#like. it’s called a close reading of the text…..

[valeisaslut]

Chill day head cannons with reader and Ellie cuz they deserve it :(

yes. yes. YES nonnie. they SO deserve it. gonna give these two horndogs some well deserved break from the drama. coming right up:

COLLIDE POPSTAR!READER AND ROCKSTAR!ELLIE VERY MUCH NOT CHILL DAY HC'S:

sundays in new york are miracles. your schedules never align. NEVER. but today they did—no shows, no press, no 5 a.m. calls. it's like god got drunk and said “fine, they can have one day.” so now it's just the two of you in ellie’s nyc apartment, tucked somewhere downtown in a building with too many windows and no privacy. the bed's too big, the coffee’s too bad, and it’s perfect.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ellie’s awake first—god knows how, the world must be ending—and she’s laying there with her hair a complete mess, yesterday’s eyeliner smudged like war paint, scrolling through her phone. one arm behind her head, phone tilted dangerously close to falling on her face.

you, meanwhile, are starfished beside her. dead to the world. breathing soft, mouth open, cheek squished into the pillow. you're wearing her merch tee that reads FIRE ME UP in faded tour font, massive on you and somehow bunched up to your collarbones, exposing the laciest pair of black panties known to man and just enough skin to send her into a full-blown crisis.

she blinks. watches you for a solid five minutes, already mentally sketching you. then, pokes your cheek with one calloused finger.

“babe,” she whispers dramatically, “wake up. your titties are out. i’m in distress.”

you grunt something that sounds like “no they’re not.” she grins, tucks her phone under the pillow, and kisses your nose.

“they are,” she murmurs, already slipping her hand under your panties. “but don’t worry. i’ll handle it.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ coffee is code for aftercare. burnt, instant, somehow sacred. you both pad into the kitchen half-naked, ellie in her boxers and you are still in panties and the same tee. she starts the coffee machine while you sit on the counter, bare thighs pressed to the cold marble. when she stands between your legs and hands you a mug, you take it with one hand and cup her jaw with the other. “you make good coffee.” “you make good decisions about shirts.” and takes a sip from your cup just to be annoying. ends up with you bent over the counter.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ she lets you pick the movie after. and it’s a romcom, obviously. she complains the whole time—“this dude’s so fucking cringe. he’d cry if you didn’t text back in 3 minutes.”—but you catch her sniffing when they kiss in the rain. she blames it on the coffee. her arms stay around your waist the whole time. her chin rests on your shoulder. you don’t comment on the way she hums your song under her breath halfway through. but you hear it.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ she draws you while pretending not to. again. you’re lying on her lap, scrolling your phone, and she’s got her sketchbook open behind you, tongue between her teeth, drawing your thighs like they personally offended her. you only catch her when she mutters, “god, you’re such a brat.” it’s not even under her breath.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ midafternoon. sunlight bleeding through the windows. you're half-dressed in a tank top that’s more suggestion than shirt and shorts that shouldn't legally count. your unreleased track is thumping through ellie's speakers—sultry, bass-heavy, pure trouble—and you’re dancing in front of the mirror like you’re back in rehearsals. hips rolling. hair sticking to your neck. sweat catching on your collarbone.

ellie’s on the couch in sweats and a sports bra, fully manspreading, eyes heavy, pretending to scroll her phone but watching you like you’re the halftime show at the end of the world. eyes almost piercing your ass.

“what you doin’?” she asks, voice low, dangerous.

“new choreo,” you hum, spinning slowly, catching her gaze in the mirror. “need to test out the bridge.”

“test it on me,” she mutters, not even blinking.

so you do.

you strut over, straddling her lap like you own her (you do). your hands find her shoulders. hers find your thighs. the music keeps playing, slow and hot, and you roll your hips against her like you’re still rehearsing, like the couch is the stage and ellie is your spotlight.

“you’re gonna kill me,” she groans.

“goal achieved,” you whisper, just before your lips brush her jaw.

the track loops like 15 times. the neighbors hear everything.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ the grocery run is an actual disaster. tried to go incognito, but you two are the worst at laying low. you’re in sunglasses and a slutty little zip-up that’s barely zipped, ellie’s chain heavy around your neck. she's in a leather jacket, beanie low, licking cheeto dust off her fingers like she wasn’t the one who opened the bag in aisle seven.

she grabs your ass in the meat section. hard. you yelp. she smirks.

you both leave the store only with flour, a bottle of wine, and a jumbo-sized bottle of lube in a fully transparent plastic bag. the lube was completely on purpose. a pap snaps the shot right outside and ellie throws up the middle finger with the same hand that was just on your ass. next morning, TMZ runs the photo with the headline: "ROCKSTAR AND POP PRINCESS GEAR UP FOR WHAT CAN ONLY BE DESCRIBED AS THE APOCALYPSE."

comment section is in shambles. someone tweets: “girl math: wine = foreplay, flour = aftermath, lube = survival.” they’re not wrong.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ it starts innocent—just you, ellie, a bag of flour and a pot of water doing its best impression of mount vesuvius on the stove. you’re halfway through making pasta from scratch (don’t ask why, it’s sunday, you’re unhinged and saw a nara smith tt) and somewhere between “do we have basil?” and “babe that’s not how you stir it,” and being horny from the wine, she grabs the spatula like it’s a mic, throws her sunglasses on, and goes:

“yo.”

you freeze. “…not again.”

“yo.”

“…ellie.”

“name another goat who got a strap and a grammy— bad bitch in my bed, she a popstar but she callin’ me daddy.”

drops the spatula like it’s hot. literally. it clatters to the floor. throws her head back like she just ended eminem's career.

you nearly snort prosecco out your nose but you recover. quickly. pick up a wooden spoon and point it at her like a weapon.

“got the tats and the guitar, you act real tough— call yourself daddy but you whined when i rode it rough.”

ellie clutches her chest. “that’s below the belt.”

“so was i.”

she paces, dramatically wiping her nonexistent tears. “aight. aight.” then clears her throat and goes,

“got a popstar wearin’ diamonds on her coochie, you sing high notes while you bouncin’ on my—”

“ELLE.”

“i was gonna say lap! jeez.” (she wasn’t.)

you clap back with:

“you bring the strap, i bring the hits, they scream my name more when i ride your di—”

"OKAY."

you both go feral. pasta’s burning. the kitchen’s a war zone. flour in ellie’s hair. marinara on your shirt. the neighbors file the third noise complaint of the day. you’re crying from laughter. ellie claims she let you win and uploads a blurry story captioned: “rap battle. i was robbed. #freeversequeen.”

she adds “rapper (unofficial)” to her instagram bio for exactly 20 hours. deletes it after you post “this you?” with a clip of her tripping over a rhyme in your story.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ the shower is not innocent. not even a little. it starts soft—her hands in your hair, your arms around her waist. and then is forehead pressed to tile, your breath fogging the glass. ellie behind you, one hand tangled in your wet hair, the other sliding lower. “you’re unreal,” she pants against your shoulder. “you’re so fucking unreal.” it’s slow, intimate, soaked in need. shampoo drips down your spine while she kisses your neck and moves like she’s been dreaming of this. it’s worship. it’s reverent. steam and moans and soft gasps. it ends with her holding your trembling body to her chest like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“you feel so fucking good,” she breathes against your throat. “so real. like i don’t have to pretend when it’s you.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ you end the day on bed again, half-naked under the blanket, one hand under your tank top, the other scrolling through tiktok. she shows you a thirst edit someone made of you both. you pretend to be annoyed. she bites your thigh. you moan into her ear.

there's a half-eaten pint of ice cream on the floor, your hair is still wet, and her voice is soft in your ear—“i missed you. i miss you even when you’re here.” she’s shirtless, you’re glowing, and the tv is just white noise to the rhythm of your joined breathing.

outside, new york screams.

inside, you whisper, “i love you.” she kisses your shoulder and says, “say it again.”

the day is unholy. earned. love and chaos in equal parts. and when the world comes knocking again tomorrow, you’ll answer it knowing that sundays like this exist.

[purplereina11]

🏀 Based after Eleven 🏀

Chapter 7

It started as playful online chemistry with someone unexpected-Alexia Putellas. Flirty banter turned into late-night texts before a heated moment on a club balcony shifted everything.

Now it was post game meet-ups, no-strings friends-with-benefits arrangement. They shared passion, comfort, and the grind of pro sports. But as the season went on, lines blurred.

It was supported to stay simple. These things never do however. Not in professional sports. The option to stay isn't always yours.

The arena was alive with noise—the roar of the crowd echoing off the walls, sneakers squeaking across the court, and the rhythmic beat of the ball hitting the hardwood.  

And there you were—on the bench, not in uniform but in your team tracksuit, ankle wrapped beneath your tapered joggers, arms crossed tightly over your chest.  

The second of three games stood between your team and another historic title. The pressure was massive. The energy? Relentless. And you were living every second of it from the sidelines.

The plan was clear: rest you. Keep you safe for the long haul. You weren’t coming on in the first half—maybe not at all, depending on how the game played out. The physios, coaches, everyone was united in protecting you, making sure your longevity didn’t get sacrificed for a single night.

But watching from the bench?

Torture.

You were anything but passive. Standing half the time, leaning forward, pointing out screens before they happened, calling out mismatches, reading the flow of the game like you were already on the floor.

“Liv! Hand-off! Watch the double!”

“Maya—drop to help, she’s cutting baseline!”

Every instinct in you was screaming to be out there. But you knew better. You couldn’t be reckless now—not with everything on the line.

The cameras caught you a few times, gesturing wildly with the clipboard, animated as hell, eyes glued to the court like a coach-in-training. The commentators picked up on it too.

“Look at [Your Name] on the sideline—still leading, even from the bench. That’s what captains do.”

You didn’t hear it, of course. You paced during free throws. Fist-pumped every big shot. Barked instructions, encouragement, praise—anything to keep the momentum flowing.

The girls looked to you constantly. Liv glanced at you after every possession. Maya nodded each time she stepped off the court, waiting for your read. You weren’t playing—but you were still in the game. Still running the rhythm from the edge.

And up in the stands Alexia was watching.

Eyes on you every time the camera cut away from the court. Watching the way your teammates listened. The way you led. The way your entire body moved with every possession, like you were mentally sprinting the court even if your ankle wouldn’t let you physically do it.

From the bench, you were still the pulse of the team. Still the one they followed. And soon, depending on how the second half played out— You might be stepping onto the court after all.

The second half buzzer sounded like a war drum.   And when your number was called, the roof nearly came off.

The crowd surged with energy—fans leaping to their feet, chanting your name, thunderous applause crashing like a wave through the arena. It was deafening, electric, a moment that felt like something more than just a substitution.

You were checking in. Your team was down, the scoreboard a harsh reminder of the fight still ahead. The opposing side had come out swinging in the first half—tight defense, ruthless transition, punishing every missed shot. It wasn’t lost. Not yet.

But it was close. And now, the one person they all trusted to flip the script was you.

As you jogged toward the scorer’s table, the cameras zoomed in. Eyes from every seat, every corner, every screen around the world locked onto you.

Everyone wanted to see if the ankle held. If you'd limp. If you’d hesitate. But you didn’t. Not even for a second.

You jogged onto the court with your chin high, jaw set, laser-focused. You slapped palms with Maya and Liv as they gave you the court and instantly fell into formation. The energy shifted. Tangibly. Visibly.

They believed. Not just in the comeback. In you.

The first possession came quickly—ball inbounds, pace controlled, your defender sticking close like they’d been warned not to give you an inch.

You ran off the screen anyway, shook her off with a jab step, flared to the wing, caught the pass, and didn’t blink.

One fluid motion.

Step.  

Rise.  

Release.

Splash. The three-pointer snapped through the net clean, no rim, all confidence.  

The crowd erupted.

You didn’t celebrate. Not really.

You turned toward the sideline, raised both arms, and made a circling gesture with your finger—“Let’s go. Get up. We’re not done."

The fans rose with you. Your teammates clapped you on the back as you fell into defensive position, adrenaline pumping, the arena roaring like a storm behind you.

There was work to do. Points to make up. A trophy to chase.

But with that shot, that first touch, you didn’t just put points on the board you reminded everyone who the hell you were.

The comeback wasn't just dramatic—it was dominant.

After your opening three, the tide turned with force. Like someone had flipped a switch and reminded your entire squad who they were. The defense locked in. The passes got sharper. The pace faster. Every possession became a statement.

You ran the floor like you hadn’t missed a minute.

Steals. Fast breaks. Assists. Another three. Then another.

Maya hit a mid-range jumper off your screen. Liv got an and-one and screamed so loud you could feel it in your chest. Every bucket, every stop, every rotation—it added to the momentum until the other team started breaking under it.

They were stunned.

Because you weren’t just clawing your way back.

You were taking over. The scoreboard flipped and kept climbing. What had once been a 14-point deficit turned into a 12-point lead.

And when the final whistle blew, the scoreboard told the story loud and proud:

Barcelona 84 – 69 [Opponents] Another trophy. Another piece of history.

The crowd exploded.

You didn’t even think—just threw your arms up, face to the ceiling, eyes wide with disbelief and adrenaline and absolute joy.

Then came the chaos. Teammates sprinting toward you. Maya launching herself into your side. Liv wrapping you in a one-armed hug while jumping up and down.

The rest of the bench poured onto the court. The arena was alive, noise vibrating in your chest. People screaming. Flags waving. Cameras flashing. Phones recording your name as it echoed in chants from all corners of the stands.

You turned in a slow circle, taking it in—hands in your hair, overwhelmed in the best way. The second of four titles this season—won. On a night you weren’t even supposed to play.

And yet, you did.

And you delivered. You pointed to the crowd, pounding your chest once, mouthing, “This is for you.”

Fans leaned over the railings just to touch the moment, to be close to something they knew they were witnessing—something real. Something legendary.

And as you jogged to the huddle of your teammates at center court for the trophy presentation, your eyes swept over the stands—

And found her. Alexia. Standing. Cheering. Smiling. A little pride. A little awe. Maybe even something else. But for now—this moment was for you. For your team. For history.

And you owned every second of it.

And the biggest high of your life.

The final was clinical—domination from start to finish. You scored 22, picked up MVP, and practically danced off the court. The kind of win that made your legs shake and your heart sprint. But it wasn’t just the wins. It was the crowd.

Because somewhere in the sea of noise, right behind the bench in VIP seats, were Alexia and half the Barça women’s squad, decked out in your jerseys and scarves like they were ultras, not athletes who had just trained hours earlier. Alexia’s voice had been the loudest when you hit the go-ahead three. You’d know it anywhere.

After the final buzzer and the trophy lift, the party started immediately. Locker room? Chaos. Champagne flying, music blaring, Liv doing some half-committed dance on a table while Maya poured sparkling wine into plastic cups like she was in charge of hydration. You? Somewhere in the middle of it all, still in uniform, medal around your neck, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from both the win and the champagne you'd definitely drunk too fast.

And then came the press conference. Which you shouldn’t have been allowed into in that state.

The media room was packed, the club staff trying to maintain some level of professionalism while you and two of your teammates—still giggling—took your seats behind the mics.

“Congratulations,” the moderator said, trying to be composed. “How does it feel to of won two trophies now this season?”

Liv leaned into her mic, deadly serious. “We’re gonna be insufferable for the rest of the season. I just think everyone should prepare.”

You snorted, half-laughing, half-hiding behind your hand. “She’s not wrong.”

One reporter raised a hand. “You’ve had back-to-back MVP performances. What’s been the difference for you this season?”

You blinked, leaned toward the mic, and slurred only slightly, “Hydration. Discipline. And, uh…” You glanced to your left where Maya was wiggling her eyebrows dramatically. “Support systems.” Liv choked.

“Can you elaborate?” the reporter asked, clearly amused.

You nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Having someone yell ‘DO IT FOR THE SEXY CAPTAIN’ from the bench really kept me grounded.”

The room lost it. Even the moderator laughed.

Later, the clip made it to Twitter.

It was captioned:

“Drunk [Your Name] confirming Alexia Putellas is their muse was not on my 2025 bingo card but I’ll take it.”

The moderator tried to steer things with a half-exasperated, “Let’s keep questions focused on the match, please,” but no one listened.

First came the expected ones.

“[Your Name], back-to-back MVPs in finals, did you expect to carry this kind of form into both finals?”

You took a sip of champagne and gave your best serious nod. “Well, I actually woke up this morning and said, ‘I feel like doing something iconic.’ So. Here we are.”

The room laughed, and Maya gave you a dramatic golf clap. Another reporter chimed in, grinning. “Is it true you played the second half of the game with a busted ankle when you weren’t originally planned?”

“Listen,” you said, leaning forward like you were telling a secret. “The plan was always for me to just play two quarters. A trophy was on the line and I was feeling unhinged.”

More laughter. Another sip. You were riding the high, loose and warm in a way that only came from winning and bubbles.

Then it came.

A different voice. Friendly, but calculated. “You’ve had a lot of visible support from the Barça Femení squad lately—particularly from one Alexia Putellas. She’s been courtside, wearing your jersey, and caught on video celebrating your final points. Any comment on that?”

You felt it immediately—the shift. Maya turned her head slowly toward you, lips twitching. Liv sank back into her chair with the smuggest expression known to mankind. You tried—really tried—to stay cool.

“I… have a lot of support,” you started, flashing a practiced smile. “The whole club’s been amazing this season.”

“Sure,” the reporter pressed, “but it’s not every day the captain of the women’s team shows up with your number on her back and gets caught whispering something to you in the tunnel after a game.”

You paused. Shrugged. “She’s… a friend.”

“Just a friend?” You glanced at Liv, who was absolutely vibrating with the effort not to laugh.

You took a deep breath. “Okay. Look. Am I saying I don’t find Alexia attractive? No, I am not. The girl has a face card that needs to be hung in the Louvre. But she is my friend.”

The room erupted. Liv full-on dropped her head to the table. Maya whispered, “Put that on a t-shirt.”

You held up your hands, mock-serious. “She is—genuinely—my friend. Do we support each other? Yes. Do we wear each other’s merch? Maybe. Are you all reading way too much into it because we’re both incredibly good-looking and charming? Also yes.”

A reporter near the back shouted, “So that’s a no-comment with bonus compliments?”

You grinned. “That’s a no-comment with flavor.”

By the time the press conference ended, the clip was already online, memes being made in real-time. One side of Twitter had declared you soulmates. The other? Convinced it was all a PR stunt (that somehow felt too real).

And in your pocket, your phone buzzed.

Alexia: Face card in the Louvre??.

You: Tis my truth Putellas!

No more dodging. Not tonight. The alcohol gave you a don’t give a fuck confidence for sure. 

Later that night, the celebrations had cooled—but not completely. Your medal still hung loosely around your neck, the strap twisted from wear. Your hoodie was only half-zipped, and your cheeks were flushed from the champagne and the high of victory. You’d made it through the party, the interviews, the endless congratulations.

But now you just wanted her. Alexia’s apartment lights were warm through the windows when you were buzzed in, and she opened the door before you could knock twice.

She was in sweats and a tank top, hair tied back, glasses on, clearly not expecting you, and definitely not like this.

You were leaning against the doorframe, one hand braced like it was holding you up—eyes glassy, smirk crooked. “Hi,” you said, voice low, sweet, and a little slurred. “You alone or your girlfriend here”

She blinked. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk,” you said. “Just… celebratory.”

Alexia raised a brow, arms crossing loosely. “Celebrating all the way to my doorstep?”

You looked her up and down—slowly, obviously. “I’d like to sit on your face… please.”

She stared at you for a beat, expression unreadable.Then— She laughed. A full, head-tilted-back laugh, the kind that made you grin stupidly and lean a little heavier on the doorframe. “Please tell me you didn’t drive here,” she said, half-scolding, half-grinning as she reached for your arm and pulled you gently inside.

“I took a cab,” you said proudly, nearly tripping over your own feet. “See? Responsible. But still—my request stands.”

Alexia rolled her eyes as she guided you inside, shutting the door behind you. “You’re impossible.”

“You like me impossible.”

She smirked, pressing a hand to your chest to stop your very uncoordinated attempt at leaning in. “You’re also tipsy, mildly annoying, but a little bit adorable.”

You blinked. “You said adorable.”

“I regret it already.”

You flopped dramatically onto her couch, legs spread, hoodie half hanging off your shoulder. “So… is that a no?”

Alexia crossed her arms again, trying not to laugh as she leaned against the wall, watching you with something warm in her eyes. “Drink some water. Eat something. Then we’ll talk.”

You gave her a lazy grin. “So… not a no.”

She shook her head, already walking toward the kitchen. “Definitely not a yes, either.”

You let your head fall back against the cushions, smiling to yourself, feeling full—of joy, of champagne, of her—for the first time in a long time.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been draped across her couch like some kind of smug, post-victory royalty, but when Alexia walked back in from the kitchen, she was holding a plate with a sandwich and a raised eyebrow like she was rethinking all her life choices.

She stood over you, unimpressed but slightly amused, holding the plate just out of your reach. “You are such a handful.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” you said, smirking, “so are my tits, and I don’t hear you complaining about that.”

Alexia blinked, clearly trying not to laugh. “Are you for real right now?”

You reached up lazily, still not moving from your reclined position, fingers brushing the edge of the plate. “I’m just saying. If I’m a handful, I’m at least a fun handful.”

She shook her head, biting back a grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are. Feeding me. Hydrating me. Thinking about my tits.”

Alexia set the plate on your stomach with a dramatic thud, sandwich and all. “There. Eat. Rehydrate. And stop being so full of yourself.”

You grinned, grabbing the sandwich immediately. “You love it.”

She didn’t answer, just turned to walk away with a little shake of her head—but you caught the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth before she disappeared into the kitchen again.

“That’s what I thought!” you called after her, mouth full of sandwich.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she yelled back.

“Too late,” you mumbled around a bite. “You’ve been regretting it since I walked in hot and victorious.”

But the truth was there wasn’t an ounce of regret between either of you. Not tonight.

You were mid-sandwich, shoes kicked off, hoodie half off one shoulder, talking absolute nonsense about how you should start a post-career podcast called “Buckets and Brat” when Alexia returned to the living room, arms folded and eyes full of you’re a mess, but you’re my mess.

“Come on,” she said, standing in front of you, hands extended.

You blinked up at her, confused but willing. “We dancing now? 'Cause I can’t promise I won’t fall in love with you if we slow dance.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t drop her hands. “You need a bath.”

“I smell like champagne and achievement,” you said, proudly.

“You smell like a locker room and bad decisions.” She wiggled her fingers until you gave in, placing your hands in hers. She pulled you gently to your feet, and you swayed slightly, leaning into her chest with a dramatic sigh.

“You’re bossy when I’m drunk,” you mumbled against her shoulder.

“You’re clingy when you’re drunk.”

“Lies,” you said, gripping her hips. “You’re just magnetic.”

She laughed under her breath, guiding you down the hallway toward the bathroom. “You ramble so much when you’re tipsy.”

“I’m a layered character.” When she reached for the hem of your hoodie, you squinted at her. “Okay, calm down, ma’am, we’ve barely shared a sandwich.”

Alexia smirked, undeterred. “I’m not undressing you to jump you. Although you've clearly forgotten that was the original reason you cam here.. I ran you a bath. Try not to drown.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. You peeked past her into the bathroom. Steam curled from the tub, the soft scent of eucalyptus drifting in the air. The lights were dimmed, the faucet still trickling, and a fluffy towel was already folded by the sink.

You blinked. “You’re—wait. You’re really running me a bath?”

“I work with women who treat muscle care like religion,” she said. “You just played two finals back to back, you stink, and your spine is shaped like a question mark right now.”

You blinked again. “You’re perfect.”

“Get in the tub.”

She helped peel the hoodie off, then your shirt, warm hands careful and patient. You kept making faces at her, muttering things like “Where’s the seductive music?” and “This feels very bridal” until she gave you a light shove toward the water.

Once you were settled in—neck deep, body melting—you let out a long sigh. “You’re sitting there to make sure I don’t drown, aren’t you?”

Alexia sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, chin resting on her palm, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “Absolutely.”

You floated in silence for a minute, warm and safe, cheeks pink from the heat and champagne. “You’re really not gonna kiss me right now?” you asked, eyes half-closed.

“Not while you’re this drunk,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I’m good, but I’m not reckless.”

You smiled at her through the steam. “You’re kind of everything.”

She didn’t say anything. Just kept sitting there, eyes soft, keeping watch like she always did—even when you didn’t ask her to. And you let yourself be looked after. For once.

You’d sunk deeper into the bath now, arms draped over the sides, head tipped back against the edge as the warmth settled into your muscles and loosened your thoughts—which, at this stage, were entirely unfiltered.

Alexia still sat nearby, legs tucked to her chest, occasionally sipping from a glass of water she'd brought you and definitely rethinking her life choices.

“I just… I just think it’s weird,” you mumbled, eyes fluttering open. “Like, how do we know we all see the same colors the same way?”

Alexia blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Like your purple… might not be my purple,” you said with complete sincerity, hand lifting out of the water to gesture vaguely. “We all learn the name of the color, sure, but what if how you see purple looks like how I see green? We’d never know.”

She stared at you for a long second. “Did you just bring an existential philosophy spiral into my bathroom?”

“I’m serious, Alexia. What if you think of red and your brain’s like, ‘yeah, red,’ but it’s secretly a totally different color to what I see as red, and we’ve just been living this color-coded lie our whole lives?”

Alexia exhaled slowly, like she was regretting not locking you in the guest room with a Gatorade.

“Also,” you continued, undeterred, “what if animals do talk but only when we’re not around, like in that one movie with the toys?”

She leaned back against the wall, rubbing her temple. “Are you just listing childhood thoughts you never got closure on?”

“Closure’s a myth,” you said dramatically, eyes closed now, steam curling around your face. “Like matching socks or quiet group chats.”

She actually laughed at that—low and involuntary, and you caught it, grinning even as your eyes stayed shut.

“And another thing,” you added, lifting your hand out of the water, finger pointing toward the ceiling like you were delivering a TED Talk. “How do we know pigeons aren’t government spies? Like—”

Alexia stood up abruptly, grabbing the glass and walking it over to you. “Alright. Drink this before you start debating gravity or convincing me birds are robots.”

You took the water with a sheepish grin. “That’s not a no, though.”

“It’s a please shut up and hydrate,” she replied.

You sipped, sighing contentedly, cheeks still flushed, and watched her settle back down beside the tub like she hadn’t just endured a full podcast episode of Drunken Bath Thoughts.

“You’re really staying there the whole time?” you asked, quieter now.

She glanced over at you. “Would you get out safely if I left?”

You thought about that for a moment. “...Probably not.”

“Exactly.”

You smiled again, eyes softer now. “You’re good at this.”

Alexia didn’t answer. Just reached over and flicked a few bubbles at your forehead. But stayed right there.

--

The bathwater was starting to cool, but you didn’t care. Your limbs were heavy and relaxed, your mind floating somewhere between champagne tipsy and sleep-deprived philosophical. Alexia was still sitting on the bathroom floor, leaned back against the wall, scrolling quietly through her phone. She hadn’t said much in the last few minutes—not because she wasn’t present, but because she didn’t need to say anything.

You shifted slightly, letting your fingers skim the water.

“Alexia.”

She didn’t look up. “Yes.”

You blinked at her tone, mock-offended. “Okay—no need to get snippy.”

Still, she didn’t look at you, just tapped at her phone. “Ask your question.”

You pushed up a little in the tub, water sloshing against the sides. “If you could be any kitchen appliance, what would you be and why?”

Nothing.

Not even a glance. Just the soft tap-tap-tap of her scrolling. You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna answer?”

Still no reply. You narrowed your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips.

“You’re really gonna ghost me in the middle of a deeply introspective and emotionally vulnerable moment like this?”

She exhaled a small laugh—barely audible—but her eyes stayed locked on her phone.

You leaned back dramatically against the edge of the tub. “Fine. I’ll just sit here and cry in lukewarm water thinking about how my girlfriend doesn’t want to be a kitchen appliance with me.”

“Not your girlfriend,” she muttered, still not looking at you.

“No you already have one of those” You smirked when you caught her eye roll. “Not denying that or that you’re an appliance, though.”

Alexia finally looked up at you, deadpan. “You are unbearable when tipsy.”

You grinned, triumphant. “That sounds like blender energy, actually.”

She rolled her eyes and went back to her phone, but you caught the small smile tugging at her lips. Victory. Sort of.

Alexia hadn’t moved from her spot on the bathroom floor, her back still pressed to the wall, phone in hand, thumb lazily scrolling like she was purposely ignoring you—or worse, unfazed by you.

Which… was unacceptable. You tilted your head toward her, eyes narrowing.

“Alexia.”

Nothing.

“Alexxxiiaaa…”

Still scrolling.

You pouted, lounging further into the water. “You’re so boring when you go into ‘scroll mode.’ You’re missing premium content.”

No reaction.

You stared at her for a moment longer. Then your expression shifted—mischief replacing mock-annoyance. If she wanted to act unbothered, you could fix that.

You slid one leg up through the surface of the water, slowly and deliberately, trailing your fingers over your shin in a way that was anything but casual. You dipped your hand into the water again, picked up the sponge, and began gently running it over your collarbone, up the curve of your neck, eyes fluttering closed just for effect.

“God, I’m so tense,” you sighed dramatically, arching your back ever so slightly. “I really wish someone was paying attention.” The sponge glided over your now visible breasts.

Still no reaction.

She had to be watching now.

You let the sponge glide over your shoulder, deliberately letting the water drip down your arm with a soft hiss. “Bet I’d be so much more relaxed if someone helped wash my back…”

You cracked one eye open to peek at her.

Alexia was… still looking at her phone.

But.

The corner of her mouth was twitching. Caught.

You dropped the seduction act and sat up with a splash, water sloshing over the sides. “You’re so fake! You’re laughing!”

Alexia didn’t even look up. “I wasn’t laughing.”

“You were!” you pointed accusingly. “I saw your lip do the thing!”

She finally glanced at you—smirking. “That was the most aggressively obvious bath seduction I’ve ever witnessed. You used a sponge like it owed you money.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And yet you’re still here.”

“I’m here to make sure you don’t drown,” she said, unfazed. “Not to witness your Oscar-worthy softcore solo performance.”

You groaned, flopping back into the water dramatically. “You’re so no fun.”

Alexia stood, stretching slightly as she walked over to the sink to grab a towel. “If I was no fun, I wouldn’t be sitting through your bath monologue about color theory and seductive sponge work.”

You watched her, then let out a soft sigh. “You do like me a little.”

She draped the towel over the radiator, not turning around.

“I’m still not answering the kitchen appliance question,” she said calmly.

You grinned. Victory pending.

You watched her move around the bathroom with that same impossible calm, the towel now warming on the radiator, her back to you, hair slightly messy from lounging, sleeves pushed up.

You were still naked in the tub, surrounded by bubbles that had long since started to die out, and she was somehow completely unbothered by your attempts to rattle her.

That only made it worse.

You crossed your arms on the edge of the tub, resting your chin there as you stared her down. “You know,” you said, voice deceptively casual, “most people would crack by now.”

Alexia glanced over her shoulder, unimpressed. “You think this is the weirdest thing I’ve experienced? i’m in women’s football! Please.”

“Come on,” you whined. “Just a hint of what appliance you’d be. Blender? Toaster? Air fryer?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re still on this?”

“I’m committed to the bit.”

She leaned back against the counter now, arms folded, finally giving you a sliver of attention. “You’re in lukewarm bathwater, half-drunk, and asking me what kitchen appliance I spiritually identify with. This is the person I chose to spend my night with.”

You grinned. “And yet… you didn’t choose me.”

She paused. Just for a second. Then, “I’d be a dishwasher.”

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

Alexia nodded once, cool as ever. “Efficient. Quiet. Cleans up after other people’s messes.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That’s the most you answer you could’ve given.”

“And what are you again?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Blender.”

“Right.” She smirked. “Noisy. A little dangerous if left unattended.”

You raised a wet finger. “But useful in the right hands.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. You watched her for a moment, softer now. “Thanks for taking care of me tonight. You didn’t have to.”

Alexia stepped closer, kneeling briefly beside the tub. “I didn’t,” she said, eyes on yours. “But I wanted to.”

You didn’t speak—you just nodded, lips curving into a quiet smile. She reached for the sponge you’d been using in your earlier performance and gently flicked water at you.

“And now I’m kicking you out of the tub before you wrinkle into a raisin.”

You laughed, catching her wrist lightly. “Fine. But only because you answered the question.”

“And because I warmed your towel,” she said, smug.

“That too,” you muttered. “God, you’re annoying.”

She stood and grabbed the towel. “And yet…”

And yet, you were already reaching for her hand as she helped you out of the bath, towel wrapping around your body like it belonged there—like you belonged here. Even in all your chaos, she stayed.

You might’ve been a blender, but somehow, she always knew how to handle the mess.

Alexia had just wrapped the towel securely around your body, all calm efficiency and soft eye-rolls as she dried your shoulders with the kind of care she probably wouldn't admit to.

“Stay here,” she said, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “I’m getting you something to wear.”

You gave a dramatic salute. “Yes, capitana.”

She turned to leave the bathroom, muttering something about oversized shirts and how you better not be a chaos goblin while she was gone.

But the moment she was out of sight, your stomach gave a very inconvenient, very loud growl.

You blinked. “Oh my god… my sandwich.” It hit you like a spiritual revelation. You hadn’t finished it. You’d had, like, two bites before she started making you hydrate and bathe and reflect on your questionable life choices. And now? Now it was calling you.

Without hesitation—and with zero regard for the fact that you were completely naked—you abandoned your towel on the bathroom hook and wandered out into the apartment in search of your half-eaten, slightly squished post-championship sandwich.

Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Alexia was digging through her drawer, already holding a t-shirt in one hand and a pair of soft shorts in the other when she called out, “I hope you like Barça kits, because that’s all I own in your size—”

Silence. She frowned.

“…Hello?”

She turned around. The bathroom door was open. Steam still curling out. Towel hanging up neatly.

But you were gone.

Her brow furrowed. “No… no, no, no—” She moved quickly down the hall. “You did not wander off naked in my apartment—”

But of course you had. Because there you were, standing in front of her open fridge like you owned the place, back fully bare, posture relaxed, holding the last triangle of your sandwich in one hand and taking the slowest, most satisfied bite imaginable.

Alexia stopped dead in the doorway.

She blinked. “What the actual hell.”

You turned your head, mid-chew. “What? I got hungry.”

“You’re naked.”

You looked down at yourself, then back at her, unfazed. “Yeah, but, like... casually.”

She closed her eyes, sighed through her nose, and muttered, “I am too sober for this.”

You held up the sandwich like a peace offering. “Want a bite?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I want you dressed. And not dropping mayo on my kitchen floor.”

You looked down at the small smudge on the tile near your foot. “Okay, that’s fair.”

Alexia turned on her heel. “I’m getting the shirt. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. Don’t start philosophising with the toaster.”

You grinned, watching her disappear again, still completely nude, still chewing. “You love it,” you called after her, mouth full.

“I am re-evaluating that by the minute,” she called back.

But she wasn’t. She really, really wasn’t.

When Alexia returned from the bedroom—oversized Barça shirt in one hand, shorts in the other—she was expecting to find you exactly where she left you: standing in the kitchen, still dripping water on the tiles, still annoyingly proud of your post-bath sandwich detour.

Instead, she stepped into an empty kitchen. No naked sandwich gremlin in sight. She stared at the abandoned plate on the counter. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Alexia turned slowly, eyes scanning her small apartment. “Not again.” She started down the hallway, calling out, “If you’ve gone back in the tub, I swear to God—”

But then she heard it. The unmistakable sound of a TV turning on. Followed by… you giggling? She rounded the corner and found you sprawled across her couch, still completely naked, a blanket tossed lazily over your lap, attempting to keep your modesty in a laughable attempt. Legs sticking out, remote in hand, and her Netflix account pulled up like you lived there.

“Oh hey,” you said casually, not even looking at her. “They added a new season of that dating show where everyone lies about being in love. I thought we could watch one episode.”

Alexia stared at you, arms still holding the clothes you should be wearing, trying to decide whether to scold you or grab her phone and take a photo for blackmail purposes.

“You’re unbelievable.”

You glanced at her, grinning. “Right? And yet, still more stable than half the people on this show.”

She walked over slowly, set the shirt and shorts on the armrest beside you, and gave you a look. “You are naked on my couch.”

You pulled the blanket up slightly “Technically not anymore and besides wouldn’t be the first time.”

She gave you the most unamused expression she could manage. “This is a personal attack.”

You patted the cushion beside you. “Come on, Alexia. Take a break. Join me in my cozy little kingdom of poor reality television and post-bath wisdom.”

Alexia hesitated for one second too long, then sighed, finally sitting down—though noticeably keeping her distance. “Put the damn clothes on first.”

You gave her a mischievous look. “I don’t know… I’m really vibing with this setup.”

“I’m going to smother you with that blanket.”

You slipped the shirt on with dramatic flair, then turned the volume up a notch. “Fine. But you have to admit this is kind of peak domestic.”

Alexia didn’t respond right away, just leaned back into the couch, stealing the remote from your hand. Then quietly, almost too quiet to catch, “…It kind of is.”

You were fully sprawled now, her oversized Barça shirt hanging loosely off one shoulder, blanket still draped lazily over your lap, legs stretched across the couch like you owned it. The TV cast soft flickers of light across the room as the reality show’s chaotic intro music played in the background.

Alexia sat at the opposite end of the couch, arms crossed, pretending to be deeply focused on the screen—but her eyes kept flicking toward you. Probably trying to decide if she was annoyed or entertained. Maybe both.

You caught the glance, of course. Smirked.

“You don’t usually complain when I’m naked,” you said, casual as anything.

Alexia didn’t blink. “That’s because normally, you’re not naked while disrespecting my furniture and eating my last slice of bread.”

You gasped, dramatic. “So it’s about the bread?”

“It’s mostly about the bread.”

You shifted slightly under the blanket, nudging her leg with your foot. “You didn’t complain last week when I was naked in my bed with you.”

She shot you a side-eye, lips twitching despite herself. “That was different.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

She gave you a measured look, leaning in just a little. “You weren’t drunk and stealing the TV for trash dating shows.”

You leaned right back, grinning. “So you admit there’s a naked exception clause in place?”

“I admit,” she said dryly, “that I need better boundaries.”

You kicked her lightly with your foot. “You love it.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t move away. “You’re a menace.”

You beamed. “And yet here you are. Letting the menace pick the show.”

Alexia didn’t respond immediately. She just shifted slightly, reached under the blanket to steal a corner of it for herself, and pulled it across her lap.

And just like that, you were side by side under one blanket, watching messy strangers pretend to fall in love on TV

The second episode of the dating show had just started—some dramatic intro about secret exes showing up, “Familiar” you mutter—when Alexia let out a small sigh and leaned back, letting her head rest on the top of the couch, one arm now loosely stretched along the back behind you.

You scooted closer without thinking, tucking your legs up beneath you, your head naturally finding a place near her shoulder.

Alexia didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease you. She just… settled into it.

The blanket was warm, the glow of the screen soft, and the chaos on the TV was blissfully mindless. You. Her. A shared blanket and bad television.

—

The restaurant was dimly lit, humming with quiet chatter, plates clinking in the background as glasses were refilled and music played low overhead. You sat in a booth tucked into the corner, ankle propped on the bench beside you, a slight wince every time you shifted—but you were getting used to it.

Maya sat across from you, already two drinks in and talking animatedly about a player who tried to dunk on her in practice. You barely listened. Not because you weren’t interested, but because your brain had been off centre all day.

Beside her, Liv sat with that smug ‘I did something’ smile she always wore when she was up to something. You’d asked who her “plus one” was for dinner, and she’d just winked.

So you weren’t surprised when Mariona Caldentey slid into the booth a few minutes later, all sunshine and tattoos and that mischievous sparkle in her eye.

“Wow,” she said, eyeing your foot. “You look severely hung over”

You shrugged. “Still vertical.”

The drinks flowed, plates of tapas shared and picked apart. Maya kept the vibe light, Liv leaned into the gossip, and soon the conversation naturally drifted... to Alexia.

Mariona tried to stay out of it—tried. But it was Liv who cracked it open.

“She hasn’t said anything?” Liv asked, sipping from her glass.

“Not seen her,” you said flatly. A complete and utter lie that fell easily out your mouth.

Maya raised a brow. “Even after the game? The injury? The whole ‘Alexia standing in the stands like a lovesick simp’ moment?”

You rolled your eyes.

Mariona chuckled. “She’s dramatic. But subtle like a brick.”

That made you smirk despite yourself. “That’s true.”

Mariona leaned forward, casual as ever poking her fork into a dish. “I mean, she only kept Vicky hanging around to make you jealous.”

The words hit the table like glass shattering. You blinked. “What?”

The others froze. Mariona paused, her wine halfway to her lips.

Liv gave her a slow turn of the head. “Mariona.”

Mariona’s eyes widened. “Shit.”

“What?” you snapped, voice sharper now.

She winced. “No—I mean—she didn’t say it out loud. Not to me. But I did hear her talking to Irene and Mapi about it. She was trying to get a reaction. You know the whole you want something if you can't have it kind of thing.”

You sat back slowly, arms crossing over your chest. “What a joke,” you muttered. Your jaw clenched. “Two can play that game,” you said, voice cool.

Maya sat forward. “Don’t do something stupid.”

“I won’t,” you said, already pulling your phone from your pocket.

Mariona winced again. “You’re already doing something stupid , aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Because if Alexia wanted to play with feelings, with tension, with silence and suggestion—fine.

You’d play, too. And this time? You’d make sure she saw it.

You went to Alba’s Instagram, she had just posted a new story and a photo—you noticed it immediately.

A high-contrast, sun-soaked bikini shot, lounging poolside somewhere that looked expensive, with a caption that simply said:

“Sun hits different lately ☀️”

You paused. Smirked. Tilted your head, thinking just long enough to make the decision dangerous. Then you hit Follow. And after that, you did something.

You commented.

“Guess it does. Damn.” 🤤🔥

Not subtle. Not at all. And you didn’t need it to be. Because you knew Alexia would see it. Alba was private. You’d never followed her before. The follow alone would’ve sent a ripple. But the comment? That was the splash. You tossed your phone onto the table, already bracing for the fallout. Because yeah, maybe it was petty. Maybe it was calculated. But so was dragging your ex around to make a point. And if Alexia wanted to play games, you’d just made your next move.

[ds-angel1]

can you do a hitman! rafe x reader fic where reader hires hitman! rafe to kill her cheating husband— and she finds out that rafe doesn’t seem too bad himself ;)

a/n: um so... I didn´t read the request well enough and didn´t see the cheating... so so sorry!! I´m gonna keep it the way I have it, cause it´s not that integral to the plot. I hope this isn´t too far off from what you wanted and sorry that it´s taken me so long, such a cool request!!!!

cw: murder/hiring a hitman, brief mention of abuse, mention of shooting and drowning, unprotected sex

wc: ~ 1.5k

The parking lot was a wasteland of cracked asphalt and flickering streetlights, each drip of water from a leaky gutter slicing through the silence like a metronome of dread.

Your footsteps echoed, uncertain and slow, each one louder than you'd like. Fingers twitched at your sides, restless and cold, while your mind spiraled, thoughts crashing into each other with no room to breathe, let alone think clearly.

Time stretched. Minutes passed like hours, every second a drumbeat in your chest. Then finally, movement. A figure emerged from the shadows.

A man. Jeans, hoodie, buzzcut, and a scowl etched so deep it looked permanent. His eyes swept the lot in quick, practiced scans before settling on you. He stopped just out of reach.

“Um… are you… the guy?” you asked, the words fumbling out, awkward and thin. You didn’t know his name, only what he was supposed to do.

“Yeah. You Mrs. Walton?”

The name stung, triggering something deep in your skull. You clenched your jaw. Not for much longer, you reminded yourself. Soon, it would be gone, scrubbed from your life like blood from tile.

“Yes,” you murmured.

He studied you, eyes dark and unreadable. “You got anything on you I should know about?”

You shook your head. “What… like a recorder? No.”

“Good.” His tone was flat, but the warning behind it landed hard. “If this gets out, there’s people who’ll handle it. Even if I’m inside.”

You nodded, stiff.

“You’re gonna buy a new phone. Cheap, burner. Text me when and where. Got it?” He held out a slip of paper, a scrawl of numbers barely legible in the dim light. “Half the money now, half when it’s done. I’ll text you the location for the other half the day before.”

Your fingers closed around the paper, knuckles pertruding with tension. Your brain burned the details into your memory, this wasn’t a mistake you could afford.

This was murder. You were paying to have your husband killed.

It sounded monstrous when you thought of it like that. But you’d run the math a hundred times. A divorce meant ruin, he’d bury you in court, leave you penniless, maybe even dead. You knew the connections he had. You’d seen the bruises. Felt them. This wasn’t just escape. It was survival.

You looked him in the eyes, steadied your breath, and nodded. “Okay.”

With one last glance over his shoulder, he turned and disappeared into the night, swallowed by the same darkness he came from.

And you stood there, hand tight around the number, knowing there was no turning back now.

Just a few days later, the call came.

“Mrs. Walton? I’m terribly sorry to inform you—your husband was shot while driving to work this morning. The impact caused him to lose control of the vehicle… he drove off a bridge. Rescue teams are still recovering the car from the river, but… we’re confident he didn’t survive. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

It took them nearly two days to drag his overpriced luxury car out of the water, along with what was left of him. His bloated hands, that smug face already softening with rot. The bullet, once perfectly placed over his heart, had nearly dissolved in the water, just like the man himself, dissolving into memory, into myth, into nothing.

Then came the wave: condolences, hushed voices, solemn faces, the funeral. You cried on cue. Hugged on cue. Played the grieving widow like you’d been born for it. You should’ve won something for that performance, an Oscar, at least.

Six days after the hit, the text finally arrived.

A location. Coordinates in the kind of place GPS signals go to die—the edge of the worst part of town, where the streetlights didn’t bother working and the air smelled like rust and regret.

You showed up on time. Summer, yet the sun dipped early, casting the trailer in long shadows. It looked like it had been pieced together from scraps and curses. Through the grimy window, you spotted him, same buzzcut, same scowl, hand lazily resting on his chin as he watched you approach.

By the time you reached the door, he was already there, holding it open with that same unreadable expression. Wordless. You stepped inside.

“You got my money?” His voice was gravel in the cold, stale air.

“Yeah.” You reached into your purse, pulling out a plastic bag stuffed with bills—his money, technically. Now yours.

He took it without ceremony, fingers rummaging through it, counting. “You stay while I go through this,” he muttered.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The silence was sharp. Tension hung like a fog as he flipped through stacks, licking his finger, counting aloud under his breath.

“Did… did you plan that?” you finally asked, breaking the quiet. “The river, I mean. To like... get rid of evidence?”

A low hum escaped him. A yes, maybe. Or just acknowledgment.

You let another beat pass before speaking again, quieter now. “Is this... your place?”

“Friend’s,” he answered, clipped and uninterested.

You frowned, letting out a small huff and turning your gaze to the peeling walls. His eyes flicked up at the sound.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” you said, folding your arms. “Just think you could be a little less rude. You know, considering.”

He raised an eyebrow, genuinely incredulous. “Yeah? I kill people for a living. You expect rainbows and compliments?”

You met his stare. “Wouldn’t kill you to be a little more polite to your clientele.”

Your words were met by a roll of his eyes before he stood slowly, nearing you threateningly.

“Oh yeah? Ya want me to be nice to you, darlin´?”

You don’t know how it happened, the moments between those few words and now, were a blur.

You were sat on the cluttered counter of the trailer sink, arching your back off of the wallpaper-ridden walls as the man holding your thighs to your chest was pumping in and out of you unapologetically rough and hard.

His eyes, illuminated only by a tiny lamp in the corner, were strictly focused on the sight of his length being engulfed by your soppy cunt.

You let out whine after whimper and moan after exclaim, muttering about his size and how damn good it felt over the lude squelching sounds and the rattling of the trailer. The tip of his mind-screwing cock hit a spot inside you your dead husband could never reach, making you come like you never have as he emptied his seed inside your warm, inviting womb.

Silence settled in, thick and charged, as the two of you caught your breath. His thumbs traced slow, almost tender circles on your bare hips, an unspoken lullaby after the storm. Then, with a quiet groan, he pulled out. A soft, slick sound followed, and a warm rush of your mingled release slipped from you, trailing down your inner thigh.

“Fuck,” he muttered, low and almost reverent as if the word alone could ground him.

He crouched down, redressing you with surprising care, slipping your panties back up, smoothing your skirt into place. His hands lingered at your waist as he guided you upright, placing you gently on trembling legs.

“You don’t tell anyone about this,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. His gaze lingered on your face, drinking in the wreckage of your expression, flushed cheeks, mascara streaked in messy rivers, eyes wide with something between shock and surrender. The dim light tried to swallow it all, but it couldn’t. He saw everything.

He reached up, his fingers rough but delicate as they wiped away the smudges beneath your eyes.

“Okay…” you whispered, the word ghosting past your lips. Your mind hadn’t caught up yet, still lost somewhere between shame and euphoria, disbelief and craving.

He nodded once, sharp and unreadable, before turning to the bag. Without finsishing counting, he began gathering the stacks of money, trusting it was all there. Somehow, that trust felt heavier than anything he’d said aloud.

You watched him in silence, your heart thudding like it was trying to break out of your chest.

“Can I… will I see you again?” you asked, your voice barely steady enough to make it out of your dry throat.

He didn’t look up. Not until his bag was zipped shut with all the money you paid him for killing your husband buried deep inside. Just like his cum was buried deep inside you.

“Keep the phone,” he said, tone flat, but something in it twisted, subtle and raw.

Your pulse quickened, your breath catching in your throat.

He walked to the door, hand gripping the bag so tightly that his tanned knuckles turned pale. You stepped forward, words tumbling out before you could stop them.

“Wait… what´s... what’s your name?”

He paused in the doorway, half in shadow. Then, turning his head slightly, just enough for his voice to reach you.

“Rafe. My name is Rafe.”

[lexalith]

HIDDEN pt.2 || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)

summary: this is part 2 of my original fic HIDDEN. you should read that one first or you’re gonna be very confused!

warnings/this story contains: female reader, age gap (reader is 24 now, seunghyun’s 37) unresolved tension, mutual pining and emotional damage, reader’s life being absolute trash (?), seunghyun and the reader being very anxious people. angst (jealousy, heartbreak, guilt, shame, regret, self loathing, not being able to let go but also not being able to stay. timing never being right and love not being enough like alwayssss, i’m sorry) personal growth, forgiveness, closure, and a tiny little bitty bit of fluff if you squint your eyes very, very hard (lmao).

a/n: i never planned on writing a part two, but here we are! thank you so much for the endless support and for looking forward to this <3 as always, english isn’t my first language! seunghyun’s texts are in blue, reader’s texts are in orange. reader’s dialogue is in bold.

songs: champagne coast — blood orange (yes, again, because this is their song. i’m making it canon) ll all i wanted — paramore || lovers — anna of the north || all too well (10 minute version) — taylor swift

it’s been nine months since the breakup, and your life couldn’t be more different than it was—if someone took a polaroid of you now and held it next to the girl who packed her bags for seoul with stars in her eyes, you’re not sure you’d even recognize her. you’re back in brownsville, no longer coordinating payload systems at starbase—because, well, turns out when your year-long secret relationship becomes very suddenly not so secret, someone decided having you around was more trouble than it was worth. after they cut you off—citing professionalism and image and propriety—you didn’t really have a plan.

you spent a month unemployed, half-heartedly scrolling through job listings you didn’t want while lying facedown on the couch, alternating between waves of quiet panic and nausea that came every time you accidentally thought about seunghyun for more than five seconds. it was still raw then—the kind of heartbreak that didn’t just ache but physically made you feel sick, like your body was rejecting the entire experience. everything reminded you of him, and you hated it—how you could go from brushing your teeth to fully sobbing in the span of a minute because some memory had snuck in through the cracks, as if your own mind was determined to torture you for ever letting someone get that close.

and eventually, when your savings account started looking like a damn joke, you took the first job you could find—bartending at a small spot downtown. it’s not what you studied for. it’s not even remotely what you imagined doing when you walked across that graduation stage in your too-tight heels and got your aerospace degree handed to you… but it’s steady. you’ve memorized the orders of the regulars, learned how to hold your tongue when men call you sweetheart like it’s your god-given name or snap their fingers and whistle like you’re a fucking dog, and you’ve gotten really good at pretending you’re okay—smiling through it. your shoes are always sticky by the end of the night, your clothes reek of grease and cheap vodka no matter how many times you wash them, and there’s a tiny scar on your wrist from a shattered pint glass that slipped mid-shift during a friday rush. but hey… at least the tips are decent.

you’ve also been… seeing someone. the guy your friends had been annoyingly pushing for months (back when you were still secretly dating seunghyun and pretending to consider it just to shut them up). he’s your age, works in construction and is very nice, which sounds like a shitty compliment, but it’s not. you’ve been seeing him for about two months now—hanging out and hooking up. you like him. really, you do… a little bit. but every now and then you catch yourself comparing the way he holds your face to the way someone else used to, and you have to blink it away before it sinks too deep. he doesn’t know about seunghyun, of course. not the real version of it, anyway. just that there was someone before, someone who hurt you. and you appreciate his patience—he gives you space when you need it and doesn’t ask too many questions. and, well, he eats your pussy good, so. there’s that too. sometimes that’s enough to shut your brain up for a bit, enough to make you forget the ache that still sits in your chest like a bruise that never really healed. even though you know it’s not fair. and you wonder, sometimes, if this guy’s waiting for you to fall in love with him and has no idea that you’re still scraping someone else’s fingerprints off your skin.

but the most significant thing—the one that still sits in your stomach like a rock you can’t digest—is that you found out. you finally know. it was her. your mother. you didn’t even get it from her directly. you found it by accident—buried in an old email. you weren’t snooping—just printing a return label for something, waiting for the slow-ass printer to wake up—when your eyes caught the subject line: re: media contact – confidential inquiry. and you clicked it. you scrolled through every line with a growing sense of horror. you confronted her that same night. you didn’t plan it, didn’t rehearse what you were going to say—you just walked into the kitchen, heart pounding, and said, “how long were you planning on hiding the fact that you’re the one who leaked it?” she didn’t even deny it. just looked at you, quiet for a second, then said, “i did what i had to do.” “you had to?!” your voice broke, equal parts disbelief and fury. “you had to sabotage my entire fucking relationship?!” “he was taking advantage of you,” she said flatly. “what the fuck? what the—what the fuck is wrong with you?! you had no right to interfere like that! none!” “you think i didn’t see what he was doing? he was grooming you—” “don’t you dare use that word,” you spat, stepping forward. “don’t you fucking dare put it like that just because you needed a reason to feel better about what you did! i was twenty-two, not sixteen!” “i don’t care! he’s thirteen years older than you, and you—” “he wasn’t using me! i knew what i was doing—” “no!” she pointed at you, jabbing the air, furious and breathless, “you were just following him around like some starstruck idiot, lying to me, running away from your job, from your family—” “oh my god, shut the fuck up!” you snapped, tears hot in your eyes. “shut the fuck up! i was in love! and you fucking ruined it!”

you don’t remember much after that—just fragments. you remember your mother shouting something about protection, about how she couldn’t stand by and watch you throw your future away over a man who was never going to give you anything real. you remember knocking over a stack of books, slamming a drawer so hard it bounced back open, dragging your suitcase out of the closet with shaking hands and yanking things off hangers without looking. she cried, kept repeating that she didn’t mean to hurt you, that she was scared, that she thought she was doing what was best. but you didn’t care. you were too angry and too fucking tired of being treated like you didn’t know your own mind. you haven’t spoken to her since. you don’t know if you ever will. because it turns out there’s heartbreak that comes from losing a lover, and then there’s heartbreak that comes from realizing the person who raised you is the reason you lost them. and now it’s too late to take any of it back.

you’ve been crashing with one of your friends for the past three weeks—sleeping on a futon that creaks every time you turn over and makes your back ache by morning. you didn’t really know where else to go. your job barely covers groceries—forget rent, forget deposits, forget the fantasy of having a space that’s actually yours. so now you’re here, trying not to be a burden, trying not to cry into your friend’s couch cushions at night because she’s doing you a favor, and you already feel like a walking pity case. sometimes you lie there and think about how you used to fall asleep in a king-sized bed with high thread count sheets and a man who kissed your shoulders before falling asleep with his hand in yours, and now you’re in someone else’s place, listening to the hum of a fridge that never stops running—feeling lonelier than you ever have in your entire life.

you thought life would’ve gotten better by now, but you spend the nights crying instead—staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. you cry because nothing feels right, because everything feels too hard, because you lost your job, your relationship, your home, your sense of direction—and even though you keep telling yourself you’re only twenty-four, that there’s time to figure it out, some nights it just feels like you’re stuck in and endless pain loop. no one warned you adulthood would feel like this.

you’re alone that night. your friend’s covering a night shift, the apartment is quiet, and your body feels like it’s made of wet tissue—fragile and bloated and cursed with every symptom imaginable, because the universe decided you needed your period on top of everything else. the cramps are brutal, your back hurts, your tits ache, and the fucking futon now has a suspicious little stain that you know you’ll have to scrub later. you’ve been crying (again!) and your throat is raw from it, your eyes puffy, your nose sore from wiping it too hard with paper towels. you feel pathetic. like genuinely, award-winning levels of pathetic. and maybe that’s what finally does it. you reach for your phone with hands that are slightly shaky, not because you’re nervous, but because you’re just so damn tired. of yourself, mostly. and maybe the universe too. your fingers open his old messages. you used to do this sometimes—type things you needed to get off your chest. but you never sent them because seeing your words in that annoying green bubble would be worse than anything else. it would remind you that yes, he blocked you. yes, he’s still gone. yes, this is over, and it’s been over. move the fuck on already, girl. so, following your little tradition, you type:

it was my fucking mom this whole time. she’s the one who leaked everything. i found out like three weeks ago, and i still haven’t processed it. i wish you knew. i wish i could make you know so you wouldn’t go on living your life thinking i betrayed you or whatever tf you decided to believe instead of trusting me. but anyway. talk about trust issues now, bc honestly, idk how i’m ever supposed to trust anyone again!🥰 love this for meeeee omg!😍😍 i shouldn’t have told her i was moving to seoul. i should’ve just disappeared from her fucking life and been happy with you and what we had. but no. because life can’t be that easy for me, right? no. life has to be a fucking bitch in every possible way. i’m so fucking tired.

your fingers hover over the delete button as you cry profusely after typing that paragraph—eyes blurry, throat tight, the screen glowing too bright in the dark room. and maybe it’s the hormones, or the sleep deprivation, but something inside you hits send. because why the fuck does it matter? he’s not gonna read it, he’s got you blocked. but the second you see the message go blue—you freeze. your stomach drops and you stare at your phone like it’s just slapped you across the face. he unblocked you. wait—what? since when? you shoot up like you’ve just been electrocuted, eyes wide as the full horror of what just happened sinks in. “what the fuck! what the fuck! shit, shit, shit—” you whisper to no one, pacing the tiny apartment. so much for crying in your period-stained pajamas—turns out all it takes to yank you out of a full-blown breakdown is the absolute fucking horror of realizing you just sent a long-ass vent session straight to the one person on this planet you were least fucking ready to talk to. congrats, girl! you keep outdoing yourself! “oh my—fuck! fuck, fuck, fuck! oh, god. oh my god,” you keep mumbling. when the fuck did he unblock you?! and why the hell didn’t you check?! your heart is in your throat, pulse hammering so fast it makes your vision blur for a second. you swipe back to the chat like maybe you hallucinated the whole thing. maybe the app glitched. but no. and before you can delete it, there it is—read. “huh?!” you stop in your tracks, frozen in the middle of the room. your mouth falls open. your lungs forget how to work. your entire body goes cold and then hot, and then cold again. “no. no no no no no no—fuck!”

you groan into your hands and sink down onto the futon. your palms are damp with sweat and your brain’s screaming. the message is sent. he’s seen it. and no matter how much you want to crawl inside your phone and delete it—there’s nothing left to do but sit in the aftermath. so you do. you sit, legs curled beneath you, staring at your phone screen. you check the time—3:41 a.m. in texas. in seoul, it’s late afternoon. you decide to leave your phone face up on the floor next to you and try to pretend you’re not watching it from the corner of your eye like it’s about to perform a fucking magic trick. every time it lights up, your heart jumps—once it’s duolingo, passive-aggressively reminding you for the hundredth time that you haven’t finished your korean lessons (well… thank you for the reminder, motherfucker!). and another time it’s your period tracker app asking if you’re feeling moody lately. no shit! you lurch forward every time, breath catching in your throat, only to get sucker-punched by disappointment again and again. and still, no reply. you try to sleep, not because you think it’ll work, but because it’s the only other option. but lying down just makes it worse—your thoughts are louder. you flip your pillow, then flip it again. the sheets are damp with sweat, your legs restless, your hands twitching toward your phone like it’s calling to you. you wait for hours… he never replies.

and by the time the sun comes up, you’ve barely slept at all. your eyes sting, your mouth is dry, and you’ve gone full zombie-mode by the time your shift rolls around. you survive your shift at the bar by sheer muscle memory, making drinks, taking orders and smiling through clenched teeth. and when it ends, your body aches like it’s been rolled through the pavement. you go home—your friend’s home—after midnight, feet aching, back sore, and stomach hollow from skipping dinner because the thought of eating made you feel sick. the place is dark when you walk in. she’s probably already asleep, and you tiptoe into the kitchen to grab a glass of water before collapsing on the futon. you check your phone—still nothing. and that’s it. that’s the end of the story. why would it end any other way? of course he’s not going to reply. you should’ve never sent that fucking text. you should’ve stuck to your sad little ritual of typing and deleting and pretending you had closure. because this? this is embarrassing.

you toss your phone onto the floor like maybe breaking it will break the shame too, and flop onto your side dramatically… and then it buzzes. you’ve never gotten up so fast—hands scrambling for the phone. you swipe, thumbs clumsy with nerves because holy shit, there’s a notification from him. but somehow you manage to open the message.

Can I call you?

you stare at the screen. your pulse is pounding loud in your ears, and for a second you’re genuinely not sure if you’re going to throw up or pass out. your entire body is shaking and your blood has drained out of your face. you can feel it. you’re cold and clammy all over, heart thudding like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest. you try to breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth—before typing:

yeah, okay

your phone starts ringing a second later—like he’d been waiting. and the sound of it, his name lighting up your screen again after all these months, knocks something loose in your chest. the apartment is quiet—just the creak of the floor beneath your feet as you cross over to the sliding door that leads to the balcony. you slide it open as quietly as you can, since you don’t want to wake your friend, and step outside. it’s darker than you expected, the only light coming from the streetlamps below and the faint orange glow of someone’s window across the way. the balcony chair creaks under your weight as you sink into it, the metal cold against your bare thighs. your breathing’s all uneven now—short little gasps like you just finished running, though you haven’t moved more than ten feet—and you can’t stop staring at the screen. you swipe to answer. for a few seconds, there’s nothing. only silence. then, finally, a voice. “hi.” you grip the phone tighter, trying to stop your hands from shaking. “hi,” you say back. and then silence again. you can’t tell if it’s awkward or loaded or both.

you shift in the chair, curling one leg up underneath you. “how are you?” he asks. oh lord. he was literally fucking you raw less than a year ago… and now he’s making small talk. stop this madness. “i—i’m good,” you say, lying through your teeth, obviously. you clear your throat. “you?” “fine,” he says after a beat, but he sounds anything but—tired, like something in his chest’s been weighing him down. and then another pause, before he finally says, “i read your message.” “yeah… i know. i mean—i saw.” you chew the inside of your cheek, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve. “was it really her?” you nod before realizing he can’t see you. “yeah. it was.” he doesn’t say anything, so you keep going, just to fill the space. “i saw… an email she sent. and we—we fought. bad. i left the same day and i… i haven’t been back since.” “you—where are you staying?” he asks, and you hear something in his voice, concern. “friend’s house.” you try to make it sound casual. he goes quiet again, and for a second, all you can hear is the low static hum of the call. you bite your bottom lip before blurting, “i didn’t know you’d unblocked me.” “yeah. i did like a month ago, i think.” you hum. you want to ask why, but you don’t. because the call already feels like a glass balancing on the edge of a table, and you don’t want to make it more awkward than it already is. and besides, you know you wouldn’t get the answer you want. if he wanted to talk, he would’ve. if he missed you, if he regretted it, if any part of him wanted to reach out… he would’ve. and he didn’t. so you swallow that sharp little ache, ignore the part of you that still wants to believe in something softer, and you say, “i’m sorry for sending that, by the way. i was… i don’t know. not in a great headspace yesterday.” “don’t apologize,” he says. “i’m glad you told me.” “you deserved to know.” “mmh.” the silence stretches for another second before he says, “thank you.”

the quiet that follows is soft, almost gentle. for a second you think that’s it—you can almost feel one of you hovering over the red button, and you know you should probably let it happen, let it end on something simple and clean. but you don’t want to hang up yet. so, instead, you do what you always do when your nerves start to buzz—you talk. “i’ve typed stuff before. like—messages. to you.” oh my god… shut up! shut up! why the fuck are you saying this? you want to swallow the words back down immediately but nope—your mouth keeps going. “i never sent them but… i don’t know. i wasn’t even supposed to send you that one last night—i don’t know why i did.” you press a hand to your forehead, silently screaming. “anyway i—yeah. sorry. i should just… shut up.” there’s a pause on the other end, heavy enough to make your fingers twitch against your leg. you expect him to change the subject or maybe just hang up altogether, and for a second you even brace yourself for the sound of the line going dead. but then he says, “what kind of stuff?” you blink, eyes still fixed on the quiet street below, unsure you heard him right. “what?” “the messages,” he answers, and his voice is a little quieter now, like he’s not sure if he should be asking. “what were they about?” you’re caught so off guard that you let out this small, breathless laugh that doesn’t hold any humor at all. “seriously?” you ask, more to yourself than to him. you rub a hand over your face. “i don’t know, just… random things about my life. like my day, what i was doing… sometimes just things i wish i could say to you but knew i couldn’t. i don’t know.” you trail off, embarrassed, already regretting every word spilling out of your mouth. “you can tell me now,” he says. you blink, heart stumbling a little in your chest, because you don’t know what you were expecting him to say—but it definitely wasn’t that. your fingers tighten around the phone again. “you… want me to tell you?” “i do.” you hesitate. not because you don’t have things to say—god, you’ve got too many—but because you don’t know what version of your life he’s expecting. probably not the one you’re living. “i didn’t think you’d care,” you admit quietly. “i care—of course i care.” oh… you close your eyes, press your palm to your chest and you can feel how fast your heart is beating. you force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “i’m bartending now.” you immediately want to cringe, because wow, what an opener. “they fired me from starbase. so… yeah. but it’s okay, this job isn’t so bad… i mean—it’s not good either, but it pays.” he hums, a soft sound of acknowledgement, like he’s listening. “and, like i told you, i’m living with a friend. after—after everything that happened with my mom… i couldn’t stay. so, yeah.”

something about saying all of that out loud—narrating your life to someone who once knew it better than anyone else—makes your bottom lip tremble before you can stop it. this tiny traitorous movement that you feel more than see, like the last thread of control slipping quietly from your hands. you swallow hard. try to hold it together and sound normal. “but i’m, um… i’m looking for a place,” you add, voice higher now, too fast. “something small for myself.” you don’t mention that your bank account laughs at you every time you open the app, or that you fall asleep on a futon in the corner of your friend’s tiny apartment, feeling like a burden. you don’t say any of that, because it’s pathetic. but the tears come anyway, completely against your will. not just because of your mom or your job or your life crumbling in pieces so small you can’t even name them—but because you’re talking to him. and everything about this feels so impossibly far from what you used to be. the way you speak to each other now, like strangers, it’s breaking you open in places you didn’t know were still sore. you try to sniff it away, wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, but it’s useless. “are you…” his voice cuts through the line. “are you crying?” “no.” you suck in a breath. “i mean—yes. yes, i am. it’s just—i don’t know.” the tears are falling faster now, and your throat is thick with everything you’ve been trying so hard not to feel for the last nine months. you sniff, drag the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your nose, and bite out, “why’d you even call me, seunghyun? seriously. what was the point?” “i wanted to apologize.” he pauses. “i—i’m sorry. i should’ve trusted you, i should’ve listened. i was just… angry. and scared.” you exhale through your nose, trying to steady the shaking in your chest. “it’s okay,” you say quietly, even though part of you wants to tell him it’s not.

he doesn’t reply right away, and for a second you think the call might be really ending this time—that this was all he needed to say, a final stitch to close the wound and move on. but then—“i missed your voice.” your breath catches, and you don’t know what to say to that. because it hurts. it hurts so fucking much to hear it. “you hurt me, seunghyun,” you whisper. “i know,” he says, voice breaking. “i know i did, baby—shit. sorry. fuck, i—i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to call you that.” you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your knuckles to your lips like it’ll stop the sting. “don’t. don’t do that.” “i didn’t mean to—” “no, you don’t get to do that,” you cut in, sharper this time, words tumbling out fast. “this isn’t fair,” you say, and now your voice really starts to shake. “you’re not—you’re not being fair, seunghyun.” “listen—“ “no, i don’t wanna fucking listen!” you raise your voice, frustration spilling out faster than you can rein it in. “sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry. i—i didn’t mean to speak to you like that.” “i know,” he whispers. “but i understand. i deserve it.” “no, you—i just… it’s a lot. and hearing your voice like this again—fuck, i don’t know.” he doesn’t say anything, and you’re not even sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep going before you lose your nerve. “you shouldn’t have unblocked me. you should’ve just left it the way it was,” you continue, sobbing between words. “what—” “i was doing okay,” you lie, even though you both know you weren’t. “or at least, i was trying. and then you—you do this, and now i feel like—i feel like i’m right back where i started.” he’s silent again, and it drives you fucking insane—how he always does this, lets the silence do the work for him, like it’s your job to fill in the blanks. “you can’t just show up in my life when you feel like it. that’s not how this works. you don’t get to block me, forget about me, go on with your life, and then crawl back into mine just because you’re curious or lonely or whatever the fuck this is.” your breath is shallow now, chest rising and falling fast. “i can’t do this, seunghyun. i can’t—” you cry. “so do it again. block me. because if you don’t… i will.”

you wait a second—two, maybe three—before you hang up. you stare at the screen for a beat too long after the line goes dead, your own reflection faint in the glass. your limbs feel shaky as you drag yourself up from the chair with the kind of stiffness that makes you wonder if heartbreak settles in your bones like lead. the apartment is quiet when you slip back inside. you don’t even bother changing. and when you fall onto the futon, you collapse. your chest hurts, in the literal, physical way—like there’s something pressing down on it, making it harder to breathe with every passing second. you’re still crying, face crumpling into the crook of your elbow. and even though you try to keep it quiet because your friend is asleep in the next room, your body has other plans. the sobs come in waves, ugly and loud and gasping, and there’s no one to stop them, no one to shush you or hold you or say it’s going to be okay. you press your face into the pillow and scream once, like it might help get it out, but it doesn’t. you cry until you’re too tired to cry anymore, until your body feels wrung out and empty. until your eyelids are heavy, your head pounds and the ache in your chest starts to dull—because, yes, even pain has its limits. and when sleep finally takes you, it feels like relief.

you don’t even hear her come in. it takes a few tries before your friend gets through to you, nudging your foot, then your shoulder, then finally your name, said a little too loudly for how early it is. “hey! you’ve gotta get up. don’t you have work?” you jolt upright like you’re coming up for air, groggy and disoriented, face crusted with dried tears. you mutter something like “shit, what time is it?” before fumbling for your phone. and that’s when you see it. seunghyun texted you while you were asleep.

Hi. I just booked a flight to Texas.

I’ll be in Brownsville for a few days, and I really, really want to see you.

I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me.

But if you do, I’ll be here next Sunday at 4 P.M.

he had sent a location.

We have a lot to talk about.

I didn’t want our call to end like that.

You don’t have to reply, just know I’ll be there, waiting.

And if you don’t show up, that’s okay too.

I hope you have a good day. 🫰🏼

your first thought is no. not even a soft, hesitant kind of no—just a loud, stubborn one that echoes straight through your head. NO. you don’t want to see him. you don’t want to talk. you don’t want to sit across from him pretending like the last nine months haven’t been eating you alive. you lock your phone, toss it somewhere near the futon, and move through your morning like you’re not actively dissociating—getting dressed and slapping on mascara with a shaky hand. you go to work, surprisingly making it on time. and when your shift ends, you go home. you eat leftovers straight from the container, ignore the ache behind your eyes, and tell yourself you’ve made a decision. you’re not going. simple as that.

but as the days creep forward and that sunday inches closer, your initial no—the one that came so fast and full of conviction it practically shouted over your entire body—starts to feel less like a boundary and more like a bluff you’re trying to convince yourself to believe. you find yourself rereading his texts on the bus ride home, or glancing at the clock and thinking about time zones again, something you swore you’d broken the habit of months ago. it’s not that you want to see him (girl… you do, you aren’t fooling anyone) it’s just that you’re curious. and a little bit stupid, apparently. and then, like your brain didn’t already have enough to chew on, instagram decides to kick you while you’re down. you get the notification late at night: TOP 최승현🌙 posted for the first time in a while. you stare at the alert, blinking. no way. how fucking convenient. you open the app before you can stop yourself, and there it is—proof that he unblocked you on your private insta, because you’re staring right at his profile. oh my… you’re a slut in mourning. it’s a selfie. he’s staring straight at the camera, head tilted slightly to the side to flex that stupid jawline, jesus christ... he’s wearing a black hoodie—the same one you used to borrow when you were together. more specifically, the one you were wearing the first time you let him fuck you raw. is he doing it on purpose? is this his way of getting your attention? trying to say he misses you? that he’s thinking about you too? or maybe you’re just being delusional and he’s literally just wearing his fucking hoodie like any normal person would… not everything is about you. right? you zoom in without shame, you stare, you squint and you hate yourself a little. you flip your phone face down and mutter, “fuck off,” like that’s going to do anything—like you’re not already replaying every time you tugged his hair while he was between your thighs, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue circled your clit.

sunday. 3 p.m. comes and you’re still telling yourself no, still convincing yourself with weak half-arguments and imaginary moral high ground, still walking around the room like you’re above it, like you’ve evolved past the the version of yourself who would show up for him no matter what. you’re not going. you’ve already made that decision—made it days ago. in fact, you’ve been repeating it like a fucking mantra: i’m not going, i’m not going, i’m not going. it’s the one thing you’ve been stubbornly sure of. and yet, by 3:07, you’re in front the drawer your friend let you use. you’re not sure when you stood up or how you ended up yanking it open, but suddenly you’re staring at your clothes like any of them will know what the fuck you’re doing. and you tell yourself: what harm could there be in just… seeing? just showing up, looking hot, and reminding him what he lost? right? what could go wrong? you drag yourself into the shower, rinse off the sweat and anxiety, and talk yourself out of having a panic attack while shaving your legs. you towel off, throw on something decent and slap on a bit of makeup as you wonder why the fuck are you wasting your free day on this, when you could’ve been watching reruns of some trashy dating show or doom-scrolling in peace. and before you can rethink your decision again, you’re on the bus, heart pounding harder with every stop.

you show up an hour late—closer to five-thirty than four—but you don’t feel bad about it. if anything, it makes you feel a little less like you’re crawling back and a little more like you’re arriving on your own terms. the place he chose to meet you is a rooftop wine bar in downtown brownsville with thick wooden beams stretched overhead to break the light. string lights hang loosely between them and the tables are spaced out, some close to the railing with a quiet view of the city below. he’s already there, of course, seated near the far edge of the terrace, next to the railing, with a half-finished glass of wine in front of him. you spot him instantly. he’s in a long-sleeved maroon sweater, and you don’t know why the fuck he’s wearing sleeves in this heat. his trousers are loose and slouchy, and his boots—yes, boots, in thirty-degree texas weather—are polished to hell, the soles thick and clunky. his cap sits on the table beside his wineglass, and he’s wearing his glasses—the ones that make him look so gentle. you used to love it when he wore them around you. he doesn’t see you right away—he’s looking out over the terrace, lips pursed like he’s deep in thought—but your stomach still drops like it’s the first time all over again.

you take a slow breath, then start walking. the heels of your shoes click against the tile, and the closer you get, the more surreal it feels—seeing him again. and then he looks up. you don’t know what you expected, but the way his whole face shifts when his eyes land on you catches you off guard. his brows lift just a little, like he’s not sure he’s seeing you right, and then there’s this soft pull at the corners of his mouth, the kind of expression people only ever give to people they’ve missed. he moves quickly after that, chair scraping back as he stands up too fast, brushing his palms down the sides of his pants like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. your heart thuds a little too hard as you close the last few steps between you, nerves spiking even though there’s no reason to be this tense—you’ve seen him like this before, touched him, kissed him, loved him. but now it feels like starting from scratch. “hey,” you say first, because someone has to break the tension. your voice comes out quiet, breathier than you meant. he clears his throat, shifting his weight. “hi.”

he stands there, hovering beside the table, and for a second it’s like neither of you knows how to move—do you shake hands? do you hug? his gaze flickers down to your hands, like he’s expecting you to offer one to shake, and then back up to your face. it’s clear he doesn’t know what to do, and god, neither do you. a hug feels too intimate, but standing here in this weird, polite standoff feels worse. so you do it—you step forward, close the space, and wrap your arms around him quickly, not giving yourself enough time to regret it. he’s surprised, you can tell by the way his arms come around you just a second too late. you pull away before it can get weird, and he lets you, hands immediately dropping to his sides like he’s scared to overstep. you glance at the wine glass, then back at him. “sorry i’m late.” seunghyun shakes his head, quick. “no, it’s fine. i—” he exhales. “i didn’t think you were coming.” you nod, slow and awkward, arms crossed tight over your chest for a second before you remember how that looks and force yourself to let them fall to your sides. “yeah. me neither.” he huffs a tiny laugh, almost embarrassed, and gestures toward the seat across from his. “do you wanna sit?” you nod, murmuring a soft “yeah,” as you move toward the chair. you sit, legs crossed, back too straight, and he mirrors you, settling across from you. the table feels huge between you. ridiculous, really—after everything you’ve done together, everything you’ve been to each other, now you’re playing pretend like two people on a first date who forgot how to talk.

he reaches for his wine glass, turns it slowly between his fingers without drinking. “you look good,” he says, eventually. “i mean… really good.” you meet his eyes, and then, because you can’t help it, “so do you.” he smiles at that, soft, almost sheepish, and then glances down at the wine list sitting neatly on the table between you. “you want anything?” he asks, tapping the edge of the menu lightly. “they’ve got a good selection.” you shake your head, giving a small, polite smile. “just water’s fine.” “water, then,” he says, and signals to the server passing by to order you a glass. there’s a beat of silence after the server leaves, just the soft clink of his glass when he shifts it on the table. he doesn’t look at you—just studies the red swirl of wine for a second like it’s got the right words floating in it somewhere—then finally says, “i’m glad you came.” you nod once, unsure what to say to that, fingers twitching in your lap. “and… i’m sorry,” he adds quietly. “about the phone call. the way it ended… that wasn’t how i wanted it to go.” “i know.” “i didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he says. “or backed into a corner. i just—my head was a mess, and i handled it wrong. i’m sorry.” “it’s fine. thank you—thanks for the apology.” and you mean it. he leans back slightly in his chair, exhales through his nose. his fingers trace the rim of his wine glass like he’s trying to occupy them. “i didn’t know if you’d ever want to see me again. after everything.” “i didn’t know either. up until like… three o’clock.” his mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smile. “last-minute decision?” “very,” you say. “bad one, maybe. not sure yet.” “i get it. i wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t shown up.” “i almost didn’t,” you admit. “but then i thought—i don’t know. if i didn’t come, i’d just keep wondering what you wanted to say.” he nods, finally meeting your eyes again. “i wanted to say a lot of things.” “like what?” he hesitates, jaw tightening slightly, like the words are caught somewhere behind his teeth. he exhales, slow and heavy, and leans forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table. “i wanted to apologize,” he says. “for how things ended. for—for what i said. for not listening.” “seunghyun—” you start, but he shakes his head. “i didn’t believe you,” he goes on. “and i should have. i should’ve known better—i did know better. but it was easier to be angry than to be scared, and i was so, so fucking scared. scared of being exposed again, of people dragging my name through the mud all over, of losing everything i’d tried to build back up—” “i know. i know, hyun. i understand you. it’s… it’s okay.” it isn’t, though. “and instead of trusting you,” he says, like he didn’t hear you at all, “i panicked. i pushed you away. and i hate myself for it.” you shift in your seat, hands gripping the sides of the chair, aching with the weight of all the things you wish could make this easier. “hyun,” you murmur again, softer now, like saying his name might take the edge off his pain or yours. “you don’t have to—” “i do,” he says. “i haven’t stopped thinking about it… about how fast i let it all go. how fast i let you go. and the worst part is…” he stops, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “the worst part is that i made you think you didn’t matter to me. like it was easy for me to—to cut you off. and it wasn’t. it’s never been easy. it still fucking haunts me.” he pauses. “i just needed you to know that. i needed—i needed to say it to your face.” he exhales shakily, like just getting the words out took something out of him. his eyes stay fixed somewhere past your shoulder, like he’s afraid that meeting yours will make it harder. “and i missed you,” he says quietly. “fuck, i missed you so much.”

the words land somewhere low in your gut, like they’ve been thrown instead of spoken. and for a second, it stings in a sweet way, that traitorous part of your chest aching at the sound of his voice wrapped around something soft again, something that once made you feel safe. but the sweetness evaporates almost instantly, replaced by a sharp kind of heat under your skin, the kind that flares when something touches a bruise you thought had already faded. because you don’t get to miss someone and do nothing about it. not when you’re the one who made it clear, so fucking clear, that it was over. your jaw tightens. because no. no, he doesn’t get to say that. your eyes start to sting, the burn rising fast and sudden behind your lashes. and then, without warning, a single tear slips down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly with the back of your hand. “why didn’t you reach out, then?” he blinks, startled, like he hadn’t expected the question. you sniff once, wipe at your cheek again even though the tear’s already gone. “i waited, you know. for so fucking long. every day, i thought maybe today you’d say something.” you scoff. “but you didn’t. not a word—not until i told you the one thing that finally cleared me.” his lips part like he wants to speak, but you don’t let him. “and now you’re here,” you go on, voice shaking. “saying all the things i used to fantasize about hearing. and don’t get me wrong—it’s nice. it’s—it’s really fucking nice, i needed to hear it. but if i hadn’t sent that message, if i hadn’t broken down and hit send for once instead of just typing and deleting like i always did… would we even be here right now?” you’re not sure what answer you’re hoping for. but you needed to let him know how much it sucked to feel like the only one who kept looking back.

he exhales slowly, eyes falling from yours to the table, like he can’t bear the weight of them. because what you’re saying isn’t just true, but something he’s thought about too, something he’s afraid to admit out loud. “you’re right,” he says, voice low and tight. “you’re right. but i—i wanted to. so many times. but when i thought about saying something, i’d convince myself it would only make it worse. that you didn’t want to hear from me. that you were happier without me.” you stare at him. “you thought i was happy?” “i hoped. because the alternative fucking hurt.” “but you still let me think it was my fault,” you say, voice sharp with disbelief. “you let me sit in that, seunghyun. for months. do you even understand what that did to me?” he doesn’t speak right away—just drags a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to rub the shame off his face. “i know. i know i fucked up.” “you didn’t just fuck up,” you snap. “you abandoned me. you—you went on with your life while i… i lost everything. and all because you couldn’t bring yourself to believe me.” “i wanted to believe you,” he says, a little too desperate now. “i swear to god, i did.” “then why didn’t you?” he looks at you like that question physically hurts him. “you already know. i told you—i told you about han seohee. i’ve been betrayed before, and i just—it felt safer to assume the worst than risk getting hurt again.” “yeah?” you say, and your voice comes out rough, almost trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been trying to swallow. “well guess what, seunghyun—i wasn’t han fucking seohee. i wasn’t anyone but me. your… your girlfriend. and you didn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt. not even for a fucking second.” his jaw tenses, lips pressing into a thin line like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to speak. “i didn’t ask you to be perfect,” you continue, voice softer now. “i never did. all i wanted was for you to believe me—and you couldn’t do that.” he shakes his head, pained. “it wasn’t about you,” he mutters. “it was about me. my past. my shit. it twisted everything.” you shake your head, the frustration rising even though you don’t want it to. “yeah! and you let it win!” you lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly through your nose, trying to collect yourself.

this wasn’t what you intended when you showed up. you really don’t want to raise your voice at him—shit, you weren’t even supposed to get this upset. the last thing you want to do is hurt him. “i moved across the world for you, seunghyun,” you continue, calmer. “i put everything on the line. and the second things got hard, you chose to believe the version of me that fit your fears.” his face falls. “i know,” he whispers. “i know. i thought i was protecting myself—but i should’ve protected you too. i should’ve protected us. all i ever wanted was to keep this thing—what we had—safe.” he sighs. “i’m really, really sorry. for everything.” the interruption comes at just the right time—the server appears, setting down the glass of water with a soft clink. you thank him with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and seunghyun gives a nod before the server leaves, the space around you settling into silence again.

you take a sip, the cold water almost jarring against the heat crawling up your throat. the moment stretches, and you know there’s more to say. the conversation isn’t finished—not even close—but your chest already feels too full. it’s too much all at once, and you feel the weight of it pressing down behind your eyes. so, you set the glass back down and glance up at him, forcing your voice to steady and offering the smallest smile you can manage. “i watched squid game,” you say. “you were amazing in it.” his face softens and he lets out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “yeah?” you nod. “yeah. like… really good. i wanted to text you when it dropped but… you know.” yeah, he knows… he had you fucking blocked. seunghyun nods once. “i appreciate that,” he says, voice a little quieter now, like he’s not sure what to do with the softness in your tone. “wasn’t expecting it to do that well, to be honest.” you hum, tracing the rim of your glass with the pad of your finger. “well, people love a villain. especially when he’s funny… and hot.” that pulls a small, surprised laugh out of him, and his cheeks turn red. “well, thank you.” you smile, gaze softening. “i read the interview you made back in january too, by the way.” “oh. did you?” you nod. “yeah.” “you know, i kept wondering what you’d think if you read it. part of me hoped you wouldn’t. the other part hoped you would.” “i did. twice, actually.” you smile faintly. “once when it came out, and again when i was mad at you. to remind myself you were still in there somewhere.” that seems to knock the wind out of him a little. you continue, “i think… i didn’t expect you to be that honest.” “i wasn’t planning to do it, you know,” he says after a pause. “the interview. for years, i thought if i just stayed silent, eventually everyone would forget. but i didn’t forget. i couldn’t.” you study him. “it read like someone who’s been carrying a lot. for a long time.” and you know that better than anyone—because you were there, in the thick of it, helping him through his worst days. his mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. “yeah.” you let the silence sit for a beat before speaking. “i thought… i thought it was brave. i actually—i felt proud,” you confess. and there it is. the thing you’ve been meaning to tell him ever since everything ended, but couldn’t bring yourself to say until now. “i’m proud of you, hyun.” he feels it—that familiar, overwhelming tightness in his throat. he swallows hard, eyes watering slightly. he nods once. then, he opens his mouth, tries to speak, to say thank you, but his lower lip trembles before the words can form… so he closes it again. and hopes the nod is enough.

his family never said that to him. at least not after his mistakes were exposed. so this—this thing you just gave him, so casually and so fucking sincerely—it hits like a punch to the ribs. and it comes from you. you, who he’d hurt more than anyone else. it comes from someone who knows. someone who was there when he was a shell of himself, someone who saw the worst parts of him and stayed, until he made it impossible for you to do so. his eyes hurt and his throat burns and there’s a tremble in his jaw he can’t quite stop, and still he says nothing, because there’s nothing that would be enough to meet the weight of what you just gave him. “that part you said about the group,” you murmur after a moment, voice a little hesitant now, “how seeing them felt like looking at a photo of a family you’d been separated from…” “that’s exactly what it feels like.” “i know,” you nod, gently. “i’m sure they miss you too. i don’t know if you’ve been in touch with them or—” “i haven’t.” he cuts in quickly, and there’s a finality to it. you don’t push, but you notice the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his jaw tenses. there’s even a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face. “sorry. i didn’t mean to bring up something that—i mean, i wasn’t trying to pry. i just thought… maybe after everything, after all these months, it might’ve felt possible. or… i don’t know.” you trail off, suddenly unsure of what you’re even trying to say. maybe part of you just wanted to believe he wasn’t as alone as he used to be. he hums. then, after a moment: “you were the one thing that made that time bearable. everything else was a mess, but with you, it was—” he stops himself, mouth twitching, like the rest of the sentence is too fragile to say out loud. “you didn’t fix it. but you made it hurt less. and i’ve never—i’ve never thanked you for that.” “you didn’t need to. i knew you were thankful.” you pause. “and… i’m not saying the article fixed anything, but it made sense. why you pulled away. i get it more now.” “that doesn’t make it okay.” “no,” you agree, “it doesn’t. but it helps.”

after that, things start to loosen—the conversation shifts slowly, and the air between you starts to feel less dense, less charged with the tension that had been building since the moment you sat down. the heaviness doesn’t vanish, it’s still there but easier to ignore when you’re focused on something else, like the way seunghyun starts tapping his fingers against his glass, or how your knee keeps bouncing under the table because your body hasn’t quite figured out what to do with the weird, awkward comfort of being near him again. it’s not like either of you suddenly forget the months of silence, or the way things ended, or all the shit that never really got said… but eventually, the edge softens, and your mouths start moving for other reasons—comments that aren’t weighed down by anger or guilt, memories that aren’t necessarily painful, and a rhythm that, while still tentative, starts to resemble the way things used to be between you, back before everything got ruined. because at first, you’re both careful—testing the boundaries of what’s okay to say, what’s still too raw to touch—but as time passes and the conversation wanders into safer ground, you find yourself laughing. which then makes him start laughing too, and it feels bizarre and comforting all at once—like your body forgot how easy it used to be to laugh with him, how that sound had once been a constant part of your days. and when he leans back in his chair, a little more at ease, you realize it’s been a long time since you’ve seen seunghyun look like that. it’s still weird. you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t. it’s weird to be sitting across from him, in real life, hearing his voice without a screen in between, seeing the way he moves and talks and exists like a real fucking person again. there are still moments where it catches you off guard—how familiar this all is, and also how far away it feels from who you were the last time you looked at him like this.

and when he asks, “do you want to go for a walk? brownsville’s botanical garden isn’t far from here. and it’s still open for another hour and a half,” you don’t even pretend to think about it. you just nod, and the look on his face, that flicker of relief, tells you he didn’t expect a yes. his driver’s already waiting outside, like always, and neither of you says much on the way. the ride is short, ten minutes, maybe fifteen. you watch the town pass through the tinted window, and beside you, he’s silent, but not in the closed-off way he used to be when things were bad. it’s a softer kind of silence now, where he’s letting himself be here, in this moment, with you. the botanical garden is smaller than you remember, and it’s mostly empty by the time you get there. as you walk, side by side but not too close—under a pink sky that’s starting to fade into something darker—there’s still a nervous flutter in your stomach, still that ridiculous awareness of where his hand is, of how close it would be if you reached out, but you don’t. because you remember—you remember how fucking much it hurt to lose him, how badly it ended and how long you waited for an apology that never came, until today. and as you both slow near a bench surrounded by wildflowers and a few trees that creak lazily in the warm breeze, he gestures toward it with a quiet nod, and you both sink down into the wooden slats. there’s a few inches between you, enough space to feel the gap and remind you both that no matter how easy the conversation’s been, there’s still a line neither of you has crossed yet. for a moment, you both just sit there, watching the wind tug lazily at the branches, listening to the low hum of cicadas starting up somewhere in the distance. and then, very casually, he asks, “so… is there someone in your life these days?” god—he hates how obvious it probably sounded the second it left his mouth. he doesn’t look at you when he asks, just keeps his gaze forward, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you, like the question is just curiosity and not the thing he’s been thinking about since the second he saw you again. you glance at him. “yeah,” you say softly, honest because there’s no point in pretending. “i’ve been seeing someone.” oh… it hits him harder than he wants it to. not because he thought you’d been waiting around for him. of course not. he knows better than that. knows he doesn’t have that right. but something about hearing it out loud, from your mouth, in that voice he used to fall asleep to—it makes his stomach twist. you can see it in the way his jaw tightens slightly, and in the way his hands suddenly find his lap, like his body doesn’t quite believe the version of calm he’s trying to sell.

a long silence settles in, and he tells himself not to ask the next question, the one that’s pushing at his throat, but it slips out anyway, “does he know you’re here?” you shake your head. “no.” he turns slightly toward you, brows pulling in just a little. “i never told him,” you add. “about us.” and that fucking stings. “i just said there was someone once. but not who. i wanted to respect your choice, you know… you didn’t want it out there, you wanted to keep it private. and i… i guess i got used to it, too. so… i kept that, even after it ended.” he swallows hard, but doesn’t speak. because what is there to say, really? he sits there, listening to your words settle into the space between you, feeling it again—the shame. seunghyun stares out into the garden with a tight jaw, wondering when exactly he stopped deserving that kind of grace from you—and why you’re still giving it anyway. he stays quiet longer than he should, but he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight of everything he isn’t saying. and maybe he should let it go—but he can’t. “is he good to you?” he asks. he hates how much he wants to know. hates how pathetic it makes him feel to sit here, asking about a man who has what he used to. what he walked away from. “yeah,” you reply, and your voice is careful. “he’s… he’s kind. he works in construction with his dad—they run their own small company, mostly residential stuff. but we don’t see each other a lot… he’s the kind of guy who’s in bed by ten and up by five, and my schedule’s kind of all over the place too, so… yeah. but it works. things with him are—they’re simple… easy.” you don’t mean it as an insult, but fuck, it lands like one. “that’s good,” he says, and the words feel like gravel in his mouth. he forces them out anyway, and forces himself to nod, like that makes it more believable. “you deserve that.”

seunghyun wonders if this guy knows how you like your coffee, if he knows how you get when you’re overwhelmed—how you play with the hem of your shirt, how your voice gets sharp when you’re scared and how underneath that, you’re just trying not to break into a million pieces. he wonders if this new guy has ever seen you cry, and if he did, whether he knew what the fuck to do with it. if he sat with you in it, or tried to fix it, or made it worse by telling you everything would be okay when he didn’t know shit about what was actually going on inside your head. he wonders if this guy knows how you ramble when you’re tired. if he’s heard the stories you only tell when you’ve had one glass of wine too many, the ones that make you laugh even as you wipe your eyes. if he knows the things you’re afraid of. he wonders if this guy’s ever traced the line of your spine with his fingers just to feel you shiver under him, if he knows how your breath catches before you ever make a sound, how your thighs tense when you’re trying not to beg. does he know how to touch you the way you like? and fuck—does he get to hear you like that? whispering his name, nails in his back, legs shaking, voice breaking around the kind of moan that used to make seunghyun lose his goddamn mind? and then, in the middle of all that wondering, he hates himself a little—for being so fucking jealous.

you must feel the shift in the air too, the way his silence has gone from thoughtful to tense, like he’s holding something back. so you add, “we’re not… dating.” his head turns a little at that, eyes flicking over to you for the first time in minutes. “no?” you shake your head. “i’m not ready for that. not again. it’s been—i’ve been figuring shit out. still am.” he nods slowly. you glance at him, like maybe you’re trying to gauge his reaction, but he gives you nothing. “what about you?” you ask after a moment. “you seeing anyone?” “no.” it comes out fast and flat, like the idea pisses him off. you wait, maybe expecting him to explain, but he doesn’t. so you press, “not even casually?” seunghyun lets out a short, humorless laugh. “what would be the point?” your brows pull together, but you don’t answer. “i’m not exactly great company,” he adds, almost bitter. “and i’m not trying to let anyone close just so they can realize it for themselves.” “you are great company, hyun. don’t say that.” he just scoffs under his breath and shifts on the bench like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. “yeah, well,” he mutters, “guess that’s not enough anymore.” you turn to look at him. “what?” “nothing.” “no—say it.” you’re watching him now, fully turned toward him, and he can feel it—the weight of your stare, the tension in your voice. he shakes his head. “you’re here, telling me you’ve got someone, and—i don’t know, it’s just… i don’t know.” “you asked, seunghyun.” “i know. i just—i wasn’t expecting that answer.” you blink at him. “so what? you ask me if i’m seeing someone, and now you’re pissed that i answered you honestly?” “i’m not pissed,” he lies, and you both know it. “don’t lie to me. i know you better than anyone—” “do you love him?” he asks, and the question comes out so suddenly, so bluntly, it knocks the air out of your lungs. “no,” you say, after a beat. “i don’t love him. if i did, i wouldn’t be here.” he nods, like that’s what he wanted to hear, but the tightness in his mouth doesn’t ease. “okay.” “what do you want me to say, seunghyun?” you ask, keeping your voice even, though it’s getting harder. “that i waited around? that i haven’t touched anyone since you left? is that what you were hoping for?” “i wasn’t hoping for anything,” he snaps. you raise an eyebrow. “sure.”

he exhales, a short, frustrated breath, and leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the dirt path between his shoes. because the truth is—he was hoping for that. he was hoping you’d tell him that, even after all this time, you were still a little bit his. and hearing otherwise—he doesn’t know what to do with that. doesn’t know how to sit across from you like it doesn’t matter when it feels like it’s fucking tearing him apart—sitting here, stewing in his own mess, wanting things he let go of, wishing you’d stayed stuck when all you ever did was survive the damage he left behind. every twisted part of him that wants you to be okay, also wants you to still need him. he’s so, so fucking selfish. and you’re right, of course. every word. his hands curl into fists. his vision blurs. he doesn’t mean to start crying, but it happens anyway. fuck. he takes his glasses off and drags a hand over his face, hoping you won’t say anything, hoping maybe you’ll look away long enough for him to get it under control. but he can’t. “i’m sorry,” he chokes out. “i’m sorry i’m acting like this. i just—i didn’t think it would feel like this. seeing you. i thought i could handle it, and i can’t.” his throat aches. he wipes at his face again, furious at himself for crying, for falling apart in front of you, for being nine months too late. “seunghyun—“

his name barely leaves your mouth before he’s crumbling again, shoulders shaking. you slide across the bench, closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around him, firmly. he tenses at first, like he doesn’t know what to do with the comfort, and then he just folds into you. his face buries into the crook of your neck, warm and damp with tears, breath shuddering against your skin, and your hand comes up to cradle the back of his head instinctively. “i’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over again. “fuck, i’m so sorry. i fucked everything up.” you close your eyes, heart aching with the weight of it. “i ruined it,” he says again, voice cracking. “i ruined us.” “it’s not your fault.” “it is.” “no—you were just scared. my mom’s the one who put us in this situation. and yeah, you hurt me but i—i forgive you, hyun. you’re forgiven, okay?” you hold him tighter, your chin resting lightly on his shoulder, breathing slow and steady because maybe if you stay calm, he’ll remember how to do the same. and for a while, he just cries. you haven’t seen him like this in a long time—haven’t seen him break this hard, this openly, not since the first time he told you he didn’t know how to live with himself. or the nights he’d curl into you, silent and shaking, too proud to sob until his body gave him no other choice.

when the worst of it passes—when the sobs begin to slow and his breathing evens out—he leans back and sniffles, avoiding your eyes as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black cloth—one of those soft ones he always carried for his glasses, or for sweat when he was anxious. he dabs at his face, wiping away the tears first, then pressing it against his temples and the back of his neck. he’s sweating like hell, his hair damp, the collar of his sweater sticking slightly to his skin. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse. “i’m a mess.” you reach for the cloth gently, fingers brushing his as you take it from him, and he doesn’t resist. “let me.” you wipe the tears from under his eyes first, careful and slow, then run the cloth lightly across his forehead, down to his cheeks, around the curve of his jaw. your other hand rests on his shoulder, grounding him. “you’re okay,” you murmur. “just breathe.” he nods, throat moving as he swallows hard. and then, after a long pause, with a voice that’s barely there he says, “i… i still love you.” you freeze, the cloth limp in your hand, your breath catching mid-air. did you hear that right? and then, quieter, he adds, “i don’t think i’ve ever loved someone as much.” yeah, you heard that right. your heart stumbles in your chest and you sit there, watching him. he won’t meet your eyes now, like saying it took the last of whatever strength he had left. his shoulders are hunched, jaw tight like he’s bracing for rejection even before it comes. he looks younger like this, and older too, worn down by months of pretending he was okay, of convincing himself he didn’t still ache for you every fucking day. and you love him. oh, you love this man so fucking much… you wish you didn’t sometimes, wish it didn’t still hurt. you place the cloth down carefully in your lap and reach out without thinking, your hand brushing the side of his face, fingers sliding into his hair like muscle memory. and he leans into it. you let your hand fall to his jaw, thumb gently swiping along the damp edge of it. “i love you too, hyun,” you say. “i never stopped.”

his shoulders shake, and you can tell he’s holding back again, trying not to fall apart a second time. you take his hand in yours. “you said… you said that you missed me. earlier. and the truth is… i missed you too,” you whisper, voice low and breaking now. “i missed everything—us. i tried to forget all of it and i couldn’t. i didn’t want to.” his fingers twitch under yours and he grips your hand tighter. you can feel how warm his skin is, how clammy his palm’s gone from the crying and the heat and all the fucking emotion, but you don’t let go. you just hold on, because this is the first time in months you’ve both said the truth out loud, and if it’s going to hurt, you’d rather it hurt with him right there beside you. his eyes are glassy, and you can tell he’s struggling to find the words. “i used to wake up in the middle of the night thinking you were still next to me,” he says. “and every single time it hit me that you weren’t, it felt—” he stops himself, rubbing a hand over his chest to stop it from aching. “i missed you so much it made me sick sometimes.” and you believe him. because you know that feeling. you remember what it felt like to lie awake with your back to the wall, trying to sleep in a bed that felt too big and too cold, your hand unconsciously reaching for a body that wasn’t there anymore. you remember the mornings you’d open your eyes and forget, just for a second, that he was gone—and how that second was always worse than the rest of the day combined. but sitting here now, his hand still trembling slightly in yours, all you can think is: we can’t go back. “i love you,” you say. “and i want to be with you, seunghyun. i want—hell, i’d spend the rest of my life with you.” your voice cracks on the last word, and your chest pulls tight as the tears finally spill over. “and i mean it. but… what would change?”

he’s silent. not because he doesn’t know what to say—but because he knows exactly what he’d like to say, and none of it would be true. “i can’t go back to hiding,” you continue before he can speak. “i can’t—i don’t want to be that girl again.” he closes his eyes for a second, then nods. “i know.” “but i also know…” you exhale, voice shaking, “i know that’s all you can offer me right now.” he shifts slightly, like he wants to argue. “that’s not—” “there’s no point in lying, seunghyun.” he runs a hand over his mouth, pained. “i could—maybe, in a few months, if things calm down—” “you and i both know that’s not how it works,” you say, cutting him off gently. “a few months won’t change the industry. or the people watching you. it won’t suddenly make us easy. and you know, seunghyun… you know a few months is unrealistic. and i don’t wanna—i don’t wanna wait in the shadows anymore. i won’t do it. i promised that to myself.” he sighs, long and defeated. “yeah. i know—i’m sorry. i just… i didn’t think i’d be getting this much attention again. after everything. the interviews, the show… it’s all been more than i expected. and it could get to you too, for the wrong reasons—” “i know,” you nod. “i know. and i get it, i really do. i’ve already deleted half my socials because of the harassment i got when it was just a rumor, and that wasn’t even real to them.” his face falls, shame coloring every line of it. “i’m sorry about that, too.” “yeah,” you murmur. “it’s fine. or—it’s not, but… it happened. those months were awful. but they’re behind me now.” he watches you for a long second, then says, “if we’d been closer in age, maybe it wouldn’t have been so complicated.” you smile, even though your lower lip is trembling slightly. “yeah. maybe it would’ve been easier.” the world outside won’t stop pressing in, and the timing keeps pulling you apart before you even get the chance to hold each other properly. “i hate this,” he whispers. “i hate that we finally said everything and it still isn’t enough.” “me too,” you say, sniffing. “but love isn’t the problem. it never was.” he nods slowly, and you know he’s holding back more tears.

you look at him—his swollen eyes, the slight tremble in his mouth that mirrors your own—and for a moment, you wish you could be selfish. you wish you could say fuck it, go back with him, crawl into the warmth of what could’ve been, and pretend that love alone is enough. but you can’t. “maybe you were right,” you say, trying to laugh through the tears, your voice catching halfway through. “maybe breaking up was the right thing to do. for both of us.” oh… the way his heart drops when he hears that—how much he wishes he could take those words back. how much he regrets ever saying them in the first place. how much he’s begged time, in every quiet moment since, to let him go back and rewrite your story. but it’s useless. it didn’t feel right then, and it sure as hell doesn’t now. you’re all he ever wanted. you’re all he wants. and deep down, he knows—you always will be. and it fucking kills him. it kills him to know that loving you isn’t the question—he does. with everything. the question is what to do with that love, now that it can’t go anywhere. because if you tried again… if you gave in to the ache and the want and the desperation—nothing would really change. you’d end up right back here. except next time, you’d be even more broken. “if i were braver,” he starts, “if i was different—” “don’t,” you cut in. “don’t do that. you don’t need to be a different person, hyun,” you say softly. “you just need a different life. and you don’t have that right now—and maybe you never will. but it’s okay.” “how can it be?” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice that makes your chest tighten. “how the fuck is it okay to want something this badly and still have to let it go?” you let out a shaky breath and look down at your lap. “we can’t change it. this. it’s… it’s not okay—fuck, i know it’s not. but it’s what we have.”

he goes quiet again, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand, tears still hanging in his lashes. you both sit in it. the sadness. the weight of every missed chance, every wrong timing, every choice that brought you to this bench. “if there’s another life,” you murmur, “maybe we find our way back to each other there.” he nods. “maybe,” he says, and you know he’s picturing it too. the could-have-beens. the should-haves. the soft life you never got to live. but not this one. he’s quiet for a while after that, like he’s still standing in that other life you just painted with your words—still walking through it in his mind, holding your hand in a version of the world where things were easier. and then his voice cuts through the silence, “but i don’t want to lose you in this life, either.” and before you can say anything, he adds, “do you think we could… i don’t know—be friends?” you turn to look at him, and he’s watching you carefully, not with expectation but with something closer to fear. he’s afraid you’ll say no, afraid you’ll cut the thread that still tethers you to him, even if it’s frayed and worn and barely holding. but you smile a little. it’s small and sad, but a smile after all. “yeah. i think we could.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “maybe not right now,” you add gently. “maybe we give it some time. let it stop hurting so much. but yeah… eventually, i’d like that.” he nods again, eyes flicking toward you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—still full of love. “i just don’t want to lose you completely.” “you won’t,” you say. and it’s the one thing you can promise. “you’re too much a part of me now, hyun, you always will be. we’ll figure it out.”

the gravel crunches quietly under your shoes. the path back through the garden is dim now, the sun completely dipped behind the horizon, leaving the sky painted in that deep, rich blue, settling into dusk. every now and then, you glance at seunghyun in your periphery—his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed, like he’s trying to hold on to every last moment of this without showing it. you walk without touching, without speaking, but everything between you is loud. and then, just before the path curves toward the iron gate that separates the quiet of this place from the rest of the world, you stop. “seunghyun,” you say, his name barely above a whisper. he turns to you slowly, like he already knows what’s coming, like he’s been waiting for it without letting himself hope. you reach up with both hands and cradle his face—thumbs brushing over the curve of his cheekbones, your fingers slipping into the soft, familiar edges of his hair. his breath catches, his eyes flicker, and then they fall shut just as your mouth finds his. his hands are on you within seconds—your waist, your back, the side of your neck, fucking everywhere. he kisses you back hard, full of need and every word he didn’t know how to say earlier. you make a soft sound against his mouth, one he swallows greedily, pulling you closer, gripping the fabric at your back like he doesn’t trust the world not to rip you away. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan, and when he groans against your mouth, his tongue slips past your lips, deepening the kiss. he kisses you hungrily. because he knows this is the last moment he’ll get to remember what it feels like to be wanted by you. his hands slide up your sides, and then one of them cups your face, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. your heart stutters in your chest at how tender it is—how fucking unfair it is that someone can love you this gently and still not be yours. you kiss him deeper, your tongue meeting his, your mouth opening wider like maybe if you just give enough of yourself, it’ll keep him for a little longer. but eventually, it has to stop. your hands loosen in his hair, and his grip on you falters. you pull away first, even though it feels like tearing something out of your own chest. you’re both panting, and your lips are swollen. “sorry,” you whisper. “i just… i needed to do that one last time.” you close your eyes and let your hand rest over his chest, right where his heart is pounding beneath your palm—fast and uneven, like yours. “i needed it too,” he says quietly. you both feel it settle deep in your bones—that quiet, devastating truth: the kiss was goodbye. to everything you were and everything you’ll never be again.

by the time you make it back to your friend’s apartment, the sky has already folded into itself, navy and thick. you step inside, the house dim and quiet, the hallway lit only by the warm spill of light coming from the kitchen where your friend’s probably left a candle burning. you move through the space like you’re not really there. your shoes come off, your jacket lands somewhere near a chair you don’t look at, and you’re halfway down the hall toward the living room with that hollow, buzzing emptiness ringing in your ears—when your phone vibrates once. and you think, for a stupid second, that maybe it’s him. but no. instead, it’s your banking app, and there on your screen, as casual as if someone had just venmoed you for last week’s pizza, is a deposit—an absurd amount of money, like… frankly ridiculous amount—and next to it, the name. choi seunghyun. you stare at it for a second, not really processing it, your brain taking its sweet time catching up, and when it finally does, you quickly message him.

seunghyun

WHAT THE FUCK

what

why

wtf

what the actual fuck

You told me you were staying with your friend while looking for a place.

I thought it might help.

are you crazy?

wtf

this is insane, hyun

It’s nothing🙂

it’s NOT nothing wtf

you wired me enough to pay rent for a year

maybe more

no, no, definitely more

way more

what part of that feels normal to you

this is so much money, what were you thinking

I was thinking you deserved it.

i don’t need you to take care of me like that

i’m not your responsibility

You’re not.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you however I can.

it’s too much, hyun

So is everything I feel for you.

i don’t know if i can accept it

Please do.

Friends help each other, don’t they?

i’m being so frl rn old man

Me too, princess.

are u trying to make me cry?💔 be honest

We’ve cried enough today.

I want you to be happy, so please let me do this for you.

thank you seunhyun, really

Of course🫰🏼

i love you

I love you too.

Take care❤️

you too :)

you press the phone to your chest, close your eyes, and sigh. and maybe it’s dramatic to cry over a money transfer, but here you are. not because you need the money, but because you know, this is the only way he knows how to take care of you now—by giving you something tangible and useful in his absence. and that hurts.

it’s been two years since that last conversation with seunghyun—two whole years since that kiss in the garden, since the deposit, since his last message sat in your phone. life didn’t stop after him. it moved forward the way time always does—slow. and eventually, you did too. you moved out of your friend’s place not long after meeting seunghyun—gave yourself permission to look at listings just slightly outside your price range, to stop filtering by ‘cheapest first,’ to imagine something more. and when you found it—a corner apartment on the top floor of a building, all warm wood and tall windows and soft morning light—you said yes. it’s not huge, but it’s beautiful. clean lines, a little balcony that overlooks the street, a kitchen that makes you want to cook even when all you know how to make is pasta… it’s the first place you’ve ever lived that feels like it was meant for you. and yeah, sometimes you think about seunghyun—you think about how he gave this to you. but mostly, you think about how you made it into something your own.

you also dropped the guy you’d been seeing back then and focused on yourself. let yourself learn how to be alone. you got a new job too—something better, something steadier. it pays well, and you don’t come home every night feeling like you’ve been scraped raw, which is more than you used to ask for. things with your mom are better now, or at least better than they used to be. she calls every week, asks about work (because that’s her favorite topic), sometimes even about your mood, and it’s clear she’s trying. but the thing that still sticks in your throat, the thing you can’t seem to move past, is that she’s never actually said she was sorry. she speaks like it was a necessary evil, like leaking your relationship to the press was some calculated decision made for your protection, not a betrayal that burned through your entire life. and maybe if she showed even a flicker of regret—real regret—you’d be able to meet her halfway. but without that, there’s only so far you can go.

you’re not healed. but you’re okay. you wake up most mornings without feeling like you’re drowning, you go to work, make dinner, fold laundry while music plays in the background. you laugh with friends and sleep through the night more often than not. and your screen time is down 12% this week—so, progress. that has to count for something. but some nights, when it’s quiet in your apartment and the city hums softly outside your window, you think of seunghyun. you wonder where he is, if he’s okay, if he ever sees something and thinks of you. you wonder if he’s happy, if he’s sleeping well, if his hands still tremble when he’s anxious or if someone else has learned how to hold them steady. and sometimes, you stare at the ceiling too long, or catch yourself holding your breath when a memory slips through—and it still surprises you, how much he lives in the smallest, stupidest things. because no matter how much distance time gives you, there are people who never really leave. and seunghyun, no matter how far away he is now—he’s one of them.

so when his name lights up your phone one random thursday evening two years later—you almost fall off your bed.

Hi.

Sorry if this is weird.

I was looking through my gallery and I found this.

it’s a photo taken from above—his arm stretched out enough to fit both of you into the frame, the angle slightly off-center. you’re completely out, fast asleep on top of him, arms loosely wrapped around his waist like you were trying to merge with him in your sleep. your cheek is smushed against the ridiculous pajama top—the one he bought for himself first, then ordered a second one for you when he realized how cute you’d look matching. yes, the infamous pajama set that everyone and their mother saw after your mom leaked everything. his hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, but his face is soft—eyes shining even in the low light of the room, a sleepy grin on his face.

Turns out, the picture those fans took of us wasn’t the only one we had.

I hope life’s treating you nicely🫰🏼

and something about it—about him still having that photo, still thinking of you enough to send it—makes you smile. you write back faster than you thought you would.

omg seunhyun!!! hii!!

when did you take that photo? and why didn’t u tell me about it?😭

I took it when you came to Seoul for my birthday.

I forgot I took it.

You woke up right after hahah😴😄

it’s sooo sooo cute🥹

It is😊

How are you?

i’m good :)) but a bit tired because i’ve been helping my friend paint her house and it’s been a lot of work

my arms are so sore😭

what about you?

you doing okay?

Yes! I’m good.

I missed talking to you.

me too :)) and i’m glad to know you’re doing well!

I also wanted to know if you’d like to go for a coffee next week?

I wanted to fly to Texas to see you.

We could catch up.

If you want to, of course🙂

yesss ofc, i’d love to :)🩷

i’m really happy you reached out

been thinking about you a lot, honestly

You have?

more than i’d like to admit hahah

i was wondering how you were doing :)

I’ve thought about you too.

And I’m really looking forward to seeing you😊

me too🙂‍↕️

I’ll send you the details once everything’s booked, is that okay?

yeah, sure, that sounds perfect :)

See you soon🫰🏼

when the day finally comes, there’s a quiet nervousness in your chest—not the kind that makes your hands shake, but the kind that hums beneath your skin. you don’t know what to expect. it’s been two years. whole seasons, whole versions of yourself have passed since you last stood in front of him. you’ve changed. you’ve grown. but some things stay. he’s waiting outside the café when you arrive—hands in his coat pockets, hair a little longer. and the second your eyes meet, he smiles. and you smile back, like no time has passed at all. the conversation flows without effort. you don’t even notice your coffee going cold—you’re too busy talking and laughing like it hasn’t been two years. and you don’t try to stop the feeling that rushes in, that warm, aching knowing in your chest that says, yeah. it’s still him. even after everything. it’s still seunghyun. you don’t know what’s going to happen next, and for once, that doesn’t scare you. you just let the moment be what it is, suspended in something that feels a lot like peace. because maybe this is it. maybe you don’t need another life to find your way back to each other—you already do in this one.

i hope this lived up to your expectations for part 2 :) i genuinely did the best i could. i’ve spent so much time on this fic and gotten so attached to everything about it that it doesn’t even feel like something i made up anymore?? like someone out there is living through it and suffering bc of seunghyun fr… my brain fully believes it atp😭

thank you so much for all the support you’ve shown to this fic, and for all the kind messages i’ve been getting because of it—i seriously wasn’t expecting it at all 🥹💗

regular taglist: @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @infinetlyforgotten @bettelaboure @scream-queen-25 @flwerangii

hidden pt.2 taglist: @ulquiorraswife @rubyylovestoread @youlikeex @liv2cool

[meazalykov]

nazareth 18

kika nazareth x f!influencer!reader

when your millions of followers discover who your longtime girlfriend is

a whirlwind of light, a beacon on tiktok with over ten million followers hanging onto your every post, you were known for being so bright.

your content with beauty tutorials, travel vlogs, and that genuine, humble charm has made you… somewhat known to most people.

your face, glowing under golden-hour light or bright in casual settings, is synonymous with aspiration. yet, despite the fame, you’ve kept a piece of yourself private, tucked away from the prying eyes of fans and algorithms. 

no one knows you’re in love. 

no one knows you’re in love with a woman. 

no one knows it’s kika nazareth, the portuguese stargirl at barcelona.

it started in barcelona, nearly two years ago. a mutual friend introduced you during a night out. kika, then ten months into being with the city’s club, was magnetic. the girl’s laugh is warm, her eyes bright with a quiet confidence, and her smile pulled you in. 

you were struck by her ease to say the least. it’s the way she carried herself like she belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once. 

“you’re the girl from tiktok, right?” she teased the first time you’ve met, her accent curling softly around the words. 

you laughed, nodding, and said, “and you’re the footballer, right?” 

it was light, playful.

over time, that undeniable spark grew. texts turned into late-night calls and coffee meetups became weekend getaways. you’d fly into barcelona between brand deals, and kika would sneak away from bonding with the team to steal moments with you instead. 

when she tore her ankle ligaments, requiring surgery and months of recovery, you were there. you’d sit with her in her apartment, her leg propped up, and you’d talk about everything. for kika, the way the world felt too big and too small all at once, but you made it bearable. 

“i don’t know how i’d do this without you,” she’d whisper, her hand finding yours. 

you’d squeeze back, heart full, and say, “you don’t have to.”

now, almost a year into your relationship, you’re careful. your followers know you love barcelona since you’re always in the city somehow. you’ve posted about it enough, from selfies at the stadium to beachside vlogs.

still, they don’t know about kika. not yet at least. 

you and kika have talked about it, about how to share your love with a world that’s both adoring and invasive. 

“we’ll do it our way,” kika says one night, her head resting on your shoulder as you lie on her couch. 

“slowly and softly, i hope.” you nod, tracing circles on her palm. 

“wait– wouldn’t that be a soft launch?” you murmur, and she laughs kissing your cheek, “yes, exactly.”

the first hint to your fans comes by accident. 

it’s a champions league group stage match, barcelona versus ajax. you’re in the stands, cheering, your face painted with the club’s colors. you’re not hiding since you’ve always been a fan, but cameras catch you and social media does the rest. 

clips of you clapping, smiling, singing the anthem spread like wildfire. 

“y/n is at a barcelona game again,” one post reads, “she’s basically part of the team.” 

however, someone notices something. 

they notice the way you linger near the tunnel, the way you wave at someone on the pitch. speculation begins. 

“i know she is at the women's game but she seems very close with players on both the mens and womens team? is she dating someone?” a fan asks. 

“gotta be,” another replies, “she’s too invested.”

you lean into it, just a little. 

a few days later, you post an instagram picture. 

y/n.l/n

liked by kika.nazareth, ferrantorres, and 189,719 others

y/n.l/n gold

~click to view all 3,910 comments~

it’s you, standing on a barcelona street at golden hour wearing the black away kit. the breeze catches your hair, making it dance, and the kit’s sleek lines stand out against the soft light.

you’re turned slightly away from the camera, casual in blue levi’s, but the vibe is effortless, magnetic. 

the caption is simple with “gold” and within hours, the post has hundred thousand likes. from the mens team, ferran likes it. lamine likes it. pedri likes it. 

the comments explode.

“y/n and ferran??” 

“lamine’s got a crush, i’m calling it!”

“pedri would be cute for her tho!” 

you see the speculation during a tiktok livestream at home at nighttime once, your phone propped up as you do a quick q&a. a comment pops up: “are you dating pedri or ferran? spill the tea!” 

you laugh, shaking your head. 

“guys, no,” you say with your voice light but firm, “not them. not anyone on the men’s team. let’s chill with the rumors.” 

the chat goes wild, but you don’t elaborate. kika, watching from her apartment, texts you a heart-eyes emoji. 

kika: 

you’re cute when you’re dodging

y/n: 

just wait.

you and kika plan the next step carefully. the champions league group stage match against arsenal is the moment. at first, you were doubtful but kika assured you that she is okay with everything.

you’re in the stands again, this time wearing the home kit, the number 18 and “nazareth” emblazoned on the back. you’re not subtle, but you’re not overt either…you’re just you, cheering for your girlfriend. 

during the game, a fan snaps a photo of you talking to salma, who sits beside you since she is sidelined with an injury. you’re turned around from the fan’s camera, the “nazareth 18” clear as day. 

the image hits x and instagram like a tidal wave. 

“y/n’s wearing kika’s kit???” 

“wait, is she…?” 

the game ends with a 3-0 win, kika scoring a stunner in the second half. the crowd screamed, and you’re on your feet, screaming her name. after the whistle, kika jogs to the stands, her smile wide and unguarded. 

you lean over the railing, reaching down, and she stretches up to hug you. it’s quick but electric, her arms tight around you, your hands cupping her face for a split second. 

“you’re my hero,” you whisper, and she laughs, her eyes sparkling. 

“and you’re mine,” she whispers back. cameras catch it all, and the internet loses its mind.

by morning, your social media is a storm. 

“y/n and kika nazareth are dating???” a tiktok with a full discussion blows up. they’ve been stitching together clips of your interactions: kika liking your posts, you commenting heart emojis on her posts, a blurry photo of you two at a café last summer. 

“how did we miss this?” 

“they’ve been soft-launching for months, and we thought they were just friends.” 

“y/n as a wag is everything,” 

“and a woman’s wag? iconic.”

you and kika sit on her balcony that night. she’s in a hoodie, her hair loose, and you’re wrapped in a blanket, your phone buzzing endlessly. 

“not like i would’ve cared anyways, but they’re happy for us,” you say, scrolling through comments. 

“they’re freaking out, but they’re happy.” 

kika pulls you closer, her lips brushing your temple. 

“good,” she says softly, “because i’m happy. i want them to know how much i love you.” your heart skips, and you turn to kiss her, slow and sweet. 

“i love you too,” you murmur against her lips. 

“always.”

you hear footsteps come out towards the balcony, the light door opening as you look up to see vicky looking down at y’all, “get a room.”

“oh, i forgot you were here.” 

you joke, everyone laughing as vicky sits down beside on the bench. 

a week later, and people are not over it. tiktok edits of your hug after the arsenal match are everywhere, set to popular tracks with heart emojis flooding the comments. your followers, once clueless, now scour your old content for crumbs of your relationship, and they’re finding plenty.

there’s a fleeting glance in a vlog, kika’s laugh in the background of a story. you’re still the beauty and travel influencer they adore, but now you’re also a footballers girlfriend, and they’re obsessed with the shift.

you’re in your barcelona apartment, the one you’ve been staying in more often since kika’s recovery. it’s a cozy space, with sun streaming through the windows, casting warm patches on the hardwood floor. 

you’ve set up your phone on a tripod in the living room for a casual tiktok livestream. you’re in a loose sweater, hair tucked behind your ears, chatting with your followers about your latest skincare routine as per usual. 

the vibe is relaxed, your voice soft and easy as you read comments. 

“yes, i’m still using that olehenriksen serum,” you say, laughing at a fan’s question. 

“i'm not even sponsored but it is so good, i highly recommend.” the live has been going for about twenty minutes, with almost 29,000 people tuned in, their comments scrolling fast.

you’re mid-sentence, answering a question about your favorite travel destination, when kika’s voice floats in from the kitchen. 

“babe, come try this!” she calls, her accent warm and lilting. 

you glance toward the sound, a smile tugging at your lips. 

she’s been in there for the past hour, clattering pots and humming to herself, determined to perfect a recipe her mom sent her…a portuguese caldo verde, she said, though she’s been tweaking it with her own spin. 

you hold up a finger to the camera. 

“one sec, guys, kika’s cooking something,” you say, your tone bright. the chat explodes with heart eyes and “kika!!!” comments.

kika appears in the doorway, a wooden spoon in one hand, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun. she’s in a barcelona hoodie, sleeves pushed up, and there’s a smudge of flour on her cheek that makes her look impossibly endearing. 

“come on, it’s almost ready,” she says, beckoning you with a grin. she steps into the frame, unaware of the thousands watching, and holds out the spoon, a small pool of steaming broth glistening on it. 

“taste,” she urges, blowing gently on the spoon to cool it down. her eyes are bright, focused on you.

you lean forward, letting her guide the spoon to your lips. the broth is warm, savory, with a hint of something smoky and rich. your eyes widen, and your jaw drops as the flavor hits you. 

“wait, hold on!! that’s so delicious,” you say, your voice rising with genuine surprise. you grab her wrist, keeping the spoon close as you take another tiny sip. 

“hold on, what is this?” you’re already standing, following her toward the kitchen like a kid chasing a treat. 

kika laughs, glancing back at you with a playful roll of her eyes.

you’ve completely forgotten about the livestream. your phone, still propped up, captures the empty couch for a moment before the comments start bursting through.

“did she just leave???” 

“kika’s cooking for her omg” 

“this is so cute i’m dying.” 

the kitchen is just out of frame, but your voices carry through the phone as you talk. 

“okay, so what’s in this?” you ask, leaning against the counter. you can’t see kika’s face from the phone’s angle, but her voice is animated. 

“potatoes, kale, some chorizo for the kick to it,” she says, “and i added a little smoked paprika because, you know, i’m extra.” 

you laugh, the sound bright and unguarded. 

“i feel like you’re always extra, sweetheart,” you say, the name slipping out naturally.

kika’s laugh is softer, closer, like she’s stepped toward you. 

“shut up!! you love it,” she teases, and you can hear the smile in her voice. 

“i do,” you admit, your tone so fond it’s almost tangible. there’s a clink of a pot lid, then kika’s voice again.

“okay, try this one now…it’s got more garlic.” you make a dramatic “ooh” sound, and she giggles. 

“don’t mock me, this is serious business,” she says, but she’s laughing too. the livestream audience is eating it up, the chat a blur of “SWEETHEART???” and “they’re so in love” come in rapidly.

you’re in the kitchen for a good five minutes, tasting, joking, bantering. kika tells you about the time her brother tried to make the same soup and ended up with something “like dishwater,” and you’re wheezing, clutching her arm as you laugh. 

you don’t realize how much time has passed until you glance at the clock and gasp. 

“oh no, my phone!” you say, suddenly remembering. 

kika raises an eyebrow. 

“what, you’re still live?” she asks, and you nod, already jogging back to the living room.

you grab the phone, and your eyes widen at the screen since 17,000 people are still watching, the chat moving so fast it’s a blur. 

“oh my god, guys, i forgot i was live,” you say, laughing as you sit back on the couch. your cheeks are flushed, partly from the kitchen warmth, partly from the realization that your entire love-soaked exchange was broadcasted. 

kika follows, leaning over the back of the couch, her chin resting on her folded arms. 

she’s still holding the spoon, and she waves it at the camera with a grin. 

“hola!!!” she says, her voice playful.

you turn to kika, mock-exasperated. 

“i left you guys for, like, ten minutes, and you’re still here?” you say to the camera, but your smile betrays you. kika laughs, reaching over to ruffle your hair. 

“they’re a bunch of barca fans who are here for me, obviously,” she teases, and you swat her hand away, giggling. 

“rude,” you say, but you’re leaning into her touch, your shoulder brushing hers. 

you glance at the chat, catching a comment, the sweetheart moment was everything.

you groan, covering your face with your hands, “oh noooo you guys heard that?” you ask, peeking through your fingers. 

kika just laughs again, loud and unselfconscious, and wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“guys please clip that, so she can’t deny the simp allegations,” she says, her voice warm against your ear. 

you groan again, but you’re smiling, your head resting against her. 

“whateverrr,” you say, softer now, and the chat fills with hearts. 

the livestream ends a few minutes later, but not before kika makes a few jokes and reminds your chat to watch the next upcoming women’s clasico on friday. 

you laugh, happy that your life has brought you to this point.

[bibli0thecary]

empty table ౨ৎ

pairing: baker! joel miller x reader

In a world with no outbreak, Joel Miller runs a popular bakery—grumpy, flour-dusted, and way too serious about sourdough. His daughters, Sarah and Ellie, are either helping or causing chaos behind the counter.

Then there’s you—a stressed-out grad student who starts doing your thesis in his cozy café. You only came for the pastries… and the baker.

read more: baker! joller miller series

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

It was a quarter past ten, and the damn bell hadn’t rung.

Not once.

Joel glanced at the door for what had to be the eighth time in three minutes. The usual morning crowd had thinned out, replaced by the quiet lull of late-morning regulars and the hum of the espresso machine. Ellie was arguing with Sarah about putting whipped cream on everything, and the twins working the register were too busy bickering over the playlist to notice how distracted he was.

He wiped his hands on his apron and stared at your usual spot. Still empty.

Again.

“Maybe she’s got class,” Sarah said behind him, unprompted but obviously reading his mind. “Or maybe—just maybe—she realized she can’t finish a thesis on lemon scones alone.”

Joel grunted. “She always comes in on Tuesdays. Same time.”

Ellie grinned like a cat who smelled weakness. “You miss her, big guy?”

He rolled his eyes. “She just... brings in steady business, is all.”

“Oh totally,” Sarah chimed in. “You give all our ‘steady business’ customers free scones and soup when they skip lunch, huh?”

“Didn’t realize lemon scones were a love language,” Ellie added with a snort. “But hey, you do you, Baker Daddy.”

Joel paused mid-reach for the bread knife.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry. Daddy Baker.”

He turned to face them both with his best patented Grumpy Old Man glare, but it only made them laugh harder.

“You’re both insufferable,” he muttered, retreating to the back. Not because he was flustered, no, but because the oven timer was beeping. That’s all.

Definitely not because he kept checking his phone in secret.

By noon, it was starting to gnaw at him.

You hadn’t texted Sarah. You hadn’t messaged Ellie. No little ping from you asking for “your usual table,” or a smiley face followed by Save me a scone before I cry.

You weren’t just a customer anymore. Hadn’t been for a while, if Joel was honest with himself. You were part of the rhythm of his week. The soft-spoken chaos to his gruff order. A quiet corner in his noisy life.

And now, without warning, you were missing.

His hands itched with the need to do something—knead dough, fix something broken, hell, rearrange the spice shelf if it’d shut his brain up. But instead, he found himself cleaning your table even though it was already spotless. Just in case. Just in—

Jingle.

The bell rang.

He looked up so fast he almost dropped the tray of croissants.

But it wasn’t you.

It wasn’t you again an hour later either.

Sarah came up behind him during closing, holding the broom like a staff.

“You know,” she said, not unkindly, “if you’re that worried, you could always text her.”

“I ain’t worried.”

“Right. Just cleaning the same table four times in one day for fun.”

He scowled.

Then sighed.

Then glanced at his phone, thumb hovering.

He wouldn’t text. Not yet. Maybe you just had a long day. Maybe life got in the way.

But if you weren’t back tomorrow…

He was gonna hunt you down with a basket of lemon scones and pretend it was strictly business.

Definitely not because his chest felt too damn quiet without you in it.

────୨ৎ────

taglist: @lcvespedro

[azz35]

SECONHAND HEARTS

There were three rules posted above the register at Book Ends:

1. No food or drink near the rare books.

2. Please don’t shelve your own returns.

3. The Romance Section Is Cursed. Enter at your own risk.

Rule three had been a joke. Mostly.

Paige scrawled it on a chalkboard one slow Tuesday afternoon after her friend Nika returned The Hating Game and mumbled something about “unrealistic expectations” and “getting ghosted mid-date.” She’d laughed, made a sign, and forgot about it.

Until people started coming back.

Azzi was the fifth.

“I swear to God, your books are cursed,” she said the first time, setting a battered copy of Red, White & Royal Blue on the counter like it had personally offended her.

Paige glanced up from the sticker gun. “Another casualty?”

Azzi leaned on the counter and sighed, lips pursed in mock tragedy. “We made it halfway through dinner before he started telling me how his ex ‘used to do that better.’ Whatever that was.”

“Goals.”

Azzi scoff

Paige smile

“I’m choosing to blame the books”. Pause. “And you.”

Paige grin. “Want store credit or a refund?”

“Credit.”

And so it started. Every few weeks, Azzi would appear with a new book and a new story.

There was the guy who called her “intimidating” for ordering whiskey neat.

The one who claimed not to believe in astrology but spent the entire date asking if she’d cheat on him because she was a Scorpio.

The one who probably was gay. Paige had snort at that one.

Each time, she returned the book with a grin and a dramatic tale. Each time, Paige gave her credit. And maybe added something extra—a handpicked recommendation slipped into her stack.

Azzi always noticed. “You’ve got a good eye,” she said once. “Do you read everything in this store?”

“Enough to know what’s worth rescuing from the donation bin.”

One slow afternoon in late March, Paige caught herself watching the door.

She shook her head and went back to inventory. It wasn’t like Azzi was scheduled or anything.

They didn’t text. Paige didn’t even know her last name. She was just—predictably unpredictable. A firecracker of someone, all dimples and opinions about romantic tropes.

Still, Paige checked the door again.

And again.

Then the bell jingled.

Azzi looked a little more rumpled than usual. Less sparkle, more tired eyes. But her voice was still warm when she greeted Paige.

“Guess what,” she said, pulling a dog-eared novel from her bag. “He asked if I wanted to meet his wife.”

“No,” Paige said, scandalized, “You are joking.” The blonde couldn’t help herself and started laughing.

Azzi roll her eyes feigning annoyance.

“Yes. Apparently, they’re poly and ‘super open’.” She dropped the book on the counter. “I’m starting to give up.”

Azzi stared at the book like it had betrayed her. “You think I’m the problem?”

“No,” Paige said, too quickly. “I think you just have bad taste.” She shrugged.

Azzi huffs. “Thank you Paige.”

“Anytime.”

Azzi gave her a look.

That night, long after closing, Paige lingered in the romance section. The air smelled like old pages and cherry lip balm—Azzi’s, probably, from all her visits.

She ran a finger along the spines. Found one of her favorites—The Long Way Round—a lesser-known but painfully beautiful slow-burn. The kind of story where the ending hurts a little, but the good kind of hurt.

She flipped it open. Pulled a post-it from her pocket.

“Maybe you’re reading the wrong ones.” –P

She stuck it just inside the front cover.

And slid it between the others on the shelf.

Not thinking twice before she regrets it.

-

Three weeks passed.

Azzi didn’t come in.

Paige told herself she didn’t care. People disappeared all the time.

Maybe she got busy.

Maybe she’d finally found someone who didn’t suck.

Was it selfish that Paige wishes she didn’t?

Maybe Azzi won’t come back again.

Maybe—

The bell.

Azzi.

She looked flushed from the cold, cheeks pink, eyes wide like she wasn’t sure what she was doing.

“Hey,” she said, halfway between casual and something else.

“Hey,” Paige echoed, hoping she didn’t sound like she’d just sprinted out of a daydream.

Azzi approached the counter, slowly. “So I, uh. I read something.”

Paige’s pulse skittered.

Fuck.

This is the exact moment where Paige is suppose to regret her past decisions.

But she didn’t.

Azzi smiled faintly, then held up a book.

The Long Way Round.

“I, uh. Found this on the shelf.”

Paige tried to act casual. Her pulse betraying her. “Another fail date?”

Azzi ignore her and flipped the book open. “You left a note.”

Paige’s throat tightened. “I leave lots of notes.”

Lie.

Azzi didn’t smile this time. “This one had a very specifically suggest.”

Paige opened her mouth, but Azzi beat her to it.

“I wasn’t on dates. I just… needed to figure out if I kept coming back for the books or for the person handing them to me.”

That did it.

Paige blinked.

This is when Paige backdown before everything goes all wrong.

But again, she didn’t.

“And?”

“I realized I haven’t read a single book you’ve given me without thinking about you halfway through.”

Paige snorted, but it came out uneven. “That’s dangerous. You’re starting to associate romance with snarky bookstore girls.”

There it was.

Paige trying to give Azzi an escape.

Azzi stepped closer, eyes holding hers. “Yeah. I think I’m okay with that.”

Paige cracked a nervous smile. “What gave it away? The post-it? The constant excellent taste in recommendations?”

Again.

Another one.

The last.

Take it or drown in it.

Azzi gave her a look,

“The fact that you pretended like you didn’t notice I only returned books when you were working.”

Fuck it.

“Please,” Paige said. “I notice everything. I’m basically the hot librarian archetype. It’s in the job description.”

Azzi laughed, and it broke something wide open between them.

Returning to the usual light ambient.

Paige reached for the book, then paused. “You know, technically this one’s non-returnable.”

“Oh?” Azzi tilted her head. Amusement dancing in her voice.

“Yeah. New policy. If it makes your heart do that annoying fluttery thing, you’re required to keep it.”

“Sounds binding,” Azzi said.

“It is,” Paige replied. “Very serious magic. Has to be sealed with a kiss.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “That in the fine print?”

Paige grinned. “Read it again. It’s between the lines.”

Azzi leaned in, close enough to feel the hum between them.

“Guess I’ll have to finish the book.”

Paige’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Or we write our own.”

[honeyhotteoks]

across stardust - six (j.yh); section one

summary: you and yunho have worked together for years, idol and makeup artist, but until today you’ve never touched him skin to skin. when the world tilts on its head from just a brush of his cheek, you realize he’s so much more than a crush, he’s your soulmate. five | six (section 1); (section 2) | series masterlist 🔗read on ao3✨across stardust pinterest board

note: the end. thank you all so much for loving this story and being so kind and supportive. this fic has meant the world to me, and i hope you all are happy with the ending. there will be a short epilogue posted soon, but for now our story comes to a close.

tags/warnings: idol!yunho, makeup artist!reader, fem!reader, soulmates au, soulmate identifying marks, soulmate tattoos, tattoed!reader, anxiety/nerves, some general angst and upset emotions, allusions to a bad household growing up and cptsd, very frank coversations about idol life, pr, etc. saesangs and saesang invasions of privacy, discussions about delulu both fun and not okay delusion, but then also smut! including.... oral m!receiving, throat fucking, messy oral, cockwarming, dom!yunho, sub!reader, actual d/s dynamics even if it's kinda not defined, subspace but reader doesn't know that's what it is, fingering, dirty talk, fingers in mouth, light degredation, mostly praise, heavy on the good girls / pretty girls, cowgirl, absolutely intense multiple orgasms, creampie, dw they don't need to wrap it up they're married and in love

pairings: yunho x reader

genre: fantasy, romance, smut || soulmates au

word count: 21.9k **note, this part was too long again for tumblr! please make sure you continue on to part six section 2, linked here!

The ring feels heavy on your finger when you wake up on Sunday morning to an empty bed, but you’re grateful for the weight of it. Without its presence you’d have nothing tangible telling you that the wedding happened at all, that you and Yunho were all of a sudden husband and wife. As the days of the week drag on, the ring becomes your tether. Every time you feel his spikes of anxiety, disappointment, or discomfort, you find yourself fiddling with the ring, your only true way of communicating with him while this is all happening around you, to you.  

By Tuesday you think you’ve memorized every divot and scratch on the band, and by the evening on Wednesday you’ve taken to spinning it in twisted little circles on your finger, so many times you probably have an indent already. 

On Thursday, you wake up once again to his side of the bed empty. You were up late the night before, a deep pit in your stomach, but once you fell asleep you really, truly slept. With Yunho gone, it’s hard to get rest like this, but somewhere in the back of your mind you know your body is trying to carry you both through the stress. 

When your eyes open it’s to a room bathed in full sun. For a second you feel relaxed, at ease, but the quiet of your apartment and the silence around you jolts you properly awake and you twist in the sheets to find your phone. 

Each morning, Yunho had been updating you on the negotiations. 

The meetings had gotten off to a rocky start to say the least, with their CEO truly blindsided by the sudden negotiations. Yunho hadn’t revealed too much about his reaction to the marriage, but you can put two and two together. 

Your eyes flick up to the clock on your nightstand and with the sharp sink of a stone in your stomach you realize it’s already ten. 

Scrambling in the sheets you search for your phone and hastily take off the Do Not Disturb. 

You have a missed call from an unknown number from eight thirty this morning, but then one simple text from Yunho sent only fifteen minutes ago. 

I know I said you wouldn’t need to speak with anyone, but our CEO would like to meet you.  

You sit down immediately, tapping back a fast reply - Meet me? 

He must be keeping a close eye on his phone, because his reply flicks back in record time - He wants to discuss your job directly, and it should be your choice how things are handled, not mine.

Your stomach flips, but he’s right - What time? 

Can you be here by eleven? 

You check the clock again - Yes. 

It takes a moment for him to respond this time, and you wonder if he’s in a meeting now and organizing things. If he’s speaking to the CEO directly, if their attorney is at his side. 

Your phone buzzes with his reply and you breathe out a sigh of relief - This feels like the last step, and I’ll be next to you the whole time. I love you. 

You text him that you love him too, and with a mix of tumbling excitement and panic in your belly, you get ready and start the all too familiar walk to the KQ offices. When you get there, you’re early and a new face from the security desk gives you a visitor’s pass and walks you towards the elevators. 

You haven’t seen Yunho in person since he kissed you on Saturday night and tucked you back into bed, but when the elevator doors open and you’re greeted with his face, everything melts away. 

“Hey,” He smiles, “I thought that was you,” 

“Hi,” You smile back, probably giving too much familiarity away for being in a shared hallway, but with him looking at you like that, you couldn’t care less anymore. 

“Are you ready?” He asks. 

“As I can be,” You nod, “is he upset?” 

Yunho shakes his head, “No, but I don’t know, this whole negotiation process has been strange,” 

You take in a deep breath and nod, “Let’s get this over with then.” 

Without hesitation, Yunho takes your hand in his, “Let me walk you back,” 

Your heart stutters, your hand solidly in his within full view of anyone, but he doesn’t pull away or apologize like the touch was an accident, he meant to take your hand and he meant for people to see. 

His thumb smooths over your knuckles. 

“You’ll be in the meeting?” You double check as you start to follow him up the hall. 

“All of us will,” He assures you, “don’t worry.” 

You give his hand a squeeze and steady your racing heart. 

The CEO’s corner office is nice, but somehow still modest. That’s the first thought that strikes you as Yunho knocks lightly and opens the door, nothing like the last corner office you were dressed down in, flashy in ways that made you want to roll your eyes. 

You’ve met Kim Gyu-uk before, but it was brief and years ago when the teams were much smaller. He’s around sometimes on tour or gives rousing speeches at larger company parties, but otherwise the KQ CEO was largely out of your orbit, your jobs so vastly separate you rarely cross paths even in the halls of the same building. 

Despite that, he greets you with a smile like he’s been friends with you for years, standing the moment the door opens and crossing to the front of his desk to outstretch his hand to you. 

Your hand slips out of Yunho’s and you meet the handshake. 

“Miss y/n,” He shakes your head, “it’s very good to see you again.” 

“Oh,” You bow your head, “thank you,” 

“Perhaps I should say Mrs. Jeong,” He grins, eyes flicking between you and Yunho, “Yunho, now that your lovely wife is here I can offer proper congratulations.” 

Yunho wraps an arm around your shoulders, thanking him, but you have the strangest sensation that this can’t be real. He’s too kind, too pleased about the marriage, too congratulatory, and it makes your stomach clench with unease. 

“Alright,” He says after a moment, returning to his commanding side of the desk, “let’s chat,” 

Yunho guides you forwards to an empty chair, and you sink down into it, nodding to the rest of the men in the room, Attorney Choi at your right, Yunho at your left, and the rest of the members perched around the room in various spots. 

While there’s a subtle air of tension in the room, no one looks upset or outwardly stressed, and all you feel from Yunho’s side of the bond is anticipation. 

“So,” Kim Gyu-uk begins, “I trust that Yunho has been keeping you up to speed on our meetings this week?” 

He hasn’t, not nearly enough for you to feel confident in this meeting, but you nod anyways, “Yes, I think I’m clear on things,” 

He leans back in his chair, “Then you already know my position on your termination. While you two technically broke contracts and the company was within the right to fire you, I was not properly informed of the situation and of the true nature of your relationship. Mr. Minchul took it upon himself to handle it in the way that he did, and though I disagree with his actions, this is my company and my responsibility.” 

Yunho takes your hand back in his. 

“I apologize,” Gyu-uk says, “on behalf of the company and personally, you were treated without respect or consideration. I can assure you it won’t happen again,” 

“Oh,” You manage, “I… thank you, of course, thank you,” 

“Mr. Michul was let go this morning,” He adds. 

Your eyes widen, but Yunho leans forward, “What?” 

“Clearly we need a bit of housecleaning,” Gyu-uk offers, “you know we’ve never operated that way, and I don’t intend to start now.” 

Hongjoong smiles in your peripheral vision and nods, pleased. 

There’s a collective sense of relief, and your tense fingers start to relax. 

“Now,” Gyu-uk rests his elbows on the desk, leaning forward to address you, “as for your position here. I cannot offer you the same job,” 

Your heart sinks. 

“With your relationship,” He nods towards you both, “it wouldn’t be professional to have you work in such close proximity. I would say the same to any couple in this building,” 

You nod, “I can understand that,” 

“That being said,” He smiles, “I hope that you will accept a position working with the Xikers team,” 

Yunho smiles next to you, watching your face carefully. 

Gyu-uk continues, “You’d be in a slightly more senior role with that team of artists, but you’ve done great work for years with us, and until this I’ve never heard anything but positive feedback about you and your performance.” 

You’re stunned silent. 

Their CEO smiles and nods, “And of course,” he says, “Ateez may need an extra pair of hands on tour from time to time, if you’re comfortable with a certain amount of additional responsibilities and overtime,” 

Your eyes prick with tears, “Of course,” you interject, but then catch yourself, dipping your head and getting your emotions under control. 

Yunho rubs the back of your hand again. 

“Good,” He nods, “then Monday, can I expect to see you back at work?”

You swallow back the knot in your throat, “Yes, sir,” 

He nods, pleased. 

Attorney Choi clears his throat next to you, “I’d like to see her employment contract,” 

“I assumed so,” 

“We want explicit statements excluding their relationship from any of the standard language,” He continues, “and we expect an increase for a more senior position, even if Xikers is a junior group.” 

“Oh, I,” The words slip out, a slight shake to your head, you can’t lose this job when it’s been such a fight to get it back. 

Attorney Choi holds up a hand towards you, rendering you silent, but his eyes stay on their CEO. 

“I anticipated that already,” Gyu-uk laughs, a huff of air through his nose, “I’ll have the contract forwarded over for your review today. Satisfied?” 

“For now,” Attorney Choi nods, “where do we stand on our redlines?” 

It’s clear the conversation has shifted back to their employment contracts, and you make brief eye contact with Yunho and then Gyu-uk, “I’m sorry,” you interrupt, “should I step out?” 

He shakes his head, “Stay, we have a few more things to discuss.” 

Yunho separates your hands, shifting in his chair, and his hand finds a new home on your mid back. 

Their CEO looks to Attorney Choi and nods, “I am comfortable saying we have reached an agreement,”

You can practically feel the energy coming off the members at that sentence, and you glance to the side to see their faces. Hongjoong looks pleased and deeply relieved, and San and Seonghwa are grinning from their position at the far wall. 

Relief courses through you from Yunho. 

On his side you catch Mingi’s eyes, calm and betraying nothing, but you can see that he’s pleased and relieved too. Your eyes meet for the barest second, and in it he gives you a small, private smile. You can’t see the other members' expressions without twisting in your chair, but you imagine they’re feeling the same collective relief. 

“Can we agree on a five year term?” Gyu-uk continues, and you look back up. 

“Five years, with a salary review at three,” Attorney Choi says, completely calm and cool. 

There’s a pause. For a moment you wonder if this will push them back from the agreement and back into negotiations, but blissfully Kim Gyu-uk smiles. 

“You drive a hard bargain,” He says, reaching his hand across the table, “but I think we can agree to that.” 

Attorney Choi shakes his hand firmly. 

“Contracts will be ready for review by this afternoon,” Gyu-uk confirms, “if everything looks good, we can execute tomorrow and put this all behind us.”

Yunho lets out a heavy sigh of relief. 

“Dinner,” Gyu-uk says, “tomorrow after your recordings, my treat. We have much to celebrate.” 

In a snap the tension of the week is gone, and there’s a sudden rush of handshakes, hugs, the members erupting in a flurry of excitement all around you. You know from conversations with Yunho that they didn’t get everything they wanted in the renegotiation process, you know that’s how contracts work, but they got the important things. And you and Yunho got each other.

In the celebratory fray, Gyu-uk steps close to Yunho and claps him on the shoulder, “Now that that’s settled,” he says, “let’s have that talk,” 

Attorney Choi smoothly slides into the conversation, “Yes, let’s.” 

You glance between them. 

Gyu-uk nods and steps back, “Alright, everyone, I have some additional things to discuss with the happy couple,” 

Yunho leans in, “It’s okay, don’t worry.” 

You nod, but his words do nothing to soothe the strange sensation in your gut. 

“I’ll see everyone else for dinner tomorrow night,” He nods, “I’m glad we could reach an agreement, and I appreciate everyone’s additional time over the past week while we worked this through.” 

It’s the most professional and polite dismissal you’ve ever seen, but the meaning is clear. Gyu-uk wants the room cleared out, and he’s not waiting around for it to happen naturally. 

Hongjoong exchanges a quick word with Yunho as he steps out, “You good?” 

“Good,” He nods, “we’re fine,” 

Hongjoong nods, and then meets your eyes, “Glad to have you back, y/n,” 

“Me too,” You smile, “thank you, for everything, seriously,” 

He nods, shrugging a bit, “It’s nothing.” 

It wasn’t nothing, not at all. You know how many sleepless nights the members spent preparing for this moment, how many difficult conversations they had to get through. And while not every part of it was for you and Yunho, they put themselves on the line right alongside you both and you feel like you’ll never be able to thank them enough for that. 

After a moment, the room clears out, leaving you and your husband and your attorney, and a sea of empty chairs. 

Gyu-uk looks a little more serious this time, and he sighs as he takes a seat behind his desk. 

Nervous bubbles pop in your stomach. 

“I won’t lie to you,” He says, looking at Yunho, “you’ve put me in a hell of a position here, kid,” 

Yunho nods, “I know.” 

Gyu-uk waves you all down to a seat again and rubs his eyes, he’s tired too, you realize, “I want you to know, I would have agreed to dropping the clauses and having her back without the marriage. If you say you’re bonded, I personally believe that, and I can see it, it’s plain as day looking at the two of you.” 

Your heart thumps quickly in your chest. 

“In another life you would have made a good business man,” Gyu-uk laughs, “because this was one serious fucking ace of a negotiation tactic,”

He glances at you when he curses, “Excuse my language,” he says, but you shake your head to tell him it’s fine. 

“Sir,” Yunho takes your hand again, “I love my job, but you and your wife are soulmates, aren’t you?” 

Gyu-uk’s eyes flick up and he nods. 

That’s new information to you, and your breath seems to stay trapped in your chest anticipating Yunho’s next words. 

“Tell me,” Yunho says calmly, “what kind of a man would I be if I left this up to chance?” 

Emotion bubbles in your chest and you blink back another tug of tears. 

Gyu-uk sighs and leans back in his chair, “Point taken,” he says. 

“I stand by my choices,” Yunho adds, his thumb passing over the band of your wedding ring. 

“I know,” Gyu-uk nods, “and you better keep that mentality, because I don’t know if you both have thought this through, but what happens from here is going to be ugly.” 

You grip Yunho’s hand a little tighter. 

“We know,” Yunho says. 

“No,” Gyu-uk shakes his head, “you don’t know.” 

Yunho takes a breath, but Gyu-uk continues smoothly. 

“We’re going to take a serious hit from this,” He explains, “we’ll lose appearances, venues, brand deals. Fans are going to boycott, they’re going to say cruel things, girls are going to burn your photocards and say you betrayed them. Our revenue will take a dip, potentially a significant one, and that has ramifications of its own.” 

Yunho swallows tightly. 

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment at the honest scrutiny of his words. 

“What’s more than that,” Gyu-uk continues, “is what will happen to her.” 

Yunho’s posture broadens, defensive, his spine straighter as he takes in a breath to push back. 

“Her name, her family's names, where she lives, everything you’ve ever posted online will be scrutinized and picked through. That’s to say nothing of the fans that will cross the line offline; stalking, harassment, death threats,” 

Your breath feels thready, panicked. 

“Did you want this meeting just to scold them? Get to the point,” Attorney Choi interrupts, “They know the risks.” 

“Do you want that for her?” Gyu-uk continues. 

“Of course not,” Yunho’s jaw is set tightly. 

“You should have come to me first,” Gyu-uk says firmly, “I’ve known you since you were a boy, Yunho. I would have listened to you, and we could have made a plan for the two of you together,” 

Yunho shakes his head, “Sir, with all due respect I don’t know if I believe that. No matter how long we’ve known each other, I’m an idol on a rookie contract, and you’re still my CEO.” 

Gyu-uk regards him, his posture tight, and then he nods, “Maybe,” 

“‘Maybe’ wasn’t good enough for me,” Yunho says plainly, “and I may have let the company lead for me in the past, but this is about more than me now.” 

“I can understand that,” Gyu-uk concedes. 

Both of you wait for him to say more. 

“My point is,” Gyu-uk finally says, “you’ve put me on the back foot, and that’s not somewhere I enjoy being.” 

Yunho stays silent, unapologetic, but nods. 

“What I’m asking you now,” Gyu-uk says clearly, “after we’ve made our deals internally, is to buckle up for what we’re going to have to do.” 

The men on either side of you don’t say a word, and you glance between them before you finally speak up yourself, “Which would be?” 

Gyu-uk’s eyes click to yours, assessing, “We need to be on the right side of this story. You’ve worked with idols for years, are you clear on what that means?” 

“You want to announce it?” Your eyes widen a little. 

You were ready for the story to break at some point, and you and Yunho had agreed that being together was worth the risk of that, but going public this quickly still strikes you in the chest. 

“Immediately,” Gyu-uk nods. 

Yunho shakes his head, “Absolutely not,” he leans forwards, “we have time to figure things out,” 

“Yunho,” Gyu-uk stares at him with a withering look, almost fatherly in amusement at Yunho’s naivete, “you can’t make a move this strong and then concede before the check mate.”

Yunho’s jaw tightens. 

“Catch me up here,” You rest a hand on Yunho’s leg and lean forwards to keep Gyu-uk focused on you. 

“This past week,” He explains, “we had discussed a strategy for how to handle the story of your relationship breaking. Standardly, the company line for dating scandals that don’t produce definitive proof is silence. When caught in something more serious or undeniable, there’s usually a lot of apologies from the idol, groveling, and again, silence from the company. In both of those scenarios there is no real room for the couple to be together.” 

“Okay,” You nod, hand sliding to find Yunho’s. 

“Marriage is different,” He continues, “it has a different public perception, so do soulmate bonds. Marriage is also legally binding, which I know both of you are very clearly aware of,” 

Yunho bristles a little, but Gyu-uk isn’t wrong, it’s exactly why you did it now. 

“There are three options as I see it,” He holds your gaze, and something tells me that these three things were made very clear to Yunho this week even if you’re still in the dark. 

“Option one,” Gyu-uk says, “we renegotiate and Yunho leaves the company on positive terms, leaving you both free to pursue whatever lives you want together.” 

Your breath quickens. 

“It’s clear from this week that option is not viable, but it is the path that would afford you both the most privacy.” 

“What’s option two?” You prompt him. 

There’s a strange flicker of appreciation in his face for your directness and he continues, “Option two is that we wait for you both to be caught and then run the company playbook. It’s not a matter of if that will happen but when given marriage licenses are public record and people outside of this room are aware of your relationship.” 

You nod. 

“Option three is to go public now,” 

“We don’t have to announce it right away,” Yunho presses, “we can wait a little while, figure out the best way, this isn’t,” 

“Yunho,” Gyu-uk interrupts softly, “we do, and you know that.” 

“What do you suggest?” Your thumb strokes over the back of Yunho’s hand, but you keep your focus on the conversation. 

“I have a larger plan put together with the PR team,” He explains, and then looks to Yunho, “but we are willing to take this risk with you for the good of the group. We have worked together since you were trainees, and I hope you understand that the reason we are even having this conversation is because I genuinely, genuinely believe this group is stronger with you in it.” 

Yunho nods, his eyes flicking down. 

“The company will announce it,” Gyu-uk says smoothly, “very clearly and in no uncertain terms you will have our support in that announcement. You will need to address your fans in a variety of posts, but the PR team thinks starting off with something personal on your Instagram is the right path.” 

“From there?” Your husband asks. 

“We remain positive and we handle the questions as they come,” Gyu-uk offers, “we’re wading into unprecedented territory here, but we will handle it all head on.” 

Yunho nods and then looks up sharply, “Does her name need to be in the announcement?” 

“Yunho,” You murmur softly. 

No matter how ready you both were for the oncoming storm the day of your wedding, it’s clear that here and now all he can think about is the risks, the worst case scenarios. 

“No,” Gyu-uk says, “and we’d like to keep your relationship as private as possible, not just for you, we really do not want to stoke things further and invite more inquiry. Y/n, your name will be public one way or another, but it won’t come from our announcement. You should prepare yourself for when it happens, but we’ll provide you with as much time as we can.” 

“Thank you,” You murmur. 

“She’ll need security,” Attorney Choi speaks up. 

Yunho nods, his hand tightening on yours. 

“That’s a given,” Gyu-uk says, “if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.” 

Relief bleeds through your chest. 

“That being said,” He continues, “there is a chance this story is uncontrollable, that this industry is not ready for the change you want them to be ready for.” 

Your heart stutters in your chest. 

“We can only do so much,”

Yunho nods and looks from you to his CEO, “If that happens, I already told you, I will resign and I’ll make sure the members know it’s my choice. They won’t follow me,” 

Your eyes widen, your hand tight on his. 

“Yunho,” His attorney warns. 

“We will do everything we can to prevent that and avoid that,” Gyu-uk says earnestly, “that is not a path any of us want to walk. I give you my word on that,”

“This needs to be in writing,” Attorney Choi says, “if you want a stipulation for their relationship have an attorney draft-,” 

“No,” Yunho shakes his head, “no more contracts. I’m trusting you on this, and I give you my word too,” 

The assess each other quietly for a moment, and then Gyu-uk nods, “Alright,” 

Yunho’s hand rests on your back, “When do you intend to announce, then?” 

“We’re on a bit of a time clock with the next comeback,” Gyu-uk says, “but we’ll go to print on Thursday of next week. We’ll work through the language this week, and then Wednesday night you both will leave Seoul for a few days until the brunt of it blows over.” 

“Leave Seoul?” You ask.

”My brother has a house in Jeju. It’s private, rarely used, and far, far away from any newspapers or fans who would want to show up and harass you,” He explains, “consider it a wedding present,” 

You blink.

He sighs and then leans forwards, “Think of it as a way to get out of town and stay offline for a few days,” he says, “whatever the response is, it won’t be easy. Take a few days to yourselves and get your heads on straight, this is going to be a long process with a lot of publicity to manage. Let us handle it and get a few days alone,” 

You nod, and Yunho says, “What else?” 

“Nothing else,” Gyu-uk assures, “you both need to meet with Harin, and then you both need to lay low and let this play out.” 

Harin, the head of their PR team, was always available to nip and tuck a story into just the right language to sway public perception, and you’re not surprised in the least that this is where you’d be heading next. 

“If we’re doing it that soon,” Yunho says, “we need to discuss the apartments.” 

“What?” You turn your head, studying Yunho’s profile. 

“I was going to say the same thing,” Attorney Choi adds, “it would certainly make security easier.” 

Gyu-uk only looks at him.

“What apartment?” You ask again. 

Yunho turns his head to you, “We’re able to get our own apartments now,” he explains, “without managers living in unit as long as the building has approved security protocols and is within a reasonable distance to management and the offices,” 

You remember that clause in the paperwork you read, “Right,” 

He smiles, “I’m also contractually able to have a roommate,” 

You’re sure the surprise is all over your face. 

“So,” He turns back to Gyu-uk, “if we’re concerned about people stalking her or harassing her, I think she’s a lot safer living with me in a building that has security,” 

Gyu-uk sighs. 

“And I think you know better than anyone,” Yunho adds, “how much better I will be at my job if I’m not unnecessarily separated from my bonded soulmate,” 

For a moment, Gyu-uk shows nothing on his face but calm calculation, and then he nods, a small smile pulling at the edge of his lip, “I agree.” 

Yunho’s hand closes on yours, “Good,” 

Gyu-uk rubs his tired eyes again and then nods, “Let me speak with security, there’s not much time for us to get an apartment sorted before the announcement, but until we can, you’re of course free to stay with y/n at her apartment or at your dorm. But communicate clearly with management, no driving yourself or public transportation,” 

“y/n walks to work,” Yunho adds. 

“Not anymore,” Gyu-uk shakes his head, “not until we know what this is going to be like, is that fair?” 

“Absolutely,” Yunho agrees, “whatever we need to do.” 

All you can do is nod, once again your head spinning at the amount of information you’re being dropped into. 

“Alright,” He leans towards the telecom on his desk and presses a button, calling out to reception. You listen as he sets up a call with the head of the security team and as he directs Harin and the PR team to set up in the small conference room down the hall. 

“Last thing,” Gyu-uk says as he stands, clearly signaling the end of this conversation, “rings off, until the story breaks.” 

Yunho nods, “Fair enough.” 

“Stay discreet for a few more days,” He advises, “and then after that, well, we’ll take it as it comes.”

The meeting ends with more handshakes, with both of you being ushered into a conference room with the PR team who are more than prepared to discuss strategy at length. You don’t have a moment to debrief with Yunho, to drop your smile and take a breath and ask him how you got here to this result all of a sudden on a Thursday. Instead, you’re at another conference room table with a team of people who seem to know more about social media than you could have ever fathomed. 

Harin is a small woman, but within two minutes you can tell she’s a fearsome adversary when it comes to arguing and spinning a story. You’ve never been the subject of her inquiries before, but all of a sudden you’re center stage. 

For hours you pour over details in ways you couldn’t even imagine. Yunho seems unphased by the directness and the detail in their questions, but they peel apart every facet of your life and your connections until there’s no stone unturned, no surprise story about your life that could break without them knowing and having a pre-planned response. 

You don’t have any school drama, no history of bullying or bad behavior. Your relationship history isn’t all that scandalous, only one bad breakup, but it was him who cheated and not you. Your relationship with your parents is described as unfortunate, but not unfamiliar in their line of work. The PR team files these little facts away for a rainy day, detailed and meticulous in their every follow up. 

Harin is clearly pleased that you’re at least moderately attractive, but you watch the way they try to label you and market you, your tattoos at least ‘consistent’ and ‘feminine’ enough to be deemed trendy and artistic. She’s appreciative of your personal style, but when she suggests layering in particular designer pieces to look more elevated you start to think that Harin and her team can only communicate in backhanded compliments. 

By the end they’ve dissected you open. 

It isn’t until one of the PR team members asks you a pointed question about your gay sister that real annoyance flickers through you and Yunho interrupts, making it very clear that Hana and Em are not only off limits, they’ll be publicly supported by both of you if anyone publishes anything negative about them. 

Once again, Harin takes it all in stride, a perfect story and a perfect response for everything. 

It isn’t until the meeting breaks and the room clears out that you get a moment alone with Yunho to digest any of it at all. 

In the sudden quiet of the conference room, Yunho shifts back to work, fielding a litany of texts, his eyes tired as he catches up what he’s missed and invariably needs to make up from being trapped in board rooms all day, and you stay quiet. Your own gut is churning with discomfort, but you bite the inside of your cheek, and you wait. 

Eventually, he drops the phone to the side and sighs, his office chair spinning towards you as he reaches out to take your hand, “I’m sorry,” he says, “you must be so exhausted,” 

“Me? I’m fine,” 

“I didn’t realize they’d take you through all that today,” He admits, “Harin’s just thorough,” 

“Mm,” You nod, “it’s fine,”

He fixes you with a look, finally picking up on your flat tone, “How are you really? And don’t say fine,” 

You can’t lie, not to him. 

He squeezes your hand and you let out an exhausted breath of air, “It’s been a long day,” 

“I know,” He soothes. 

Your chest throbs a little and you pull back from him, “Yun,” you murmur, “why didn’t you tell me about the apartment? About you leaving the group if this goes badly?” 

His back straightens, “What do you mean?” 

“You have to be honest,” You sigh, “you have to talk to me.” 

“You’re upset,” He observes, his brows ticking up in surprise. 

“I’m not,” You say it, even though deep down you both know it’s not the perfect truth, “but you can’t keep handling everything by yourself and expect me to just be on board,” 

His face falls, “Are you uncomfortable with what we decided today? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” You take his hands in yours, “you’re handling all of this so well, but Yunho, what was the plan if Gyu-uk didn’t ask for me to be in the meeting? Would you have told me we were moving in together after getting the keys?” 

“y/n,” He shakes his head, “that’s not it,” 

“Listen,” You settle him, catching his cheek in your hand, “I love you. I love that you’re trying to protect me from this, and I know this is new for both of us, but this is our lives together, we need to make decisions together.” 

“We are,” He presses, “I’m telling you everything, you read all the contracts, I’m,” 

“Yunho,” You press, “stop,” 

“You are upset,” He says. 

“Okay, fine,” You lean back, “I’m upset,” 

“Tell me,” He nods, expectant. 

“I’m trying to!” The words slip out, exasperation through your tone. 

Yunho looks surprised, but he just nods, “Go on,” 

“You think you’re talking to me about everything?” You ask the question calmly, clearly. 

He nods again.  

“Baby,” You shake your head, “you’re keeping me in the loop, but that’s it. You tell me what’s happening after the fact, and then you plug me in to make a decision when you need one,” 

“That’s not fair,” 

“I waited for you for days after I got fired,” You tell him gently, and his face falls, “and when I came back everything was already in motion and we were married before I could even blink. I am so, so happy to be your wife, please don’t misunderstand me,” 

“You regret it?” His heart hammers in his chest. 

“Never,” You slide closer to him, “never, ever. Listen to me,” 

His eyes study yours, his mouth snapping shut. 

“You are making big decisions about our life together without me,” You tell him gently, “I think because you want to shield me from all the bad parts about your life as an idol, or maybe because you think it’s your job as my partner, as my husband, to take care of the hard things so I only get the good parts.” 

His eyes drop. 

“I trust you,” You murmur, “with my life, my whole heart, but I don’t want a marriage like that.” 

His brows draw together, his hands tightening on yours. 

“I want you to tell me our options,” You continue, “I want to decide things together. I want to hear about the bad shit so we can face it together, get through it together.” 

He doesn’t look up. 

“If this all goes badly,” You tell him softly, “I don’t want you pulling the ripcord on your career because you decide you don’t want to put me through something. We’re bonded, we’re married, we’re going through it together no matter what, but I want you to talk to me so we can decide how to get through it together.” 

He sighs, dropping his head into his hands. 

You insist, “I know you’re just trying to keep me safe,” 

He nods. 

“I promise you, I can handle this,” You murmur, “whatever people say about me, whatever people do to me, I don’t care.” 

His head lifts at your words, his eyes flaring with sudden intensity, and his hands close over yours, “No one’s doing anything to you.” 

You can feel the sudden pit of fear in his body, and you shake your head, “Yunho, breathe.” 

His lips pull into a frown and he leans back in his chair, your hands still secured in his. Something’s frozen on the tip of his tongue, you don’t need a soulmate bond to tell you that. 

“What?” You murmur softly, squeezing his hand. 

 His knee bounces, nervous, strained energy bursting out of him until he finally says it, “Did you know that two years ago some fans, stalkers, put GPS trackers on our managers' cars?” 

You nod, “I heard,” 

“Did you know our old dorms were broken into?” He asks calmly, finally turning back to look at you. 

Slowly, you shake your head. 

“We came home after promotions and there were gifts in Yeosang’s room,” He explains, “and letters. A whole box of love letters that started off like fan mail and turned into threats,” 

“Against Yeosang?” Your eyes widen. 

He shakes his head, “No,” he murmurs, “against everyone else. The company was keeping them apart, the management was conspiring against them, the members were jealous of their connection,” 

“Jesus,” You breathe. 

“She was very sick,” Yunho explains, “but very fixated and very motivated.” 

“What happened?” 

“We had security footage, the company turned it into police and she was arrested,” He explains, “but that’s not the point,” 

Your stomach sinks. 

“I want you,” He laces your fingers together, “and I want to be with you in front of the world, all of that is true.” 

You nod. 

“That doesn’t mean I’m not terrified of what that means,” He confesses, “I would shield you from the cruel things people are going to say online because I love you, and I know what that kind of attention feels like, but,” 

You squeeze his hands, your chest aching as he opens up to you more and more. 

With a deep breath he shakes his head, “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “when I say I’m terrified, it’s not about what people could say. It’s what people could do,” 

“Yunho,” You manage.

“I wake up terrified that someone will find your address,” You can feel his heartbeat thundering in your own chest, “that someone who doesn’t know me, but thinks they love me, will find you and hurt you or take you away from me in a way that I c-can’t,”

 His breath hitches on the word and he shakes his head, pushing those thoughts out of his mind, “I didn’t tell you because I don’t want you to be scared, but there are things we have to do to make sure you’re safe once people find out about us, and I won’t risk your safety.” 

“Come here,” You pull him close into a hurried embrace between the chairs, “you think I don’t worry about the same things?” 

He exhales heavily against your hair. 

“I’m not naive,” You murmur, “I’ve worked with you for years, I know what some fans can be like.” 

“Then,” 

“I’m safer if you talk to me,” You pull back to see his eyes, “we’re stronger together and that includes making decisions together. Trust me to know when something doesn’t feel right, let me carry this with you.” 

“y/n,” He murmurs, his expression pained, “some of this job is so ugly, so horrible. I just wanted to keep that from touching you,” 

“I know,” 

“If anything ever happened to you,” He shakes his head, cupping your cheeks.

“I know,” You assure him softly, “but nothing bad is going to happen to me,” 

He just looks at you.

“Yun,” You murmur, “I trust you to keep me safe, I trust your judgement with the company, the extra security, all of it. I just don’t want to be in the dark, I don’t want to be unaware and I don’t want you killing yourself with all this pressure.” 

He sinks forward, his lips connecting with your forehead, but he nods, “Okay,” 

“If we’re together,” You murmur, letting the feeling of his lips ground you to him, “then whatever happens can’t divide us,” 

He nods again, his shoulders sinking, “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I’m so sorry,” 

“It’s okay,” You pull back, meeting his warm eyes, “we’re okay,” 

“Are we?” He checks, fingers soft on your cheeks. 

“Always,” You assure him. 

He smiles slightly, just a twitch of his lips, his dark brown eyes full of tenderness, “You’re everything to me,” he kisses you softly, “I’ll do better, I promise,” 

You shake your head, taking his hands in yours, “Me too,” you tell him gently, “we’re still just figuring this out. Six months ago we were co-workers, now we’re married,” 

He smiles properly now, “That’s true,”

“And it’s not as if I had the best track record with relationships,” You add, “figuring all of this out takes time, learning how to be the right kind of partner for each other takes time,” 

He hums, appreciative of your words, “I always thought it would come naturally with a soulmate,” he murmurs, “my parents always said it took work, but I never really understood that until you,” 

“Yeah,” 

He nods, sitting up a bit in his chair and sighing, “Together,” he says, “with everything.” 

“That’s all I’m asking for,” You reply gently. 

The tightness in both of your chests relaxes, the steadiness of your heartbeats in time bringing you both back down to center. 

After a moment, Yunho grins wide though and looks back up at you, “Was that our first fight?” 

A laugh bursts out of your lips and you cover your mouth with your hand, “I don’t know if that counts as a fight,” 

“You were upset,” He points out, “I upset you,” 

“I feel like fights have a lot more shouting, we figured that out pretty quickly,” You smile, leaning back in your chair. 

His brows pinch together, head cocking to the side at your words. 

“What?” You ask at his confused expression. 

“Yeobo,” He says slowly, “if that’s your definition of a fight, then I guess we’re never going to have one.” 

His confusion makes no sense to you, and you laugh reflexively, “That’s optimistic,” 

“I don’t shout,” He says, his eyes studying your expression, “not really at anyone, but definitely not at you.” 

“I don’t know,” You shrug, “marriage is hard, things happen. As long as we work through it though,” 

Yunho shakes his head again, “We’re not going to fight like that,” he says gently, “we’ll disagree sometimes and maybe we’ll hurt each other by mistake, but I’ll never raise my voice to you. I don’t do that,” 

Your expression falters. 

In the back of your mind there’s a steady image, your parents face to face, their expressions contorted in anger, shoulders squared off and tense, a broken vase at their feet on the kitchen tile. Hana hiding behind your legs, her small hands gripping your jeans, your body taut with a fraying cord of panic.  

Yunho’s hand gently smooths over yours, “My parents never yelled at each other,” he explains softly, and you wonder how much of your sudden thoughts he could see, feel the shape of, “even when things were difficult. Talking to each other like that,” he shakes his head, “that’s not something I want for us, you won’t get that from me.” 

You manage a nod, your throat tight. 

“So,” He smiles, rubbing the back of your hand with the pad of his thumb, “our first fight, I think we did pretty good,” 

You release a soft puff of air through your lips, his smile infectious, bringing you back once again from the bad memory, “Yeah, I guess we did,” 

“How can I make it up to you?” He asks, pressing a kiss to your lips, “After two weeks of being a controlling ass,”

You roll your eyes, “You weren’t being an ass,” you assure him, “and you’re forgiven, honestly,” 

He brushes past that though, “Dinner,” he says, “Gyu-uk said lay low for the week, but I have my phone back. Let’s do takeout over FaceTime?” 

You grin, nodding, “I’d like that,” 

“I’ll tell you all about this week,” He adds. 

“Mhm,” 

He stands and stretches his tired limbs, “It was eventful,” 

“I thought so,” You stand with him, packing away what little things you have out. 

“Harin said she’d email over the first draft of the announcement tonight too,” He adds, “let’s review it together?” 

You nod, “Perfect,” 

He starts to reach for the door and then doubles back, “Oh,” he says, making a face, “I almost forgot.” 

You watch as he reaches for his wedding ring, twisting it off his finger. 

“Can you keep this safe for me?” He holds it out to you, “Give it back to me on our way to Jeju?” 

You take the warm loop of metal and slide it onto your thumb, the only place it’s sure not to slip off, “Of course,” 

“I have to get to practice,” He murmurs, leaning in and kissing you one last time, “but I love you. Text me when you get home safely?” 

“I will,” You nod, still caught in his gravitational pull as he reaches properly for the door this time. 

Yunho walks you out the same way he walked you in, with a hand on your back, making sure you’re safely in the elevator before he finally leaves you. 

You start the walk home with both wedding bands securely around your fingers, and only then do you allow the pure feeling of relief to flood through your body. 

It’s done.

Finally, finally done. 

By the time you’re home, your face hurts from smiling. You’re dialing Iseul the second you’re tucked away where no one can hear you. 

For the first time in months, a conversation with your best friend isn’t laden with panic and what-ifs. For the first time you’re both laughing, practically giddy. You diagnose every aspect of what being on the Xikers team means for your career, you joke about getting her pulled over onto that team with you so you have the same schedules again. She tells you all about her confrontation with Eunji, the way she dressed her down in front of Dahan and made it perfectly clear she wasn’t a welcome member of their inner circle. You speculate how many days before she quits. You fall apart into peels of laughter at the idea of her quitting the day of the wedding announcement. 

You talk about the honeymoon like it’s a real one, not an island getaway to avoid the press. You try not to think about the fact that you and Yunho are about to change this industry forever. Instead, you just talk to your best friend, in a way that you sorely, sorely missed. 

While you talk, you play with Yunho’s ring on your finger, twisting it this way and that, carving another indent into your skin just for him. You keep it safe, guarding it the same way you’ve been guarding both your hearts since brushing his cheek in Berlin. 

───────────────────────── ✧₊⁺───────────────────────

This part of Jeju is quiet in the off season. 

Nestled along the shoreline of Seogwipo, you and Yunho wait in a house far too big for two people, but blissfully far away from any other properties, overlooking the dark blue water of the South Sea. Despite the privacy and romantic scenery though, you’re both on edge after arriving late last night and having hours alone with your thoughts before the public announcement. 

You’re still wrapped up in bed at ten the next morning, hitting refresh on the Ateez official Twitter account over and over, nervously double checking the clock and your WiFi connection just to be sure you haven’t missed it. 

“Is it up yet?” Yunho asks softly, two cups of coffee in his hands as he walks back into the large corner bedroom, his wedding ring back in its proper place on his finger. 

“Not yet,” You check your phone again for good measure. 

He sets the coffees on the nightstand and slips back under the fluffy white duvet cover, sliding towards the middle to sit next to you, “They’re probably double checking the language,” 

“Yeah,”

“It’s going to be alright,” He wraps his arm around your back, “we’re going to be alright,” 

“I know,” You breathe, “it’s just a risk,” 

“It’ll be worth it,” He promises, kissing your temple softly. 

You nod, and then the phone buzzes in your hands. 

Both of your eyes snap down and you tap the push notification from Twitter alerting you to the tweet you’ve been waiting for. 

Your heart starts to pick up in your chest as you tap the link to the official announcement, even though you already know exactly what the text will say. You and Yunho both had given your consent on it yesterday before you left Seoul, but that was when it was just a draft in an email. 

This is real. 

Both of your eyes flick over the words. 

KQ Entertainment Artist Announcement 

Hello,

This is KQ Entertainment. 

We would like to provide an update regarding one of our artists, ATEEZ Jeong Yunho. 

Earlier this week, ATEEZ member Yunho was married in a private ceremony, supported by his family and friends. The company offers sincere congratulations and well wishes to the couple. 

While we apologize for the sudden news and any concern this may cause fans, we ask for your kind understanding and support for Yunho at this time. Yunho will continue participating in all ATEEZ activities with the full support of KQ Entertainment. 

We will continue to prioritize the well-being of our artists both professionally and personally, and request that fans do the same. At this time, we request privacy for the couple. 

Thank you.

Yunho takes your hand and gives you a squeeze. 

“It’s really out there,” You breathe. 

He nods, “It is,” 

“How long until they figure out who I am, do you think?” You chew the inside of your lip, dropping the phone back onto your knees, the announcement still open. 

“Not long,” He murmurs, “your socials are all private?”

He’s asked that numerous times over the past few days of preparations, but you smile, “Yes, Yunho,” 

He exhales slowly and wraps his arm back around you, tucking you into his chest. 

Preparation for this announcement had been meticulous, the past week spent quibbling over every word choice and potential outcome.

To maintain as much privacy as possible, you and Hana and Em had all made your social media accounts private, and then you and Yunho had gone to Jeju to weather the storm and stay out of sight.

Yunho kisses your hair gently and brings you out of your thoughts, “Our management should be posting my announcement soon too,” 

You nod. 

Yunho leans to the side and grabs his phone off the nightstand and you watch as he lights up the screen to show dozens of notifications already. He swipes the phone onto Do Not Disturb and swallows audibly, and you feel the onset of nerves in his chest. 

“We’re okay,” You wrap your arms around his middle, pressing a soft kiss to his throat. 

“Mhm,” He holds you closer, “I know,” 

You watch him navigate to Instagram, opening up his own profile, and he nods when he sees the new photo in his grid, “It’s up,” 

He hasn’t let you read it yet, and you shift in his arms to look up at him, “Can I?” 

He nods, placing his phone into your hands before sliding out of bed, “I’m going to get some water,” 

It’s a thinly veiled excuse, but you don’t press him. What he’s written must be deeply personal if he doesn’t want to watch you read it, and you let him go. 

He gives you one soft smile and then disappears again. 

Left alone with his phone, you take a deep breath and tap on the first photo in his grid. 

The post is simple, one single photo of Yunho. He’s far from the camera, sitting along a large stone wall overlooking the ocean in Japan. His head is turned slightly to the left so you can make out his profile and there’s a distinct, soft smile on his face. 

You tap open the text of the post and start to read. 

Atiny, I have something personal to share, more personal than anything I have ever shared before. 

While I know what I am about to tell you may cause concern for me or may upset you, you who I consider precious and beloved, I ask that you please read everything I have to say and remember that I am still your Yunho. 

Late last year, at an unexpected time and in an unexpected place, I accidentally bumped into a woman and knew the moment we touched that she was my soulmate. While she and I have known each other professionally for many years, we did not know that we shared this connection with one another until very recently. In complete honesty, which is what I think you all deserve, we did not know what we should do or how we could move forward and live honestly if we decided to hide this from the world. 

Those of you who have been lucky enough to find your soulmates will understand how difficult these decisions are, and how deeply your life is changed by finding your steadfast partner in life. 

We chose to be honest with our families, our friends, and our company and we will be forever grateful that we have received nothing but kindness and support. We chose to be married so that we could live honestly and openly in your eyes too.

As an idol, I have spent my life receiving love from you. Because of this, there are things I believe I should endure so that I may become a better Yunho and give more to my members and you, our Atiny. Those things are worth enduring to bring you a better Ateez, and I have taken personal pride in being called your happiness, I always will. But there are limits to what I think is fair for us as idols to endure, painful things that go beyond the bounds of what is normal for other professions and for what I believe is right. Idols conceal their relationships for years even after retiring from public life, and those who have announced their relationships have been met in the past with difficult words.

I speak for myself when I say it has been the greatest honor of my life to be a member of Ateez and to be able to feel love and support from our Atiny every day. But it would be dishonest to you and to myself if I did not stand up for my own happiness, and it would be both unfair and unkind to ask my partner, my soulmate, to hide herself away behind the shadow of my career out of fear. 

To my Atiny, I will always be grateful to you for the love and care you have shown me. You have taught me how to live well and how to love well, and it is because of you that have become the bright, energetic person that I am today. Now that I have met my soulmate, I can share that love with her too, someone that I can rely on, someone who helps carry me, and someone who I can spend the rest of my life with. 

I hope that you can give us your understanding and your consideration. I will always be your Ateez Yunho, and I will never stop working hard to be an idol you can embrace and be proud of. 

Atiny, you have been and will always be my happiness, but she is my heart. I can only hope that you can take care of us both for the years to come. 

You take a sharp breath as you finish reading, tears spilling over and splashing onto the screen, your eyes looping over the final sentence over and over again. 

“Was it alright?” Yunho’s voice is gentle, a little fearful, and your head snaps up to see him lingering in the threshold watching you carefully. 

“Alright?” You wipe the tears away with the backs of your hands, “Yunho, it was perfect, I don’t care what anyone says about us, I can’t believe you wrote all that,” 

His posture softens, “Yeah?” 

“Yes,” You take a breath, reaching for him, “I love you,” 

He climbs back into bed with you, arms wrapping around you, “I love you,” 

“It was so perfect,”

He nods, kissing your forehead, “I just wanted to be honest,” 

You lean into him, folding into a hug, until you’re both sliding back down into the bed and cuddling close. 

“It’s out there now,” He says after a few minutes, “everyone’s probably talking about it.” 

“Probably,” You nod, smoothing a hand up and down his arm, “but we’ve got this.” 

He nods, a ragged breath leaving his chest as he falls away from you onto his back, “Yeah,” 

You can feel the slight knot of tension in his gut, but you know he’s trying to stay strong and positive for you. Cuddling into his side again you kiss his chest, “Let’s let it be,” you murmur, “we’ll just hideaway right here,” 

His arm wraps around you, “Right here?” 

“Mhm,” You snuggle closer if it’s at all possible, “just you and me and this big bed. Ateez who?” 

That gets a laugh, and he turns into you, carding a hand through your hair, “Just you and me,” 

“Mhm,” You kiss his chest and he lets his head fall back to the pillow.

Your eyes flutter shut, sinking into the sound of his heart and the feeling of his warm skin. If you’re being honest, your mind is going a mile a minute too, but you focus on breathing in time with him. 

Time passes around you, both of you quiet and resting together, caught in your own individual thoughts. You keep your eyes closed, and for a moment you think Yunho might be falling asleep, his breath evening out and his arm relaxed on your back, but then a heavy pang of shame echoes through the bond and you blink your eyes open. 

The first thing you see is his phone as he quietly scrolls and studies something on the screen.  

“Hey,” You reach up, “what are you doing?” 

“Just checking,” He admits. 

Your eyes flick to the screen, and you see the comment that got a reaction from him. 

I should have known never to trust you. Too nice. Too sweet. It’s always a lie. 

“Stop,” You snatch the phone from his hand, locking the screen fast and putting it to the side. 

“I’m fine,” He swallows tightly. 

“You don’t seem fine,” You murmur, pushing yourself up to lean on his chest and look down at him. 

“I just,” His eyes flick away, “I wish there was a way to be with you that didn’t mean disappointing all of my fans, but they hate me now,” 

“They do not.” You argue. 

“They do,” He shakes his head, “you haven’t read the comments.” 

“The post went up ten minutes ago,” You counter, “the only people commenting are people that have you on post notifications, and I’d bet more than half of those people are the ones who will be the most mad,” 

“y/n,” He sighs. 

“Give it time,” You use the words he’s been using all week, “come here,” 

Pushing his phone farther to the side, you slide up on his chest and tug his mouth to yours. 

“Mm,” He laughs gently against your lips, “What are you doing?”

“It’s a honeymoon, right?” You kiss him again. 

“Yeah, but,” He grips your hips as you kiss him again, cutting off his words. 

“Let me make you feel better,” You murmur, peppering kisses down his throat, “take your mind off things.” 

“Oh,” He blinks as you shimmy down his body, “baby, I’m okay,” 

“Soulmate bond, remember?” You say, “I can tell when you’re stressed.” 

He swallows, the bob of his Adam’s apple shifting under your lips. 

“I think we could both use the distraction,” You admit. 

You feel him soften under your body at that. 

Slowly, you separate your body from his and shift down to the bed between his open legs. His eyes are wide, a pretty flush already across his nose and cheeks, his chest rising and falling more quickly with the rapid onset of his arousal. 

He’s not fully hard yet, but you felt him start to get there at just the suggestion of sex, a firm press against your belly as you slid down over his body. As you peel away his boxers though, your hand ghosting over his cock to tease him, he starts to stiffen up fully, the muscles in his thighs and abdomen twitching at your touch. 

“Sweetheart,” His hands clench down on the duvet, “you’re killing me,” 

“I’ve barely done anything,” You tease him. 

“Doesn’t matter,” He shakes his head, “I think I’m Pavloved to get hard whenever you touch me,” 

You giggle, shaking your head at his words, “Oh yeah?” 

He hisses as your hand closes around his cock more firmly, his hips jumping, “Mhm,” 

“If that were true, wouldn’t you be hard all the time?” You tease him. 

“I basically am,” He smiles down at you, watching the way your hand strokes up and down over him, “you’re very distracting,” 

“Hmm,” You shift downwards in the bedding so that you’re laying on your front between his legs, propped up on your elbows as you continue to tease him, “that sounds difficult,” 

He snorts a gentle laugh, “I wouldn’t say wanting to fuck my wife all the time is a hardship,” 

Arousal bubbles up at his words and you can feel your face heating, “Well,” you murmur, grazing your nails up his abdomen and pushing up his t-shirt, “it’s a good thing you married me then,” 

“Why’s that?” His voice goes a little breathy as you cup his balls. 

“I’m pretty insatiable,” You press a kiss to his inner thigh, “I need a husband who can keep up,” 

He laughs again, his eyes growing hotter, tongue resting cheekily against his upper teeth, “I’ll show you ‘keeping up’,”

“I know you will,” You kiss him again, “we have days to keep ourselves busy,” 

“And distracted,” He groans lightly as you graze the underside of his shaft with your fingers again. 

“Exactly,” You kiss the velvet head of his cock and watch as his mouth falls open. 

“God,” He sighs.

“Just relax,” You murmur, teasing him slowly with a lap of your tongue, “forget about everything else,” 

He’s quiet at that, and when you search the bond you feel his tight hesitation. 

“Just be here with me, baby,” You touch him more, hands up and down his thighs, another lick, the teasing promise of your mouth, “fuck everything that isn’t you and me in this bed.” 

His breath catches, and you answer the sound by finally sliding your mouth down over his leaking cock. You start slow, practiced and measured, gentle bobs of your head up and down as you focus your tongue on his tip, the taste of his precum already salty and hot on your tongue. 

You lavish your mouth over him, focused on ridding him of any feeling but pleasure and need. Slowly you increase the pace, dropping your mouth down further, your nails scratching lovely lines into his thighs, doubling down on any touch that pulls a breathy noise from his lips. 

Despite his sounds, how you touch him, how you taste him, the knot of tension in his gut stays rock steady. You can feel his mind elsewhere. He’s tense, he’s stressed, and there’s an undercurrent of guilt and shame that you just can’t seem to shake out of him no matter how tender you are with your tongue. 

You know what he needs in a surprising pang of clarity, and strangely, you want it just as much as he does. 

You pull back from his cock to take a breath, and without a glance up at him, you find his hands with yours and draw them close. 

He sucks in a sharp breath as you guide his hands to your head, and his voice is hoarse when he says, “Are you sure?” 

You nod, eyes flicking up to his, “I trust you,” 

He studies your face for a moment, and then his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He swallows tightly, and you feel his fingers sink pleasantly into your hair. 

“This okay?” He checks, his fingers tightening against your scalp just a fraction. 

It’s been years since you’ve allowed anyone to touch you like this, but Yunho’s hands feel perfect. 

It feels good. 

You nod again, your heartbeat quickening in your chest in anticipation.

“If you want me to stop,” He brushes one hand over your hair, keeping it back from your face, “tap my thigh, I’ll let go,” 

“I trust you,” You echo it again, and then you dip back down to take his cock deeply in your mouth, his hands heavy on your head. 

He groans earnestly this time, like he can’t stop the sound from ripping out of his chest, and you know he’s restraining himself still but you can feel his satisfaction in the way his fingertips press down. 

“Jesus,” He manages as you bob your head back up and then down, sinking him as far down your throat as you can, “baby,” 

You stay focused on his cock, teasing him with your tongue, sharp sucks, humming sensations at the velvet tip. 

His hands stay gentle, but present, taking it at your pace and letting you drive. 

When you pull off to take in a breath, you pant out one word, “More,” 

His body freezes, his breath caught in his chest, but you’re already back to sucking him sweetly, and he can barely contain himself as he watches you give everything you have to his cock. 

Slowly, experimentally, Yunho applies more pressure to your head, pushing you down on him just a little to see how you’ll take it. 

Your shoulders relax, and you let him push. This normally scares you, it makes you panic and scramble away with anyone else, but with him? After everything? It’s perfect and dizzying, and all you feel is overwhelming care from his side of the bond. 

You go lax in his hands the more he guides you, and you can feel his hips aching to move under your hands. 

You moan, silently begging him for more, when he stops things.

“F-fuck,” He pulls his hips back, drawing his cock from your lips, “come here, baby,” 

Dazed, you lift up to look at him, “What?” 

“Come here,” He beckons you up to him, “I want you closer,” 

His hands slide under your upper arms, gently tugging you towards him and you climb over his thigh, following his direction until you’re kneeling at his side, your knees by his hips. 

He shifts up in the bed until he’s somewhat seated, reclined against the pillows and headboard, and then he reaches out and cups your cheek, “Come lay down,” 

“Here?” You start to shift like you’re going to lay down next to him the same way, but he shakes his head. 

“Like this,” His hand presses against your back, drawing you down towards his abdomen again, and you realize how he wants you. 

You relax down until you’re curled up, your back to the headboard and your cheek against his stomach. 

Yunho rubs your back, soothing you into the new position, “There we go,” 

Like this, every stitch of his anxiety seems gone. Something deep seated in his body needed to touch you like this, see you like this, and you shiver in anticipation. Positioned like this, all you feel is deliciously submissive. 

“Can I touch your hair like this?” He asks softly. 

You nod against him, “Yeah,” 

“Mm,” He sighs pleasantly, “thank you, baby,” 

Your chest expands with dizzy warmth, and his hand tenderly passes over your hair twice before settling into a comfortable spot on the crown of your head. 

“Ready?” He murmurs. 

You nod. 

“That’s good,” His voice is so warm, low in his chest, “put those pretty lips around my cock again, sweetheart,” 

You melt into him, shifting forward to sink down over his shaft again. 

This time, Yunho’s in control, you’re under no illusions otherwise. You moan as he slowly pushes your head down, directing his cock in just deep enough that it settles heavily on your tongue without irritating the back of your throat. 

“Good girl,” He says, and at that your eyes flutter pleasantly closed. 

You press the flat of your tongue to his cock and relax your mouth, breathing in and out slowly through your nose. 

Yunho finds your hand and lifts it, placing it over his thigh, his hand tightening over yours to illustrate his words, “Tap and we stop, okay?” 

“Mm,” You reply, mouth still full of him. 

“Show me,” He strokes your hair. 

You tap his thigh twice, sharp and unmistakable. 

“Good,” He croons. 

Something about this tone from him has your body unspooling. You were just meant to take his mind off the hate comments, distract him with a little blowjob and maybe take a nap after, but something about this feels like therapy for you too. 

“So pretty for me,” He sighs, stroking your hair, letting his cock rest heavy between your lips.��

You sigh, your mind going soft. 

With his wide hand on your head, he applies a little pressure, directing you into a slow, bobbing motion, “There we go,” he says as you catch on, “that’s it, honey,” 

Your eyes roll, your hand gripping his thigh for purchase. 

He keeps this pace for a while, both your head and his hand moving with deliberate sluggishness. Curled against his side you find yourself breathing in and out deeply, almost meditatively, and with his free hand, Yunho continues to rub your back. He makes no attempt to touch you any other way, just slipping his hand under your loose sleep shirt to feel your skin and soothe you as you take his cock like this. 

Slowly, his hips start to move. First in time with the motion of your head, little undulating thrusts that push his cock a little deeper down your throat with every upstroke, but then you feel his hand tighten on your hair. 

You want him to take it.

That’s your single coherent thought as you whine around his shaft, his hand gathering your hair into a loose fist. 

“Good girl,” He groans, “making me feel so good,” 

You hum again, body relaxing in his grip. 

“Letting me use that perfect mouth,” His voice sounds tight again, thready with his own pleasure. 

You moan at his words, saliva pooling in your mouth, dripping and messy down his cock as he picks up the pace. 

“That’s my girl,” He thrusts a little more, fucking your mouth properly now, “oh, god, look at you,” 

Your eyes are watering, your jaw starting to ache, but don’t want to stop, not even close. 

“Can you take it deep, pretty girl?” 

“Mm,” You nod a little, dropping your head down as far as you can with your hair caught in his fist. 

“Oh, fuck,” He sighs, “of course you can,” 

With a push on your head and a jerk of his hips he buries the full length of his cock down your throat and holds you there. 

Your hand tightens on his thigh and Yunho waits, his body still, giving you the easy opportunity to tap out, but you don’t. 

His hand leaves your back, reaching around to cup his own balls and feel just how deeply you’re taking him. He groans, “So perfect,” 

You make a tight noise, the first tickle at the back of your throat, and he lifts your head up to give you a break from the overwhelming sensation of him stretching your mouth. In a second though he’s back to his pace before, sharp thrusts that drag his cock over your tongue, his breath getting more audible as he uses you. 

You can tell he’s close before he says it, the feeling of his pleasure building in your own gut, but you still moan when you hear him say it, his words punctuated by sharp pants, “I’m gonna come, baby,” 

It happens fast, with a jerk he pulls you off his cock entirely and you suck in a full, startled breath of air. 

He fists his cock, his arm wrapped around you, and he pumps himself hard and fast. 

“Fuck,” He shudders under you, “I’m close,” 

“Please,” Your voice is hoarse, but you nod, holding yourself up with your hands braced on his thighs, “Come,” 

He shudders, groaning, and you close your eyes again as his orgasm hits, warm cum splattering over you - painting your chest, your throat, ropes of his release on your lips and cheeks. 

You’re both breathing heavy, trembling, but Yunho clears the fog with a shake of his head and he releases his tight hold on your hair, easing you down to the bedding. He slips out from under you, dipping off the edge of the bed and you watch as he pulls his boxers back up and darts into the master bathroom and back out again, a damp washcloth in his hands. 

He’s sweaty, his neck and cheeks still dark pink, and you smile up at him as he kneels on the bed to get closer to you. 

“Hey,” He murmurs softly, “relax, let me clean you up,”

Your mind feels mushy and delicious even though you haven’t even come, and all you can manage is to hum a soft, affirmative response as he quickly wipes away his release from your skin. 

Yunho’s eyes flick over you, taking stock of your body language, your facial expression, how you’re feeling in the bond, before tossing the towel aside and laying down to be eye level with you. 

“Jagi,” He says softly, fingertips gentle on your jaw, “are you alright?” 

“Mhm,” You nod lazily. 

“I know that was big,” He massages your jaw with light pressure, “tell me how you’re feeling,” 

Words still feel distant, almost foreign, and you blink, “Good,” you manage. 

His lips turn up on one side, “Floaty?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, and you don’t know how he picked out the perfect word for how you’re feeling but he did. 

“Okay,” Yunho murmurs, “I got you, baby.” 

He wraps you up in his arms again but keeps his eyes on your face, guiding you through whatever soft, blissful feeling you’re swimming through. 

“Love you so much,” He whispers as he kisses your forehead. 

Little by little, your body and your mind seem to come back online, and finally you blink up at him, “Was that okay?” 

“It was amazing,” He assures you, “you’re amazing,” 

You smile, feeling strangely shy. You’ve never done something quite so intimate, never surrendered control like that. You’ve always liked men to be a little bossy, and you’ve loved how direct and vocal Yunho is when you have sex, but this was something altogether more intense and you’ve never felt safer or more held by him. 

His fingers slip into your hair again, massaging your tender scalp, “Was I too rough at all?” 

“No,” You breathe, “just right,” 

He smiles at your expression and nods, “Good,” 

“You feel better?” You manage. 

“Mhm,” He huffs a small laugh as if to say it’s obvious, but then he directs the attention back to you, “did you like that?” 

“A lot,” You confess. 

He grins this time, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, leaning your head back unconsciously into his hand, “you were so gentle,” 

“Good,” He softens, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips, “I love you,” 

“Love you too,” You sigh. 

Yunho gently lets you relax back down onto your back before he slides off the bed again, “I’m going to start the bath for you, okay?” 

“Yeah,” You nod, “that sounds nice.” 

“I’ll be just in there, okay?” He nods towards the bathroom, “I’ll come get you in a minute,” 

“Okay,” 

He gives you another smile, and then disappears through the bathroom door. 

For a minute you take stock of your body. You feel relaxed down to your very core, something about the way Yunho held you and touched you during the blowjob felt primal, essential. You stretch out your limbs against the mattress, listening to the steady pour of the water from the next room, and by the time you sit up in the bed you feel strangely proud. It feels like a new chapter, maybe even an entirely new book. 

You pull yourself off the bed and right the sheets, and your eyes catch on Yunho’s phone. 

The rest of the world was undoubtedly talking about you both right now, but you can’t find it in yourself to care, not after that. You take your phone and his and place them both face down on the bedside table, and resolve not to look at them again until much, much later. Whatever the world was saying would have to wait. 

You step into the doorway of the bathroom and smile when you see him again, pangs of your own arousal thrumming back through you. 

Yunho’s crouched by the side of the large, deep porcelain tub, his hand under the steady stream of water to gauge the temperature. 

“Almost ready?” You ask him. 

His head turns a little at the sound of your voice, “Yeah,” he says, “how are you feeling?” 

“Honestly? Kind of amazing,” You say. 

“Good,” He sighs. 

With a smile, you pull your sleep top off. 

Yunho passes his hand through the water in the tub, “it’s a little warm,” 

“I like warm,” You let your top fall to the floor and tug on the drawstring of your pants. 

His back is still to you as he adjusts the temperature of the water one last time. 

While he’s not looking you push your pants down and kick them away, your underwear right along with them, so that when he turns back around you’re naked and standing in the bathroom doorway. 

“I think if you want,” He starts to say as he looks up, but the words die on his lips and his eyes rake over you in an instant. 

“If I want what?” You smile, stepping into the room properly. 

“Want what?” He fumbles over his words, brow creased with confusion as he meets your eyes again. 

“Flustered,” You tease him, “that’s cute, you’ve seen me naked before,” 

He recovers, smirking and reaching for you, “It really does not get old,” he says, “now come here and let me touch you,” 

“Yeah?” You can’t help but take your sweet time, loving his hot eyes on you, the way his voice gets deeper when he sees you like this. 

He takes two steps towards you, pulling off his white t-shirt and letting it drop to the floor beside your discarded clothes, “I said, come here,” he murmurs as he gently tugs you into his space, “and let me touch you.” 

His hands travel over you slowly, lovingly. 

For a split second you think of the world outside, your phones on the nightstand, and you dip closer to press yourself against his bare chest, soaking up the feeling of so much skin on skin. 

“Hey,” He murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, “you okay?” 

You nod, “I’m good,” 

“You sure?” He checks, feeling the sudden pangs of tension in your chest. 

“Yeah,” You kiss his bare chest, “I just thought about everything else for a second,” 

“Mm,” He hums, a hand softly in your hair, “I got you, let’s just relax,” 

He draws you to the edge of the bath and checks the water once again, but you’re already reaching in, finding the water just the right amount of hot. He’s shucking off his boxers as you straighten back up to tie up your hair.

“Perfect,” You step directly into the water. 

Yunho’s hand settles under your elbow, “Careful,” 

“Babe,” You chastise him lightly, but if you’re being honest the affection in his voice and his tender care with you is something you could never really tire of, not when it’s him. 

“I don’t want you to slip,” He admits, stepping in behind you until you’re both standing in the center of the deep basin of water. 

“Mhm,” You start to say more, but his arms wrap around you loosely, his body nestled close to yours. 

“Look at that,” He says, nodding towards the floor to ceiling window along one wall of the bathroom. 

You look back up at the view and any teasing thoughts slip out of your mind. It’s beautiful, a private view only for your eyes, hidden away from the world entirely. The dark rocky beach outside leads right into the bright blue ocean, a little slice of heaven tucked away along the coastline in Jeju. 

“Now this,” You sigh, “this feels like a honeymoon,” 

Yunho kisses your shoulder, “I love you,” 

“I love you too,” 

He kisses you again and then shifts back to sit down in the bath and you sink down into the water with him. His hands slide across your body and draw you back so that you’re settled between his open legs, your back resting on his chest. 

“Not too hot?” He asks. 

“Mm-mm,” You shake your head against the broad plane of his shoulder. 

Tangled together in the warmth of the water you rest, letting the tension in your muscles unspool, watching the waves surge against the rocks outside. For a while you just let it be, his arms wrapped around you in the cocoon of the water, fingertips grazing gently along your skin. 

“It looks like rain,” He finally says softly. 

You nod, “A storm,” 

“That’s alright,” He kisses your hair, “we don’t have anywhere to be,” 

You soften in his embrace, cuddled against him, “True,” you murmur, “just here.” 

“Tonight,” He says, “I’m thinking, movies on the couch? The TV out there is huge we could set it up like a theater,” 

“Like a sleepover,” You smile.

“Great idea,”

 “We’ll bring the pillows and duvet out,” You say, “oh, and snacks,” 

You feel his happiness, his contented warmth through the bond, “I love it,” 

Turning your head, you catch his bicep with a quick kiss, “This house is so nice, this is like rich rich.” 

He hums, gathering you a little closer, “Yeah,” he nods, “do you like it?” 

“It’s nice,” You tell him honestly, “this view is crazy,” 

A few birds cut across the darkening sky, the waves rougher against the rocks, but inside it’s perfectly silent and warm. 

He huffs a little laugh against your hair, “You want a house like this?” 

You shake your head immediately, “That’s crazy,” 

“Why?” He kisses your hair. 

“Yunho,” You nudge him gently with your elbow. 

“Yeobo,” He says affectionately, amusement in his voice, “I have money,” 

“Not this much money,” You laugh. 

He’s quiet, not laughing along like you’d expect, and then he clears his throat, “I do, actually,”  

You turn your head, twisting to see his face, “What?” 

“Uh,” He blushes a little, “well yeah, when I was eighteen my father helped me set up a few funds for myself, a way to keep my salary set aside as a nest egg and then some investments.” 

Your eyes widen. 

“Now that I’m sure we won’t have to pay back any debts, and we’ll start getting properly compensated for the albums,” He smiles, “well, if I don’t have enough to buy this house today, I’ll have it in a year or two.” 

“Fuck,” You blink, the curse slipping out. 

He laughs, his head dropping to lean his forehead against your hair, “Did you think I was completely broke?” 

“You always hear about idols who never get their paychecks,” You counter, “like five years in and they don’t have a cent,” 

He shakes his head, lifting up to meet your eyes, “Well, I’m definitely not broke,” he smiles, “I like that you married me anyways, though,” 

You roll your eyes, nudging him in the chest, water sloshing around you, “Shut up,” 

He grins, “So,” he gestures with a jerk of his head to the room, “you want a house like this someday?” 

“This?” You shake your head, “This place is too much,” 

He looks amused at that idea. 

“Do you want a house like this?” 

He shrugs, “We could,” 

“You’re serious,” You laugh, still wide eyed in surprise. 

“You’re cute,” He kisses your lips once, before shifting you back to your reclined position in his arms against his chest, “you really thought I was broke,” 

“I don’t know,” You grumble, finding his hand under the water and thoughtlessly playing with his fingers. 

He smiles against your hair, and the sky outside opens up with rain. For a few moments you both rest together again, and then he murmurs a soft question, “y/n,” he says, “before Berlin, what did you imagine for your life?” 

 “My life?” You turn your head a little, your cheek against his wet chest. 

“Mhm,” He hums, the warm vibration of his tone running through you, “did you have big career dreams? A house in the country? You’ve never said,” 

You smile, your eyes locked on his wedding band and yours under the water, “I don’t know,” you confess, “for a long time I was just focused on making it out of my house, and then focused on protecting Hana,” 

He strokes your arm gently, listening quietly. 

“I imagined finding my soulmate someday,” You murmur, “and I love Seoul, I think it would be hard to leave the city. I love my life there, and my work is definitely suited for it,” 

“Mm,” He nods. 

“I don’t know,” You confess, “I just want a place of our own, somewhere we can make memories, I’ve never really worried about how big or how nice it would be,”

“I’d like that,” He murmurs. 

Your eyes drift shut and you think about your life, the images you played in your mind over and over while you waited for his call at Hana and Em’s. 

“I’d like a garden,” You continue, “and a nice kitchen. I’m not the best cook, but I’d like to learn,” 

Yunho’s hand laces with yours and he brings them up out of the water to kiss your knuckles, “What else?” 

“Hmm,” You shiver at the cool air in the room and he wraps you up, “a big bed, you’re so tall.” 

He laughs. 

Your stomach flip flops and you let your eyes open, finding your rings again before you confess a little more, “Maybe some extra bedrooms,” 

Yunho’s breath catches, his body stiffening behind you, “Yeah?” His voice is small, tentative as he searches for your meaning. 

You swallow tightly, a nervous bubble in your chest, “Enough space to grow into,” your voice nearly a whisper, “if we want a family?” 

He’s quiet, but his lips drop to rest on the crown of your head. He takes in a slow breath and then says, “How many extra bedrooms do you think we’ll need?” 

Warmth floods the bond, unfettered tenderness in your chest, “Maybe two?” 

Yunho squeezes your hand, “Two’s great, two’s perfect,” 

“You think so?” Your smile grows. 

He nods, “Yeah,” he murmurs. 

“Someday,” You kiss his arm again. 

“Someday,” He agrees, his hand coming to rest over your soulmark, his palm warm over the sensitive skin of your looping red tattoo. 

You hum pleasantly as he kisses your forehead, your eyes drifting shut with a sigh. For a minute, you just listen to the rain against the window, your hearts syncing up their rhythms. The water laps around you with every little movement, relaxing you both into a pliant, warm mess of limbs. 

Yunho shifts behind you, and then the hand over your soulmark shifts, and you gasp lightly as it closes over your breast, kneading the soft flesh with gentle firmness. 

“Oh,” You exhale, “that’s nice,” 

“Mhm,” He squeezes your breast again, fingers teasing gently at your nipple while his opposite hand drifts down your belly, a promising descent towards your parted thighs. 

Your body responds instantly, heat reigniting to the surface. 

“I think it’s your turn,” He murmurs. 

You nod against his chest. 

“Let me take care of you, pretty girl,” He says as his finger curls over your mound and dips into your slick folds. 

“Oh, yes,” You sigh, letting your legs fall open a little more, your knees pressing against Yunho’s inner thighs. 

“Mm,” He slides his fingers over your clit, “you’re wet,” 

You can feel that you’re slippery from how easily he’s touching you, the bath water not enough to dull how much you want him, and you nod. 

“Are you that easy?” He says appreciatively, “Or have you been wet this whole time?” 

You moan as he rocks his fingers, “Whole time,” 

“Sucking my cock got you wet?” He teases. 

You nod, your legs straining to open wider despite the lack of space in the tub. 

“Look at you squirming,” He dips his head, nudging your face to the side so he can kiss your temple. 

“Feels good,” You sigh, your hips twitching to chase the stroke of his fingers as he rubs you. 

Yunho pulls his fingers away from your aching cunt and you suck in a sharp breath, “Relax,” he nips at your ear, “I’ll make you come,”

“But,” You manage, breathless already. 

“Let me touch you,” His hands feel heavier on your body this time, dragging up your stomach, over your sides, cupping your breasts in his large hands. 

You buck as his fingers tease at your nipples. 

“So sensitive,” He comments softly, “I wonder if you could come just from this?” 

“From this?” You gasp sharply as his fingers flick back and forth over your hardening nipples. 

Pleasure arcs through you, molten and throbbing from your chest down to your clit, and you grip down on his thighs. 

“That good?” He adjusts, leaning forwards a bit so he can kiss down your neck, sucking over your pulse point as he teases your nipples. 

You whine sharply, hips bucking on their own, “Oh, god,” 

He squeezes both your breasts again and groans, “Oh, baby,” he sighs, “one of these days I’m going to spend all night playing with these perfect tits,” 

“Please,” You pant, but what you really need is his fingers on your clit again. 

“Mm,” He drags his hands down, exploring your body under the water again, “I want to do everything with you,” 

“Yeah,” You breath, head lolling back onto his chest again, “yes,” 

Yunho’s hands settle on your hips, and then they stop. 

An involuntary whimper bubbles out of you and your hips rock, looking for some kind of touch, some friction. 

He takes in a slow, steady breath and then exhales against your temple, “What do you want, jagi?” 

Your hand searches for his, trying to tug it down between your open thighs, “You know what I want,” 

“Do I?” You can feel his smirk against your skin. 

Yunho lets you move his hand, pushing it into the right place over your slit, but he doesn’t move at all. You press down over his hand, trying to get his fingers back in the right spot, “Yunho,” you whine.

“Ask me nicely,” He says simply, “ask for what you want, and I’ll do it.” 

“Touch me,” You beg. 

“I am touching you,” He squeezes your hip. 

“Yunho,” 

“Ask me nicely,” He enunciates every word, his lips against your ear. 

Your heartbeat picks up, hammering in your chest. This side of him brings out something in you that you never understood before, but now you don’t know if you could feel this good any other way. 

“I already know what you want,” He murmurs, “I want to hear you ask for it,” 

You swallow tightly, “Please, Yunho,” you say, “will you make me come?” 

He smiles against your ear, “How?” 

Your nails dig into his skin, “Rub my clit,” 

“Uh huh,” He nods, prompting you. 

“Please,” You correct, realizing what he wants to hear, “Will you rub my clit, please?” 

“Of course, baby,” He teases, and all at once he starts to play your body like an instrument. 

His fingers shift over your clit, circling with perfect, firm pressure, and his other hand slides up your body, his fingers splayed wide over your chest and pinning you in place to his shoulder. 

You arch into him, one hand flying out of the water to grip the side of the tub, “Oh, fuck,” 

“There you go,” He says low against your forehead, “does that feel good?” 

“So good,” You shudder in his arms, “don’t stop,” 

“Not gonna stop,” He promises, his fingers sliding through your slick slit to gather more wetness, doubling his efforts on your clit. 

Your eyes slam shut, your body rocking against him as he cages you in, and you feel the stiff length of his cock nudging at your back the longer you writhe against him, the only sounds in the room, your echoing moans and the rhythmic slosh of the water. 

“Love you like this,” He groans, his hand sliding up to the base of your throat, “who knew my soulmate would be such a needy, filthy girl?” 

Pressure tightens in your gut, “God, oh god,” 

“And so good for me,” He sighs, rolling his fingers faster, “you like being told what to do, don’t you?” 

“Yes!” Your mind is starting to fray at the edges, only pleasure and his voice and the warm water. 

Yunho leans forwards in the tub, sitting up properly and slipping the hand that was on your throat under the water and between your legs. You’re not ready for the sensation of two of his fingers pushing inside you, and you gasp, your hand slipping on the porcelain lip of the tub, your body snapping forwards. 

“Ah, ah,” He’s quick to catch you, pulling his fingers out and bracing you back against his chest, “careful, babygirl,” 

You can’t say a word, your body too close to the edge. Your hips rut with needy, artless jerks into the firm press of his fingers, and you reach back to grip onto his shoulder, a whimper on your lips. 

“Suck,” He says suddenly, pressing two of his fingers through your lips, and you accept them with ease, “good girl, good girl,” 

You taste yourself on his fingers, lips closing instinctively just like he wanted you to, and through the dizzy haze of your almost orgasm you suck, taking them heavy on your tongue. 

He groans, his breath hot on your ear. 

Whimpering, your legs jerk with a spasm of sensation, just a little more and you’ll tip right over. 

Yunho laughs, amusement in his voice at how quickly you’re following his every direction, “Oh,” he drags out the sound to tease you, “needy girl,” 

You whine, clinging to his slick shoulder. 

“Come like that, just like that,” He says, “suck on my fingers while you come,” 

You inhale sharply through your nose, head digging into his shoulder as you arch, “Mm, mm!”

“There it is,” He pants, rubbing your clit faster, “there it is, come on, sweetheart, come for me,” 

Your orgasm slams into you, and you shudder in his arms, your body jerking so sharply that water sloshes over the side of the bath, but he just stays focused and works you through it. 

You jerk your head and he pulls his fingers free as you moan out the broken sound of his name. 

“I got you,” He kisses whatever part of your skin he can reach at this angle, “I got you, that’s it,” 

When his fingers finally slow, your brain is buzzing. You’re slumped lower in the water, your legs clamped together and bent at the knees, and you're shaking from your top to your toes. 

“Holy shit,” Yunho breathes, his hands finding your waist to pull you back up out of the water and against his chest again. 

You manage a nod, but your chest is still heaving. 

He kisses the side of your head hard and chuckles, “I think you have an oral fixation,” 

His words don’t sink through the cottony afterglow of your brain though, “Hmm?” 

“Nothing,” He smiles, “not a thing,” 

You feel the hard nudge of his cock against your lower back, and you twist in the bath, more water sloshing over the sides as you follow the needy pull inside you, finding his mouth, “Kiss me,” 

He groans against your lips, his tongue flicking against yours. 

“I want you,” You confess, trying to turn around despite the tangle of his long legs, “please,” 

He nods, but pushes you back, “Let’s go to bed, the bath isn’t big enough for that,” 

“Yeah,” You slide backwards in the tub through the water, and try to stand but find your legs still a little weak. 

“Hang on,” He holds a hand out to you, keeping you in place. 

He climbs out of the bathtub, grabbing a towel from a hook on the wall and tossing it down on the wet floor to keep you both from slipping, and then he locates two luxuriously fluffy looking white robes and smiles down at you, “Here, baby,” 

He pulls his robe on first, and then holds one out to you, slipping it on you as you get out of the tub. You wrap the robe around yourself, tying the cord, but before you can dry off properly, Yunho pulls you into his arms, one arm under your knees as he carries you. 

A startled noise slips out and you laugh, “Yunho!” 

“You’re still shaking,” He says, stepping back into the master bedroom, “I’m just helping,” 

He tucks you both into bed despite your still wet skin, yanking the fluffy duvet up over both of you until you’re completely encased under the covers with him. He tugs you close, wrapping his arms around you until you’re chest to chest, nose to nose. 

You laugh softly, “What are you doing?” 

“Warming you up,” He murmurs, rubbing up and down your back, “you’re shivering,” 

You reach up, looping your arms around his shoulders and diving into another kiss. His hands on your back slow, fingers gripping down as the kiss heats up again, and you pull yourself closer to touch more of him. 

Your robe parts open naturally as your legs tangle together, and Yunho slips a hand underneath to cup your ass, groaning into your mouth as you buck against him. You lose yourselves in the kiss, more skin starting to press together, and your heart beats hard in your chest, the heat between you building in steady waves. 

“Love kissing you,” He pants before dipping his tongue back into your mouth. 

Something between a sigh and a moan slips from your lips and you nod, “Love you,” 

His hand travels, sliding up to lock down on your hip. 

Your body’s thrumming, the orgasm in the bath only enough to settle your need for him for a few moments. Tucked away with him like this, the warm air of your shared breath, just the sounds of your bodies together, it’s enough to make you wish this were your whole life. Rich, tucked away on the coastline, only the two of you, no amount of days together enough to sate this hunger in your belly.  

His hand slips between your bodies where your stomach presses into his, and he finds the tie of your robe, pulling at just the right angle for the knot to come undone and the fabric to fall slack around your body. 

“Mm,” You slip a hand into his robe, gripping his firm ass, “please,” 

His hot eyes flick over you, settling on your face, “You need it?” 

“Yes,” You breathe. 

“Hold onto me,” He says as he kisses you once more, and then he hikes your leg up by your knee to hook over his hip, opening you up wide. 

You grip down on his shoulders, “Yes, yes,” 

Reaching between your bodies he pushes his robe open and directs his hard length into your slick heat, no amount of hesitation in the way he pushes into you. Once his cock catches, he secures a hand back on your ass and drags you down as he thrusts, sheathing himself deep inside you. 

You moan at the familiar stretch, “Oh, Yunho,” 

“Baby,” He shivers, “god,” 

Without another word, you sink into each other. Your lips connecting in a crash, tongues tangling as you moan into him. Using his shoulders and your leg hitched over his hip to secure yourself to him, you start to roll your body.  Yunho curses, hips snapping into a steady rhythm, his hands anchored on your naked skin and pulling you back onto his cock with every stroke. 

It’s needy, frantic, and you wonder distantly if there will ever be a time that sex with him doesn’t feel like an all consuming wildfire in your veins. This time there’s nothing to say, no teasing, no dirty talk, just both of you moving hungrily together, every kiss bringing you higher and higher as his cock spears you open. 

You fuck like this until Yunho changes the tempo, responding to the sound of your arden whimpers. 

Without breaking the kiss he rolls onto his back, dragging you with him so that you’re perched on his hips, the sudden position change pushing his cock in to the hilt. 

You moan sharply, the kiss disconnecting as you tremble over him, “Oh my f-fuck,” 

His hands grip your hips, “You’re so tight,” 

Heat floods your brain, and you scramble to sit upright, your robe falling off your shoulders. You shove it off, pushing it to the side, and then pull open the tie on Yunho’s robe, getting it open so you can see all of him. 

“C’mere,” Yunho mumbles, taking your hands in his and lacing your fingers together, “god, you’re beautiful,” 

Your cunt clenches around him. 

“Yes,” He nods, pupils blown with desire as he looks up at you, “ride me,” 

Using his hands as your balance, you lean into it, hooking your feet over his muscular thighs. You bounce on him slowly at first, getting used to the feeling of how deep inside you his cock connects every time you drop down, but once you have it, you let yourself get lost in it. 

His eyes flick from your face down to the connection of your bodies, and his plush lips part as he watches his cock disappear all the way into your slick sex again and again. 

“Good girl,” He sighs, squeezing your hands, “that’s it, baby, keep fucking yourself on my cock,” 

You gasp sharply, pleasure blooming inside you, his and yours all at once in a tangled mess of want. 

“Oh god,” Your thighs are aching, but you keep going, up and down with every breath, the sound of your bodies wet and messy. 

“Say my name,” He pants. 

You crumble a little, shoulders caving in but he holds you steady with his hands, “Yunho,” you moan, “Yunho, Yunho,” 

“That’s right,” He says, nodding up at you, “tell me how good it feels, babygirl,” 

“S-so good,” You can feel it building, knotting in your belly, “love your cock,” 

“Yeah?” He groans, his head pressing back into the pillows. 

“Yes, yes,” You grip his hands harder. 

“Don’t stop,” His eyes find yours, “ride me until you’re coming all over this dick, baby,” 

You fall forwards, pressing his hands back into the mattress, and your brain shorts. In a breath you’re dropping down your hips so that he’s fully buried inside you, a cry on your lips as you start to grind against him. 

Yunho disconnects your hands and you collapse on his chest, your head over his shoulder, lips against his throat, your body just jerking and grinding against him as you chase your pleasure. 

He hisses, his arms banding around you, “Fuck, pretty girl,” 

You whimper into him, “Need it,” 

“I know,” He murmurs, turning his head to yours, “I got you,” 

“Close,” 

He holds you to his chest, his lips at your forehead, “Come for me, sweetheart,” 

“Oh, god,” You grind down on him harder, endlessly rolling your hips, faster and faster as your body tightens. 

“You’re all mine,” He soothes, “aren’t you, gorgeous girl?” 

“All yours,” You babble into his skin. 

He groans, his hips jerking under you just once, but he holds himself still so you can take what you need. 

It comes over you fast, and you fall apart into needy shakes above him, biting down on his shoulder as your body breaks open. Sucking in a sharp breath, he adjusts his legs under you, and with a few hurried thrusts into your spasming cunt, he spills himself hot and deep inside you. 

“Perfect girl,” He presses kisses over your face, holding you to his chest, “love you so much,” 

You’re still panting, out of breath, but you nod, “L-love you,” 

You fall asleep in a tangle of sheets, his cock still deep in you, his hands stroking a tender line down your back. 

The world outside, completely forgotten. 

Nothing but you and Yunho and your makeshift honeymoon suite. 

**remember to continue on to section 2!

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

plane to paris

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2k (including lyrics)

Warnings: angst, plane crash

Summary: Something tells you not to get on the plane, but all you want to do is go home and be with your boyfriend. The need to be in his arms is enough to ignore the glaring feeling in your chest. One that tells you not to get on the plane.

Square Filled: flooding for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: this is based on the song plane to paris by Nessa Barrett

x

Shouldn't think it or say it out loud What would happen if this plane to Paris went down? You'd be the first call I made to the ground What would happen if they told us today? Armageddon was minutes away I'd cry for you, would you do the same?

All you want to do is go home and sleep for the next few days. You must have caught a bug in Paris because you’re not feeling too well. Due to that, you’ve already extended your trip a few days than you planned to. Your mom and sister have been living in Paris for nearly a decade, and you visited them for two weeks.

You’re not closer to feeling better. Your mom wanted you to stay with them until you got better, but you miss your sweet boyfriend. He makes you feel better just by being in the same room as you, so you’re a bit eager to get home.

You’re sitting at your scheduled gate, waiting for the doors to open. You’re in first class, so you’ll be one of the first ones called. You down a small shot of cough syrup and chase it down with water. The gate agent steps up to the desk and starts to call forth the disabled, families with very small children, and military people.

“We’re now boarding first class,” she announces.

You stuff the cough syrup into your bag and get up. You take one step but stop because there is a heavy weight on your chest. A weight that has a clear message. Don’t get on the plane. You take another step closer to the doors, but your legs feel like cement pillars. Don’t get on the plane. You hand the gate agent your ticket, and she scans it with a smile.

“Have a nice flight,” she says.

Don’t get on the plane. You smile tightly and push yourself to walk across the bridge to the plane. You’re just being paranoid. It’s your sickness. Everything is fine. You put your bag in the overhead bin before taking your seat. Get off the plane. People pass by you to get to their seats, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. You just need sleep. You’ll be fine.

“Can I get you anything to drink before we take off?”

The aisles in first class are a bit bigger than the rest of the plane, so the flight attendant is able to stand next to your row while others pass by her.

Get off the plane. “Water is fine. Thank you.”

She leaves to take down more orders while you sit there in wonder. Get off the plane. Why? Why? What’s going to happen? Before you know it, everyone has boarded the full flight, and you try to relax in your seat. The flight attendant closes the door to the plane, sealing off any chance you have to get off the plane.

You should have gotten off the plane. You take out your phone and send a quick text to Spencer. Taking off now. Should be home soon. I’ll see you soon, my love. You put your phone on airplane mode as soon as the message goes through and lean back in your seat.

Everything is going to be fine. You’re just being paranoid. The plane is ready for takeoff, and everything is going as scheduled. Still, the unbearable weight on your chest continues to tell you that you should have gotten off the plane when you had a chance.

Now I know that nothing's promised Ridin' on a doomsday comet And all I can think of is you

Something doesn’t feel right. You don’t know what it is, but your internal moral compass is going off. 

The person next to you is calmly watching one of the movies on the screen in front of him. The person next to him at the window is reading a book. The girl across the aisle is busy playing a game on her phone. The other two next to her are deep in conversation. You look behind you to see everyone wrapped up in their own little world.

Everything looks fine, but something is wrong. You turn back around and down the rest of your water. Maybe it’s the sickness. You feel a bit light-headed. The cough syrup must have been the drowsy kind. It’s okay. Spencer is going to pick you up at the airport when you land, so you don’t have to worry about driving.

You’re about to try and catch some sleep when you notice someone passing you by. Aman walks down the aisle to where the cock pit, the bathrooms, and the flight attendant’s areas are. Something about that man has the hair on the back of your neck standing up. Maybe he’s going to the bathroom.

He mumbles something to the flight attendant, who immediately opens the door to the cockpit. Weird. This man didn’t look like the pilot. He steps inside and takes something out from his pocket. Right before the door closes, you see the glint of a gun in his hand. He aims it at the pilot's head and orders him to do something. The door closes, so you’re not sure what happens next.

Your first thought is of Spencer and what he might have done to talk the gunman down. You’re not a profiler. You’re not even in law enforcement. You’re a high school teacher. What makes you qualified to talk a gunman down? You’re thirty-thousand feet in the air. No one knows what’s happening up here.

Man, you really shouldn’t have gotten on the plane.

If you were with me in the exit row Wouldn't be quite so scared to go While the pilot prays and the engine blows Down we go

By now, the entire plane knows it’s being hijacked. Along with the gunman, there are three others that have bought seats. They roam the aisles to make sure everyone is behaving. Some children cry while their parents try to keep them calm. Mothers are protecting their children. Men are protecting their women. Even the ones who are traveling alone have found comfort in their neighbor.

You? Well, all you can think about is Spencer. What was the last thing you said to him in person? You can’t remember. Maybe if he were here with you, you wouldn’t be so scared. Maybe if he were here with you, you might make it out of this alive.

One of the gunmen walks past you, and you immediately take out your phone. You turn it off airplane mode so you can get a message to Spencer. Who knows if it will even go through? You’re probably over the oceanwhich doesn’t have cell towers. Still, you send the message with shaking hands.

Plane is being hijacked. Four gunmen. I’m scared. Please know that I love you and always will. It’s not fair to tell Spencer how scared you are because he is going to obsess over your last words. It’ll haunt him. He will know you’re scared. Still, you typed it because it’s the truth. The text doesn’t go through, but you know it’ll reach him eventually.

You slip your phone back into your pocket when the gunman walks by you. Suddenly, the plane is jerked to the side so hard that the overhead bins open. You look out one of the windows and see fire. One of the engines has blown.

Panic ensues. The plane is quite literally falling out of the sky, and there is nothing no one can do about it. Oxygen masks fall from the ceilings, and the gunmen scour the plane for parachutes they most likely stashed there themselves.

You’re not sure if you believe in a God, but you do what any other person does in a moment of true crisis: you pray. Pray that Spencer will be able to move on and live his life without you in it.

Mon amour, je suis tellement désolée Merci de me faire sentir aimée Je sais que j'ai besoin de toi Je t'aime pour toujours Je promets que ce n'est pas un au revoir Ladies and gentlemen This is your captain speaking You may want to make some phone calls at this time And get your affairs in order

Spencer has been feeling anxious all day today. It’s the day you come home after being gone for over two weeks. Not even that, but he might not be able to pick you up from the airport after all. Reports of a hijacked plane come through the channels, and Hotch needs everyone on this immediately.

Apparently, four men hijacked a commercial flight from Paris to New York. Why? He’s not sure. Is it about power? Do they want to maximize fear? Is there someone on the plane who is targeted? Is this just one attack, or are there more coming?

“Any news?”

“None. They haven’t even called in to Air Traffic Control for any kind of ransom or demands,” Penelope says.

Hotch turns on the news, which is covering the attack live. The plane is in the middle of the ocean, so there isn’t any live footage of it going down. However, that doesn’t mean there aren’t updates.

“I’ve just got word that Flight 2443 from Paris, France to New York, New York has suffered a blown engine. The plane is coming down hard with no chance of stopping. Police officials are working with the Coast  Guard to send out as many ships as they can before the plane can hit the water.”

Wait. Spencer’s eyes bug out of his head when he hears the flight number.

“Wait, Flight 2443?”

“Yeah. It left Paris this morning at eight,” Penelope says.

Spencer takes out his phone and checks on the messages you’ve been sending him. One of which is your flight information. There it is. Flight 2443, leaving Paris at eight in the morning.

“That’s the flight Y/N’s supposed to be on. She said she was sick. I hope she didn’t get on.”

He dials you first, but you don’t answer. He doesn’t wait a single second and calls your mother instead.

“Spencer, how nice to hear from you,” she answers.

“Is Y/N with you?”

“No, I dropped her off at the airport this morning. What’s going on?”

“I think…”

Spencer can’t say it. He fears if he does, it’ll be true. His phone pings, and he sees it’s a message from you. His entire chest caves with relief; however, it’s short-lived. Plane is being hijacked. Four gunmen. I’m scared. Please know that I love you and always will. You’re on the plane.

“Y/N’s on the plane.”

You're all I need At the end of everything You're all I see With the seconds left to live It's true that I loved you to death As I call your name with my last breath While the sky caves in You're all I need At the end of everything

The impact when the plane hit the ocean was jarring. The entire plane was broken into two, so the back of the plane is now missing along with its occupants. When the pressure was gone from the doors, all four gunmen had fled with parachutes on their backs, leaving everyone else to fend for themselves.

Screams ring in your ears as people fight to save themselves or their loved ones. Salt water fills whatever is left of the plane quickly. If you don’t get out of here, you’re going to drown. You sent your message to Spencer. He knows how much you love him. Half of what crashes into the ocean is never found. Will you be found? Will anyone?

You tug at your seatbelt, but it’s stuck. The water has either clogged the mechanics or frozen them. The girl who was next to you playing on her phone is now dead. Her neck was snapped upon impact. Who will get justice for these people?

You look to your left and are shocked when you see Spencer sitting there. The water is now up to your chin. You’re gonna die, but at least you have him sitting next to you. Even if it is all in your head. You take your final breath as you sink further into the ocean. It doesn’t take long for black spots to cover your vision.

Spencer looks as handsome as ever, unaffected by the water. You reach out and grab his hand just as your entire world goes dark.

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[heartyluv]

🎥˚ ༘ 🎞️ ｡𖦹 ° ✩

Note: Y’all this one is dirty, omg LOLL. I enjoyed writing it so, I hope you enjoy reading it. ♡

Rating: Explicit - !!Minors DO NOT Interact!!

Warning: Smut

Word Count: 2,418

Summary: Caleb makes sure your ex knows that you’re a happily married woman.

PossessiveCamboy!Caleb/Reader

Marrying the man whose content you silently consumed for months was not what you expected, but it’s the best thing that could’ve ever happened to you.

It was random the day you stumbled upon Caleb’s page. You were one of his first few dozen supporters at the time when he only posted erotic audios. You were entertained and turned on after hearing him moan and whimper into his microphone, touching yourself and wishing it was you that he was pleasing.

You left likes and even paid for tiered subscriptions where he offered more filthy work. It was as he grew in popularity that you started feeling more comfortable to actually leave comments, figuring you’d be in the ocean of thousands and one of the last people he’d respond to.

But, it threw you completely off when he actually replied to your comment where you told him how much you loved his work.

“Thank you, pretty girl. I’m so thankful for your support. I do it for you.”

If you were crazy enough, you would’ve tattooed it on your forehead. After that, you decided to leave more comments and he replied to every single one. It made you feel special, in a weird way.

As Caleb grew more, he started to produce actual videos of himself from the neck down. You’ve never seen a body or a cock so perfect. Every time he stroked himself, whispered how close he was to coming, it was like you could feel him inside of you.

About a year after, he proposed the idea of revealing his face if his fans helped him reach a goal he was going for. It was like the internet broke with how fast they reached and surpassed it.

He was absolutely gorgeous, the most handsome man you’ve ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. Those soft eyes, that fluffy hair, and those perfect lips had you mesmerized. The way he laughed and joked with fans on that livestream like they were friends and not people who paid to watch him come was oddly comforting. It reminded you that he really was human at the end of the day.

But, you found yourself unable to leave comments anymore. For some reason, it felt like he was a secret that was too famous for you to enjoy. It was selfish, you knew that. You still paid for his subscription, but you stopped interacting and stopped watching.

The man ended up messaging you privately, saying that he was just checking in on you. You were floored. Not only had he remembered who you were, but he took the time to actually contact you. From that point one, you two just clicked and had late night texts, exchanged phone numbers, had video calls, to eventually meeting him in person after you two found out you lived in the same state.

It was history from that point on. You two dated for a few years before he proposed to you. Now, you live in your shared home while he still creates content for people’s pleasure with you occasionally joining.

You never would’ve thought you’d do something like this, but with Caleb, you trusted him and you were comfortable.

It started when Caleb did a livestream where he was stern and clear about his relationship with you once you had gotten serious.

“I’m going to continue to create. I still enjoy it and my girl is very accepting of that. But, you will respect her and me, should you ever see her. I won’t hesitate to handle anything that’s even remotely disrespectful to her.”

His fans were surprisingly welcoming. You offered to be on a stream one night where Caleb was putting together this aircraft with hundreds of little blocks. Besides erotic content, your husband played video games, built little projects, and interacted with fans like it was a sleepover.

They absolutely loved you. Many said you were funny, pretty, and radiant. They loved you so much that they suggested him doing videos with you. After making sure you were really okay with it, you and Caleb tried it out and it’s been amazing.

Getting paid to fuck your husband and play games with him? Who could ask for anything better?

You started gaining popularity on your other social networks, but you kept that other part of you mainly where you and Caleb posted your videos. If anyone followed you, it was because they genuinely liked and enjoyed you as an individual and you couldn’t be more thankful for such a lovely mass of people.

Recently though, you’ve had a little bit of an issue that you haven’t shared with your husband. Your ex.

It’s obvious that he’s seen what you do now. He followed you randomly one day, but you thought nothing of it. You two split amicably, so there was no bad blood. At lease you thought. Then he started to like your posts and leave comments. You ignored him, of course.

It got worse when he started actually sending requests to the page you and Caleb posted to. The only way you knew it was him was because he used a picture of his two dogs as the profile picture. You always got to them before Caleb saw and deleted it. You blocked him, but he just made more accounts. Your ex didn’t care that you were married, didn’t care that there was legit videos online of you getting fucked by your husband. He still pushed his luck.

You and Caleb are open to requests and if the money’s right and what’s being asked is reasonable, you’ll fulfill a fan’s desires and send it to them for their private pleasure.

Your ex takes advantage of that feature and sends the same thing every time: I want this to be personal. Send me a video of you.

A measly $50 was always attached to it. It was disrespectful and you knew Caleb. He’d lose his fucking mind. It’s why you hid it and handled it the best way you knew how. But that all went to shit the day your ex sent multiple of the same request from different accounts.

Caleb saw the influx of repeated notifications. He was only upset with you for hiding this from him. He could only protect you if he was kept in the loop. But he was fuming with your ex.

“I’ll kill him,” he said to you as you stood in the kitchen, arms crossed and head down. You felt embarrassed.

“Baby, look at me,�� he stepped forward, cupping your soft face in his large hand. “It’s alright. You’re okay, we’re okay,” he sighs. “Do you know why he could be doing this?”

You shrugged your shoulders as you looked up into his eyes. “He used to do dumb things like this. The whole trolling thing was his personality. He’s just being a dick.”

“You think he wants you back?” he quirked a brow.

“I have no clue,” you answer honestly.

Caleb hums, tracing your lip with his thumb, then an idea sparks in his mind. “Why don’t we give him what he wants.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Caleb, hon… What the hell are you talking about? I’m not sending him a damn thing.”

“No, you’re not,” he confirms. “But we are.”

Your propped up leg swayed side to side as you laid down on the bed in you and Caleb’s room. You were anxious as all hell, but the idea of making your ex pay for a video of you getting fucked by your man made your body hot.

You and Caleb were already naked and you watched how his half-hard cock bobbed up and down as he walked over to the lamp to set the phone in front of it to get a good angle of you two and the bed. Already, you were aching for him.

Before he sets it down, he presses the red button to start the recording and smiled mischievously to the camera. “You wanted a video, here’s your video.”

After it’s set up, he’s on top of you in seconds. He devours your mouth, sticking his tongue down your throat while his cock gently brushes against your pussy. The way you moan into his mouth makes him grind against you with unbridled passion.

“Let me eat, baby,” he whispers before kissing your lips again. “Let me taste my pussy.”

You’ll never get used to his dirty mouth. You fucking love it.

“But I want your cock,” you mewl prettily. He chuckles, kissing your neck.

“We can eat together.”

You two stand and Caleb lays down first. He turns to the camera as you climb on top, your pussy in his face and his cock in yours. “I’ll make sure to tell you what she tastes like so you can dream about it.”

You smile to yourself and Caleb is quick to pull you down, pressing his nose into your cunt and feasting on you like you’re the last supper. Your back arches as you cry out, whining at how good his tongue fucks your tight hole. “My wife,” he growls and mumbles into your flesh, staking his claim.

“Put my cock in that pretty mouth, baby. Let me feel you,” he says quickly so that he can get back to leaving long licks with his tongue flat against your pussy lips. You open your mouth, sucking him down and into your throat. Your hums vibrate around his length, making him shudder.

You stroke him as you suck, gagging and spitting on his perfect dick. You pull off of him with a small pop, admiring how the precum seeps out of his tip. You use it to lubricate him, licking up the semi-salty liquid like ice cream.

“How do I taste?” you ask him lustfully through a whimper as your hand works his cock. His spits on your pussy, licking and sucking your clit to make you almost lose your balance.

“I did say I’d describe it, didn’t I?” he teases. “You taste like…” he licks you again as if he’s making sure one more time. “My fucking wife.”

That makes you moan, clenching around his tongue as he gives your hole what it’s begging for.

“I want you to fuck me Caleb,” you beg as his licks further up and closer to your other hole. You shiver, pleasure fueled tears brimming your eyes.

Caleb wants you to come on his face, but how can he let his pretty little wife be deprived of the cock that belongs to her any longer?

“Come sit on it,” he says seductively.

Your pussy feels like it’s dripping. You climb off of him, letting the camera get a good shot of your breasts and your entire plush body. Caleb takes your hand like you’re getting ready to board a carriage, biting his lip with a smile as he guides his princess onto her noble steed.

You can’t deal with anymore foreplay or teasing, needing your husband’s cock deep inside you. You kiss him once you’re on top again. You like how he’s giving you control, but still making it very clear that you belong to him and only him.

You taste yourself on his tongue and hope that his taste is giving him the same high that it gave you.

“Put me in,” he mumbles.

You’re a pro at this by now, it’s muscle memory. You don’t even need to see. You reach between you two, grasping his length and lining him up with where he needs to be before gently bringing your hips down. Your body sucks him in, already familiar with how perfect you fit together.

You start to bounce, your ass rippling against his firm thighs as his hands roughly grab your hips to guide you. His cock kisses your cervix, making you ride him harder.

His hand comes up to grip your jaw as you stare into his eyes. “Let me taste it.”

“Yeah?” you say softly as your breasts jump.

He nods, opening his mouth for you. And you spit in it, your core clenching with how he swallows and licks his lips like he’s been given a tasty treat.

The camera catches all of this, the slight squeaks of the bed, the slapping of the skin, the lewd words and actions.

His hand grasps your throat when you sit up, trailing down your body as he cups a breast to quickly tease a taut nipple, and down further for his thumb to stimulate your aching clit.

Caleb reached out with his other hand to grab the phone, getting the perfect angle of the way your slick sticks between the both of you and how he easily slides in and out. His cock is glistening with your juices while you lose yourself in the pleasure.

Your hand comes down to caress his hard stomach, your large diamond ring to represent your union glistening in the frame.

“Fucking perfect,” her growls as your hips stutter, letting him feel how close you are.

“This is all mine,” he declares as you look down at him with a tired smile.

“Yours,” you repeat. “Oh, Caleb baby… I’m gonna come…”

“Cream on my cock, love... Let him see who this pussy weeps for.”

That’s the final thing you need. You brace your hands on his thighs behind you as your orgasm takes control of your soul. You come hard and fast and he spills deep inside of you at the same time, groaning your name as you scream his. The mix of cum starts to pool out of where you’re connected and your legs shake as you rest, letting the sticky substance get on your inner thighs.

Caleb brings the camera closer to your raw pussy, letting it capture how deep he is, how messy he’s made you. He uses his thumb to smear his spend all over, anywhere he can, biting his lip at how you whine.

Caleb flips the camera to show his flushed and thoroughly fucked face. He smiles.

“Thanks for the $50 and don’t message my wife again. Understood? I’m sure you can see how happy she is. Back the fuck off.”

He ends the video and you let your breath return to normal as he sends it and accepts the payment.

“Did it?” you ask softly.

“Done,” he nods. “You okay?”

You lean down, loving how he’s still inside of you. You press a gentle kiss to his lips. “Thanks to you, I’m perfect.”

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reacting to their s/o wrongly accusing them

Request: hiii could i request heavy angst where svt argue with their s/o over a misunderstanding but they find out that they were wrong and have to grovel? i love ur writing!!

A/N: Awh, that's so sweet of you 💓 means a lot, THANK YOU for reading my writing!! Anyway, the hardest part here was to think about the scenarios and I don't think I have enough brain power anymore 😭

Seungcheol: You accused him of spending too much time with his female staffer and implied he was being too close. He didn’t defend himself, but just stared at you, hurt in his eyes. Days later, you find out they were planning a surprise anniversary trip for you. You break down in guilt, texting, calling, crying in front of his dorm until he finally opens the door, jaw clenched, saying, “I was just trying to love you better.”

Jeonghan: You find a receipt for a jewelry store and assume he bought something for someone else. You lash out. He’s silent. Then he shows you the necklace meant for your birthday, still in his coat pocket. You go speechless. He turns away, quietly muttering, “You really think so little of me?” You spend a week trying to win him back because he's not all that easy when you questioned his loyalty.

Joshua: You told him he’s too passive, too quiet, like he doesn’t care. He listens, and then, for the first time, he yells; not because he’s angry, but because he’s hurt. That really hurt him. You realize you mistook calmness for indifference. You find him in the studio days later, leaving notes, meals, and finally a tearful voice memo: “I was wrong. Please let me make it right.”

Jun: You walked out mid-argument after accusing him of not prioritizing you. He waited the whole night. Didn’t sleep. Then you find out he missed his filming because he had taken off to surprise you with lunch earlier, but you weren’t home. You sob when you see the untouched food. It takes weeks before he can look at you the same.

Hoshi: You said he was too busy for you, always in the practice room, probably not even thinking about you. He doesn’t say much, but that night you find the letter he was writing for you, tucked in his bag. You feel like the worst person alive. You try everything to reach him. He finally says, “If I matter to you, you’ll wait like I waited.” He just wanted you to trust him :(

Wonwoo: You assumed the worst and thought he was pulling away because he was bored with you. But he was planning to ask your parents for their blessing. You find the messages, the research tabs for rings, and suddenly the silence from him makes sense. You leave sticky notes, long texts, send books with little apologies tucked in. He opens your last message and finally says: “I wanted forever. Did you?”

Woozi: You were upset he didn’t introduce you to his producer friends. You say he’s keeping you a secret. He slams his phone down, angry tears in his eyes, “I’m trying to protect you from this industry.” Turns out he was right; one of those friends was a known leaker. You find yourself knocking at his door late at night, heart in your throat, asking for a second chance.

Dokyeom: You misinterpret his kindness to a fan as romantic interest and blow up at him after an event. His face crumbles. “I thought you knew me better than that.” The silence from him is unbearable. You cry while holding one of his plushies, sending voice messages until he responds with a short: “Are you ready to actually talk now?”

Mingyu: In front of his other idol friends, you accused him of being selfish for spending too much time in the gym instead of with you. The car ride home is silent. Then he whispers, “You know I go there because it’s the only place I feel enough.” You’re destroyed with guilt. You cook for him, apologize profusely, and cry in his arms when he finally hugs you back.

Minghao: You questioned if his affection was performative because he acts distant in public. He freezes, then says, “I thought you understood who I am.” You realize he’s always been more private, and you just hurt him by expecting him to change. You write him a letter in Mandarin. He doesn’t respond for days; then shows up, holding it, eyes glassy.

Seungkwan: You accused him of being dramatic just to get your attention during a breakdown. You didn’t realize how much he was struggling, how sincere he was. You later find his journal where he wrote, “I wish she saw how hard I try.” You cry while hugging his hoodie, trying to call him, telling him, “I was wrong, I’m sorry, I didn’t see it then but I do now.”

Vernon: You found a girl’s earring in his car and accused him before he could explain. Turns out it belonged to his sister, who borrowed his car the day before. He shuts down. “I don’t want to be in a relationship where I constantly have to prove myself.” You spend days sending him playlists, flowers, letters, photos, until he texts: “Come over. Let’s talk.”

Dino: You told him he wasn’t mature enough to be in a relationship with you after a minor fight. You didn’t mean it, but he took it to heart [obviously]. He stops texting, stops showing up. You realize you cut him where it hurt most; his need to be taken seriously. You apologize at the dance studio, murmuring, “I never should’ve said that.” He looks at you and says, “Then prove it.”

[madridnoora]

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - London

Eleventh instalment of the forbidden au - lsu!joe x oc

Full AU masterlist here -> ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden

Summary: Daisy spends Christmas and new years in London while Joe remains in Louisiana and Ohio, but the string that connects them still managed to pull tight.

⋆｡˚ word count: 5.6k

18+ Content. MDNI :). Mentions of drinking, drug use, smoking and sex. ⋆｡˚

London is bleak and cold. The wind was sharp, the kind that bit at fingertips and brushed the edges of ears. Snow drifted past grey buildings, hundred of perfect flakes falling freely from a white pillow sky.

Daisy watched from the cozy nook under her bedroom window, in her fathers expensive town house in Kensington. A warm cup of hot chocolate sat in her hand in snowman mug while her kindle sat resting against her knees. She wasn't really reading anymore, her mind was wandering elsewhere.

She had been in London for near two weeks, and it was Christmas eve. Her father was working, as he would be tomorrow. He was always working. He ran a PR and Management company for sports clubs and athletes. His biggest client being Chelsea football club and a cohort of their academy players. That always came first. Daisy couldn't remember a christmas in London where she hadn't been left alone, except this time she wasn't.

Carson was out, somewhere in the busy streets of London, last minute shopping. He had gotten on a flight a week ago to come spend the holiday's with his best friend rather than his dysfunctional family.

Joe won the Heisman. Not that Daisy watched, she couldn't bare too. Bella had told her over facetime a couple days after the ceremony, and Joe had texted her too let her know, not that she had been opening or responding to the messages.

Joe had messaged her a lot. He had called her a lot as well. Always in the morning and always at night, every single day. She hadn't picked up or plucked up the courage to reply. She came close one time, the heavy emotional night before Carson got here when she found herself sobbing under her fluffy duvet looking through snapchat memories of them like a pathetic teenage girl and his name popped up on caller ID. She was so close, only a mere millimetre from pressing the green accept icon but at the last second she changed her mind.

Justin kept calling as well. That was a whole other issue she hadn't even had the time to dive into, but she had to continue speaking with him like everything was fine, like she wasn't completely aware that he was falling in love with her. So, she would answer. He would ask how she was and she would tell him she was getting better (she wasn't), and that she was happy in London with Carson.

The reality was--Daisy was irreversibly heartbroken. She spent most of her days just looking out the window in numbness because all her tears had fallen already. London seemed to move slowly in winter. Murky white slush softened beneath the footsteps of the people she would watch pass by. From her window, she could watch it all. From her window, she could detach herself from her own world and imagine the lives of others. A man with a cigarette cupped in gloved hands, waiting for a black cab that never came. Two girls sharing earbuds, heads tilted together under a broken umbrella as they shielded themselves from heavy snowfall. A young boy kicking a half deflated football up the sidewalk, with a blue scarf dancing in the dagger like wind. She could place herself in all of them and pretend for a moment that what she was experiencing wasn't real, that it was just some cruel nightmare she would wake up from but she would never wake up.

Daisy drew her knees up to her chest and tucked her chin low. A thick knit sweater covered her body. It had gotten bigger on her since she arrived, her appetite not what it used to be two weeks ago, before the missile hit her and left a hole in her chest.

He didn't do anything wrong. There was this small sick and twisted voice in her head telling her that all the time. A evil voice of weakness. The same voice she used to follow back to Lucas, but she refused the follow it this time. This is different. Joe didn't cheat. He didn't even break the arrangement. You just thought it meant something more and got hurt. This is your own fault. There it was again whispering to her. Sometimes she would think it was right, and she would want to break the lack of contact between them with ever small fibre of her being but thankfully Cassie, Bella or Carson would talk her out of it. Stop the mistake before it even had a chance to happen.

She continued to stare out at the soft white blanket on the grey and cracked pavement, when it came--the soft buzz that always came around this time in the early afternoon for her.

Joe.

His name on the screen. All she could do was look at it.

but then, she couldn't look at it any longer. Usually, she turned it off when it got like that, she cut the ringing short and put him out of his misery.

This time she picked up her phone with frail shaking hands and answered it.

There were three beats of silence. Joe hadn't been expecting her to pick up. Daisy hadn't been expecting herself to either.

'Dais-?' Joe croaked out through a dry throat.

Daisy didn't respond, she just breathed down the line. Her heart racing under the sound of his morning voice, the same voice that she used to wake up too. She could imagine him in her head now, all sleepy and disheveled in his childhood bedroom back in Ohio. Star wars posters likely scattered across the wall and rows of trophy's would be stacked on shelf after shelf. The Heisman would be taking pride of place somewhere.

'Dais-?' He whispered again, too scared to say any actual words in case it was the wrong thing and he scared her away.

'Why do you keep calling, Joe?' Her voice broke as she uttered the painstaking question. She kept wondering why he was going through all this effort to call and text. He didn't like her. He certainly didn't love her. A person in love wouldn't have done what Joe did. Daisy would never have done what he did. So, why? Was is for the sake of the friendship group, or was it to clear his own conscience of guilt.

'Because I fucked up. I fucked up really bad and I need to make it better' Joe was already teetering on desperation and begging through the tone of his voice. For a second, it made Daisy believe that maybe this whole thing was killing him as much as it was killing her but it couldn't be. For Joe to feel even half of what Daisy was feeling, he would have had to be in love and he wasn't.

'It's okay, Joe' Daisy breathed out because pretending like she wasn't internally ruined felt like the easiest may to handle this situation. Build up the tall walls around her once again and make sure no one could ever get inside them. That was her safest option. The only one that could protect her.

'You didn't do anything wrong, I mean, hey, it wasn't physical huh' A pathetic attempt of a joke fell through her dry cracked lips as the phone shook beside her ear as her hands found themselves unsteady. Her statement only made Joe feel worse. The knife that was lodged in his heart twisted deeper. He gulped. Daisy heard it.

'Dais-'

'No Joe. Look, I got it wrong. You know. Don't feel sorry for me, it only makes it worse'

'Just let me explain. Let me talk to you, please. I feel like I'm dying over here, Daisy'

'It's best if we don't talk, Joe. It's done already'

'Dais-No, c'mon-you don't mean that'

'Merry Christmas, Joe' and with that she hung up the phone and sighed. Then she crumbled and sobbed and sobbed because hearing his voice brought it all back. Every small detail of what had happened between them came flooding to the surface. She was back there, on LSU campus, in between his hands, he was in between her thighs. Her heart pressed against his. And she's never felt that alive in her life, never felt that level of love. She could call it that now, because she was no longer scared to lose it. It was already gone. Macy was her name. A nice girl apparently. Was I not a nice girl? Daisy had found herself thinking. Did he prefer the look of her freckles and redhair? Was it her blue eyes? Did they make my green ones look lacklustre? Fuck Macy. Not because she's the bad person but because she is the breathing symbol of personal and brutal loss. She was the walking reminder of her heart being broken and she sat only a few rows in front of her in her Wednesday afternoon class. When she went back to LSU, that was only one of the things she would have to tackle.

Joe tried twice to call her back but after that, he gave up. He read the signs. That night, as she lay beside Carson in her double bed, Joe didn't call her either. For the first time in two weeks, the illuminating light of his name did not disturb her inconsistent sleep.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

He didn't call on Christmas day.

The morning light was soft, seeping through the sheer lace curtains in a pale winter gold. The street lamps still flickering in the dark English mornings. The room looked warm, but Christmas always felt cold. This year even more so. Somewhere down the hall, she could hear the distant humming of Christmas music -- and old vinyl crackling faintly from her fathers room as he got ready to spend Christmas with his business partners rather than family. Tomorrow was Boxing Day football in England, and her father needed to get preparations in order for Chelsea FC.

Daisy blinked slowly against the weight of waking up and her puffy red eyes. Her body was so heavy beneath the duvet, the memory of Joe's voice weighing her down like a rusted old anchor. Cinnamon and coffee drifted through the townhouse. Then, she heard the heavy black front door slam and her fathers keys jangle as he unlocked his deep green Aston Martin. The engine thrummed as he drove of through the icy streets.

That noise made Carson stir beside her. His own eyes blinking open. His soft brown hair floppy and messy on top of his head. Daisy couldn't help but smile. He looked cute in the pale light.

'Merry Christmas, Carson'

'Merry Christmas, Daisy'

They wore matching tartan pyjamas and reindeer slippers as they made there was down the halls. Her father had decorated a little bit. Twinkling lights looped through the doorways, stockings hung slightly crooked on the large deep wood fireplace. A half decorated Christmas pine tree tucked away in the corner beside the tall bookshelves.

When she was a child, this felt magical, but now it felt artificial and performative. If her father really cared, he would be here.

Daisy felt nothing.

That was worse than feeling sadness, because it meant that last night she suffered the last snap. The last break she needed as she became completely detached from everything. So exhausted that she no longer could even muster the energy to feel.

She turned slightly and looked out the window. A light snowfall was beginning to dance in the howling wind. Some of it pressed against the glass and melted instantly.

'Hot cocoa?' Carson asked softly and she nodded. She'd drink the cocoa, she'd unwrap the small presents they had gotten each other and she'd say thank you and maybe she would crack a smile when they put on Arthur Christmas.

But like her father, this would all be artificial, all just an act.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

In Ohio, Christmas hadn't gone great either. Joe spent yesterday with family and local friends but there was a piece of him missing, it was lost somewhere in the middle of England's capital city.

The phone call on Christmas Eve had broken him. It confirmed what he feared most, that Daisy thought he didn't care about her, that she thought the heartache she was feeling was her fault rather than his. That cut him. It cut him to the core of his very being.

Since then, he had spent his nights laying in bed wondering how he could make this better. How he could fix it. Tomorrow, he would have to go back to LSU for the Peach Bowl against Oklahoma. The last stop before the national championship. Daisy wouldn't be there and at this point he didn't know if she would even come for the championship game. Maybe she will for Justin, he thought and that caused a brutal sensation to hammer against his ribs. Jealousy. Jealousy that he didn't have her anymore but Justin still did, even if it was only as a friend. Joe would have taken that over nothing.

Joe pulled out his phone in an attempt to distract himself from the all consuming ache of her, but he was greeted with something worse.

daisyymoore

snow, soccer, and self care - London, England.

tagged - carsonford.

Liked by jjettas2, lah_jay10 and 721 others

@.carsonford: best christmas ever with you

-> @.daisyymoore: love you!

@.cassdaviess: come home, the kids miss you.

-> @.daisyymoore: mommy's busy

@.isabellaafreut: pitchside? chanel scarf?

@.isabellaafreut: chelsea blues

-> @.daisyymoore: luv the footy x

@.jjettas2: Merry Christmas Texas.

-> @.daisyymoore: merry christmas jefferson.

26th December 2019

Algorithm's were a sick and twisted joke.

Daisy's flesh looked paler, her cheekbones looked more sunken in. No smiles. Just the cold stares and snowfall being captured by the iPhone camera. It made Joe's stomach twist into rough knots. Carson was there. At least that gave him some relief. She wasn't coping alone, but in the arms of her best friend.

She had been to watch a soccer match, a Chelsea one, if Bella's comment was to be believed. It made sense. All them months ago, before she had sat down on their picnic bench in the middle of LSU's campus she had been wearing a blue jersey. Maybe she was a bigger fan of soccer than Joe initially thought, but he couldn't know now. The opportunity to know her better had come and gone.

The street she lived on looked pleasant. Her father was clearly wealthy but Joe had already assumed that, she was jet setting every where over the summer, only rich girls could do that.

His eyes scanned every image for minutes on end.

He missed her.

More than he had ever missed anything.

He missed the quickness of her lips. He missed the way her hair would hang loosely around her face and how it would twirl in the wind. He missed the sage of her doe eyes. He missed the way her brows would lightly furrow when he said something too boyish. He missed the sweet smell of her jasmine perfume.

He looked down to the spongebob top he was wearing. The one he always gave her. It was unwashed because it made him feel like she was in the room, it allowed him to imagine that the pillow beside him was her torso.

He had to get her back.

He would do anything.

He would spend the rest of his life crawling back to her, no matter how many times she kicked him away he would come back and try and try because he knew what they had was something different, something rare and pure and special.

If it took two months or twenty years--they would find their way back to each other. He would make sure of it. He was in this for the long game. This was only their beginning even if Daisy believed it was their end.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

'SHOT! SHOT! SHOT!' A raging chorus of fraternity brother's cheered at Joe and his teammates as they stood on the kitchen counters of the fraternity.

It was New Year's Eve. And they were going to the national championship.

The party was roaring. The floor boards shook with the bass music pumping between the walls of the fraternity. Empty beer cans rattled on the coffee table. Glitter spread throughout the air like static, catching in the swirls of cigarette smoke and the misty haze of fruity vape clouds that hovered under the tall ceilings.

Joe winced as he took his three tequila shots and chased them with a cheap beer. Everyone cheered like they were gods, and in college they were the closest thing you could get to just that. Undefeated football players who were about to write themselves into the American history books.

Half-string lights and tinsel blinked about him, inflatable 2020 balloons hung of the wall shining in purple and gold. One of the zero's already beginning to deflate and it hadn't even passed midnight yet.

People patted him on the back, raised their red solo cups to him with drunken words they wouldn't remember come sunrise. He gave them what they wanted--big grins and bright eyes from their golden boy--but it was merely artificial. A costume hanging from his broad shoulders.

Inside, under the jersey he was wearing something was still quietly breaking.

He nursed the drink he didn't want as it sat barely cold in his hands, moving away from the crowd to lean against the kitchen counter beside his teammate terrace. Joe laughed at the story he was telling, nodded when he was given the cue too. His gaze kept drifting towards the door, to the phone in his hands, towards Cassie and Bella on the opposite side of the party throwing him daggers.

He thought maybe she would come. He thought maybe she would be back in Louisiana for the new year, but she hadn't shown.

She was still in London, Justin had let him know not too long ago. A whole world away. Probably watching the bright fireworks shoot into the night sky over the river Thames, or maybe she was so heartbroken that she was tucked up in bed with a single glass of wine and a knitted Christmas blanket. Maybe she's out celebrating, he winced at the voice in his head. He didn't want to think that she was doing that, that she could be out there kissing another when the clock struck midnight. He wouldn't blame her if she was. She needed to be out having fun and spending time with people who didn't hurt her the way he did.

He glanced at his phone again.

No text.

He hadn't texted her or called since Christmas Eve. It no longer felt like he should. When she answered the call he realised silence was what he deserved.

'Joe, it's a fuckin' party, you got to lighten up bro' Terrace said from beside him and shoved another two shots into his hands.

Joe just smirked and took the shots.

Drowning was a better option than sinking.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

The club pulsed with light--violet and blue, hot flashes of yellow and red that danced across the roof with such vibrancy. Music poured from the speakers in thick, dizzying waves; Sexy Bitch by David Guetta. Synth highs and lyrics being screamed by every drunken voice. Bodied moved together like water, pressed shoulder to shoulder, heat and perfume and spilled drinks tangled in the air like a fever you wanted to catch.

New Years Eve in London was like something out of a movie.

Daisy was in the middle of it all, drunk on legal alcohol. Her hair was pulled back in soft waves, her cheeks flushed and lips painted in a colour that Carson had called 'dangerously kissable'. Her tight glittery dress shimmered with every movement. -- black, sparkly and sleek, catching the bright lights and dancing like it had a heartbeat of it's own.

Her hands were in the air, her hips were swaying with the rhythm, her smile wide enough that it had everyone around believing she was happy. She had met up with a couple friends she had in London, the ones she had met over all the summers and winters she had spent here.

Carson danced beside her, spinning in circles with a boy he had met when they arrived. A drink in one hand and the other on the boy's waist.

They were free; Carson and Daisy. Untouchable. Very, very intoxicated. British liquor was much stronger than in the states and they were suffering them consequences.

It dimmed the hollow ache in her chest, but it still felt like something had been scooped out and left an echo.

Every beat of the music vibrated through her but still, she couldn't pull herself away from the fact her phone hadn't buzzed once with his name all night. No messages. No calls. He didn't even like the post she uploaded on Boxing day. He hadn't given her any attention since Christmas Eve. It was already the first of January in London and it was beginning to become early morning.

Was he already bored of trying to win her back? Was that how shallow his emotions ran?

Daisy closed her eyes and tossed her head back, trying to ignore the visions of him in her head. The lights around strobed against her closed lids and looked like fireworks underwater.

She let the music take her away.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

'Bro--you might want to see this' Ja'marr tapped the back of his hand on Joe's chest getting his attention. He was beyond wasted. Sweat shining off his forehead and his breath stinking of sweet liquor as he tried to numb the ache of her not being her. He was sprawled out on the couch with his fraternity brother, a bong being passed between them. Joe was being stupid. He could be drug tested at any point in the season but at this moment he didn't care. He was doing anything to feel numb.

Joe rolled his head to look at Ja'marr's phone.

carsonford

we lit

tagged - daisyymoore, tillywaters

30 likes

posted 5m ago

Joe had to blink away the blur of the alcohol vision, his eyes squinting slightly and he coughed out some yellow smoke. The second he saw the photos of her he became razor-sharp.

There she was--his girl, he could call her that still in his drunken state, out in some dingy dimly lit club on the other side of the ocean in a low cut dress and smudged eyeliner, drinks being poured into her mouth. She looked free, not like a girl who was heartbroken and waiting. Not like a girl who was ruined but like a girl who had already mourned a loss and moved on.

He blinked harder and grabbed the phone zooming in on the images like it would help. Crowds swirled around her in the images. She stood outside in one of them, her tongue hanging from her mouth and her eyes so wide. Her skin glowy and golden under the street lamps. She looked hot and reckless.

He let out a scoff. Half a laugh. Half bitter.

Guys lingered around in a couple of the photos, close but not touching. He didn't know if she knew them or if they were just background characters. His grip tightened on Ja'marr's phone. His jaw locked.

She looked gone. Like really gone. and that couldn't happen.

He ran a hand over her jaw in thought, rubbing the corners of his mouth in a quick swipe then sitting back into the stained brown leather.

'What you gone do about it?' Ja'marr asked.

'She didn't start fucking me cos I was a nice guy J,' Joe smirked.

Then, he opened up his own phone and tossed Ja'marr's back to him. He pulled up her tagged photos and sent her the photo of her mouth open with a quick message.

i'd have you bent over in a bathroom stall and fucked by now cub

Then he sat back and waited.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

The club bathroom was a blur of motion and mirror light, all chrome, Blue LEDs and graffitti. The bass of the music seeped through and bounced against the walls in a soft hum. Lip gloss smeared across the cracked mirrors and perfume danced in the air. Laughter, giggles and camera flashes twisted all around her as she sat on the toilet seat in the bathroom stall.

She came in to get away from the heat of the dance floor, for a moment of peace and a chance to take a deep breath that wasn't filled with vape smoke.

but then her phone lit up with his DM.

@.joeyb_9 sent you a message

i'd have you bent over in a bathroom stall and fucked by now cub

Her breath caught and her jaw dropped. So did her heart and she felt a betraying flutter in between her thighs. Like a match to gasoline, it brought her back to life. For the first time in weeks she felt slightly alive and not numb.

They started as a forbidden line blurring, smirking glances and steamy sex. Frat parties and slapping skin. That electric pull that was always there from the minute they met. They were messy, physical and charged. Joe understood that. He was playing dirty because he knew a message like this was going to earn a reply sooner than a pining sorry ever would.

if you wanted sweet you wouldn't be fucking me

He knew her, he knew Daisy so well.

This message closed that distance between them. That line that connected them was pulling closer.

But she couldn't reply.

No.

She was still heartbroken, and he had still hurt her but there was a slight crack open in the door between them.

He would have to work hard, so fucking hard to get her heart back.

So for now, Daisy did something she knew would only infuriate him even more.

She simply tapped on the little red heart beside it, like a silent whisper across time zones. His party likely in the early stages, hers coming to the end. The clock struck midnight in London a short while ago, and she had placed a kiss on the lips of her friend Tilly. A quick peck of friendship. Daisy hoped Joe wouldn’t kiss anyone, but maybe he would and that would signify the end of them completely. No physical activity with others. No kissing. Did the agreement even still apply? She didn’t know anything anymore.

She chuckled to herself at the mess she was in and locked her phone, then she walked out of the bathroom stall with a little extra sway in her hips. It was like having a secret all over again, like being someones secret all over again.

That forbidden naughtiness and excitement tingled wildly underneath her skin.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

Joe was lounging out in the backyard taking another rip of a bong in a worn down striped deck chair as string lights and a bonfire roared with light. It was almost midnight, only a few minutes away.

Inside--the party was intense and wild, yelling and laughing, the sharp fizz and boom of champagne bottles being popped open.

He laughed with his other friends, nothing was funny, they had just smoked so much weed they were on another planet. He would regret that in the morning, he would spend the next few days paranoid about drug tests and losing the national championship, the NFL and pretty much everything in his life.

But that was a problem to handle upon tomorrow's sunrise.

Right now, he could just be a typical douche bag college student.

His phone was up right laying on his stomach as he waited and waited for her message to come through, each minute it didn't he felt himself sinking and sinking into the muddy beer soaked grass beneath him.

The message was filthy and vulgar and so them. A representation of what their relationship had been formed on, forbidden sex. That message was forbidden which was exactly why she would reply, because girls like Daisy like feeling alive and dangerous. She'd done the America's sweetheart date the high school star thing and she fucking hated it. Joe thought he had it all figured out, he thought he knew how the exact rest of the night was going to play out.

She would message him back with something equally as hot and vulgar because she too would have been drunk. Then, in the morning he would call and the air would be somewhat cleared. She would come back to campus and that tension between them would be there, so strong that they simply can't resist. Joe gave it a week until she was back in his bed. Even if she hated him, she would come for the sex.

But Joe was delusional.

A like.

That was it.

A taunting red heart.

Joe blinked trying to make it something more, then he waited to see if she would message. She didn't. His jaw tightened and he rolled out his neck.

That little red heart was like a breadcrumb on a trail that didn't lead anywhere. It stung worse than silence.

He let out a long and breathy sigh, running the palms of his hands over his face in a way you only do when you're so beyond frustrated you can't even think to do anything else.

'Ten, nine, eight'

'Bro, pass the bong' Joe pointed to the bong in his friends hand and grabbed it, readying himself to take another hit. People around him in the back yard scrambled to get inside to watch the ball drop on the television screen in the front room of the dingy fraternity.

'seven, six, five'

He took in the yellow smoke with a deep inhale.

'four, three, two'

He breathed it out, feeling that blissful relaxation. His limbs all tingling from the effects of too much weed. Then, he sank back into the beat up lounger and pulled some sunglasses over his eyes.

It was just him out there.

'one--HAPPY NEW YEAR!'

Except it wasn't because he thought of her. Of Daisy.

The way she used to chew at her bottom lip. The way she used to murmur his name when she was sleepy. That look -- the one she gave him right before they kissed, or the one she gave him right before they had sex when they shouldn't have been.

He imagined her now -- all the way in London covered in sequins and glitter, smelling like sweet jasmine. She would be dancing away in the club, her feet likely aching from the heels. He imagined her smile, her laugh, the way Carson would be twirling her around the packed dance floor.

Happy New Year, Daisy, he thought.

Suddenly, he felt people scurrying around him and then he heard the bangs and pops, the cheers of the crowd as fireworks went off over his head.

A technicolour of light flashing in the darkness of his closed eyes.He opened them briefly and looked up. In that moment, as 2020 took it's first steps, the world turned over into something new. Something ever changing.

And he knew with absolute clarity--

Daisy was the only thing that felt permanent.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

Carson packed his things into a full suitcase while Daisy lazily lay on her messy bed. He was leaving back to New York, it was January 3rd and he had to get back to college. Daisy was staying in London, because she still couldn't bring her self to return to the scene of the crime. She felt like she was doing better here. She missed Bella, Cassie, Ja'marr and even Justin. Even though that was a whole separate situation she was unsure how to handle, but Justin had been a rock for her during this time. Always checking in, making sure she was okay, he never once asked when she was returning--instead he just told her to take all the time she needed, and that if she never came back he would understand.

'When are you going back to Louisiana?' Carson asked, pulling her out of her daze of thoughts. She bit at her thumb nail in a thinking anxiety.

She shrugged her shoulders at him.

'Dukes' Carson said softly, with a cocked head of sympathy.

'I'm not ready to see him' Daisy quietly said.

'You'll never be ready'

'I just--I just don't know what to do' She stuttered out. 'I just, I can't stay away from him, I know that, but I don't want to let him in again'

'Then don't' Carson moved to come and sit beside her on the bed. 'Dukes, don't let a man make forget who the fuck you are. You're Daisy Moore. You're smoking hot, strong and a great person. I've lost count of how many guys want you. So know that and own it. Be cold. Be guarded. Act numb until the numbness becomes the reality. Let him close, but don't let him touch you, make him yearn for what he could have had and pretend you aren't breaking inside. It's the best way.'

Carson was right.

Daisy was not about to let Joe Burrow think he had crushed her. She was going to return to LSU and pretend that she wasn't ruined, pretend that she was over it, that she didn't care.

She would act like she was never in love with him.

౨ৎ

[llamaqueenprompt]

Let Me In

Characters: Charles Leclerc, Reader

Not Requested

Word Count: 1.5k

Inspiration: “I never meant to hurt you.”

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Monaco had always been different. Everyone knew that. Y/n knew it.

There a special weight to it, not just because it was Charles’ hoem race, but because it was the race. The one everyone grew up watching. The one and only race he always wanted to win. The one that never loved him back.

And this year was no exception.

It started well enough. He had qualified second. The car, for some miracle, had pace. The air buzzed with a fragile optimism that maybe, maybe this was the year it would finally all come together.

But it wasn’t.

A slow pit stop. A lapse of judgment on a strategy. Had ruined the race. Two positions lost in the blink of an eye. And there it was again, the image that haunted Y/n more times than it should: Charles stepping out of the car, jaw clenched, eyes cold, body exhausted, not just from the race, but from the so called curse.

She was waiting for him in the paddock. Just outside the farage, but far away from the curious eyes. Her credentials hung from her neck, her fingers clutched around them to keep herself from fidgeting.

And then she saw him.

Helmet off, hair plastered down with sweat. He didn’t even stop by the team, just kept on walking, ignoring every call from everyone.

Including hers.

“Charles,” she said soflty, stepping forward, instinct taking over.

He looked past her.

Not at her.

Past her.

Like she wasn’t there at all.

She froze, the air knocked out of her lugs as he walked right by, disappearing into the back of the garage with the door shutting behind him.

Without him looking back.

Someone nearby whispered,”Ouch.” breaking her out of her state.

She turned and walked away before the rest of the heartbreak could become someone else’s paddock gossip.

By the time she got home, a storm had rolled in. The weather matching her insides

The apartament felt cold, hollow. Like the silence had been waiting for her.

Y/n paced for a while. Sat. Stood again. Repeat this motion time and time again. Tried to eat something. Gave up on eating. Turned on the tv. Turned it off. And every time her phone buzzed, she checked it, hoping it was him.

It never was.

Not a single message. Not even a read receipt on the one she sent: “Text me when you’re done. Please. I love you.”

She stood at the window and watched the rain slide down the glass. Waiting. Waiting for something.

The door finally opened just past midnight.

Charles stepped in like a man carrying the weight of the world. His shoulders slumped, race bag dangling from one hand. His expression hadn’t changed, he still looked detached, drained, heartbroken… stormy.

“You’re late,” Y/n said without turning around from her place in front of the window.

He closed the door behind him. “I stayed at the garage.”

She nodded slowly, arms wrapped around herself. “Of course you did.”

He paused. “I didn’t want to come back like that.”

She turned, fully facing him now. “Like what? Frustrated? Angry? Or guilty?”

He met her eyes then, just briefly, but we quickly look at the ground again.

“Just let it go, Y/n. Please.”

“No.” Her voice was sharp now, all the hurt that she had been feeling for hours, bubbling to the surface. “No, I’m not letting it go this time. You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?” he snapped. “Having a bad race?”

“No!” Her voice cracked. “Shutting me out like I’m some stranger who doesn’t get to exist when things go wrong for you.”

Charles ran a hand through his damp hair, pacing slightly. “I’m exhausted. Can we not do this right now?”

She stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You ignored me. In front of the whole paddock. You looked right through me like I wasn’t even there. Do you know how that felt?”

Silence. Heavy. Sharp.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said finally.

Y/n laughed bitterly, wiping a tear that escaped without her permission. “You didn’t mean to. That’s your answer?”

“I was…” He stopped himself, jaw flexing. “I was trying to hold it together.”

Y/n’s eyes softened, the anger turning into something softer, something raw and aching.

“You don’t have to hold it together alone, Charles,” she said gently- “I’m here for you.”

He blinked, like the words surprised him. Like he hadn’t heard them in that way before, not without strings, not without pity. Just…love. Quiet, patiente love.

“I mean it,” she continued, stepping closer. “You don’t have to go through this by yourself. Whatever this is, losing, failing, breaking. You don’t have to carry it alone, I’ll be here to help you.”

His breath caught, shallow in his chest. “But it’s ugly, Y/n. It’s heavy. I don’t know how to let someone hold that without dropping it.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then slowly reached for his hand. “Then let me try. Because I’m not scared of your mess. But I do am scared of you shutting me out until there’s nothing left of us.”

Her fingers laced with his, gently but firmly, grounding him.

“I know how much Monaco means to you,” she said. “And I know it hurts. But you can’t keep locking that pain in… and pretending I’m not part of your life when it gets too hard.”

Charles’s eyes fell shut, his jaw trembling.

“I hate that I failed again,” he whispered. “In front of everyone. In front of my family. My friends. You. Every year, I tell myself I’ll finally get it right and I just… don’t. It’s like the circuit is cursed for me.”

Y/n squeezed his hand. “It’s not cursed. It’s just life. It’s cruel sometimes. It kicks you when you’re already down. But you don’t have to face it like you’re the only one fighting.”

He opened his eyes slowly, and for the first time that night, he looked tired. Not just physically, but soul-deep tired. Like he’d been carrying this weight for too long, and finally someone was offering to take some of it.

“You make it sound so simple,” he murmured.

“It’s not,” she said, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite the tears in her eyes. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

Charles let out a shaky, uneven, vulnerable breath.

“I don’t know how to be that open,” he admitted. “I’m good at pretending I’m okay. At pushing through. At keeping everything buried under control. But I’m terrible at letting people see the cracks.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I already know they’re there,” she whispered. “You don’t scare me, Char. Not like that. Not ever. You’re not too much for me.”

He didn’t speak right away. His thumb moved slowly across the back of her hand, eyes fixed on the motion like he was trying to memorize the moment. Her presence. The calm she brought into his chaos.

“I think… sometimes I convince myself that if I let people in, they’ll leave the second they see what’s really inside.”

Y/n’s chest ached. “And sometimes, they don’t. Sometimes they stay.”

His gaze flicked up to hers, and something unspoken passed between them, something fragile and true.

She reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw, the stubble rough beneath her touch. “I’m staying, Charles. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped into her arms and held her like she was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her shoulder. “For today. For the paddock. For walking past you like you didn’t matter. You matter more than anything.”

“I know,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “I just needed to hear you say it.”

“I’ll say it every day, if that’s what it takes.”

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “It’s not about what you say, Charles. It’s about letting me in. Let me see the real you, even when you’re losing. Especially when you’re losing.”

His throat worked as he nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Good.” She wiped a tear from under his eye with her thumb. “We don’t have to be perfect. We just have to be real.”

Charles leaned forward then, forehead pressed to hers, and they stood there in the quiet, the soft patter of rain against the windows the only sound between them.

For the first time that night, the silence didn’t feel empty.

It felt safe.

[moonlight-prose]

mr. perfectly fine

a/n: i've had this in my drafts since i saw the trailer of we live in time. and honestly it was basically done, so i don't know why i didn't just drop it. so this is me digging it back up and putting some finishing touches on this quick drabble of angst. it's small, but writing it really made me want to re-watch the movies. so we'll see if anything comes from that. for now though, enjoy!

summary: there's a lot you would change in your relationship with peter. how late he'd show up to dates, the massive amount of missed calls and texts, and his forgetfulness. only there's a defining factor that might shift the entire trajectory of your lives together. peter parker was spider-man...and you didn't know.

word count: 2.3k+

pairing: peter parker x reader

warnings: not explicit, angsty as fuck though, peter gets dumped (sorta) but it doesn't last long, lots of tears, secrets exposed, fluff, forgiveness.

New York always seemed to reflect your emotions with ease. Like a mirror you couldn't break, or even avoid. Maybe it happened because you were looking for it without realizing; searching for answers to the never-ending questions that nagged at you. Different ways to work out the equations that held no solutions. A new way of figuring it out.

Yet no matter how many trials you ran, how many times you inputted the numbers, you seemed to always find yourself staring at the one thing that made sense. ERROR.

You counted the times he stood you up, tracked the calls he missed and the texts he only read but never answered. You compiled them like research, as if you were stuck in your lab and he was the experiment. He became the hypothesis you had to back up with well crafted proof. Only science never helped in situations of love. And you found that counting the days, watching the minutes and seconds go by, only made things worse.

The dinner went cold an hour ago, the candles snuffed, and the soft love songs were traded out for something sadder. Like other nights, you half expected you'd see him in the early hours of dawn. The glow of sunrise illuminating him like your very own hero, your favorite person to exist.

Every other time you chose to forget, to move on with your time together and find something happy to focus on. But tonight's calendar had been marked. A red heart written around your initials.

One that he wrote.

Six months passed in the blink of an eye.

Where you used to be awkward—barely able to speak to each other—now you found comfort in the silence. But when the quiet gave way to loneliness, you felt yourself begin to slowly chip away. You always thought he'd be here to put you back together, to save you in moments of brief darkness that left you wandering this shared path alone.

Yet when the clock finally struck midnight, and you were three glasses of wine in, you felt the final thread of hope snap.

You sighed, the burn of tears spilling over as you swallowed the last of your drink. "Happy Anniversary Peter," you muttered, getting up from the table.

The rain outside pounded against the asphalt. Wet streets glimmered with street lights and smelled of discarded cigarette butts. You wrapped the buckle around your waist tight enough to close up what parts of the coat gaped on your body. The dark charcoal wool fabric didn't belong to you. It lingered with Peter's scent, but you couldn't find yours as you rushed out the door.

You didn't want to stay in that apartment longer than necessary.

Perhaps you should have left some message behind—let him know that eventually you'd be back for your things. Somewhere in the back of your mind you understood what tonight was. A defining moment in your relationship. A chance for him to finally pull his act together and be with you.

Yet like everything else...you'd be simply another thing he'd have to let go of.

He wouldn't have a choice.

The salt of your tears mixed with the drops of rain that streamed down your face. You welcomed it as you walked. There wasn't a defining spot you were going—no grand plan once this came to pass. But somehow you wound up in a park, staring at a bench, and picturing a past version of yourself. Nose buried in a science book and lunch propped on your knees. You could see how Peter rushed by, how he nearly broke his neck turning to look at you.

You watched the moment happen all over again right before you. And for the first time in two months, you wanted to stop him.

The door opened with the usual creak. He winced at the noise with the memory of saying he'd fix it eventually. The DW-40 sat under the sink where he picked it up, never getting around to actually completing the job. Simply another let down that he'd never live down.

You said it was alright; claimed that the squeak gave the front door character. And that might have been true.

It still didn't stop Peter from beating himself up over it.

"Babe! I grabbed some food on the way home. Got your favorite." He stuffed his mask in his backpack, discarding it in the hallway as he went. The suit still clung to his already soaked body, but he hoped you wouldn't pick up on the peek of red beneath his clothes.

The plan to tell you was coming together nicely. A romantic dinner on the top of the Empire State after hours surely would give you a chance to think things over. He just had to work out the logistics of setting up everything with the security guard he befriended.

"Also I remembered to ask May about dinner in two weeks-"

He froze at the sight of the dark living room, of the table decorated with candles and plates filled with food. Very little scared the ever living shit out of him now. A familiar territory of adrenaline he’d come to welcome. But the sight of the calendar placed on his chair—the red heart blaring like a signal in the night sky—had his heart dropping to his stomach.

"No..." The food was forgotten about, dropped on the counter as he picked up the offending piece of paper. The clear mark around the date drawn by him two weeks earlier. A reminder to let him know that of all days...he couldn't forget this one.

He couldn't let you down again.

The clock in the corner read ten thirty and his heart lurched at the sudden realization that you finally did it. You gave up on his antics. All the moments he couldn't fix himself. You chose yourself over the madness of loving him. He wasn't sure which was wore. You not being here to give him a chance of groveling on his knees, or the silence in the apartment at knowing that your laughter and love would never fill it again.

He didn't have time to rationalize his decisions. Barely even noticed that he was walking out the door—the loud bang echoing in the hallway—as he went. Somewhere in the city you were mourning a relationship he was determined to fix. Yet he couldn't figure out where the hell to start looking.

This wasn't the first fight you'd had. The first time you left the apartment he found you in a hole in the wall cafe. A place he'd never even heard of before. And after three cups of coffee, a long night of talking, you both agreed to work on the communication. To heal what small wound had been opened.

Only this time was different.

This time the wound festered, grew to the point of being fatal.

This time he wasn't sure he could heal what he already broke.

His web clung to the building as he swung, landing five feet away from the already darkened cafe. Much to his own detriment you didn't bother to try getting out of the rain.

A crackle of lightning echoed in the night sky, thunder rolling in a few seconds later. It covered the sound of him nearly collapsing to the ground as a car swerved by—the horn blaring in his ears. The calendar was tucked in his jacket pocket, the ink bleeding through the soggy paper. But he refused to let it go. He couldn't. That was his final piece of you—the last moniker of a relationship that was worth it.

He only hoped you felt the same.

"Where are you baby?" he muttered under his breath.

After checking your favorite diner, bar, and bookshop. He was starting to run out of options. Almost as if you simply up and vanished from the city entirely.

You didn't want to be found. Yet Peter knew he wouldn't be able to live without you. How could he? When the chance of getting a peek at your smile was worth waking up early in the morning to see you off for work. Little moments of joy kept him going. And nearly all of his were spent with you. Each laugh, kiss, and look, were his to keep.

His to protect.

And he'd fucked all of that up.

Time passed quicker than he would have liked. The rain beat down on his body and he could no longer discern between his tears and the water. Still he searched. He checked every nook and cranny of spots you shared together.

Until the park came into his view atop a random apartment building. His heart leapt in his chest, body thrumming with nervous energy, as he swung down to the mushy grass that squelched beneath his sneakers. The cold shouldn't have made his hands tremble. Although perhaps the weather had nothing to do with what made his stomach twist, body overwhelmed with a fear he might never understand.

He knew why he shook like a leaf. He could feel the nerves beat alongside his heart, echoing his earlier sentiment throughout his entire body.

Letting you down this time wasn't a chance he was willing to take.

"Baby!" he called, running past low lit sidewalks and darkened tree lines. He ran until he felt the cold sting of rain on his face—until his clothes dripped water and the soles of his shoes were puddles.

Only to pause at the sight of a hunched over figure on a bench, their hands gripping the edge of the wood, and shoulders shaking with each stunted breath. Peter's heart tore into pieces. Fluttering to the ground as he stepped closer. Simply a flimsy piece of that ruined calendar. He could hear your sobs, smell the salt of your tears, and that broke him beyond repair.

He did this.

He took the most important person in his life and ripped them a part.

"I'm sorry," he said over the rain, catching the way you jumped—your eyes wide and lips swollen from where you bit down on them.

"Peter-"

Before you could get out the words to dismiss him. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands pressing into either side of the bench. Caging you in. This wasn't a chance for him to grovel, to give excuse after excuse. He’d passed that point months before. This was him finally letting you into the final piece of his life—the truth he wanted to shout from the rooftops if it meant getting a chance to see you smile again.

Fuck he'd give anything to see you smile.

"There's no good excuse okay? I don't have one. I'm just sorry." You sighed, moving to unlatch his grip. Only to find you couldn't get him to budge. "I don't want to keep hurting you. So if after this, you wanna go then you can go. I won't stop you, or call you, or even ask you back."

"Don't-"

He shifted closer, surprising you as his speed. "Just know I love you. I'll love you forever baby."

"Peter what are you doing?"

With a sharp gulp of air, he stripped off his jacket and t-shirt. They fell to the ground with a went plop as silence wrapped around the both of you. For a moment, he wondered if you'd take him seriously. Maybe you'd laugh. Maybe you'd leave him faster than before. But you simply stared at him—mouth parted and eyes wide as you took in the spider emblem sewn in his chest.

He coughed, shoving his wet hair out of his face. "This isn't how I wanted to tell you. The dinner with May was actually gonna be me telling you on top of the Empire State Building-"

"That's why you always forget the milk," you murmured, glancing to the side—a dazed expression now donning your face.

"What?"

"Every time I ask you to pick something up from the store at night. You never remember."

Heat spread rapidly across his cheeks. A red flush he knew was bright against the light on the sidewalk. "I don't always forget."

Rainfall filled the void of silence as you dragged your eyes along each web, the itch of your fingers too much to take—finally pressing them along the ridged fabric you’d only seen in blurry newspaper images. A mark that all of New York came to see as hope. The promise that for once in their lives they would be safe on streets known for violence and horrors.

You tried to wrap your head around the truth, pressing a thumb into the spider carved directly above a heart you knew was too good to be true. One that beat in time with yours, a familiar thudding echo you fell asleep to each night pressed tight to one ear. Peter was that man, the savior of a home you couldn’t see yourself leaving, the hero you’d only heard stories about.

“I guess this complicates things,” you finally mumbled, hand finding his chin soaked by the rain.

His sigh bled into the air, filling your lungs with the air you struggled to find. “Does that mean…you’re staying?”

“I’m just glad you weren’t cheating on me.”

Peter laughed, surging up with a speed you’d never witnessed before. “Never.”

His lips were cold against yours, gloved hands rough against the skin of your cheek, but the taste of him was the same. The man who asked for a chance in this park, promising to make your life interesting despite the chaos he dragged atop shoulders stronger than others. He carried the world with ease. Now it was your turn to do the same for him.

“So what’s it like dating Spider-Man?” you mumbled against his lips.

He grinned, pulling you up with an arm around your waist. “Free transportation.”

“Anytime I want?”

Thumbing the top of your cheek he pushed what tears remained aside. “For the rest of your life. If you want it.”

Oh how you loved him.

“I want it.”

[domdraven]

What kind of aftercare do you usually give your partner?

Aftercare is the heartbeat of any intense BDSM scene—it’s where trust is rebuilt, bodies are soothed, and minds are steadied. Rough scenes, like heavy impact play or deep D/s dynamics, send a sub’s hormones into overdrive, so I’m meticulous about bringing them back to earth. Let me walk you through what I do, grounded in the science of what’s happening inside them.

A rough scene—say, a session with flogging, bondage, or intense submission—triggers a hormonal storm. Endorphins flood their system, dulling pain and pushing them into subspace, that floaty, euphoric state. Adrenaline and cortisol spike from the physical stress, ramping up their heart rate and alertness. Dopamine rewards their submission, making it addictive, while oxytocin from our connection deepens their trust. But when the scene ends, those hormones crash. This is sub-drop—a mix of sadness, anxiety, or exhaustion that can hit right away or days later. Up to 46% of people feel postcoital dysphoria after sex, and it’s even more common in BDSM due to these intense swings.

My aftercare is built to catch that crash and cradle my pet—physically, emotionally, and mentally. Here’s how it goes:

Physically, I start with warmth. Their body temperature often drops as endorphins fade, leaving them shaky or cold. I wrap them in a soft, fuzzy blanket or slip my hoodie over their shoulders, creating a cozy cocoon. Next, I hand them a bottle of water or an electrolyte drink to rehydrate—adrenaline and exertion dry them out fast. A small snack, like a piece of chocolate or some grapes, boosts their blood sugar and keeps fatigue at bay. Chocolate’s a favorite; it even nudges endorphin release. If the scene left marks—bruises from a paddle or rope burns from shibari—I clean any abrasions with antiseptic wipes and apply a cold compress or soothing aloe lotion to ease soreness. For intense play, like caning, I check for swelling and ensure they’re comfortable. Then, I encourage rest. If they’re spent, I let them curl up against me or nap, staying close to signal safety.

Emotionally, I focus on reconnection. Rough scenes can leave a sub feeling raw or doubting themselves, especially if we played with humiliation or pushed limits. I pull them close, stroking their hair or holding them tight, and whisper affirmations: “You were so strong for me, sweetheart,” or “You made me so proud.” This counters any shame or guilt, which can creep in from societal stigma or past trauma. Physical touch—whether a hug or just my hand on their back—releases oxytocin, calming their nervous system. We debrief, too. I ask, “What felt amazing? Anything too much?” This lets them process and feel heard. If they’re quiet, I don’t push; some need silence to settle. For subs with triggers, like a history of trauma, I’m extra gentle, checking if touch is okay or if they need words instead.

Mentally, I help them ground. Subspace can leave them foggy or disconnected, so I use soft conversation or eye contact to bring them back. I might ask about a mundane thing, like their favorite song, or play a familiar playlist to ease them into reality. If they’re still floaty, I stay until they’re clear-headed—leaving too soon can worsen sub-drop. I also plan a check-in, usually a text or call the next day, to catch any delayed emotions. Sub-drop can sneak up 24–48 hours later, bringing irrational fears or sadness. If they need space, I ensure they’ve got a self-care plan—a warm bath,or my scarf to feel connected. For long-distance dynamics, I might send a voice note or suggest they cuddle a weighted blanket.

Every sub is different, so I tailor it. Some crave cuddles; others want to be alone after a quick hug. Some need to laugh; others need to cry. I read their cues and adjust, always ensuring they feel cherished. For especially rough scenes—like consensual non-consent or heavy pain play—I’m hyper-vigilant about shame or trauma triggers, offering extra reassurance and checking in for days after

That’s my approach, anon— thorough, intentional, and all about making my girl feel safe and valued. Got a specific scene or aftercare vibe you’re curious about? Drop me a line, and I’ll share more! 😊

[toasttt11]

seattle

November 23, 2023

Ophelia’s head was resting on Quinn’s shoulder as they sat next to each other on the plane. Elias was sitting across the row from them and Brock and Connor were sitting across the table from Ophelia and Quinn playing cards as Quinn was reading and Ophelia was editing photos on her iPad.

They were flying to Seattle this morning for the game tomorrow, Ophelia has never had the chance to play at her home rink and she’s excited to play there for the first time.

She was gonna show Quinn a few things in Seattle today and Elias was curious and asked to join.

The plane landed in Seattle and they all got off the plane getting into the bus.

Ophelia texted with Jack and Luke the entire drive to the hotel before she followed Quinn off the bus and grabbing her back as they walked into the hotel.

“Alright guys and SJ what are we doing on our free day.” Brock tossed an arm over Ophelia’s shoulder as he walked into the hotel with Demko, Jt, Connor, Elias, Quinn and Ophelia.

“I was gonna show Quinn and Elias some things near the hotel.” Ophelia said, “Your welcome to join.” Ophelia softly offered to her teammates.

“Definitely!” Brock quickly nodded with a bright grin.

“Sounds fun.” Connor lopsidedly grinned.

Demko nodded in agreement. Jt gave a soft smirk and shrug.

“Nils?” Ophelia called out as he walked by and he looked towards them curious but immediately smiled as Ophelia invited him too and quickly accepted.

They all agreed to meet in the lobby in a few minutes.

Quinn and Ophelia headed up to their room and Quinn changed into more comfortable and a bit warmer clothes before Ophelia headed into the bathroom tossing a pair of blue jeans, white sweater, pink jacket and shoes with a multiple color scarf. She knew how easily she gets cold.

Ophelia grabbed her small black purse with her keychains from Luke and followed Quinn out of their room.

Ophelia and Quinn got downstairs first and once everyone got down there they started their walk.

Ophelia was brining them to a small little hole in the wall cafe that has one of her favorite hot chocolates and it was about ten minutes from her house.

They all ordered once they got into the cafe and the eight of them smushed into a booth by the large window and could see the water in the distance.

“Is your home close by?” Connor asked her curiously knowing she grew up in Seattle and Calgary but so far he has noticed she talks only about Seattle.

“Yeah it’s about ten minutes away, closer to the water and a little bit out of the busy part for the city.” Ophelia answered, she didn’t want to go back to her house yet at least not on this trip.

Her face lit up as the hot chocolate was placed in front of her and she quickly started drinking it.

Quinn smiled softly at the happiness on her face and took a quick photo and one more photo as she brought the cup down and had whip cream on her mouth.

They stayed in the little cafe for a little while all eating some food and drinking coffees and a hot chocolate for Ophelia.

Ophelia told them all some things about Seattle and answered some questions the boys asked her.

Eventually they left the cafe and they started walking around the city for a little while.

Ophelia was the tour guide for the evening and telling the boys fun facts about everything they walked by and they stopped at some places along the way.

No one even realized how long they all ended up walking around for until it started getting dusk and Connor’s stomach started rumbling making laughter break out.

Ophelia knew a good place for dinner close by and brought them to a taller building and headed to the top floor where the restart is on the roof top.

The restaurant has a great view of the city and the water and all the tables in the colder months get these covers like igloos with heaters so you can sit outside.

“Woah.” Elias said in awe as he looked around it was a really unique restaurant experience as they all walked into the larger igloo type thing and sat around the table.

Ophelia smiled to herself seeing the awed expression on all of their faces. It was one of her Dad’s favorite restaurants and they always spent his birthday there.

Quinn smiled softly at how happy Ophelia looked all day and how much she talked, it made him happy how content she was.

Quinn was sitting next to her as always sam’s sort nudged her making she glance at him, “Good job Bee.” His words made her beam proud.

The eight of them stayed at the restaurant watching the sunset till it was pitch back and they all ate so much food, they got back to the hotel just in time for curfew.

Ophelia fell asleep the moment she hit the bed making Quinn smile fondly and he gently pulled the blankets over her shoulders and set his penguin stuff animal in between her arms making her snuggle to it in her sleep and he leaned down pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before getting ready for bed.

November 24, 2023

Ophelia slowly stepped around the Kraken’s home ice, if life went the way she wanted she would have been in the arena before but it didn’t and this is her first time here.

Ophelia felt a lot better emotionally and physically than last week when Kraken was in Vancouver and her head really was fine, she was sore for a few days but nothing more.

Ophelia skated to the center and took the puck drop, she won the face off and passed to JT.

Ophelia narrowed her eyes at the player who had thrown the dirty hit on her last week, he was finally on the ice at the same time as her.

Ophelia didn’t hesitate and used her speed laying a hard hit on the player, the player who is a lot larger and sent him sprawling to the ice and it was a clean hit. 
Ophelia looked at Quinn with a bright grin making him laugh softly at the proud look on her face.

Jt was cackling and looked so proud and he immediately gave Ophelia so many head pats, now he understood why Ophelia wanted him to teach her how to throw an even harder hit than she could before even with her being smaller, “Perfect.” Jt gave her an approving nod.

Ophelia smiled more in return.

Ophelia recorded her second career hat trick that game and had two assists, Canucks won 5-1.