. “you get a look in your eyes, baby. and i can tell you want me.”

“and i have that look right now?” you hum out, turning the volume up on the radio slightly as the kid cudi song comes on.

“mhm. and it'll only intensify when i do this-” rafes hand slides upwards between your thighs. you quickly part them for him, letting out a soft moan as his fingers rub right where he knows you like it best.

“shit.” you lean back into the seat, trying to keep yourself from jumping over the center console and pouncing on rafe instantly. you pray you don't hit traffic as he presses harder on the gas pedal, ready to get home as well.

“you looked so pretty tonight cheering me on baby.” rafe pushes his fingers harder against your pants, creating tight circles. “even if you were spaced out the entire time.”

“mhm.” you hum, not even truly listening to what rafe is saying, just enjoying the tambor of his voice and the feeling growing in your stomach.

you know when rafe laughs that it's at you and your current state, but you've done far too much and been with him far too long to be embarrassed or ashamed by your lust as you let out another moan.

your eyes are glossy as you turn to look at rafe, hand gripping the wheel tightly with a clear tent in his sweatpants. you blink a few times to clear your vision as you take in his hard set jaw, tension building as he is forced to wait to get inside you.

you reach over to place your hand on rafes crotch, hoping the pressure of your hand sustains him a little longer.

“it's taking everything in me not to pull over and fuck you here in the car.” rafe says through gritted teeth.

you look out the windshield as rafe moves his hand to grip the steering wheel with both hands, needing it now that you're touching him to keep the vehicle steady. “we're almost home.” you hum out, petting your fingertips over his length, contemplating pushing his pants down and bending over the center console, but your clenching pussy needs him.

rafe pulls into the driveway at speeds he shouldn't be going inside a residential neighborhood, the car calming to a halting stop, and not even a second passes before you're out of your seats and out of the car.

rafe beats you to the front door, throwing it open for you to rush inside, locking it tight after you've entered.

you know you won't make it to the bed. you never do on nights like this. both on a high from rafe winning his fight, an easy opponent with not even a scratch to his knuckles.

rafe presses you against the wall of the hallway, his body molding against yours as his lips smash forward into a passionate kiss. you reach between your bodies immediately, knowing you're already soaking wet and ready from rafe playing with you in the car.

you push down on the hem of rafes sweatpants until rafe moves his hips and allows you to shove them down along with his underwear. 

rafe lets out a sigh as your hand wraps around his length, holding his cock in your grasp as you quickly begin to stroke.

“fuck, baby.” rafe places his fist around your hand. “as much as i love you touching me like this i need to be inside you now.”

there's a desperation in his voice that makes something in your chest tighten.

you nod and release him, undoing your button and zipper to shove your pants to the ground and kick them away. rafe grabs the hem of your tshirt before you can take it off yourself, pulling it up over your head before it also joins the clothes scattered around the foyer.

rafe connects your lips back together, his hands sneaking behind your back to undo your bra before pulling the cups off, large palms quickly replacing them as he holds your breasts, giving them a gentle squeeze that has your mouth falling open in a satisfied sigh.

“bedroom, counter or right here?” rafe asks, pulling on your lip before you can answer and giving it a tug.

“right here.” you reach down and take rafes cock in your hand, giving it a stroke. “right here, right now.”

“mmm, don't have to tell me again.” rafes arms circle around you and pull you up, pinning you against the wall. your body moves so naturally like it's done a hundred times before, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

rafe lines up his cock with your entrance and sinks forward. your arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him in tight, mouth dropping open and eyes squeezing closed as he slowly enters you.

“oh god.” rafe groans, mouth opening as well, but to press his teeth against your skin, biting down gently so as to not actually hurt you, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

“fuck me rafe.” your fingertips are digging into his shoulders, trying not to pierce him with your nails as you grip onto his muscles, muscles he just used to pummel his opponent.

“fuck me hard.” you don't often ask for it hard or really give him any direction. rafe knows how to please you, but it's different today. you need his full force, everything he has left in him.

and he doesn't make you wait.

rafe pulls his cock out slowly before slamming in, forcing your ass back into the wall with a thud, your whole body shuddering as he thrusts.

you tighten your arms even more, needing your bodies to become one as he pumps his hips forward, the sound of skin meeting together spreading through the empty house.

tomorrow, you'll clean up the clothes off the floor. tomorrow, you'll make a large breakfast to replenish rafe from his fight and open every window in the house to let in light and air, but tonight, you're going to remain in the dark hallway with your legs wrapped around rafes waist.

“harder.” you beg again, even though you're not sure you can take it.

rafe complies, swinging faster as one of his hands manages to find a way between your bodies, tips of his fingers pressing against your clit. he knows he should fuck you longer, but he can build you up again for the second time in the bedroom, you've teased each other too much and he needs to feel you fall apart in his arms.

“you're so tight and warm.” rafe mumbles, burying his face in your neck as he huffs, absorbing your heart after being apart physically for too long, the cold air of the gym and locker room now being replaced with you.

“i love you.” rafe mumbles, lips against your neck as he presses a few kisses to your throat. “thank you.”

he doesn't need to say what for. you understand. for being with him, for encouraging him to try boxing, for standing by his side and knowing what's best for him even when he didn't know himself.

“i love you.” you moan out, pussy clenching around rafes cock as your high suddenly hits, back arching off the wall in pleasure only to be slammed back against it as rafe pushes as deep as he can go inside of you, the squeezing of your cunt triggering his own high as his cum spurts inside of you.

“f-fuck.” you whine, nails fully leaving marks now as you breathe deeply, chest rising and falling, pressing against rafes with every breath.

“let's go take a bath.” rafe says, his voice suddenly softer, almost like the sex was the last bit of excursion he needed to calm himself after the fight.

“okay.” you can't help but giggle.

despite your agreement, rafe doesn't pull out, his softening cock still inside of you and bodies connected.

“okay.” you repeat, pressing your lips against rafes cheek before resting your head against his, realizing what he needs in that moment. “i love you.”

you stay there, still, for minutes that stretch into what feels like hours, but you wouldn't trade it for the world.

“okay.” rafe finally responds, eyes blinking with a new clarity, any sort of anger or frustration he had before the fight now freed from inside him. “bath time, yeah?”

[kjhbsies]

Multo

navigation | main masterlist | rules

James Potter x reader

synopsis: After weeks of silence and emotional distance, Y/N is forced to confront the feelings she’s tried so hard to bury— feelings for her best friend, James Potter. But when James shows up drunk at her doorstep, broken and desperate for answers, the truth finally comes to light.

wordcount: 2, 876

note: Part II of Cool About It. Angst to fluff.

Y/n had been avoiding James for three weeks now. At first, it wasn't obvious. The kind of thing that barely scratches the surface and could be brushed off as coincidence. Too subtle to raise alarms.

Like how she'd swiftly turn the opposite way the moment she caught a glimpse of his messy dark curls in the distance, or how she suddenly always had something to do— like an essay to finish, a meeting to attend— whenever James was near her. Her once-predictable presence at group hangouts had become a rarity, and somehow, every time James showed up, she just happened to be unavailable.

And maybe James didn't notice it at first. Maybe he was too caught up with Lily— her sudden shift of attitude towards him was too hard to ignore. He was in bliss— floating in a dream he had been chasing for years, too up high to see the way Y/n had started falling from his orbit.

But everyone in his friend group did. Remus, Sirius, and even Peter, who never picked up on these things, had made an offhand comment. "Have you lot seen Y/n lately?"

Still, James didn't piece it together. Or maybe he didn't want to. Maybe he was scared of what it could mean if he did.

Because once you notice someone pulling away from you, it's impossible not to wonder why.

The library was quiet during the late hours. It was almost empty, dim, and, somehow, Y/n found this place comfortable. This area has given her a small amount of peace, offering her some sort of sanity as she can busy herself with the books stacked in there, not really reading it— but just... hiding.

It had become a routine lately. Ducking into corners, finding solitude, telling herself she wasn't avoiding James. She was just... protecting herself. But, of course, the universe won't let her have her peace.

"Y/n!" James called her from behind, panting slightly as if he had run— because he had. His tie was slightly askew, his hair more of a mess than usual, and his eyes were blown wide with something she couldn't really place. Worry? Relief?

She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out.

"I've been trying to catch you for weeks." James tried to laugh it off, stepping forward like he didn't know how to stop. "You— you've been ghosting me."

"I've just been busy," She answered, too quickly. Too quietly.

James gave a short, breathy laugh. "Right. Of course. Busiest girl in the whole world. Too busy for after-school meetups, for Hogsmeade strolls, for movie nights, for me."

Y/n's heart stung, but she didn't let it show.

"I was just about to head out," She insisted, gripping the strap of her bag tightly. "Long night."

"I'll drive you home," James said quickly. Already walking towards the exit like the decision has been made. "It's late."

"James, it's fine—"

"I insist." James smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You seriously think I'd let you go home alone, especially at this hour?"

And she knew, even though her heart was screaming for her to just keep the distance she had so carefully built, arguing would make things worse. So she just nodded and followed him to his car.

The car ride was quiet— at least on her end. James, true to his form, filled the space between them with his usual charm.

"So, what are you even working in there?" He asked, glancing at her. "Don't tell me you've been burying your face in Calculus. That's just sick."

Y/n just chuckled. "No, no. It's a different subject."

James smiled. "Of course. Classic."

And then he went on to tell the latest happenings that had happened when she wasn't around. Sirius had managed to get in trouble again for the third time this month. Remus has been tutoring a freshman who mistook him for a professor. And Lily— Lily made a cheesecake, and James had declared her a goddess.

Y/n nodded and hummed, casually commenting a few sentences from time to time. Her face was polite, yet it felt robotic. And James noticed it.

From time to time, he subtly glanced at her through the rearview mirror. He wasn't the most emotionally intuitive guy, but he could tell something was wrong. Her laughter didn't come as easily. Her eyes didn't linger on him like before.

She wasn't really there— not in a way she used to be.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning pale. His words kept coming, but his mind was somewhere else. Because no matter how hard he tried to act normal, no matter how casual he played it— this wasn't normal.

Y/n was slipping away. And he doesn't know why.

When they pulled up in front of Y/n's house, the car slowed to a soft halt. The engine hummed between them, the only real sound in the heavy silence. James tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, his nerves betraying him.

"Thanks for the ride," She murmured.

James bit the insides of his cheek, then turned to look at her with a forced smile. "Hey— are you free tomorrow? Thought we could grab a coffee or something. Just us."

Y/n hesitated. "I got a study date with Remus."

His smile faltered for a second. "Remus?"

She nodded, pulling her bag over her shoulder. "Yeah. He was supposed to help me with my essay."

James scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "Since when do you study with Remus and not me?"

Y/n blinked at him, slightly thrown. "I— I don't know. It just... happened."

A pause stretched between them. James looked away, his jaw clenching slightly. "Right. Cool. I guess he's your go-to now."

There was something laced in his voice, something uncharacteristically sharp. Possessiveness wasn't a shade James often wore— he didn't need to. He had it all. The money, the talent, the looks. People gravitated towards him. That's just how it always been.

He didn't do jealousy. Especially with Remus.

"James..." Y/n said softly, not wanting to stir this into a fight.

"Well, tell Moony not to melt your brain too much. He goes on full professor when he's serious."

Y/n's gaze lingered on him for a bit, weighing him. But she didn't say anything else. She just smiled politely and slipped from the car.

And James watched her walk up to the front door, a small ache in his chest growing heavier with each step he took away from him.

The next day, the diner was buzzing with warmth and chatter; the golden afternoon sun was streaming through the windows and casting a perfect light across the table Lily and James shared.

She looked beautiful— like she always did— effortless in the way she talked, sit, and laughed. Everything he had ever wanted.

But he wasn't really looking at her. He was looking past her— toward the back booth, where Y/n and Remus were seated. And she was laughing. Like, really laughing.

The kind of laugh he hadn't seen from her in the past month. The kind that lit up her face, tipped her head back, made her eyes crinkle at the corners. She slapped her thigh as Remus finished his story like he was the most hilarious person in the world.

James scowled. He didn't even register what Lily was saying. Didn't even pay attention to the food in front of him. His eyes were just trained on them.

The way she leaned in when Remus talked, the way she rested her chin on her hand and looked at him like he was the most interesting person. Like she used to look at him.

And now— now he was noticing everything. The way her eyes sparkled when she smiled. The softness in her voice. He saw it. All of it.

"You okay?" Lily asked, suddenly pulling him out of his thoughts.

James blinked at her. "What?"

"You've been zoning out."

He gave a weak laugh. "Yeah. Sorry, just tired."

Lily raised a brow but let it go.

James looked back at the booth, his heart thudding uncomfortably. Y/n was laughing again, and Remus was now awfully sitting close beside her.

James wasn't used to doing this. The second guessing. The silence. The way his jokes no longer earned a laugh, how his texts were left on read, or worse— replied to nothing, but a cold, distant, courtesy.

It was his fifth attempt this week.

"Hey, there's a new art exhibit in town," He said casually, acting as if his heart wasn't pounding against his chest. "Thought you'd like the surrealist stuff. You know, the one with melting clocks and faceless people? I figured we could check it out together."

"I wish I could, but I got this paper due... and my cat's appointment with the vet later. I'm sorry, James." She smiled apologetically.

She always said sorry. Always with that small, polite smile. The kind of smile you give to a stranger.

And James felt he was slowly becoming one.

The truth was, it was never the art exhibit, or the cafe he invited her over to the day before that, or the time he showed up at her house with her favorite bubble tea and that novel she mentioned in passing months ago. He just missed her.

He missed the way she used to greet him with a smile that warmed his heart. The way she'd bump shoulders with him as he walked her to her class, the little inside jokes they used to whisper under their breaths, the sound of her laugh— God, her laugh.

He missed being her person.

And with each failed attempt, with every gentle excuse, his confidence chipped away. The great James Potter— charmer, golden boy, team captain— was suddenly unsure. Awkward. Tongue tied.

Because he realized that he was losing something he didn't even realize he had been holding on so tightly. Maybe it had always been her.

So right now, he was slouched in one of the couches in a loud club. The lights were too bright, everyone was chaotic, and the air was thick with sweat, perfume, and alcohol. But he didn't care.

His third drink sat in front of him, and he was already slowly getting drunk. Sirius lounged beside him, watching him with a silent concern as he did not see his best friend spiral like this— not even from Lily.

"You alright, mate?" Peter asked.

James didn't answer at first. He kept staring ahead, eyes unfocused, mouth pressed into a thin line. Then, finally, answered a bitter, "Peachy."

Peter frowned, but Sirius placed a hand on his shoulder and subtly shook his head— don't push it.

Remus, however, didn't bite his tongue.

"Is this about Y/n?"

The second her name left his mouth, James immediately glared at him, eyes bloodshot and glassy.

"What, d'you know something I don't?" James snapped, voice rising above the music. "Since you're always with her now?"

"She's my friend, James."

"Oh, friend, right. You two study together, hang out alone, laugh like idiots— hell, you even know everything about her, don't you?" James slammed his glass down, the drink sloshing to his sleeve. "She doesn't look at me the way she used to. Doesn't see me. She makes excuses to avoid me. Says she's busy. Tired. Got plans. But then I see her with you."

"Prongs—" Sirius interjected, but James wasn't finished.

He laughed, but it was hollow. Broken. "What did I even do, huh? Why the hell won't she just talk to me?"

"Alright, Prongs. Let's take a breath, yeah?" Sirius place a firm hand on James's shoulder.

But James shrugged it off. Instead, he ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't get it. She was my best friend. Mine." His shoulders slumped as the tears came rolling in. "I just— I just want her back. I miss her."

He sank into the couch, wiping his face the back off his hand like a child. "Call her." He whispered. Then louder, more desperate. "Please. Just call her. Ask her to come. I don't care if she's mad at me or if she hates me. I need to talk to her. Please. Please, please, please." He begged.

Sirius exchanged a look with Remus.

"Alright, I'll call her."

"Hello?" Y/n answered from the other line. The background was filled with a mix of loud music, clinking glasses, and chaos— but none of it made her go still. James. He wasn't speaking coherently. Just broken words, cries, and soft pitiful pleas. "Is that—"

Remus sighed softly. "Yeah. He's... not doing well."

She could hear James's voice in the background— his voice was wrecked and cracking as he said her name over and over.

"What's going on?"

"He's begging for you, actually."

Y/n's heart clenched. "Tell him... I'm glad he's surrounded by people who care about him tonight. But I— I can't come."

Remus didn't respond immediately. "Y/n, he's not himself." He said softly, not to pressure her— never that— but to simply let her know the truth.

"I know," She whispered. "But I can't do it, Remus. For the sake of my sanity, I can't. It's not that I don't care about him. God, I do. But if I go there, I'm scared it'll hurt us even more."

Remus exhaled softly on the other end of the line. "Okay, I understand."

"Please just... make sure he gets home safe?"

"We will. You did the right thing."

Y/n ended the call, and she couldn't help but sit as her legs buckled. The night was dead silent, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner at the corner of Y/n's room.

She had been staring at nowhere. Thinking. Pondering. She wondered if she even made the right decision of ignoring James. Of falling in love with him.

She hadn't noticed the clock had already struck midnight. Hadn't noticed that it had been an hour since she declined James's request. The guilt was eating her alive, and she couldn't do anything about it.

But then, the doorbell rang.

She didn't move for a moment. Praying it was just the neighbor or maybe a delivery to the wrong address. But somehow, deep down, she knew. Her stomach twisted painfully as she stood up, making her way through the door.

And when she swung the door open, her breath caught in her throat. James stood there. His hair was a damp mess, with sweat clinging on his forehead, and his chest rising and falling as if he had run all the way to here. His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, and his eyes— oh, his eyes— were bloodshot and glassy, rimmed with tears that hadn't yet fallen.

"James," She whispered softly.

"You didn't care about me at all, did you?" He asked, voice hoarse and quiet. "You just let me spiral."

"What? No! James, I—"

"You ignored me." He stepped inside the house without waiting for her permission. His eyes never left hers. "You stopped talking to me. Pretend I didn't exist. You— you just cut me off like I'm nothing."

"That's not true." She stepped forward, reaching at his hand, but he stepped back, shaking his head.

"I waited. Every day, I waited for you to call back. And you didn't. You just... let me go."

Y/n's throat burned, her hands trembling by her sides.

"I had to." She choked. "James, I had to—"

"Why?" He asked, stepping closer now. His anger melted into confusion and pain. "What did I do so wrong, Y/n?"

"Because I like you." She said, barely a whisper. "I liked you so much it hurts, James. And I couldn't take it anymore. Watching you love someone else while I stand in the corner, pretending it doesn't rip me apart."

James stared at her. Stunned and silent.

She laughed bitterly through the tears. "I was doing it for me. I had to distance myself."

James opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"I didn't mean to fall for you. It just happened. And by the time I realized it, it was too late." She wiped at her face and stepped back, motioning at the door. "You should go. Please. Just go."

She turned around, ready to walk away, when James grabbed her wrist gently. And before she could react, his lips were on hers in a deep, desperate, and passionate kiss that stole the breath from her lungs.

When they finally pulled away, breathless, James cupped her face with trembling hands.

"I was stubborn," He whispered, forehead pressing against hers. "I kept telling myself I didn't feel anything for you. That Lily was all I wanted. And God, I was so wrong."

"James..."

"I love you. And I'm sorry it took me so long to see it. For being blind. But please— let me start over. Let me fix things between us." He kissed her again, almost reverent. "Don't give up on me yet."

"Just don't break me again, James."

And in the silence that followed, he held her like a promise he never planned to let go of.

©kjhbsies

taglist: @lotsostrawberrybear @sweetstrawberrianne

[bapelana]

slight ignored pleas. lowkey dom!reader. reader’s thick & woc. just riding nerd!armin to oblivion… <3

you didn’t slow down.

evenn after his voice broke. even after he begged—really begged this time, with his chest rising and falling in panicked little gasps, the kind that came right before someone broke open all the way.

armin was teetering there—on the edge of something sharp and helpless, something terrifying and addictive—and you could see it written all over his sweet, fucked-out face.

his glasses had long since slipped off.

sweat clung to his neck and jaw, hair sticking to his forehead in little blonde curls.

that sci-fi t-shirt he always wore during study nights was almost soaked through, his sleeves twisted under your thighs, bunching at his elbows as his hands held on.

not to control you; that was long gone.

armin was just trying to ground himself. to keep himself from floating.

and it wasn’t working.

“puh-pleeeasee,” he whimpered, almost silent now. his voice was hoarse, barely a breath, “i—c-can’t… already—hah!—came, don’t k-know how many—”

“and i wan’ it again,” you told him gently, breath skating over his ear. “again, ‘n again, ‘min.”

your plush hips rolled against his slowly, firmly, coaxing his overstimulated dick even deeper into you.

armin was trembling underneath you—his whole frame tight with exhaustion and need, completely undone.

you’ve came more times than you could count, and your brown thick thighs were aching from how long you’d been riding him.

but none of that mattered. not when he looked like this.

not when his soft whimpers were dissolving into choked, pathetic little sounds every time your sweet ‘n sappy walls fluttered around him.

“c-can’t even think any—ffuck—more—!” he cried, hands gripping your waist, knuckles white. his voice cracked, breaking off into a sob. “m’head feels s-so full, i c-can’t—can’t—sshitt, please—”

“s’okay,” you whimpered, soft lips brushing his flushed cheek. “m’ thinking f-for you.”

your messy and nasty pace never slowed.

you kept him buried to the hilt, grinding down on him while you held him close—chest to chest, your breath mingling with his as you moved together.

each time your pussy clenched, his body jolted beneath yours. each time you moaned something sweet—something pathetic and loving and utterly filthy—he crumbled a little more.

“y’love it when i t-talk t’you like this, h-huh?” you murmured, voice thick with heat. “love how i—fffuck!—sound when m’full of you. can’t even function when i moan your name like t-that.”

armin nodded so fast it was pathetic.

that was all he could do. just nod, face slack and eyes watery, mouth trembling like he wanted to say yes but didn’t know how anymore.

he’d given up language. the only things left were the needy little gasps spilling from his lips and the mess spreading across his thighs and abdomen.

you kissed him again—messy, reverently, like he hadn’t just cum undone under you a fourth, fifth, sixth time.

and then you rocked your hips again. and he screamed.

the high-pitched whimper that ripped out of him was almost feminine in how desperate it sounded—how raw.

“huhnnnn—m’cumming!”

his wide dick pulsed deep inside you, and you felt it; another orgasm tearing through him, so overwhelming he couldn’t even process it.

his hands scrabbled weakly against your waist, head tilting up, mouth open like he was trying to cry out again but couldn’t catch his breath.

you moaned pornographically against his cheek. “uhhhnnn—thaat’s it, pa. g-give it t’me. jus’ let go.”

and armin did. all over again.

by the time you finally slowed—by the time you laid his trembling body back against the pillows, fingers brushing tenderly through his hair—he was completely ruined.

blue eyes half-lidded, lips parted, his brain was miles away. blissed-out. boneless. broken in the most beautiful way.

you kissed his cheek, then his temple, whispering against his damp skin.

“i love you, ‘minnie.”

his voice cracked as he whispered back, “i love you more, 𑁍.”

i love this subby pathetic whore so much ☹️☹️ armin my 5th husband come back home our 4 kids miss u :(((