#makes me wonder what he did and how he felt

[yuujispinkhair]

I WANNA BE YOUR ENDGAME – Chapter 08

🏒❤️ A Hockey Romance feat. modern!Sukuna

Pairing: HockeyPlayer!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: College AU, Hockey AU, fluff + smut Playlist: I wanna be your Endgame Word Count: 5k Warnings: 18+, smut, cigarettes, alcohol, hockey injuries. Fuckbuddies to lovers. Reader is a creative writing student. Sukuna is an ice hockey player + history student. This story will have approximately 12 chapters. Minors don't interact. Header by me. Divider @/benkeibear

MASTERLIST

You lie awake for hours. What happened between you and Sukuna during the private ice skating lesson? Didn't the whole thing in the hockey arena feel too romantic and too intimate for just fuckbuddies? Do friends with benefits really kiss each other like that?

You feel strangely smitten, almost shy, when you think about your evening with Sukuna. He was such a gentleman, making sure you didn't slip and fall on your ass, helping you exit the ice and make your way to the bench, where you could put on your shoes again. You left the arena, and Sukuna ruffled your hair and made a joking comment about how you had screeched when you set foot on the ice for the first time. And you playfully hit his biceps and told him to shut up. But your heart was racing, and your face felt too hot, and you are sure you giggled like some teenager with a big fat crush.

Sukuna walked you back to your dorm, and you teased each other the whole way. You asked Sukuna if he wanted to come in, and he agreed with his typical sexy smirk. You spent an hour in your bed, low groans and soft mewls and the rhythmical sound of your headboard banging against the wall filling your room.

And now, Sukuna is gone again, but your pillow still smells like him. And you stare at the ceiling, unable to get that kiss in the hockey arena out of your head. A kiss that felt too romantic, too tender.

You know your little private ice skating lesson wasn't a date, but why did it almost feel like one? If you are honest with yourself, the hour spent ice skating in Sukuna's arms felt nicer than any real date you had.

You wonder if Sukuna is lying awake, too? Does he ask himself the same questions you are asking yourself? You want to convince yourself he isn't aware of it. But there's a small voice in the back of your mind reminding you how good Sukuna is at analyzing things. You are sure he can see how close the two of you have become, too.

But does he care? Does he want more? Or is it just fun for him? You know Sukuna has that bad reputation that paints him as a fuckboy. But is he, though? The thing is that ever since the two of you started your little arrangement, Sukuna seems to only fuck one girl... and that girl is you. And then there are all those little things Yuuji says that sometimes sound like he is dropping hints about Sukuna possibly liking you as more than just a casual fuckbuddy.

"Oh shit."

You groan and pull your blanket over your face, hiding yourself even deeper in the comfort of your bed. The little hopeful spark and the butterflies in your stomach scare you. You know this feeling all too well, and you don't want it!

You told yourself you would get through college without the complications of romantic feelings. All love ever did was cause you heartbreak and pain. You swore off it after the disappointment that your ex-boyfriend was. You swore to yourself that you would just have fun when you go to college. Nothing serious. No relationship. No feelings. Just fun. And this fuckbuddies arrangement with Sukuna had seemed so perfect for what you wanted. But what now? What if you suddenly develop feelings for Sukuna?

You cannot let that happen. You have to fight it!

Get a fucking grip!

You see Sukuna the next day, and you manage to act normal around him, ignoring the fluttery feeling in your stomach when he smirks at you and lets his large hand slowly trail down your arm to steal your heavy stack of books out of your hands and carry it for you to your classic literature classroom. He makes a comment about you obviously being too weak to carry it on your own while giving you one of his devilish looks, and you roll your eyes and yank the books out of his arms even though Sukuna already carried them all the way to the classroom.

You agree to meet him for lunch, and by the time the two of you have finished your meals and bickered playfully over all kinds of things, you feel better. More in control again. You can do this. You can continue this fuckbuddies thing with Sukuna without making things awkward. Even if his boyish smirk and those pretty, maroon eyes and mouth-watering muscles make your pulse race. It's fine. Sukuna is your friend. Just that. Just a very hot guy-friend who fucks your brains out anytime you feel like it.

It's perfect the way it is. You wouldn't want to risk losing this.

Sukuna asks you to see him after hockey practice, and you spend an hour in his bed that evening, moaning into his pillow and laughing against his buff biceps afterward when he lies next to you and shows you a funny video on his phone.

You steal a drag from Sukuna's cigarette that he smokes by his window, and he grins at you and pulls you into a kiss with that sexy, teasing tongue flick at the end before he tells you to be a good girl and go home to study for your classic literature course so you can join him in the top-grades-getter-league.

It's Friday, and Nobara keeps bugging you about joining her for a night out at a popular club, claiming that you will get a bad case of FOMO if you don't come with her. You doubt her words, but you have to admit that maybe a girls' night with some dancing and some fancy drinks is exactly what you need to get your mind off a certain pink-haired hockey player, and so you laugh and tell her to help you pick an outfit.

Nobara was right about the club being amazing. You really have a lot of fun, sipping on some pastel-colored sweet cocktail and dancing and laughing with your dormmate, feeling as if this is the authentic college experience.

The club is a popular meeting spot for college students. You see so many familiar faces. And so, it should probably not come as a surprise when you see several hockey players. You try not to do it, but your gaze keeps wandering through the club, searching for one particular Tiger.

And you find him.

He is leaning casually against a pillar, laughing at something his brother is saying to him before Yuuji gets pulled onto the dancefloor by Todo. Sukuna stays where he is, lifting a bottle of some vodka mix drink to his lips and tilting his head back to gulp it down. His Adam's apple bops enticingly, making you involuntarily lick your lips.

You have stopped dancing, you realize. Too busy staring at Sukuna.

Damn, stop it!

You shake your head and laugh, grabbing Nobara's hand to spin her around, forcing yourself to get back into your little fun time with your friend. But even as you dance with her, your gaze keeps straying back to your fuckbuddy, who is still standing at the same spot.

Several hockey players gather around Sukuna, laughing, chatting, and drinking together. Tequila shots this time. It looks like the whole team is here tonight, maybe celebrating something. Sukuna hasn't spotted you yet, and you use that chance to let your eyes trail slowly over him.

He looks hot. He always does, of course. Tall, athletic, and handsome. The tight black t-shirt he is wearing shows off his well-defined muscles and sexy tattoos. The expression on his tattooed face is aloof and bored, making him probably look even more attractive to all the girls who are eyeing him. Sukuna is a challenge. The bad boy, who seems so hard to please. The tough guy who seems like he never smiles. But you have seen his smile and know how to get it out of him.

You are about to walk over to Sukuna to greet him, but you freeze up when you watch a pretty girl dance up to him, a seductive smile on her face. You feel your stomach clench anxiously. The girl gets on her tiptoes, a sugary smile on her beautiful face as she says something to Sukuna. Her hand sprawls over his pecs, her body leaning closer and closer to him.

But Sukuna shakes his head at her and plucks her hand off him with a cold sneer on his beautiful face. He points a long, tattooed finger at one of his teammates and steers the girl over to him.

And as fast as that strange feeling in your guts appeared, it is gone again, and instead, you catch yourself grinning from ear to ear.

And suddenly, that maroon gaze is on you. You draw in a sharp breath, staring back at Sukuna as the seconds tick by.

Sukuna's tattooed face lights up with a broad grin, and he pushes himself off the pillar he was leaning against. Your pulse is racing as you watch him walk over to you while Nobara is laughing. Sukuna stops in front of you, tall and sexy with that boyish smirk and looking so good in his tight black t-shirt and jeans.

"Hey, princess."

The words come out slightly slurred. You tilt your head to smile at him, noticing the somewhat unfocused look in his usually so sharp eyes. He is drunk, you realize. His grin turns into a lopsided smile, and somehow, it makes him look almost cute. Softer around the edges. He seemed so aloof a moment ago when he turned that girl down, but now he is all playful again when he reaches out to wrap his strong arms around your waist and pull you against him.

"Fuck, I'm glad you're here, too, princess. I was so fucking bored."

He jerks his chin at Nobara in a greeting, informing her with a smirk,

"I am stealing her for a while. Find someone else to dance with, Ginger. What about my brother? He is a good dancer. Get him before someone else does."

Nobara complains loudly, smacking Sukuna's biceps while telling him that hockey players suck in general and pink-haired ones in particular, but you can hear the smile in her voice, and she really half-walks, half-dances away from Sukuna and you, looking for another dance partner.

You chuckle softly as Sukuna pulls you to him, making you stumble into his firm body. You put your hands on Sukuna's abs to brace yourself, grinning up at him, your pulse fluttering at being so close to him. His body heat seeps through his shirt, and his firm abs move under your palms when he leans down to press a sloppy, wet kiss on your cheek,

"Come on, dance with me so Todo and the brat get off my dick and stop pestering me about dancing with them."

Sukuna pulls you with him to the middle of the dancefloor, where the rest of the hockey players are. You don't even have time to complain or feel embarrassed about your dancing skills because Sukuna's strong arms are wrapped so firmly around you that you can't really make any move on your own anyway. And the drinks you had make you tipsy enough to just go with it and laugh loudly as Sukuna grinds against you.

You find yourself relaxing, just having fun with Sukuna and his teammates, dancing dirty with Sukuna while singing along to the songs, and smiling when Sukuna grins at you. You wrap your hands around Sukuna's neck, letting him sway you from side to side, or press his tall, muscular body tightly against yours to grind against you slowly.

It seems only natural that the two of you kiss. Sloppy, drunk kisses that make you chuckle against Sukuna's lips, feeling a lot more intoxicated than you truly are. It feels exhilarating to dance and make out with him here in the middle of the club.

Sukuna's hands are all over you, running up and down your back and groping your ass. He slips his hands into the back pockets of your jeans and pulls you even closer to him, and you let your nails trail over his short undercut, smiling when it elicits a low growl from the back of Sukuna's throat.

He trails hot, wet kisses over your chin to your neck, and your breath hitches. It's new to be like this with Sukuna in public, but you can't deny how exciting it feels to have him all over you. Drunk Sukuna is clingy, you realize. He doesn't let you move away even a step. His large hands immediately squeeze your ass, pulling you to him again while his lips trail kisses over your neck and his sexy low voice murmurs in your ear,

"Need you, baby."

Your heart skips a beat. You know Sukuna is just drunk, and it means nothing, but you can't help but feel a fluttery tingle in your belly and chest at his words. You smile and grab Sukuna's chin, pulling him into another kiss to shut him up before he can say anything else that will make you spin out of control and that he might regret in the morning.

You weakly try to decline when Sukuna whispers in your ear that he wants you to go home with him. But he won't let go of you, clings to you, and kisses you all sweetly before he looks at you with a cute little pout that looks hilarious on his tattooed face. His voice is a bit thicker than usual, tongue heavy from the alcohol, making you wonder how many shots he had.

"Don't leave me alone, princess. Who knows what kind of trouble I will get into without my personal lucky charm by my side."

He keeps grinning at you and bugging you until you agree to leave with him, even if it is just to put him into bed. You let Sukuna put a muscular arm around your shoulders while his other arm pulls his twin brother to his side, and the three of you make your way outside while you hastily type a message to Nobara, telling her you are leaving with the twins.

You laugh when Sukuna throws his car keys to his brother, even in his drunk state, not forgetting about the beef he has with Yuuji over his beloved car,

"You drive, brat, but if you get even the tiniest scratch into my car, I will punch that stupid smile off your face."

You sit in the backseat with Sukuna while Yuuji drives. Or, more like, you lie in the backseat because Sukuna is on you the moment the car starts. You spend the whole drive with Sukuna lying half on top of you, kissing you deeply, with those intense deep tongue kisses that make you moan into his mouth and knead his firm ass through his tight jeans.

"So greedy, huh, princess? Don't worry, I'll fuck you until you scream my name." "Oh, shut up. You are drunk. I'll just tug you into bed and then leave." "Don't you dare leave me alone. I had some drinks, yeah, but I am perfectly fine. I can still fuck you better than any other could." He smirks at you with that challenging glint in his eyes, and your pussy throbs, your conviction wavering. Sukuna licks your neck slowly, teasingly, before he captures your lips in another deep kiss, successfully making you change your plans. Your hands slip under his shirt, caressing his hot, smooth skin, kneading his buff muscles, smiling when you hear him groan into the kiss. You go with Sukuna to his room and watch him take off his clothes, heart pounding in your chest as he turns around and beckons you over, his sexy muscles and tattoos unashamedly on display for you, and his gorgeous thick cock already half hard, waiting for you to stroke him to full hardness so you can have fun with him. Sukuna fucks you with sloppy, lazy strokes and those deep French kisses that make your pussy and your tummy flutter. You are gasping his name, wrapping your legs tightly around his narrow hips, mewling with every thrust, enjoying the drunk sex immensely. Sukuna fucks good, even when he had several drinks. The only thing that's different is that he is louder. And it's so sexy that it makes you clench around him, your eyes falling shut to bask in the sexy, loud moans falling from Sukuna's lips.

You really scream his name when you cum, and he moans yours when he follows you a few seconds later, hot thick cock throbbing inside you. Sukuna slumps on top of you afterward with a satisfied sigh, and you hum happily, caressing his neck and running your foot up and down his muscular calves and thighs.

You ask how late it is, but Sukuna doesn't answer.

"Sukuna?"

You push at Sukuna's broad shoulders only to hear a soft snore coming from him, realizing he fell asleep on top of you. You laugh and relax, letting a hand trail slowly up and down Sukuna's broad, muscular back, caressing him while he sleeps soundly on top of you.

Sukuna is heavy, but you let him sleep, grinning to yourself, feeling oddly happy, lying here under the hockey star. After a while, Sukuna rolls off you, mumbling softly in his sleep, but it's incoherent, and you can't make out any words. It makes you feel surprisingly soft for him.

You roll onto your side, too and press a soft kiss to Sukuna's tattooed shoulder, murmuring,

"Good night, Kuna. Sleep well."

You are about to get up to collect your clothes from Sukuna's bedroom floor to get dressed and then sneak out. But before you can get up, a large hand wraps around your arm, stopping you, pulling you back against Sukuna's warm, naked body.

"Stay."

Just a single word, mumbled in a hoarse, sleepy-sounding voice.

You tense up. Does Sukuna know what he is asking? He never before asked you to stay the night, and he also never stayed the whole night in your dorm. It feels like a line fuckbuddies shouldn't cross. On top of that, you don't think Sukuna is the type who lets someone sleep in his bed. You know he's already making a huge exception when it comes to you by taking you to his room and fucking you in his bed. Apparently, that's something Sukuna never did with his former hookups because he thought his room was none of their business. And now he wants you to sleep in his bed the whole night?

You know you are overthinking it, but you simply can't stop worrying that you are somehow taking advantage of Sukuna's drunk state. The sex wasn't the problem because your whole arrangement is based on having sex with each other. But this is something different. Sleeping in Sukuna's bed feels like a big fucking deal! If you sleep here, will he regret it in the morning? Will he be mad? You don't want to overstep a boundary.

"Sukuna..."

"Shhh, no talking. Just stay."

And as if he read your thoughts, he adds in that slightly slurred voice,

"I swear I won't regret it in the morning. Stay. I'll even make you breakfast."

You chuckle softly and close your mouth again, not trying to argue anymore, nor do you want to. You smile and snuggle back against Sukuna's tall, warm body, sighing when his strong arms tighten around you, and he buries his face in your neck, instantly starting to snore again, sounding so cute that it makes you grin from ear to ear. The bad boy star player all cuddly and tame.

Even after your night in Sukuna's bed and the morning after, when he made breakfast for you just like he promised, you tell yourself you can just stay friends with benefits with him.

Nobara tries to rile you up, teases you endlessly, and tries to get you to admit you have feelings for Sukuna. But you turn her down anytime, adamantly declaring you only want him as a friend. A friend who is very good in bed and who you can have sex with any time the two of you feel like it.

You think if you just say it often enough, it will be true. You will be able to convince yourself you have everything under control.

And then the accident happens.

You're in your usual spot in the stands, watching the hockey game, cheering and laughing. The mood in the arena is ecstatic because it looks like the Tigers overcame their loss two weeks ago.

You hold your breath in giddy anticipation as Sukuna steals the puck from a rival player and speeds across the ice, his gaze on the goal ahead. His playstyle is high-speed and brutal, as always. It's sexy to watch. Until two rival players throw themselves in Sukuna's way.

You gasp loudly as Sukuna crashes full speed into the two players. All three go down, slamming hard into the ice with a heavy thud and the loud clatter of their hockey sticks skittering across the ice.

You are on your feet before you even notice it, a hand pressed over your mouth, staring wide-eyed at the ice where Sukuna is lying in a pile with the players he crashed into. The whole arena is yelling in shock because their star player went down, but you only hear it as a far-away noise because the blood in your ears is rushing much too loudly as your heart races fearfully.

What is going on? Why is Sukuna not getting up? You see the other jersey with the Itadori name speeding towards the scene. Yuuji pulls one of the rival players off his brother while yelling something you can't hear. He instantly gets attacked by several other players, but Yuuji fights back angrily, punching them and pushing them away from Sukuna.

Sukuna, who is still lying facedown on the ice. He isn't moving. Panic threatens to drown you, and before you know what you're doing, you start running and pushing your way through the crowd. Nobara is yelling your name, but you don't stop to wait for her.

You feel sick to your stomach. Your heart is pounding fearfully in your chest as you stop in front of the plexiglass, pressing your hands against the cold glass. Your anxious breath fogs up the glass as you watch the whole team and the team medic rush to Sukuna, who is still knocked out.

Or worse.

Tears are gathering in your eyes, and you feel a sob finding its way out of your mouth.

Please let him be okay! Please let him be okay! I never even told him how much I like him!

That's when you see Sukuna make a slight movement, and you huff a shaky sigh of relief.

The team medic is saying something to him, and Sukuna nods softly. You press yourself anxiously against the plexiglass, watching as the doc carefully pulls Sukuna's helmet off.

Yuuji and Todo help lift Sukuna onto a stretcher under the anxious gazes of the whole arena, which is filled with fearful silence.

You are still pressed against the plexiglass, watching as they carry Sukuna off the ice. Sukuna's eyes meet your worried gaze as they carry him past you. He lifts his head slightly, looking at you with a dazed expression. A dreamy look crosses over his tattooed face, and to your surprise, he smiles at you even as his maroon eyes seem unfocused and caught in some daydream.

Sukuna smiles a dreamy little smile at you while his lips move. You can't hear what he says, but you think you can read his lips, and what they murmur is something like "angel".

You stare after him, stunned, even when the stretcher is already getting carried to the back of the arena, away from your gaze.

The game continues, but the Tigers are out of it. The shock of seeing their star player get knocked out seems to sit in their bones. The cheerful and excited mood in the arena has dimmed almost completely. You bite your nails nervously as you stand at the boards, watching the game but not really seeing anything, too lost in your thoughts and worrying about Sukuna.

He was so fast when he crashed into those two players, and he seemed so out of it when they carried him off the ice. You were relieved to see him conscious again, but the shock still makes a painful knot remain in your stomach.

You practically flee from the rink once the game is finally over. But you cannot even consider the idea of going back to your dorm. Nobara walks up to you, reaching out to pat your back.

"Hey, I'm sure he is alright. That thick head won't crack from a bit of ice."

You smile weakly at her, knowing this is her being nice and sympathetic, but you still tell her,

"I'll wait here. Maybe I can talk to Yuuji."

"Okay, you do that. Let me know if Kirby Boy is okay."

You loiter around the lobby, waiting impatiently for a sign of pink hair. When Yuuji finally walks toward you, you hurry over to him with a fearfully racing pulse.

"Is he okay?"

Yuuji smiles that sweet, reassuring sunshine smile at you and nods,

"Yeah. He scared me, too. But he just has a concussion."

"A concussion?"

You stare at Yuuji worriedly, but he laughs softly and rubs your arm,

"It's no big deal. I get one almost every season. Kuna will be fine, don't worry. He just needs to rest for a day, or our coach will kill him."

You huff, feeling like Yuuji is downplaying it, or maybe this is really the way the hockey guys are. But his reassurance makes you relax anyway.

Yuuji cocks his head,

"I'm heading to our dorm to get the car because they won't let Sukuna walk home. Do you want to come with me?"

You nod and quickly hurry after Sukuna's twin brother.

When you finally see Sukuna after his accident, you curse loudly.

He is sitting on an examination table in the first aid room in the back of the arena, in his sweatpants and Nikes and the black compression shirt he always wears under his hockey jersey. His pink hair is ruffled, and he still looks as dazed as when they carried him off the ice. A dark blue bruise is already forming around his right eye.

Your heart clenches at the sight, and you find yourself hurrying over to Sukuna and hugging him lightly before you can stop yourself.

"Oh god, are you okay?"

You pull away a bit to look at him with big, worried eyes while you caress his biceps gently, afraid to hurt him if you touch him more firmly. As if the big, broad hockey player is a fragile porcelain doll. But you can't think rationally at the moment. All you see is that Sukuna is injured, and it triggers something in you, making you feel all protective and worried over him. And scared. So scared to lose him.

But Sukuna laughs softly and smirks at you. It's a bit crooked and a bit slower than usual, but it manages to calm you down regardless. A large, tattooed hand comes up to rest on your back.

"I'm fine, princess."

But you see how Sukuna can't seem to focus his gaze on you and how he squints his eyes against the bright neon light in the small room. Even if Yuuji hadn't told you about Sukuna's concussion, you would have figured it out by now. He belongs in bed, in his dark room with the curtains closed and lots of rest.

Luckily, Yuuji is already by his brother's side, pulling him up.

"Come on, let's get you home."

You help Yuuji, the two of you taking Sukuna in your middle and leading him slowly to the car. He complains all the way about how he can walk on his own and that he doesn't want Yuuji to wreck his car. You roll your eyes, but at least Sukuna seems to be halfway okay if he can talk like that.

You sit with Sukuna in the back of the car again. Not making out this time, but instead holding his large hand in yours and watching him worriedly, checking if he is still okay.

Once you are in Sukuna's room, you help him take off his tight compression shirt and sweatpants before telling him to get into his bed. He is a good boy for once and does as you say, lying down and letting you pull his blanket over him.

Sukuna looks up at you with that same dazed smile he had in the arena when they carried him past you and he thought you were an angel. It's an expression that seems so foreign on his face that it instantly makes worry flare up in your chest again.

Your decision is made at that moment. You grab the hem of your sweater, pull it off, and slip out of your jeans, crawling into bed to join Sukuna under his blanket,

"I'm staying. I don't think you should be alone right now."

Sukuna laughs softly, but his muscular arm wraps around you immediately and pulls you against his side. You sigh and snuggle against Sukuna, placing a hand on his naked chest, feeling his warm skin and his heartbeat, which is strangely reassuring.

Sukuna's low voice sounds tired but nonetheless smug when he murmurs,

"You're really worried about me, huh, princess? That's so cute."

"You were knocked out. Of course, I am worried. If you had seen the expression on your face when they carried you off the ice, you would have been worried, too!"

"Shhh, it's okay, princess. I'm just teasing you."

Sukuna's large hand lands on yours, holding it in place right there on his chest, his thumb caressing the back of your hand as he adds in a low voice full of amusement,

"I should get injured more often. I quite like it when you get all scared for me and dote on me like that."

"Oh, stop it. You are such an idiot. And don't you dare get into trouble!"

But Sukuna just laughs that raspy low laugh as you add firmly,

"You should get some sleep now. The doc and your coach said you should rest."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it."

And Sukuna really drifts off to sleep just a few minutes later, his body and brain obviously exhausted and in dire need of rest. You, on the other hand, can't find sleep for a long time.

You lie awake in Sukuna's bed, your palm resting on his chest, fingers sprawled over his defined buff pecs, feeling his heartbeat and listening to his soft breathing. The earlier anxiety has left your body now that you know Sukuna will be okay. But something else is keeping your mind busy.

You fucked up. You have a big problem, you realize.

Because what Sukuna's little accident clearly showed you is that he means a lot more to you than you planned.

I AM SO WEAK FOR HIM!! 😭 Tipsy Sukuna made me smile so much while writing 😍 He is so clingy and cute. "Need you, baby." I would have MELTED!! Did you feel protective over injured Kuna, too? I wouldn't leave his side either 😭 Thank you so much for reading the new chapter! I am so glad that I finally had time to post it. I missed our fave hockey player so much. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet. In Chapter 09, we will see Reader accepting her feelings + there will be jealous!Reader and jealous!Sukuna. And we will finally also see Sukuna's POV ;)

[zyafics]

everytime i read this series i feel like im entering the battlefield 🚬😮‍💨my annotations below hehe ⬇️

It was unthinkable to be contemplating about gravestones. How could you sum up your family in limited words or dates, let alone choose a font for it?

ur writing has such PERSONALITY in it, i swear to god when i read this in beta, i was so in awe

Your first thought had been telling Topper, your only real family left, but he was as much Rafe’s as he was yours, and when it came down to it, he was still his best friend. Loyal to him since they were five, and jesus knows how he’d react if he found out about this. He’d most likely freak the fuck out and tell Rafe everything, thinking he was doing the right thing, or worse, letting it slip to Ruthie.

this parallels perfectly to the first chapter where topper called rafe when reader was leaving, so not only is this paragraph giving us an at-point breakdown, but it's referring evidence that topper would slip and tell rafe

It’s then you recognized how small your world was. How few people were truly yours.

their lives are so intertwined that reader doesn't know who to turn to when she needs independence 😭 oh curse rafe and his big dick

Today, it was just you, a few kids and teens dotted along the beach with oversized trash bags. It wasn’t even noon, but the sun felt like it was scorching you alive. It was laughable, really, standing under this blistering sun with a cheap trash bag and an endless stretch of sand to clean. 

this specific paragraph i wanted to highlight because i thought it was so descriptive and imaginative, but simplistic in a way that didn't feel like it was purple prose.

The kids were watching you again, with that look of curiosity. You couldn’t look them in the eye. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t understand that sometimes the grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing either. 

the last line EATS BITCH IT EATS

 “You should sit down.”

oh suck a dick

It was hard to believe the two of you had once burned hotter than any bonfire, two people who got under each other’s skin, in love, and in hate.

in love to hate omg

Instead, he narrowed his eyes, “You think I don’t know what fine looks like? I was there.”

THIS IS SO COLD BUT IT SHOWED HOW THEIR RELATIONSHIP IS SO WELL, HOW INTERTWINED THEY ARE WITH ONE ANOTHER

And the worst part? You could see that frustration in his eyes, the same look he used to give you when he’d reached his limit with you. You wondered if he ever got to that point with Sofia.

i would crashout

Sofia—the one who looked like she'd been ripped off from some perfect postcard, all wide-eyed sweetness and gentle smiles. She probably never challenged him, snapped back, or made him want to pull his hair out.

hm.

This was a version of you only Rafe could bring out.

they're so toxic and dynamic and i love them

Your chest hurt like you’d been run over a hundred times—it felt suffocating. “I hate you.” For the first time, you thought he might actually leave you here. 

that stopped me cold i had to write something in my diary

His fingers stopped as if your words had made an impact, his lips pressed into a thin line. Your vision blurred as he leaned in, his touch hovering as if to wipe away the tear running down your cheek, but he didn’t, instead, he closed his hand into a fist and drew back, his face just inches from yours.  A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked the seatbelt into place. He made a low humming noise, that thing he did when he was getting ready to make someone feel two inches tall.   "Yeah? Get in line."

LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN I'M LISTENING TO BAD OMENS BY 5SOS AND IT'S AT THE BEATS AND WHILE I READ THIS, IT FITTED PERFECTLY OHMYGOD

Rafe drove fast, every rev of the engine matching the churning in your stomach perfectly. You sat there, trembling, the dread building with every mile that passed. You gripped the seatbelt so hard it felt like your entire body might go numb, and stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

i wanted to highlight this specific paragraph because i adore the writing, something about it made me feel every single atom of the scene

“Would you stop?” His voice softened for the first time, as if he was trying to reach some part of you that he thought still cared. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t out of a vending machine. I know you don’t want my help, but can you just stop for a second and—” “And what?” you interrupted. “And think! If you don’t get in there, I’ll drag you in myself.” Your heart raced, “You wouldn’t dare.” Rafe stepped closer; his jaw set in determination. “Try me.” “You’re not coming in." He blinked like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “What?”

HE DIDN'T EXPECT THAT SHIT NO NO

“Yeah, I got someone.”

that's right baby tell em

💌 — ugh, something about this part has been so dynamic, in the way it's constructed, the way it flows so naturally, the way the dialogues are so emotionally-charged but bounces off one another seamlessly. it was like i was watching a perfectly-curated film, where the dialogues were performed by seasoned actors. i love love their arguments. i love how intense it always gets, how they have this push-pull against each other, this hate-love, this line they can't even comprehend nor define. and i love how you written it so beautifully, that you communicate the intensity and depth of this relationship but aggression, tension, and hurt.

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FIVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mention of pregnancy; abortion; lack of self-care

You’ve had to make a lot of unfortunate decisions in your life.

Choosing a place for your entire family to rest for eternity, picking the caskets, the headstones—it felt like deciding which curtains to buy for the house, except you were burying your entire close family.

After the crash, your parents were gone instantly, just like that—no goodbyes, no warning, just there one moment and gone the next.

But your sister survived. Three days. You thought maybe that was a sign, she’d live despite everything, and you wouldn’t be left alone.

Two weeks later, the doctors told you it was time, but you couldn’t accept it. You held her hand, begging her to stay, telling her every promise you could think of if she opened her eyes.

When the monitors finally went flat, you couldn’t feel anything but desperation. Rafe had to pull you out of there, his arms locked around you while you kicked and screamed, sobbing and begging your sister not to go, not to leave you here.

You fought him with everything you had left, clawing, crying, pleading for just one more second. You were screaming so loud you didn’t even recognize your voice. Everything good had been ripped away from your hands, there was nothing left of the world you’d known.

After that, you remember sitting in some stuffy funeral home office, skimming through catalogs and hardly seeing the pages through your tears. The caskets all looked the same, the types of wood made no difference to you, fabric linings, all of it felt so wrong. 

None of it was a choice you should have to make. 

It was unthinkable to be contemplating about gravestones. How could you sum up your family in limited words or dates, let alone choose a font for it?

You just picked something neutral and blank, something that didn’t require thought or emotion because, by then, you had nothing left to give. 

Now you were trapped again, caught between a rock and a hard place.

Your first thought had been telling Topper, your only real family left, but he was as much Rafe’s as he was yours, and when it came down to it, he was still his best friend. Loyal to him since they were five, and jesus knows how he’d react if he found out about this. He’d most likely freak the fuck out and tell Rafe everything, thinking he was doing the right thing, or worse, letting it slip to Ruthie.

Ruthie—no chance you’d involve her. She’d just see this as another fucked up piece of gossip she could hold over your head, another way to judge or control you. She was “friend” only in the loosest sense of the word.

Kelce was the last person you’d consider turning to for something this serious. He has always been there, but you never got close. He was too much of an instigator, always pushing Rafe to do reckless things he’d regret later, peer pressuring him in ways that made you wonder if he even knew what loyalty meant. He had this weird loyalty to Ruthie, defending her comments as if she was some misunderstood angel when really, she was just… mean.

So that left Sarah. 

It felt weird, thinking of her as the person you’d call on for something so serious, she was the only one who felt… safe. She wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t pry, she’d seen what the worst kind of family conflict could do, and she’d keep this private, just for you.

It’s then you recognized how small your world was. How few people were truly yours.

You were pretty sure no one in this town would fully understand, they’d just offer their "advice," as if they knew you, seen what you’d been through. 

The truth was, they didn’t know shit. They hadn't seen you holding your sister’s hand, begging her to stay alive. They didn’t know what it was like to bury everything that made you feel like a person, like you belonged somewhere, and have to get up the next day like nothing happened.

Nine days, you would be halfway across the country, and you needed someone. You pictured saying it out loud: “I’m pregnant", just those two words, to someone’s face, you had no idea what to say next.

Maybe you’d tell them that it wasn’t about wanting it gone out of spite or shame, but because you couldn’t bring a child into a world where you felt this alone.

Earlier that morning, you’d stared down at your phone, thumb itching to click on Sarah’s name, like just pressing "call" could fix everything. You despised how needy it made you feel—reaching out, when you’d prided yourself on surviving alone. 

You didn’t have much time to ponder about it, because you were stuck at the beach cleanup.

Just like every other summer, another "social responsibility" event that your late father’s foundation insisted you smile through. Even back then, when they were alive, your summers were a carousel of charity galas, fundraisers, endless hours of small talk, and impeccably arranged seating charts.

The board members of the foundation probably thought it would “ground” you—remind you of your privilege, of your “responsibility” to give back. As if a couple of hours and a few bags of garbage would somehow balance the scales. They never seemed to understand how much of it was all for show, this shallow idea that if you looked the part, no one would care to learn more.

But, still, you’d show up. You always did. Smile, make just enough small talk to appease the right people. 

Today, it was just you, a few kids and teens dotted along the beach with oversized trash bags. It wasn’t even noon, but the sun felt like it was scorching you alive. It was laughable, really, standing under this blistering sun with a cheap trash bag and an endless stretch of sand to clean. 

Kie, who was so genuinely invested in this whole “save the planet” thing it was almost enviable was there too with JJ, who was running around her as usual, wearing his ‘I’m just here for the ride’ expression but enjoying himself. The love between them made you miss having someone who cared in ways that weren’t just calculated moves.

She waved at you from the shoreline, her eyes moving to the trash bag you were barely half-filling.

You weren’t friends, but if Sarah liked her, you did too.

You offered a faint smile back, tired, because between all the shit you’d been thinking about, you'd forgotten to eat, to drink anything, and every time you leaned down to grab another crumpled plastic bottle or a bit of seaweed-laden garbage, you felt like your legs were about to give out on you. 

Every now and then, she would throw a quick, appraising glance your way, like she was expecting you to miraculously become invested in the beach’s ecosystem.

You didn’t have it in you to pretend this was enjoyable today. The “effortless” philanthropy your family loved was a lifestyle you’d never bought into. It didn’t matter how many smiling photos of you had ended up on some charity’s social media—you knew you’d rather be anywhere else.

You had to take a break every few minutes, leaning against a pier post, trying to get yourself together as a few of the younger kids gave you wary glances. You could have left—probably should have.

You managed a tight-lipped smile, giving a thumbs-up that said, Just doing great over here, guys!

You were in a long t-shirt, which hung over your bikini and shorts, the fabric slightly oversized, to help hide what was still a small change in your body. Paranoia was your new best friend, always worrying that someone would notice something different, even if you didn’t have a noticeable bump yet.

Bending down to grab another plastic bottle, you felt a stab of nausea hit you hard, rolling up from your stomach, thick and sour, but you ignored it. Not here. Not now.

You straightened up too fast, and your vision blurred slightly, that familiar sense of vertigo hitting you. You took a shallow breath, ignoring the burn at the back of your throat, your hands shaking slightly as you adjusted the bag slung over your shoulder.

One girl looked up at you with these wide eyes kids like to pull, “Are you okay?” 

You smiled, brushing it off as if you weren’t about two seconds away from collapsing. “Of course. Just... need a second.” 

The kids were watching you again, with that look of curiosity. You couldn’t look them in the eye. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t understand that sometimes the grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing either. 

Just a few more bags of trash and you’d be able to get back to your car, maybe grab some water from the cooler in the trunk, sit down, and think about it.

This used to be easy, you got a weird kind of enjoyment from these cleanups, running around with your sister, making it a competition to see who could pick up the most trash, laughing until your stomachs hurt over stupid jokes about jellyfish and sunscreen. Back then, this was just one of a thousand little family traditions, one of those things that felt effortless.

Now, sweat dripped down the back of your neck, making your skin prickle uncomfortably.

You’d long given up wiping it away, knowing that it would only come back thicker and hotter the next second. Every instinct told you to run off to the parking lot, and sit in the car with the AC blasting until your body remembered it didn’t hate you.

Leaning down for one last bottle wedged in the sand, your legs wobbled and gave way beneath you. Just like that, your vision was spotty, as if someone had turned down the brightness on the entire beach, and you pitched forward.

Just as you felt yourself going down, a hand caught your arm, pulling you back up.

"Whoa, whoa, you okay?" A teenage boy, maybe sixteen, gripped your arm firmly, keeping you upright.

How much longer could they realistically expect you to go on, plastering on that sweet, dutiful smile? How much “grounding” could one person take?

You blinked, trying to clear the haze in your eyes, "I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded, really, it’s fine,” you insisted, but then a shadow loomed beside you. 

Your vision was so foggy that it took seconds for you to register it.

You looked up slowly, feeling a familiar drop in your stomach as you realized who it was.

The last time you’d been this close to him, the two of you had been screaming insults across the room, Lily having to physically step in. She’d forced him to leave before you two killed each other. It was a miracle you hadn’t punched him then and there.

 “You should sit down.”

It felt like a sidekick to your chest.

The sound of his voice was grinding on your nerves, and just like that you were stuck back in your dream, a real memory, leaning against him, his hand playing with a strand of your hair as he laughed at something you’d said, the two of you carefree under a golden sunset. 

Except this was real.

Rafe was shirtless, with his board tucked under one arm, surf wax staining his fingers, and the sun glinting off his damp skin, like he was God’s gift to the Outer Banks. His buzzed hair was dark and wet, droplets trailing down his temples and catching along his jawline. His cheeks were flushed, a little red from the heat.

You looked away, somewhere over his shoulder, anywhere but at him, refusing to let him see you in this fragile state.

“Go away. I’m fine.���

But he didn’t move.

He’d been summoned from your absolute worst memories, catching you at your lowest when you least wanted his help. Typical. 

“No,” he refused firmly, with that stupid, stubborn look that made you want to throw something at his head. “I’ve seen you almost fall three times now.”

“Maybe if you stopped looking at me like a creep, you wouldn’t have to see me ‘almost fall.”

“I wasn’t—"

You grounded your teeth, “Just go back to surfing.”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as if you were the one acting crazy. “Yeah, 'cause you look perfectly stable right now.”

He'd always been a master of the passive-aggressive half-sneer, the art of making you feel like everyone else was imposing on his day, no matter the situation.

“Don’t act like you care.” you snapped, voice carrying over the sand, earning a few glances from nearby kids.

He ran a hand over his face, looking around as if he didn’t want to be there any more than you did, mouth pressed into a tight line. You wanted to scream that this was his fault too, that every choice he’d made led to you standing here alone, exhausted, and terrified.

“Water would help, y’know”, his tone just shy of patronizing “You can’t go around dehydrating yourself just to make a point.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Your fingers twitched with the urge to send him stumbling to the other side of the beach, you knew that any sudden movement would make you light-headed again, and the last thing you wanted was to give him more proof of your weakness.

The kid—still standing there, eyes wide and darting between you both—looked like he was watching a reality TV show when Kiara appeared at your side.

“Let’s not do this here,” she begged under her breath, handing you a bottle of water she’d brought over, a kindness you didn’t want but couldn’t reject. “Just sit down for a second, please?”

JJ followed, always with that air of easygoing nonchalance, but his eyes were serious as he glanced from you to Rafe.

“She’s right. Just take a second, yeah?” He looked over at Rafe, “Maybe you should leave,” he said pointedly.

“Maybe you should mind your fuckin’ business Maybank.”

“Look, uh,” the kid stammered, knowing he could get caught in the crossfire. “I’ll… I’ll go see if anyone needs help further down the beach…”

You waved him off, your focus still locked on Rafe as the kid all but bolted away, you didn’t want anyone to think they had to “rescue” you.

You tried to take a step back, but the little strength you had in you disappeared as you felt your knees wobble.

"Jesus," you heard him groan, and then his hands were on your arms, board on the sand, holding you as you stumbled. "I told you to sit down."

You shook his hands off, "Don’t tell me what to do.”

It was hard to believe the two of you had once burned hotter than any bonfire, two people who got under each other’s skin, in love, and in hate.

He let out an exasperated sigh while you took a sip from the water Kiara handed you, ignoring how your hands were still shaking around the bottle. 

She spoke again, trying to be the voice of reason, "We’re here to help the community, remember?"

JJ smirked, "Yeah, think the sea turtles are rooting for y’all to work out your issues somewhere else.”

You ignored his joke, keeping your eyes on Rafe, your pride and stubbornness refusing to let him win, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

He looked you over, his gaze fixed to your warm cheeks and the dewy sheen across your temple, “You look real fine, don’t you?” He didn’t even try to cloak his sarcasm.

God, he could be so exasperating.

He couldn’t understand. How could he even think he could look at you now and know anything about who you were? Standing there, with that stupid board and that look, like he couldn’t imagine anything bothering him as much as this seemed to be bothering you.

As if he hadn’t already ruined you in so many ways that felt impossible to get over. 

“Don’t you have something better to do?” 

“Oh, believe me, I do,” he drawled, his eyes trailing from the waves back to you. 

You were tired of this game, of fighting him every time he showed up only to leave you feeling even emptier than before.

Your fists clenched, and you opened your mouth to hurl something back, but the dizziness hit you again. Before you could compose yourself, Rafe’s arm wrapped around your waist, strong and frustratingly secure, holding you upright with an ease that made your skin crawl.

He had seen you at your weakest, had been there at the hospital after the accident, keeping you together when you were certain you’d break. 

Yet, here you were, in a sick way, back in his arms, all broken apart.

“That’s it. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” JJ chimed in, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

The world alone had all kinds of alarms going off in your brain. You fought back instinctively, your hands pushing at his chest, freeing your arm. 

“I told you, I’m fine.”

He let go, but he didn’t back away.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes, “You think I don’t know what fine looks like? I was there.”

He was there. And you didn’t want to be reminded of it, not in front of other people. 

He meant the exhaustion and hunger pains you’d welcomed after your family was gone, embraced even, because it meant you wouldn’t have to feel anything else.

You’d wanted to disappear, and he’d been there—dragging you back, forcing you to drink water and swallow bites of food, even when you pushed him away. He’d seen you at your absolute lowest, where you didn’t care if you made it through the day. 

The thought of the hospital, tests, questions, you fought it, but your vision was already blurring.

You couldn’t let him find out about the baby. 

Your breathing felt tighter, each shallow breath only making the spinning worse, you could sense your body giving in to the exhaustion

“Shit,” you heard him curse, sounding distant now like he was farther away. 

You felt yourself sway as if the ground was opening beneath you, there was a ringing in your ears that made his voice sound muffled but you still felt his arms catching you again, holding you upright before you fell.

Waking up in a moving vehicle was like emerging from a nightmare, except somehow, this was worse, because you were no longer at the beach. 

You blinked hard, desperate to wipe the fogginess in your eyes and when it did go away, you realized who was behind the wheel. 

Rafe. 

Your heart pounded—your desperation to keep the baby a secret, how you almost passed out at the beach, and the fact that now he was most likely driving you to the hospital.

“What the hell are you doing?” you practically screamed, your voice hoarse from the lack of water.

He didn’t spare you a glance, “You passed out, genius. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Your whole body went rigid. “Are you insane?”

“Me?” He scoffed, as he kept his focus on the road. “You practically ate sand back there. You’re not fine.”

“Turn the car around. I’ll call my driver and be fine.” You huffed like he was too dumb to understand. “I don’t need your help.”

He let out a dry laugh, still not looking at you. 

“Yeah. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you out of this car right now.”

“Rafe, I’m not kidding,” you warned, louder this time. “Stop. The. Car.”

He gave you a sideways glance, his grip on the wheel tightening.

“Not happening.”

Your heart hammered as you realized he wasn’t going to back down, you were driven by sheer desperation.

“Fine, then I’ll do it myself." you muttered, reaching for the door handle. 

Anything to get out of this suffocating car before he dragged you all the way to the ER and they found out you were pregnant—with his baby, no less.

His eyes widened, finally snapping from the road to your hand on the handle.

“Are you crazy? Get your hand off that, I’m fuckin' serious.”

You yanked at it anyway, twisting the handle and pulling with spiteful defiance, and Rafe’s expression went from annoyed to full-on rage. He swerved the car to the side of the road, tires skidding as he slammed the brakes and practically threw the car into park.

Before he could even stop fully, you flung the door open and stumbled out, sandals sinking into the gravel as you stalked away.

You didn’t get more than a few feet, he was already bolting after you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, digging your nails into your palms. 

How the hell had it come to this? You were stuck here, pregnant with his child, and he played the reluctant hero like you needed him swooping in to save you.

Rafe reached you in two strides, his fingers were digging into his forehead, pointing at it with exasperation imprinted into every corner of his face. 

“Are you out of your fuckin' mind?” He sounded like he was talking to some unruly child.

And the worst part? You could see that frustration in his eyes, the same look he used to give you when he’d reached his limit with you.

You wondered if he ever got to that point with Sofia.

What would he do if she was the one almost fainting? Would he still look like she was some colossal burden, or would he soften, maybe even smile as he fussed over her, acting like he wanted to help?

You hated yourself for caring at all.

Sofia—the one who looked like she'd been ripped off from some perfect postcard, all wide-eyed sweetness and gentle smiles. She probably never challenged him, snapped back, or made him want to pull his hair out.

There was no way he’d look at her like she was a mess, someone he just had to “deal with.” He likely saw her as easy, perfect, all soft and sweet words, everything you weren’t.

This wasn’t who you wanted to be, and yet here you were, stumbling around half-dead and pregnant with his child.

“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” You spat the words, watching his jaw clench tighter. 

He exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. 

“Unbelievable. Only you could take me trying to help and turn it into this.”

You were done. You were done with the memories, with the torment of seeing him be something better for someone else. 

“Help?” You laughed bitterly, the anger engulfing you so hard it felt as if it choking you. “You think this is help? That I need you, of all people?”

He took a step back, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm trying to help."

You hated how calm he was, how rational he sounded.

It was maddening when all you wanted was for him to get angry, to let that icy surface crack, to give you even a glimpse of something real, something that wasn’t just irritation or sarcasm.

You wanted proof that he still was affected by you, that this was the same guy who used to be everything, who’d promised you everything.

But you swallowed it down, straightening up, because there was no way in hell, you’d let him see even a hint of weakness.

“Trust me,” you shot back, “I’ll be just fine without you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Get in the car.”

“No,” you said, firm and unyielding, every inch of you screaming that you wouldn’t let him decide anything for you ever again.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

In one swift move, he reached out, his hands gripping your arms with enough pressure to pull you forward, lifting you clean off your feet. Your breath caught in a furious gasp as he practically dragged you back to the car, his fingers warm against your skin, like you were just a mild convenience. 

“Put me down!” 

You struggled against his hold, jabbing at his chest with what little strength you could muster, but he didn’t even flinch, didn’t so much as hesitate. 

“Rafe, I swear—”

He opened the passenger door with one hand, keeping a firm grip on you with the other, before finally setting you down—not gently—onto the seat. Without meaning to, tears began falling as you struggled against his hands. You could feel them wetting your cheeks, your voice was breaking, jumping to distress as you tried to twist out of his hold, feeling so small under his unrelenting strength.

He almost knelt in front of you, reaching for the seat belt with one hand, while his other remained firmly on your shoulder, holding you still. You felt trapped, impresioned as you tried to turn in every direction, hands weakly pushing him back, but he caught them effortlessly.

“Stop!” you meekly choked out, failing to shove him, the words coming out shameful.

You could feel your heart breaking all over again.

You hated that he was seeing you like this, how he dared to act like you needed him—it made your skin crawl. You hated that he could do this, like he had any right like you’d ever wanted him involved in this part of your life, let alone now.

This was a version of you only Rafe could bring out.

You glared up at him, practically shaking with rage as Rafe ignored your protests like you were nothing more than a child throwing a fit. 

“Get your hands off me.”

His jaw tightened, ignoring the flailing punches and slaps grazing him, and you couldn’t stop the sob that escaped, loud and ugly.

“I’m not letting you kill yourself out of spite.”

Your chest hurt like you’d been run over a hundred times—it felt suffocating. “I hate you.”

For the first time, you thought he might actually leave you here. 

His fingers stopped as if your words had made an impact, his lips pressed into a thin line. Your vision blurred as he leaned in, his touch hovering as if to wipe away the tear running down your cheek, but he didn’t, instead, he closed his hand into a fist and drew back, his face just inches from yours. 

A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked the seatbelt into place. He made a low humming noise, that thing he did when he was getting ready to make someone feel two inches tall. 

 "Yeah? Get in line."

Without another word, he pulled back, slamming the door shut, and walking around to the driver’s side.

You wiped at your cheeks, furious that he’d seen you like this, that he had the power to break you down. It was humiliating, sitting here in his car, every part of your body screaming to escape. 

He got in, started the engine, neither of you spoke.

Rafe drove fast, every rev of the engine matching the churning in your stomach perfectly. You sat there, trembling, the dread building with every mile that passed. You gripped the seatbelt so hard it felt like your entire body might go numb, and stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

You bit back another wave of nausea. Weakness.

You’d already shown him too much. 

You didn’t need a lecture from some doctor on how you “should’ve taken better care of yourself", let alone with Rafe there, watching, scrutinizing, acting like this was his business when he’d made it clear long ago that it wasn’t. He was in your space in the worst way, reopening all the wounds.

You were seething. He had no right to do this.

The thought made you want to drop dead—doctor would walk in, casually drop the news about the baby, and you'd be left watching his reaction in real time.

You looked at the entrance to the ER. The vision of anyone running tests, of some well-meaning nurse, coming in and spilling everything about the baby in front of him—no way. You wouldn’t let that happen.

He wasted no time getting out, moving around to your side, while you sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. His hand was already on the door, yanking it open, looking down at you like he was ready to drag you inside if he had to.

You weren’t moving. You knew the second you stepped inside, it would be over. 

“C’mon,” Rafe pressed, his hand outstretched, hovering there like he thought he could compel you to listen. “Stop being so stubborn.”

You crossed your arms over your stomach, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going in.”

Rafe let out a sigh, nearing his limit, and knelt down to your level.

“Look, you passed out. I’m not leaving until you get checked out.”

“You’re gonna be here for a while then.”

“Would you stop?” His voice softened for the first time, as if he was trying to reach some part of you that he thought still cared. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t out of a vending machine. I know you don’t want my help, but can you just stop for a second and—”

“And what?” you interrupted.

“And think! If you don’t get in there, I’ll drag you in myself.”

Your heart raced, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Rafe stepped closer; his jaw set in determination. “Try me.”

“You’re not coming in."

He blinked like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “What?”

Maybe he was seeing the protection you’d built up around yourself since he left, how there was no longer any crack left open for him to slip through.

“I don’t need you. I don’t want you in there.”

“Fine.” His tone was clipped, restrained. “But I’ll be right here.”

You slammed the door shut behind you, not letting him your legs still shaking. You’d rather collapse face-first into the concrete than give him the satisfaction of listening to him. 

“Yeah, you do that,” you replied, turning and walking toward the entrance, refusing to look back.

Stepping inside, you felt a slight tremor run through you—part relief, part panic. The lights were too bright, almost white. Your heart wobbled, replaying how he’d been such a fucking asshole to you.

You’d forgotten how mean he could be, how easily he could go from angry to something so frigid it made you want to cry yourself to sleep.

“Hi there,” The receptionist greeted, her eyes moving over you with a professional once-over, “What brings you in today?”

You forced a small smile, knowing she wouldn’t buy it.

“Just…got a little dehydrated, that’s all.”

“Okay…let’s just get some basic information.” She clicked into her computer, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Name?”

You cleared your throat, rattling off your full name, she nodded, typing it in.

“Have you experienced any other symptoms besides dizziness?”

“Nothing serious,” you replied, dismissively. “It’s just the heat, like I said. I just need some water and I’ll be good as new.”

This had to be a fucking nightmare you got sucked in, you could sense your blood pressure spike.

She tapped her screen and glanced back at you.

“Alright, Miss Thornton, it looks like we’ll just need a few quick details here to get you all checked in. Can I start with your insurance provider?”

A chuckle almost slipped out of you. Insurance—God, you were fine with insurance. What you weren’t okay with was everything else. You answered, “Blue Cross.”

She asked for your birthdate, which you gave on autopilot, hoping she’d skip any weird or invasive questions. “Any allergies?”

You shook your head. Please, just let this be over. 

“It’s really not a big deal,” You blurted out, giving her a thin smile and forcing calm into your voice. “I just need the IV. You know, standard stuff.”

“Of course, dear. We’ll get things started, it will include routine tests, like bloodwork, just to be safe.”

Bloodwork. Perfect. You were doing everything you could to keep from falling into that spiraling panic mode. 

Please, just get me in, get me out, and don’t find anything.

“Just head down to Room 12.”

All you could think was that you wanted this to be over—before the whole town, or worse, he, found out. It made you want to scream. He was the last person who should be outside.

This was his fault. You’d never be here if he hadn’t shown up.

The next hour passed in seconds—questions, forms, an IV drip.

They’d done blood work, too, but you’d sighed in relief when they’d told you the results wouldn’t be ready immediately. As far as they knew, you’d just overdone it, and now, as you lay on a cot in a room that reeked of sick people, all they’d prescribed was rest, hydration, and food.

When the nurse asked if anyone could pick you up, the thought of calling someone, asking them to see you like this, made you delirious. You didn’t need anyone; you were perfectly fine on your own.

But you also didn’t want Rafe and his delusional ass to barge through the doors.

The nurse moved around you awkwardly, eyes still expectant, as if you were just a button away from a reliable “someone” to come running.

You looked at her, controlling the compulsion to yell. Little people ever bothered to check on you, to show up for more than just the drama or gossip.

Out of them, only one face bounced around in your head.

“Yeah, I got someone.”

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige @rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron @serrendiipty @sunny1616

@yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog @psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[rowdyluv]

WHAT’S MINE IS MINE jh⁸⁶

disclaimer: you are responsible for your own interactions with posts on the internet. the text of this post is not intended for anyone under the age of 18. if you are a minor and choose to ignore the disclaimer, other warnings, and continue to read you, yourself, are at fault.

summary: in which y/n has wondering eyes while in a relationship with jack, jack gets fed up and reminds her who she’s with.

word count: 3.08k

warnings: porn with a lot of plot, protected p in v, degradation, praise if you squint, sad jack if you squint, spit kink, nicknames (baby, babygirl, etc) to cover: downright filth

notes: hi there request finished for @sweetestdesire after rewriting five times? i think? her and basically wrote it together in our texts so I scratched that one and we ended up here 🥲

The fire crackled and spit, throwing shadows across the faces of the small group huddled around the makeshift pit. The scent of roasting marshmallows filled the night air, mingling with the faint whispers of the surrounding forest. Y/n, caught in the warm embrace of Jack, leaned back into his broad chest, her heart racing in a way it hadn't in months.

The friends surrounding them were all familiar faces, all people she was comfortable with. There’s one. Just one she was particularly a little too comfortable with.

At least in her desire for him. Which she knew was wrong. She knew she shouldn’t have some silly crush on her long term boyfriend’s best friend. But she did.

Trevor.

Tonight, Trevor sat across from her and Jack, the flickering firelight playing across his jawline and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His eyes met hers every so often, the intensity of his gaze sending a shiver down her spine. Y/n felt Jack's arms tighten around her waist as if he could sense her wandering thoughts about Trevor, and she forced a smile engaging in a conversation with someone on the opposite side of his direction, pretending she hadn't noticed the way Trevor's eyes lingered on her.

Jack’s body tensed. He was looking at his supposed best friend, watching him practically eye fuck his girlfriend right in front of him. He’d had enough of this shit. This summer was supposed to be a time for all of them to kick back, relax, and enjoy the lake house. But every time Trevor was around, Jack felt like he was fighting for Y/n’s attention.

The one person he shouldn’t have to fight for.

The tension grew thicker than the smoke rising from the pit, and the conversation around them grew quieter between some of the non-regular Hughes guests. Y/n felt it too, her heart fluttering as she tried to ignore the dance of the shadows on Trevor’s face. The way his teeth glinted as he took a sip of his beer. The way the flames reflected in his eyes, making them look like molten gold. How his eyes squinted when he laughed at a “joke” Quinn told, that wasn’t really a joke, so the rest of us would laugh at Trevor for laughing so hard.

Jack's grip grew firmer over time, his thumb idly stroking her side. It was a gentle touch, but one that sent a possessive message that wasn’t lost on her. She took a deep breath and turned her gaze back to the fire, focusing on the hypnotic dance of the flames. She knew Jack was watching her, waiting for her to acknowledge the tension. But she couldn’t. It would only make things awkward the next three months.

Her eyes flicked back over once more, shocked to see Trevor’s eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed. Jack’s hand slid to her thigh and gripped slightly. Just enough to make her jump.

“Up. Let’s go.” he murmured in her ear, his voice a dark rumble that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Wha— What?” Y/n stumbled over her words, standing up as Jack started standing before she was ready.

“You heard me. Let’s. Go.” He repeated through gritted teeth and grabbing ahold of her hand. “G’night everyone.” He muttered before pulling her inside.

Once they were out of earshot and inside the dimly lit cabin, Jack pushed her up against the first blank wall he could find. The suddenness of his movement made her gasp, but she didn’t resist.

“Did you just forget that I existed out there? I’d say not fucking likely since you were on my lap.” He huffed. “What the fuck was that huh?”

He didn’t give her time to answer before taking ahold of her hand again and continuing on to their bedroom.

Y/n's breathing grew heavier with each step, her heart racing as Jack's hand remained a firm presence around her wrist, almost as if he was afraid she'd bolt. The room was dark when they entered, the only light coming from the crack under the door from the hallway, but it was enough to illuminate the anger on Jack’s face. He pushed her down onto the bed, his eyes blazing with a mix of jealousy and desire.

"What is it about him?" Jack’s voice was low and gruff, so different from his casual softness that always fills the air around him. Y/n felt the heat rise in her cheeks, her body betraying her with the way it flushed in desire.

"I... I don't know," she stumbled over her words, trying to pull her hand away. But Jack's grip was like iron, unyielding as he leaned into her. She could feel the heat of his breath on her face, the scent of his minty gum and the woodsmoke clinging to him. "He just... I don't know, babe."

Jack's eyes searched hers, his jaw clenched tightly. "Is it because you think he can give you something I can't?" His voice was a dangerously low whisper, the kind that promised both passion and pain if she didn't give him the answer he wanted.

Y/n felt her stomach tighten at the accusation, but she couldn't deny that the thought hadn't crossed her mind. Trevor was... well different. There was something about his filthy stories that made her curious, lustful. Something raw and primal. But she didn't dare voice it. Instead, she tried to play it cool, her voice a shaky whisper. "It's not like that, Jack."

“Bullshit. I bet if I touched you right now you’d be dripping.” Jack dropped his hold on her wrists and moved to her thighs. “Would I win that bet?”

Y/n swallowed hard, trying to keep her cool. But the way his eyes bore into her, the way his hands ghosted over her skin, it was hard to resist the heat that was already building in her core. He was going to prove to her that she didn’t need Trevor. That she only needed him.

"Jack, it's... it's all for you always for you," she blurted out, her voice trembling. "I swear, it's just... I don't know, curiosity."

He stepped away from her. “Curious? You’re curious about if he can fuck you better than me?” There’s a hint of playfulness in his tone.

“Oh sweet, sweet pathetic baby girl, there’s no one else that will ever be able to make you cum like I can. Especially not Trevor Zegras” He took a hold of her by the side of the neck, the tips of his calloused fingers gripping the back.

“Do you understand that, or do I need to fuck your tight little cunt to remind you?” Jack says confidently, pushing her back against the bed and kneeling over her.

Y/n bit her lip, the heat of embarrassment and arousal mixing in her cheeks. She couldn’t resist the urge to look back up at him, his eyes gleaming with a mix of challenge and desire.

Jack smirks and without saying another word, he tugged at the waistband of her shorts, pulling them down in one swift motion along with her underwear, leaving her bare and exposed. A cool breeze kissed her skin, making her shiver. He spread her legs wide, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her.

He placed a single finger at the apex of her thighs and dragged it along her slit, parting her folds. Y/n's breath hitched as the sensation sent a jolt through her body. The warmth from his touch was a shock compared to the chilly air of the cabin, causing her to jolt her body up to meet his hand.

Jack's smirk grew into a full smile at her reaction. He knew she was sensitive there. He knew how she liked it. "Mhmm, looks like I won that bet," he said, his voice filled with a smug satisfaction. He pushed a finger inside of her, a silent burning challenge in his eyes as he waited for her to react.

“So wet, just like the little slut that you are.”

He quickly added two more fingers, and they delved inside her, working deeper into her each pump in, his digits coated with her slick arousal. His other hand worked in tandem with his fingers, his knuckles grazed her clit with every stroke. Y/n’s eyes rolled back in her head, a soft moan escaping her lips followed by whimpers.

She couldn’t believe she was letting him do this out of sheer jealousy, but the way he touched her, the way he claimed her, it was all of the intense emotions she’d been wanting from Trevor. All of the stories she’d heard them share where he was such an intense partner in bed, she wanted that, craved it truthfully.

Yet her body responded to her boyfriend with such an urgency that surprised even her. Her hips bucked, pushing her closer to the edge of ecstasy. His fingers were relentless, a constant rhythm that seemed to sync with the beat of the music now playing in the distance outside. The all familiar warmth spread through her, her pussy clenching around him as she grew closer to her orgasm with every second that passed.

“Jack.” His name left her lips in the softest breathless whisper one could ever share. “More please.”

Jack leaned in closer, with a menacing chuckle as he studied her already fucked out features.

“You’re such a needy whore, aren’t you?” He murmured against her ear, his teeth nipping at her lobe. He watched her face contort with pleasure, her eyes roll back slightly, and before her back could arch he removed his fingers abruptly.

“Not so fast.” He tsked. His slick coated fingers grazed her bottom lip, which she took in her mouth without hesitation. “You’ll cum when I cum. If I decide we’re going that far.”

Y/n whimpered, unable to form coherent words as she nodded frantically. She could feel her wetness seeping from between her thighs and onto the bed beneath her, she was aching, begging for more of his rough touch.

“Jack.” His name drawn out the only thing she could manage to string together.

Jack chuckled darkly.

He grabbed her hips and yanked her to the edge of the bed. His mouth claimed hers in a bruising kiss, his tongue invading her mouth. His hands were everywhere, running up her thighs, grabbing her ass, moving to cradle her head. His hands moved down her arms, rough palms grazing her skin, sending goosebumps in their wake, until he reached the hem of her shirt.

“Take it off.” He demands of her, and with a swift upward motion, y/n lifted it over her head. She had made the decision to go braless a simple tease to both boys, yet a fact she hadn’t even noticed herself in the heat of the moment.

But now, her nipples were peaked and begging for attention, standing tall against her pale skin.

“You wanted him to look at you. You wanted him to think about what these,” Jack pinched her nipples at the same time “felt like in his mouth, how you reacted when they were played with. Didn’t you?” He accused her. She avoided looking up at him, until he grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him.

“I asked you a fucking question.”

“I did it for both of you. I wanted you both to look at me.”

Jack shook his head in disbelief, his eyes smoldering with a new intensity.

“Listen to me y/n. Trevor,” he growled, his voice low and dominant. “Is not your boyfriend, he’s not to look at you the way I do. He’s not the one who is supposed to lean into you when you talk, throw his head back laughing at your silly jokes.” There was a small growl in his words. “Most of all he shouldn’t be looking at your tits like I get to.”

Y/n nods and her eyes fall from holding eye contact with him.

“Because you’re mine. All fucking mine.” He huffs before spitting on one nipple and gliding his fingers across it while pinching the other, earning him a delighted gasp and her eyes jerking back up.

"Is that what you want me to do?" He asks, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You want me to spit on you, claiming you this way?"

Y/n's cheeks burned with a mix of shame and arousal, the words hitting her like a slap across the face. She nodded, unable to speak, her heart racing as Jack leaned closer to her body and spat in the middle of her chest, the saliva landing on her cleavage, his finger spreading it down her stomach, and teasingly slipping down and over her clit.

His hot breath ghosted against her ear as he whispered, “If you’re good and do as I say the rest of the time, I may just reward you and spit in your mouth like I know you’re really wanting.”

They shared a heated kiss, his hands on her chest working their way down to her thighs spreading them wide. “Bend your knees and put your feet on the edge of the bed.” His tone back to demanding.

Jack's hand smacked down onto her pussy, his fingers plunging back into her without warning for a teasing few thrusts. His thumb and forefinger pinched her clit roughly, then rubbing it in a way that made her back arch off the bed. The sting of his touch mixed with the pleasure, a delicious cocktail that made her head spin.

After snagging a condom from the drawer and rolling it on, he spat once more aiming for and perfectly hitting her clit. Taking his painfully hard cock he rubbed the spit across her pussy.

“Jack. Please just,” Y/n whimpered.

He kept teasing her. Sliding the head of cock just barely in and right back out, the back up over her clit.

“Are you sure you deserve it,?” He teased.

She eagerly nodded and at that he thrust into her, burying himself to the hilt in one swift movement.

She cried out his name, her nails digging into the bed sheets as he filled her completely. He didn't pause, didn't give her time to adjust. He just started moving, his hips pistoning into her with a brutal rhythm that had her seeing stars. Each thrust was punctuated with a grunt, his breath hot on her neck as he claimed her over and over again.

Y/n's body was on fire, each stroke of his cock sending waves of pleasure crashing over her. She could feel herself getting wetter, her walls tightening around him as she neared climax. Jack's hands roamed over her body, his rough calloused touch a drastic difference to the smoothness of her skin. He pinched her nipples, rolled them between his thumb and forefinger, drawing out her moans.

He knew her body like he knew hockey, knew every button to push, every spot that made her whimper and writhe with pleasure.

The room was filled with the maxed out sound of their heavy breathing and the slap of skin on skin. The headboard banging against the wall was a steady metronome to their passionate symphony.

Y/n's eyes rolled back in her head as Jack's thumb found her clit again, rubbing it in tight, fast circles that had her teetering on the edge of release. She could feel the tension coiling in her stomach, the heat building between her legs.

"Jack," she screeched. "I'm going to come."

He smirked, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Come for me, baby. Show me how much you're mine."

The words pushed her over the edge, and she shattered around him, her orgasm ripping through her like a tornado. She clung to him, her nails leaving half-moons in his back as she rode the waves of pleasure. He didn't slow, didn't stop, his rhythm relentless as he pushed her through the aftershocks of her climax.

Her legs were trembling when he finally pulled out, his cock slick with their combined juices. He flipped her onto her stomach, his hand pressing into her back as he re-entered her from behind. The angle was deeper, more intense, and she moaned into the pillow, her body still sensitive from the first orgasm. He meant what he said earlier, she would cum, when he came and he was keeping that word.

Jack sat them up, still fucking her from behind, hitting all new areas, and all new angles. An entirely new position for them.

“Baby, I’m so.” She couldn’t finish her sentence as her body shuttered.

“Let go, pretty girl.” His voice was at its most normal all night at that moment. His resolve breaking.

As she came again, her pussy spasming around him, had Jack letting out a something like a roar. He pulled out, his cock pulsing with his own release into the condom. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back giving him access to suck on her collarbone, marking her, not caring who will see for the days to come. The act was a reminder of his earlier promise, he grabbed her by the hips, flipping her over so he could see her face.

“Open baby girl. You were so good for me.” He said tapping her lower lip and leaned over, spit pooling in his mouth, and without a moment of hesitation, he leaned in and spit into her mouth. She swallowed, her eyes locked on his watching, waiting.

He kissed her hard then, his tongue pushing into her mouth, tasting himself on her. It was a claiming, it was desperate and a branding of her as his own. And as he pulled away, the hard tough man look from before was gone. It was replaced with a look of insecurity and worry.

“I’ll be right back, I’m going to get you a towel and start you a bath.” His voice soft as if he was concerned now that someone may hear him.

He grabbed his underwear and was pulling them on when Y/n reached for him.

“Jack, I think you should say what’s on your mind.” Her voice just as soft as his seconds ago.

Jack was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands that he was fidgeting with.

"Please… Please tell me that you're only mine. Just mine," he pleaded his back to her, his voice thick with need. If his words had been drawn out heartache would be circling every letter of every word.

"Of course I am," she whimpered, her voice muffled by the lump in her throat. "Always yours, only yours.”

Jack turned and looked at her, “Always?”

“Always.”

© property of rowdyluv ; do not copy and re-upload as your own - anywhere. do not place my work inside AI codes, do not translate.

[wolvietxt]

𝓭ay 𝓽wenty.

logan howlett and overheard conversation.

you had been feeling off for days. something nagging at you, pulling you into a spiral of self-doubt. it wasn't like logan to pull away. sure, he could be distant sometimes, but that was just him. you were used to his gruff exterior, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. but this felt different, and the thought had been gnawing at you, churning in your gut like a bad omen.

it was late afternoon when you overheard it. you hadn’t meant to listen in, not really, but it was hard to miss when logan’s voice carried through the hallway, rough and low. he was talking to someone - jean, you thought, by the sound of her voice.

"look, i just can’t be dealing with all that right now," logan was saying, and your steps faltered as you rounded the corner. you couldn't see them, but you could hear the frustration in his tone, the kind that made your heart sink. "too much… too fuckin’ clingy. i don’t have time for it."

the words hit you like a punch in the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. you took a step back, your pulse pounding in your ears. he wasn’t talking about you, was he? no, it couldn’t be. except… it wasn’t like you hadn’t noticed how distant he’d been lately. the way he avoided eye contact, kept his replies short. it felt like he was pulling away, and now, you wondered if maybe that was exactly what was happening.

you withdrew to your room, the hurt settling deep in your chest, heavy like a stone. the days that followed blurred together, and you did your best to give him space. you weren’t sure if it was the right thing to do, but you couldn’t bring yourself to push, to ask him what was really going on. so, you kept your distance, hoping that maybe it would help, that maybe it would make things easier on him.

logan, for his part, seemed to notice the change. you could tell from the way his brow furrowed when you didn’t meet his gaze, the way his hand twitched as if he was about to reach for you before thinking better of it. but he didn’t ask. and you didn’t say anything.

one evening, nearly a week later, you found yourself in the kitchen, the room dimly lit as you stirred a pot of soup on the stove. you tried to focus on the rhythmic motion, the heat curling against your face, but your thoughts kept wandering back to that day, to the sound of his voice saying you were too much.

"hey," logan’s voice came from behind you, startling you enough that you almost dropped the spoon. you turned to find him standing in the doorway, his eyes narrowing slightly at the way you tensed.

"hey," you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. "didn't hear you come in."

he grunted in acknowledgment, stepping closer, his eyes flicking over your face, like he was searching for something you weren’t ready to give. "been avoidin' me?" he asked, his voice low, careful.

your fingers tightened around the spoon, and you turned back to the stove, forcing yourself to keep stirring. "just… been busy, that’s all."

"that’s fuckin’ bull," he replied, blunt as always. "somethin's goin' on with you. and don't try to tell me otherwise."

the words were right there on the tip of your tongue, ready to spill out like a dam breaking. but the thought of confronting him, of opening up that wound, made your throat tighten. what if he confirmed it? what if he really thought you were too much? "i'm fine," you said, but even to you, it sounded hollow.

logan stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, the familiar scent of pine and leather. "you're not," he insisted, his voice gruffer than usual, like he was fighting to keep his own frustration at bay. "you’ve been avoidin’ me for days. if i did somethin’, you need to tell me, baby."

your hands trembled slightly, and you gripped the spoon harder to steady yourself. "it’s not important," you murmured, but the words felt like a lie. you turned off the stove, setting the spoon down before you faced him, your gaze dropping to the floor as your vision began to blur. "just… forget it."

logan reached out then, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, keeping you from retreating any further. "don’t do that," he said, and there was a rawness in his voice that cut through your resolve, fraying the edges. "don’t shut me out."

you swallowed hard, your throat tightening painfully. "i overheard you," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "the other day. you were talking to jean. you said… you said i was too much." you lifted your gaze, the hurt spilling out despite your attempts to hold it back. "if you don’t want me around, logan, you could’ve just said so."

for a moment, he just stared at you, his expression unchanging. then, something in his gaze softened, and his grip on your wrist tightened just slightly, as if grounding himself. "what the hell are you talkin’ about?" he asked, his brows drawing together in confusion.

"you said i was clingy," you said, the words rushing out before you could second-guess them. "that you didn’t have time for it."

logan’s eyes widened slightly, and then he exhaled a rough, almost exasperated breath. "oh baby… you got it all wrong," he said, shaking his head. "i wasn’t talkin’ about you. jean was askin' if i could help out with some training sessions. she was sayin' i was stretchin' myself too thin, takin’ on too much. that’s all."

the explanation hit you like a gust of wind, leaving you momentarily off balance. "you… weren’t talking about me?" you repeated, your voice small, almost fragile.

"no, darlin'," he replied, his tone rough but gentle. "never."

the relief washed over you in a wave, but it was tainted by the lingering sting of doubt, the way it had burrowed under your skin, making a home there. "i… i just thought…" you trailed off, biting your lip. "i thought you didn’t want me around anymore. you’ve been distant, and i didn’t want to be a burden."

logan’s jaw tightened, and before you could pull away, he was tugging you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a firm embrace. "you ain’t a burden," he said, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "don’t you ever think that."

you hesitated for a moment, then let yourself sink into the comfort of his arms, pressing your face against his chest. his hand moved to your hair, stroking it gently as he held you close, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you, chasing away the remnants of your doubt.

"you scared the hell outta me," he muttered, his tone softening as his fingers continued to comb through your hair. "thought you were pullin’ away ‘cause you didn’t want me around anymore."

you shook your head, wrapping your arms around him a little tighter. "never," you whispered, the word catching in your throat. "just… got in my head, i guess."

logan’s hold on you tightened, and he shifted, pulling you into his lap as he settled back against the kitchen counter. his hand kept stroking your hair, and the other rested on your back, his thumb tracing gentle circles there. "you’re stuck with me, you know that, kid?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "i ain’t goin’ anywhere. and i sure as hell ain’t gettin’ tired of you."

you let out a small, shaky breath, leaning into him, the weight of your earlier fears slowly melting away. "promise?" you asked, your voice muffled against his chest.

logan huffed a quiet laugh, his breath warm against your temple. "damn right, i promise," he said, his tone soft and sure. "you’re it for me, darlin’. wouldn’t want anyone else."

the words settled over you like a balm, soothing the raw edges of your heart, and you nestled closer, letting the warmth of his embrace seep into your bones. there was a long stretch of quiet then, just the sound of his steady breathing and the feel of his hand in your hair, and you let yourself drift in it, content to stay wrapped up in him for as long as he’d let you.

"you know," he said after a while, his voice a low murmur, "next time somethin’s botherin’ you, you gotta tell me, alright? can’t have you thinkin’ i’d ever wanna be anywhere else but with you."

you nodded, your eyes fluttering shut as you pressed a kiss to his collarbone. "i will," you promised, your voice soft. "i’m sorry i… didn’t say anything sooner."

logan’s fingers curled in your hair, and he kissed the top of your head again, his lips lingering there. "it’s alright," he murmured. "we’re alright."

and for the first time in days, you believed it.

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[its-stayville-forever]

I stared at my laptop for so long, not knowing what I wanted or needed to say. What do I say? What will I say that will do justice to this beautiful, intricate, detailed piece of art you’ve craved with your hands? Do I start with the tears? Or the smiles? Or the plethora of questions that I have for you?

(Yes. Yes I am taking this apart and reading through the lines, underneath the lines, along the lines, you name it, I’m doing it. I think you knew what you were bringing upon yourself when you started writing this lol)

-The Title.

Listen, I’ve had my fair share of duolingo lessons with French, and I know that the title translates to ‘Tear’. Not the salty droplets of water (that’s la larme, but you don’t need to know that), but the ripping into shreds. So I really, really am soooo curious as to why you chose that word for the title. Is it because both the characters have their hearts torn and shred apart or is it that you ultimately wanted to tear OUR hearts apart? Or is there a reference that just went over my head? 🤓

-The Characters.

To create characters with depth, with hurt and suffering flowing through their veins? And to make it seem so easy for their hurt to seep into you? You know you’re actually fucking insane right? You’re so crazy SAHAR. Coming back to the point ehm ☺️. To write about a character that loathes a dead body, and to write her so intricately broken from the inside, to write a character that hurts from death and loss and to put the two with each other in a GRAVEYARD!? You put a person who’s hurt because of their mother (and father but 🤷‍♀️ ), and another individual who’s hurt due to the DEATH of their mother. Similar but such different causes. I absolutely hated the mom’s character, but I LOVE the way you wrote her and kept her character as it is throughout. The loss of a daughter and the need to see her all the time in the other one, literally everything about her character made my heart throb. I don’t, GOD I really don’t know the way your brain works wonders like these. How long did you put into developing the movie? 

-The Story.

This is a personal preference but I’m a SUCKER for angst (you know that), and this hit alllll the spots. I shed so many tears, so many gasps, so many emotions all together, like you always do with your works. 

Anyways. The story.

You know what this reminded me of? A movie. Reading through this entire thing, i felt like i was watching a movie unfold. Although I did feel that the story was slightly rushed (just a bit, i would’ve LOVED if it was two parts or longer but i ate this up anyways), I think the way you wrote from the beginning, her wishing death, that is her name on the stone than her sisters, to hyune finally putting down the flowers on her graveyard. Red lilies symbolize death and loss (yes baby i saw you there 😞) and i am in so awe of how you took out even the minutest of details like that one. I absolutely adored the quote and its use throughout the entire story and the relationship the two had as a ballerina and a figure skater. NOW. THE SCENE WHERE SHE GOES TO WATCH HIM IN THE OLYMPICS!?!? It reminded me of all the cute scenes we witnessed at the recent Olympics and it was just so 😿 I reached my peak at the end, I burst out crying in the last few paragraphs.

You are in a graveyard once more. You watch as Hyunjin sweeps the name atop the tombstone gently. Prima ballerina assoluta, he reads, the swan of my heart. His weathered hands shake as they clutch a bouquet of fresh red lilies, and your heart still aches at the sight. 

It is late at night at the graveyard, the branches are still humming to one another, like a melancholic flute. You understand now that they speak to the buried ones. “Not so long now,” they reassure, “your loved ones will follow.”

You believe them, and you will wait. For now, you’ll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave. 

They are now meant for you, at long last. 

THISSSSSSS OH MY GODDD 😭

Thank you sahar. Thank you from the depth of my heart for putting something out that I sort of relate to when I need it the most. Just like with this and the poem you posted when you visited Monet’s birthplace, you put it out when I needed it the absolute most. I hope the love and care you put out for others is given three folds back to you. Take care and a big kiss for you, mwah.

-your biggest fan

La déchirure 

You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known.

pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.

genre: angst. slowwww burn. heavy and recurrent grief. healing.

warnings: mc has a bad relationship with her parents. grief is a prominent theme here so please be aware. some allusions to sex but no smut. description of injuries.

word count: 21.8k

author’s note: heyyyy…. haven’t posted anything in 3 months i feel so shy AJNSJD i say this about every fic but this fic is truly my baby it took me so long to get it done and i poured my heart into it. so please if you enjoyed reading pls pls pls let me know. it means the world and more to me. happyyy reading!!! also thanks to @hyunverse for indulging all my brainrots about this fic i LOVE YOU

Your bare soles are bleeding across the graveyard. You don’t remember when your sandals slipped away from your feet, nor when your body decided to bring you here, heels scratched from the tiny rocks littering the ground.

But the pain doesn’t register in your brain, not yet. You’re only paying attention to the last name written on the tombstone— your last name, to be exact. 

Right now, more than ever, you wished your first name was engraved beside it too. 

You’ve memorized this graveyard like the back of your hand, know what sound the tree branches make during spring— gently swaying, like a melancholic flute, aching because flowers refuse to bloom upon them. And during winter too— even sadder, angrier, perhaps to mimic the sound of the souls left alone in the graves to fend off the cold.

Though you’ve never approached this tombstone before. You always remained a few feet back, each time your parents brought you to your late sister’s grave— every Sunday, for the past eighteen years of your existence, without fault. 

You don’t know the person they’re mourning.

You don’t know the person they wish to mold you after. 

Somehow, in a sick twist of fate, the course of your existence was set in stone before you could draw your first breath into this universe. 

She looks just like her sister, your mom whispered in awe, tears brimming in her waterline as she beheld you close to her bare chest. 

That is what your grandmother recalls about your birth, the rejoice of you being an exact copy of your sister’s features. There was nothing in her, in everyone’s memory about you. Everything orbited around your sister, the way the planets chase after the sun. You were, after all, born to replace the void she left behind. 

You sometimes wonder, is your physique the first setting stone of your pain? Had your hair been lighter, darker than hers, your lips smaller, plumper, would your parents be forced to look at you, behold you for who you are, learn to love you for who you would be? 

The question first popped into your brain at age five— maybe less intricate, a feeling that pressed against your ribcage: your parents don’t love you a lot, do they? You are now eighteen, the question has yet to desert you. 

You’ve always been aware of this reality— there are more pictures of your sister than of you in your house. Your parents always spoke of her, the perfect little girl, whisked away by a terrible sickness, at age seven. 

And she loved ballet. 

So, you had to love ballet too.

You weren’t given a choice, per se. At age four, you were thrust into a ballet class with little oblivious girls; just like you. Flushed cheeks and glossy eyes as you all tried to follow the teacher’s instruction. It wasn’t easy, it never got easier, year after year, only more challenging, only harder on your body.

Bigger bruises, sprained ankles from time to time, you’ve lost count of the injuries this art has inflicted upon your body. But thankfully, you ended up loving it too. You loved how graceful it made you feel, how the music seemed to whisk you away to an enchanting world, how the applause roared each time you came first in a competition, all eyes on you alone. 

Or so you hoped, you prayed. You wished to dance better, harder until all your parents could see was you. Not the daughter that came before you.

It was hard to admit at times, certainly something you never said out loud. But surely, yes, you were jealous of your deceased sister.

How could you not be when it seemed like you were competing with a ghost, someone whose absence weighed more than your presence?

Snippets of your life flash before your eyes as you stare at her grave. Pirouette, arabesque, plié, tendu— those are words engraved within your mind, ones you breathe in more than oxygen. You hear them in the voice of your ballet instructor, Jihyo. She’s a woman in her forties, though she looks older from the harsh lines framing her face. 

Her voice is high-pitched, her hair always tied back in a sleek bun you’re sure pains her brain, her words are harsh each time she corrects your posture.

And she’s the only person who believes in you.

She’s not nice, she has made you cry more times than you can count. So, you knew when she leveled her eyes to yours when you were nine, when she told you, “I see something magical in you”— that she was telling the truth. 

You wanted to prove her right, because for once, someone saw something in you, not in a ghost, not in ground-up bones.

In you.

You feel an uncontained anger swell within you, waves of relentless hurt swarming you as you fall to your knees.

You worked hard. You worked so hard. Between classes and ballet practice, the days strung you by like a puppet and sometimes you didn’t have enough time to breathe. 

Your entire life revolved around ballet. spin, point well, adjust your posture, you can’t stop now. Suddenly it’s two a.m. and you only get four hours of sleep before your classes begin. You didn’t have time to socialize with your peers, to have a crush on the sweet guy in your maths class, to giggle at an arcade with your friends. Soon after you were in your ballet class, even more spins, points, arabesque. 

But all of your exhaustion dissipated today. All of it seemed okay, for the first time in your existence, perhaps, the breath that escaped your chest wasn’t heavy. It was light, it was airy, it was one that yearned for the next, for the days that will follow, tinted with happiness, for once.

“I got into Julliard” 

That is what you told your parents an hour ago, voice brimming with uncontainable happiness, tears dripping down your eyes in an uncontrollable flow. 

Your mother’s eyes became teary in an instant. You thought the past was past you now. You’ll forgive eighteen years of coming second in your mother’s heart. Surely, she will only see you now.

But then her eyes set on the portrait of your sister on the wall, her tone desolate when she whispered—“she would have loved Julliard too.”

You don’t remember what happened after that. What curse escaped your mouth from the years of barely contained bitterness, when everything lashed out like venomous poison on your parents. 

You remember screaming, lots of it, something breaking too, you don’t recall if it is you who threw the vase or your father. The latter seemed more plausible— he was always bound to these sudden bouts of anger. Effects of grief, consequences of your sister’s absence. Her, yet again, poisoning your life. 

You remember feeling like a stranger in your home, a nobody, someone they’d kill in an instant to bring her back.

It was no longer a feeling, though. It was a fact. Your father cemented it loud and clear for you— “I wish she never died so you would’ve never been born.”

A pin-drop silence followed. Your father was always bound to bouts of anger, you knew that. He always regretted it afterward too, just like he felt in that instant, scrambling to apologize, to cup your cheek and say he didn’t mean it.

For how long has this thought festered in his brain, taken root in his veins, and flashed before his eyes each time he looked at you?

For how long did your parents wish you were dead instead? 

You don’t remember how you got to the graveyard. You don’t recall when it started pouring heavily on you. You only register the rain because the earth is wet as you clench it between your fists, as you punch the ground under which your sister is buried. 

You are crying, sobbing, a hysterical mess, you don’t know what you’re yelling, who you’re calling out for, what you’re trying to achieve by punching her grave. 

Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.

“What are you doing?” a stranger’s voice startles you, cutting through the fog in your mind like a thunderbolt. 

You don’t reply, simply turning around to look at the man standing a mere inches away from you.

“Do you know her or are you just desecrating her grave?” he asks calmly, as he brings a pink umbrella over your head. You realize that you’re drenched from head to toe, your feeble pajama does nothing to fight off the cold filtering between the fabric and your skin. 

You are freezing. You fear there is no place warm enough for your soul, not anymore.

“She’s my late sister,” you say, voice raw, scratched like a broken record. 

“She died young,” he says, looking at the dates engraved on the tombstone. 

You feel so horrible, for a millisecond. 

She was only seven. 

Her grave is too small compared to your body. 

But the anger quickly comes back to blind you. You invite it into your heart, push away the sadness and welcome the rage instead. It is the only thing comforting you in that instant.

“Did she do something to you?” he asks, his voice contrasting nicely against the heavy shatter of rain. It reminds you of the intro of your ballet music, soothing. 

“No,” you admit, a bit shamefully. But all sense of guilt dissipates at his next question— “then wouldn’t she be sad seeing you do this?” 

“What about MY sadness? MY anger?” you shout, lips trembling like the branches above your head. the storm picks up with your rising voice, the rain’s pitter-patter mimics the chaos inside your brain.

He remains silent and you can barely grasp the expression on his face, concealed by the umbrella’s shadows. You imagine that this conversation must have bored him, so you turn around yet again, your heart pounding angrily against your skin. 

But then, he kneels beside you, his umbrella completely discarded. You don’t dare to tilt your face towards him, so you simply stare ahead, your breath caught in your throat— what is he thinking of your most vulnerable state?

“I am rage,” he says, his voice permeating your being softly, the storm seems to calm down too to follow the ebb of his voice. “It means I am alive, or better, I am life, according to Armand, a modern art painter. You are alive today, and you get to be angry. That’s not something anyone here can enjoy,” he points out, taking a fleeting glance at the graves surrounding you. 

“You get to do something with that anger. But this, this won’t cure it.” 

He’s young, roughly your age it seems, but he speaks as if he beholds a wisdom beyond his years. You wonder what he went through to understand rage doesn’t fix anything. You wonder if he has ever been this angry, too. 

Did he move past it? Or did he drown the anger deep within the wells of his soul so he wouldn’t confront its ugly face? 

The question roams in your head as you watch him place a bouquet of red lilies atop the grave. You didn’t even notice the flowers at first, your view was too distorted by tears to grasp anything beautiful. 

“You’ll catch a cold,” the guy points out, smiling at you, or at least attempting to since the grin doesn’t reach his eyes. His words come out slower, as if weighed down by a sadness only he can feel. 

He is in a graveyard after all, the flowers were meant for someone else than you. 

“Wait here,” he says, quickly getting up and jogging out of the graveyard. 

What a silly request, you think, it’s not like you would dare move. Your feet are aching and you have nowhere else to go. 

He returns a few minutes later, a hoodie in his hands that he promptly pulls over your head. The warm fabric engulfs you in a cloud of roses and musk. “I tried to warm it up with the car’s heating,” he says sheepishly, and you blink slowly at his kindness, a pink tint blooming across your cheeks. 

“Thank you.” 

His eyes fleet to your bare, bleeding feet, and you fidget in place, trapped by a bout of embarrassment. 

“I have spare shoes in my car. Do you want me to drive you home?” His voice is gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal, too bruised by the hands of humans. Tears spring to your eyes once more, you wish the earth could crack open and swallow you whole. 

“I don’t want to burden you.” 

“You won’t,” he says, and as if sensing your hesitation, he adds, “I promise. Leaving you here is what would burden me.”

You are very tired as he drives you to your place. You speak once when you ask him if he wasn’t there to visit someone, he says that it’s okay, he can come back tomorrow. 

You only dare look at him at the last red light before you arrive at your address. He’s beautiful, black strands sticking to his forehead, a tiny pout pulling his rosy lips forward. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, contrasting beautifully with the mole on his cheek. Then, by his jaw. Another at the beginning of his neck. You wonder if he has a map of ebony stars trailing down his chest.

You don’t know why this stranger instills such safety in you. Why would you rather stay in his car than set foot into your house once more. You dread what will await you behind those doors, you don’t think your heart could handle another tear at its tender flesh. 

You don’t think you could handle looking at your parents and only seeing strangers. 

But you know this safety has something to do with the way he placed the lilies atop the grave; as if it beheld someone dear to his heart and not a stranger. How he made sure you got home safely, how he didn’t seem to care that you dirtied his front seat and the carpet below your feet. 

He looks like a good person. 

You wish to tell your good news to a good person. 

“I got into Julliard,” you quickly let out as soon as he parks. You don’t allow yourself time to regret your confession. 

A breathtaking smile overtakes his face, the thunderstorm outside pales before the sun shining in his features. 

“Really?” he asks cheerfully, and you nod, a tiny smile painting across your lips. “Mm. Really.”

“That’s amazing!” his grin further widens, his eyes disappearing into two lovely moon crescents. “I know I’m just a stranger but, I'm proud of you,” his voice softens, “I mean it. I hope you’re proud of yourself too.” 

It takes you a few seconds to answer, you wish to bask further in the sound of his voice, to store his words into your memory, to revisit his kindness on nights that are too cold. 

This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear. 

“Thank you,” you smile softly. A moment of silence passes, you find yourself missing this stranger before you even leave his car. You wish to carry a piece of his memory within you, a souvenir of who he is— “I'm Yn, by the way.” 

“Yn,” he repeats, his voice tender. “Nice to meet you, Yn. I’m Hyunjin.” 

Four years later.

“You need to work on your landing more, but the rest is good.”

“Thanks, coach.” Hyunjin gives Jihyoun, his lifelong mentor, a thumbs-up as he loosens the laces of his ice skates. A dull ache is throbbing through his legs, like the faint buzz of bees circling roses. 

His body is weary, every muscle reminding him of the sheer effort he’s poured into perfecting his routine for the upcoming figure skating competition— the most important one of his life, by far.

“Are you leaving now?” Jihyoun’s voice pierces the delicate silence and Hyunjin nods, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. “Just gonna take a breather.”

“I’ll head out then,” Jihyoun says, patting his back gently, “make sure you get some rest.”

Hyunjin waits till his coach is far out the corridor to release a relieved breath. A familiar silence wraps around the ice rink like a comforting cloak, the stillness sits beside Hyunjin like an old friend. It is here, amid the soft hum of machines and the chill of the rink that Hyunjin feels most like himself. 

A few minutes trickle by, slow and silent. An uncomfortable feeling nudges at Hyunjin’s rib as he remains as still as a statue; he knows he’s on a losing bet to make time stretch forth, hoping that the sun outside will pause in its descent— a few more moments before the darkness completely sets in Seoul. Because the night will surely string along with it the next day, and the next day is one Hyunjin isn’t ready to face. 

When does he ever? 

But the sun always sets and rises once more, even if you dont wish for it to. 

With a sigh, Hyunjin grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He makes his way to the vending machine upstairs, in the dimly lit corner near the dance studio. He drops a few coins into the slot, punching the number for his usual drink. But it gets stuck—of course. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold glass before frustratedly kicking the machine.

“I am rage,” a voice suddenly teases from behind.

Hyunjin is quick to distance himself from the machine, startled, and admittedly, very embarrassed. His shame morphs to surprise when he sees you standing there. 

Your lips curve into a gentle smile, and your eyes sparkle with quiet amusement— that light, however, dims slightly when he doesn’t immediately respond.

It takes all of Hyunjin’s will to act like he doesn’t recognize you.

“You get to do something with your anger, but this won’t cure it.” You quote, your voice softer now. “You know, you told me this, near the graveyard…” You point vaguely behind you, each word growing quieter as if you’re no longer sure if that scene was real or a figment of your imagination.

Hyunjin nods in recognition, and you relax, the tension lifting from your shoulders.

“Miss Julliard,” he murmurs, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. Your grin brightens at his words and Hyunjin notices faint smile lines tracing your lips and eyes. It seems as if you’ve laughed quite often for the past four years. The thought brings him a strange sense of comfort.

“What did the vending machine do to deserve this?” you ask, tilting your head with playful curiosity.

“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.

“You’ve got to hit the side when that happens.” You show him, tapping the machine with an experienced hand. His drink clatters down, and he shoots you a thankful grin as he bends to retrieve it.

In those brief seconds, with his head bowed, Hyunjin begs his heart to slow its frantic beating. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask once he stands.

“I’m an ice skater,” he says, and your eyes widen with genuine surprise.

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“Yeah… I guess it is. Are you back from Julliard?” His voice is softer now, more tentative, reminiscent of the day you met. 

“For a little while. Just a few months. This studio—” you glance around, “—it’s where I used to train before I went away.”

“I see,” Hyunjin nods, “I train upstairs, in the ice rink. Because I’m an ice skater,” he repeats, before closing his eyes in embarrassment as your giggles spill forth. No shit Hyunjin.

“I’ll see you around then,” he quickly mutters, eager to end the conversation, before turning around and hurrying away. 

He’s almost by the stairs when your voice calls out his name, urgent, pressing.

“Hyunjin!”

His body freezes before his mind orders it to—he’s not the only one who remembers, then. 

“Did you eat dinner?” you shout, a little out of breath.

“No,” he admits.

“There’s a place nearby that makes the best kimchi stew. Want to go?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s my treat.” Your smile has slightly dimmed, and you’re unconsciously scratching the skin by your nails. Even from afar, Hyunjin can discern a shadow looming in your eyes, a plea unspoken. 

“Are you lonely?” Hyunjin’s question comes out before he can stop it, blunt and raw. He’s always been honest, maybe too honest for his own good. Time has taught him that every moment matters, that each second slips away faster than you expect, and that it’s better to speak the truth before it comes back to poison you. 

Your smile falters. “I just… don’t want to go home. not yet,” you confess quietly.

“So you’re using me?” he teases, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. You roll your eyes, muttering “Never mind” under your breath as you start to turn away.

“Fine,” he sighs, pushing off the wall. “But I’m craving sushi.”

…

Hyunjin’s eyes are more worn than the last time you’ve seen him. 

Four years ago, they were puffy, soft with exhaustion, their brown dulled like the last flower clinging to life as fall sets in. But now, the lights have gone out completely, like a bloom crushed underfoot, its color bleeding into the cracks of the pavement.

You steal glances at him between spoonfuls of kimchi jjigae (he silently followed you to your restaurant), watching for any sign of recognition. But he doesn’t seem to remember your name, nor the day at the graveyard as much as you do.

The thought strips you of embarrassment and clothes you in sadness instead.  

Hyunjin has written your name into his diary more times than he’d care to admit, even less so to you. 

He has always walked this earth alone, a stranger even to his own emotions, especially his grief— no one understood how his mother’s death consumed him whole.  

It is true that only one body was laid to the ground many years ago. But Hyunjin’s soul followed hers into the ground when he was just fourteen. 

His sadness made sense to his teachers, his classmates, and even the distant relatives who only came around occasionally. But no one grasped the depth of his anger—at the universe for taking his mother when he was still a child, at the illness that wore down her bones, at himself, mostly, for still breathing when she no longer could.

That rage had devoured him, tore through his flesh with its canine teeth. He only saw its reflection once—when he met you.

Hyunjin didn’t know who or what you were mourning that day at the graveyard. But he remembers your screams on his way to his mother’s grave, raw and stripped down to the marrow. It was as if he had stumbled upon his younger self, begging his mother to dig through the earth and hug his frail body once more, just once more. 

“How long have you been skating ?” you ask suddenly, your gaze flickering over his face. He blinks slowly, as if to bring his consciousness back to the present moment. 

“Since i was a kid, nearly two decades now,” he says. 

“Do you like it?” it is a harmless question, a natural succession of the one that came before it. But nothing was ever that simple with Hyunjin, because ice skating reminded him of his mother, and his mother was the wound that had yet to stop bleeding. 

“I do, I really do,” he speaks softly, a fragile smile curling his lips. He waits till you both finish the first bottle of soju to ask— how have you been? and it’s your turn to frown slightly. He notices the tightening of your fist around the spoon, the subtle tremor in your hand. You, too, carry an ever bleeding wound.

“I’m okay.”

The next question slips from him without thought, “are you still as angry?”

You remain silent for a few seconds, holding his gaze as the question settles between you. His cheeks flush, and he almost apologizes for his bluntness, but then you speak.

“Was I ever angry? I think I was just very sad.” 

Snippets of a younger Hyunjin flash through his mind. The numerous brawls he got in with his classmates, the way he pushed away anyone who tried to show him kindness— He was all thorns, keeping others from reaching the tender petals beneath.

Tears spring in his eyes, unbidden, and he bites his lower lip. He understands what you mean perfectly, you understand what he feels perfectly too. 

“I feel as if my heart is too tired now to bear such big anger,” you say with a smile. “Have you worn out yet? That’s what I’d like to ask.” 

“Aren’t you afraid of the answer?” he pauses, adding in a quiet whisper, “I am.” 

The chandelier above dances across his glossy eyes. You’ve never been optimistic—life hasn’t allowed you that luxury. But a small part of you wants to offer Hyunjin hope, to breathe life back into his weary heart, even though you no longer believe in hope yourself.

But no words of reassurance come. So instead, you offer something much simpler, much more realistic. “Let’s ask it another time, then,” you smile, pouring each other a new round of drinks. You quickly down three shots before laying your head on the table. 

“Are you sleeping?” Hyunjin asks with a quiet laugh, the sound light, like a melody played softly on piano keys.

“It’s fine,” you wave a hand in the air. “The owner knows me. He’ll wake me when it’s time to close.”

Both of you are running from home, or what’s left of it. Hyunjin watches you, your face softened by fleeting peace, so different from the grief he’s etched into his memories.

Far more beautiful, too.

“Then wake me up, too,” he sighs, resting his head beside yours.

His eyelids close instantly, lulled to a nice sleep by the buzz of the fridge and the soft hum of your breathing.

Many minutes pass by— quiet and uninterrupted. Hyunjin finds that the next day has come much slower in your company. 

…

The first time you saw Hyunjin figure skating, you were drawn like a moth to a flame to the music echoing from the ice rink.

You recognized the swelling violin of Can You Hear the Music, and paused by the entrance, torn between stepping in and turning back. What if it wasn’t Hyunjin? Worse, what if it was, and he didn’t wish to see you?

Still, your feet betrayed your hesitation, inching forward. You stood at the door, watching in quiet awe as Hyunjin leaped into the air, spinning with perfect grace. He landed effortlessly on one foot, the other extended behind him in a flawless arc.

The lights danced over his body, his flowing white blouse trailing his movements like a siren’s voice pulling in sailors. His black hair floated weightlessly with each spin, strands resting delicately against his forehead.

For the past four years, you had struggled to feel human. The world tasted bland, as if your heart had lost its ability to savor anything. You were afraid you’d lost the capacity to be amazed—by sunsets, by poignant art that once moved you to tears. So you chased after beauty, desperate for the feelings it could still stir in you, a fragile reminder of your humanity.

But watching Hyunjin skate— that gripped your heart more than anything else had in years.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” a voice startles you and you turn quickly, caught off guard by a man standing beside you, a bottle of water in hand and a kind smile on his face.

“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.

“I’m Jihyoun, Hyunjin’s coach,” he introduced himself, extending a firm hand.

“Yn,” you hesitated, glancing at Hyunjin, who was still absorbed in his performance. “An acquaintance.”

Jihyoun nodded, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You followed suit, unable to tear your gaze away from Hyunjin as he spun, cradling his chest as if holding a memory close, his body lowering toward the ground in a quiet ache. It was a pain you knew all too well.

As the music softened, Hyunjin stilled, closing his eyes, taking a moment to catch his breath. You were about to slip away, retreating like a shadow escaping the light, but Jihyoun would have found you weird, perhaps he’d think you were a stalker. So, you remained there. 

“Hey, coach,” Hyunjin waved, skating toward you both. Anxiety flickered in your chest like a match that refused to light up—you regretted coming now. You had shared a meal just days ago, but Hyunjin hadn’t asked for your name, nor did he seem to remember it. Maybe you held onto his memory more warmly than he held onto yours.

“Miss Julliard,” Hyunjin greeted with a soft smile as his eyes landed on you, and just like that, your worries dissolved like sugar in hot tea.

“Julliard? That’s impressive,” Jihyoun whistled, but you shook your head. You often forgot how prestigious your school was—perhaps because no one ever celebrated your acceptance in it.

No one, except Hyunjin.

“Have you eaten?” Hyunjin asked, gliding to the edge of the rink, his blouse clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.

“No,” you shook your head. He nodded nonchalantly.

“I’m craving kimchi jiggae again,” he tipped his chin towards you, “we can go again, if you’d like.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.

“Okay. Wait for me.”

… 

Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple. 

He’d work out in the morning, the rest of his day lost in practice, his nights reserved for painting or reading, sometimes pouring his thoughts onto paper. It was a life untouched by turbulence, a pattern he rarely swayed from— until you wove yourself into it.

For the past two weeks, you always came to see Hyunjin at the end of his practice. Some nights you’d go eat dinner at your usual spot; sometimes you’d simply buy a drink and find a quiet refuge on the rooftop, watching the city lights twinkle beneath the stars.

There was a strange sense of comfort, he had found, in two bruised souls sitting with one another— an unspoken understanding of what your tongues had often failed to express.

But you hadn’t come to see him in two days.

It’s past one a.m. when Hyunjin finally exits the practice building. He pauses outside, turning back to see that the lights are still on in the dance studio. 

He hopes it is you dancing there. 

With a faint sigh, he takes the stairs two at a time, not wanting to dwell on the fact that, for the very first time in a while, Hyunjin, the ever lonely man, is seeking someone else’s presence. 

When Hyunjin pushes open the studio door, he finds you sitting on the floor, knees tucked to your chest. Your tutu encircles you the way petals would hug a stem— layers of soft tulle in pale pink, contrasting delicately against your sheer tights and pointe shoes.

You appear just like the water lily he sketched only yesterday—soft pastels and an unmatched delicateness. His cheeks flush at the comparison, and, in a hurried attempt to leave, he fumbles, catching his shirt on the doorknob and bumping into the door. 

He’s frozen in place, wincing when you call out his name in surprise. Does he have to embarrass himself each time he’s around you? 

He turns slowly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. “Miss Julliard,” he waves, and you grin in return, your eyes warm, “What are you doing here?”

The words are lost on him as you run over to him, stopping mere inches away from his figure. His fingers twitch for his sketchbook, a sudden urge seizes him to draw you.

“You didn’t come by yesterday so I came to see you,” he explains, voice soft like a summer breeze. 

Your grin brightens like the sun. “Ah, did you miss me?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking past you to sit on the floor. 

Did he miss you? no he didn’t, but his heart did ache, just a little, at your absence.

“Why did you look so defeated sitting on the ground?” he asks instead of replying, leaning against the mirrored wall.

You sigh, taking your place across from him, “practicing this dance is so hard, I got sick of it.” 

He nods, understanding the frustration that stems from being a perfectionist, always chasing ideals in your work.

“You know what helps me? Performing to a song I love. Reminds me what I love about the sport.”

You hum, before a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes. “There is this one song.. From a barbie movie.”

He blinks in surprise, laughing as you dash for your phone.

“Barbie?”

“Yes! The 12 dancing princesses. My mom made me watch it to convince me to take up ballet.” 

“Is that so?” he grins, placing his chin atop his palm. 

“Yeah, she wanted me to follow my sister’s footsteps,” you say, and he thinks back to the small grave you were both kneeling next to. “I wonder if I wouldn’t have become a ballerina if I didn’t watch it,” you muse, before clearing your throat.

“Anyways,” you force a smile on your face, as a whimsical melody streams through the loud speakers. Your grin turns childlike as you stand onto pointe, your raised foot grazing the knee of your supporting leg. 

You glide across the floor as if you are floating, your tutu catching the soft glow of the studio light. Your leaps are as light as air, and you slide to Hyunjin grabbing his hand to pull him up, drawing him into your orbit. 

You laugh, spinning around him, your movements fluid and free, yet your arms frame your figure with a rehearsed prouesse. He can’t help but laugh with you, the warmth of your presence filling the room, the music wrapping around you both like a spell. 

You’re a blur of pink and light, you appear like an angel dancing to the tune of childhood memories.

As the song reaches its end, you twirl one last time before bowing gracefully. Hyunjin claps, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.

“I haven’t danced to that in years,” you say, catching your breath. “I probably looked ridiculous.”

He shakes his head, his voice steady and sincere. “I think ballet would’ve found you anyway. It’s like you were born for it.”

Hyunjin is used to the cold bite of the ice rink, that is where he feels most like himself. But he is somehow drawn to the warmth of this particular studio—no, not just the studio. It’s the warmth you bring, the way your smile lights up the space at his words, that makes him feel, for the first time in a long while, that he could have a friend. That he doesn’t need to walk down the path of life alone.

…

You’re lingering at the doorstep of your home, keys gripped like a lifeline in your trembling fingers. It always takes you three heartbeats to open the door—one to shut your eyes, two to fill your lungs with air, and three to prepare for the tidal wave of hurt waiting on the other side.

You push the door open and slip inside, peeling off your shoes like a shadow trying to leave no trace. With each step, the house pulls you in, a black hole swallowing the warmth that once flickered in your veins, devouring any trace of light.

Dinner with Hyunjin still burns faintly in your chest, like the lingering heat of a fireplace after the flames have died. He makes you laugh a lot, because he’s clumsy, and a peculiar fan of weird debates. You had just spent an hour discussing whether humans have two buttcheeks or simply one.

But you wither down inside this home, your joy punctured like a balloon drifting too close to the sun.

The walls have permeated your sadness, they echo the killing sentence your father cast into your heart four years ago, a wound that festers no matter how much time has passed.

Hyunjin asked you a few days ago why you were back to Seoul. You told him you were competing in the Seoul International Ballet Competition, and he said that he was preparing for the Olympics selection. He then laughed, saying how strange it was that after a month of seeing each other every day, it was only now that you’d shared this. 

You tried to laugh with him, but the sound felt like a stone sinking in your throat. Guilt gnawed at you, not because it was a lie, but because it wasn’t the whole truth. The ballet may have brought you back, but something else called you home. 

At times you wonder if you had made the right call by answering it.

“You’re home,” your mother’s voice cuts through the quiet as you enter the kitchen. You nod, humming absentmindedly. 

“I made pasta, it’s in the oven. And I bought that drink you like,” she says, but her words are too sweet, too forced—like the artificial flavor of apple in fizzy drinks. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, barely loud enough to carry the word across to her.

“I’ll grab it for you,” she says, moving toward the fridge. But when she opens it, her hands falter, hovering over empty shelves. “That’s strange… I could’ve sworn I put it here.” You grip the counter tighter as she flits from cabinet to cabinet, her search growing frantic. 

“It’s fine, I’m not thirsty,” you murmur, but she continues, finally pulling open the dishwasher.

“Ah, silly me,” she says softly, retrieving the can with trembling hands. You keep your eyes low, unwilling to meet hers. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice as fragile as a cracked vase, “I forget so much these days.” 

And just like that, she slips out of the kitchen, leaving behind a gaping hole in your chest that threatens to swallow you whole.  

You hate it when she forgets in front of you, because it shatters the illusion. You see her now, as something frail, crumbling under the weight of time. Her mind, like a worn-out book, is losing pages faster than you can salvage them.

And the cruelest part is that it forces you to forgive her—to hold her in the softness of your heart, knowing that one day she’ll forget who you are entirely.

But has she ever known who you were to begin with? Has she ever dared to ask? 

Has she ever cared to? 

… 

The first time Hyunjin spoke about his mother, you were both lying on the grass underneath a starry night.

You had been rambling about a specific bagel from New York that you missed, while he hummed absentmindedly, his thoughts entangled in memories like marionettes tugged by invisible strings from the past.

He hadn’t meant to ignore you; so when you turned to him, playful mischief dancing on your lips—“Are you listening to me?”—he could only offer a sheepish grin in response. 

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, and he bit his lip, worry knitting his brow. 

Hyunjin had never had anyone to speak to about his mother; her memory resided in the pages of his diary, the strokes of his paintings, the rhythm of his dances—never out loud, never to another soul.

But he suddenly felt an insatiable urge to speak of her; thorns pricking his throat, his skin growing feverish as he fought to form the words he longed to speak. 

“What’s wrong?” you pressed, your tone shifting to one of concern. He thought you wouldn’t mind if he shared her memory, but what he would even say? There was so much to talk about, so much he admired, so much he missed.

“My mom…” he started, his voice tentative. He had your full attention now, he could tell by the way you fully turned around to look at him. “She used to make the best kimchi stew,” he confessed, closing his eyes in slight embarrassment. Is this really what he decided to speak about? 

Still, he pushed through. “She made it for me whenever I was sick. I don’t attach it to bad memories because it was delicious, and I could feel that she made it out of love, out of concern.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. “I hadn’t eaten it at all since she passed away. I couldn’t bring myself to. Until you took me to that restaurant.”

His eyes glistened as they settled on you, “So thank you for taking me there. I think you would have liked her kimchi stew.”

Your eyes widened slightly, dewdrops brimming in your waterline before you smiled softly. “I’m sure I would’ve.” 

He cleared his throat, somehow emboldened by the tenderness of your gaze. He thought that her memory would be safe within the confines of your mind. He thought that he wouldn’t mind sharing her with you. “She was the best figure skater I’ve ever seen.”

“Was she? Is she the one who inspired you to become an ice skater?” you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression. He nodded eagerly. “Yes, she was graceful with her moves; it felt as if she floated atop the ice. The media dubbed her the best figure skater of her generation,” he spoke, pride swelling within him as he noticed the admiration in your expression.

“It was always just her and me, so I’d stay late into the night watching her practice. That was my favorite pastime. She’d always buy me the food I wanted afterward, as a thank you.”

“She sounds like a good mother,” you said, and your words morphed into fingers pressing on his tender bruises. 

“She was. She is.” 

“Tell me more,” you smiled, and so he talked, and talked and talked. He shared everything he could recall: their weekly picnics beneath cherry trees, birthday candles they’d blow out together, the medals she dedicated to him, and her silly jokes that had once filled their home with laughter. 

He spoke of her kindness, her joy that lingered even until her last breath, the love that she beheld for this life and her art, and him. He didn’t mention her illness; it was a mere passing moment, never defining her, never stripping her from the passion that bound her atoms together. 

When he finished, he found his cheeks damp with tears, but his heart felt lighter than it had in years. The air around you was sweeter, for once, it wasn’t fourteen-year-old Hyunjin weeping over the memory of his mother. The ache had softened.

His last words hung in the air, echoing softly in the stillness of the empty park. You didn’t speak; instead, you gently placed your palm atop his. 

It is his very soul that twitched at your touch. 

“What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly, a foolish question, perhaps. 

Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.

“Comforting you.”

“I…” he hesitated, eyes darting furiously over your face, then your hand resting upon his, then your eyes once more, watching him patiently, leaving him the space to retract his hand or intertwine your fingers with his. 

“I’m scared,” he finally admitted, the shadows of his fears looming large. It terrified him even more to utter such words, yet he knew you wouldn’t use them against him; you understood what it felt like to be deprived of comfort— somehow that only saddened him even more.

“What if… What if I forget the coldness of her fingers wrapped around mine?” 

“Your mom loved you, Hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hand to feel warm.” 

Something shifted within his heart, atoms rearranging themselves to spell out a simple truth for Hyunjin— your mom would want you to be happy. 

He nodded, willing his fingers to slip in the empty spaces between your fingers. You squeezed his hand—once, twice, thrice—each pulse a silent invitation for your warmth to seep through his veins, to permeate his bones and sink into his heart. 

He could get used to this, he thought. He wants to get used to your warmth, he realizes.

What does that mean? 

…

Hyunjin has always known who he was, memorized to heart the architecture of his personality. 

He knew he loved art, that he found solace in learning about artists past who, like him, seemed to have sculpted their solitude into something lasting.

He knew he loved painting, he knew he hated egg plants, he knew he’d rather die than not achieve his mother’s dream, for him. 

But something within him was shifting—unraveling. 

His eyes are drawn to the entrance of the ice rink, like a compass needle to true north. His neck craned almost instinctively as the clock looms over 11 p.m.— the time you usually come by to the studio. 

“Don’t worry, she’ll drop by,” Jihyon’s voice cut through his trance. Hyunjin startled, his cheeks blooming with the soft pink of a rising dawn.

“What are you talking about?” he mumbled, but Jihyon only grinned knowingly. 

“Miss Julliard,” his coach teased. Was he that obvious? Did you notice it too? 

That nickname clung to you both since the first time he uttered it near the vending machine. You never corrected him, never offered your real name, and he never asked—though he knew it well. He had thought of you often over these past four years, wondered if you had been well, wondered if you had ever moved on or if you still carried the anger, the heartbreak as if it were your own spine.

He felt guilty that he had found comfort in your pain all these nights past. 

Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely? 

“Don’t stay up too late,” Jihyon said as he waved goodbye.

“Don’t worry about me.” 

Jihyon lingered by the door, as if wishing to say something else, but he simply sighed before leaving.

It feels odd now for Hyunjin to stand in the stillness of the ice rink, feeling like a hollow shell without you. The quiet is no longer familiar, nor comforting, not when he’s grown accustomed to your giggles spilling all over the place. 

What does it mean, he wondered, when the heart learns to beat to the rhythm of someone else’s presence? When the mind begins to archive every detail, every smile, everything that the other person has ever loved?

Like clockwork you jog into the studio, waving at Hyunjin from afar. He skates over to you, leaning against the railing as he smiles, it is natural for him to smile at you.

“How was practice?” you asked, and he shot you a thumbs-up, his fingers drumming against the railing.

“Isn’t your competition next week?” you ask and he nods, “Can I come watch then?” you say and his heart stutters at your request.

“You can, if you want to, if you don’t it’s okay too, you actually don’t have to,” he mumbles, his words rushing out, until you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him 

“I’ll be there, I have to make sure everyone cheers for you when you win,” you grin, self-assuredly, as if you have never doubted that he’ll qualify for the Olympics. 

His heart grows limp at your words, his limbs losing their strength as your finger lingers upon his lips. He gently grabs your hand, moving it away, goosebumps rippling across his skin at how soft your wrist feels.

This isn’t normal. 

“Should I bring pom poms? Actually, should I make them from scratch? What’s your favorite color?” 

“Will you actually come?” he whispers. Hyunjin has never had anyone cheering for him in his competitions, except for his coach, but he was obligated to do so, in a way. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to smile at someone in the stands anticipating your win. 

Somewhat, you sense the gravity of hyunjin’s question, the vulnerability it entails, one he doesn’t try to hide. He has never attempted to hide his emotions from you, now that he thinks about it.

“Of course I will,” your voice softens, your playfulness melting away. “I promise. I…” you point your pinky to him and he chuckles quietly, “I pinky promise.” 

You kiss your thumb pad and signal for him to do the same, he shakes his head before following your lead, pressing both your thumb pads together. 

“There, sealed forever.” 

You quiet down, before giggling for a reason that eludes you both. 

“Have you ever tried ice skating?” he suddenly asks and you nod, “I know how to skate, but not how to do all those fancy spins of yours.” 

“Do you want to try?” he smiles and you lighten up, “Actually? What if I fall?” 

“I’ll be there to catch you.”

A few moments later, you were both on the ice, Hyunjin spinning around you as you found your balance. “This feels so different from ballet,” you chuckle and he grins, “do you like it?”

“Yeah, i do.”

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching for your hand, and you don’t hesitate, your fingers intertwining with his as he leads you across the rink. 

Can you hear the music starts playing on the loud speakers and Hyunjin laughs, turning around to look at you.

“I’m scared,” you giggle happily and he shakes his head, “Let go of your fears and hold on to me.”

And then, without warning, he spins you, the motion sending your hair flying around you like wings unfurling in the wind. he’s spurred by the emotions this song alone can bestow on him. Can you hear the music?, it asks. Yes, he can, now more than ever, is his answer.

He wraps a secured arm around your waist, lifting you off the ground as he traces wide circles on the ice. Your laughter can be heard over the music, shouts of exhilaration ripping through you as you lift your leg to a ninety degree, as if doing ballet on ice. 

He twirls with you in his arms, as the music hits its crescendo, before finally putting you down, his arm still around you, your chests almost brushing against one another.

You’re so close, closer than you’ve ever been, Hyunjin can decipher the specks of light in your eyes, can hear the booming sound of your heartbeat in his chest. Your hand wraps around his bicep as you catch your breath, and Hyunjin is wrapped in a cocoon of your scent. 

He doesn’t wish to break free, he wants to remain in the chrysalis woven by the notes of your perfume. 

It’s a few hours later, Hyunjin laid on his bed, a pillow tightly pressed to his face. He wasn’t a stranger to late-night thoughts strung along by the twilight, but he had never thought before of this—of your lips, how soft they looked inches away from his, how it’d feel to press them on yours, to move slowly, tentatively, and then ravenously, hungrily, achingly.

“Fuck,” he mutters, further burying himself under his covers. Hyunjin wasn’t accustomed to these kinds of thoughts, he had never pursued someone, never had the time nor the energy to do so. Never had anyone grab his attention, in the first place.

Until you.

“Do I like her?” he murmurs to no one but himself, before shaking his head forcefully. “Go to sleep, Hyunjin,” he mutters, willing his eyes to shut closed, sewed so tightly together images of you cannot slip through his eyelids.

But to no avail.

He groans, kicking the covers off before heading to his desk. There, he opens his diary, grabbing a pen as if to write a new entry. But his fingers itch for the buried notebook from four years ago, the one he eyes from the corner of his eye.

He sighs softly before digging it out of its place, his fingers expertly going to his entry the night he came back from the graveyard. The night you met.

He remembers coming home slightly distraught after dropping you off, he had lingered by the door a bit, hearing echoing screams, a door being slammed, then an eerie silence once more.

Hyunjin had been too immersed in his pain to afford absorbing others’ sadness. A sponge that is too saturated, unable to welcome the woes of any other being.

But you had managed to crack through his defenses, frayed yourself a passage through the small gaps forgotten, shed sunlight on parts of himself he had thought were rotten, lost beyond salvation.

He felt an excruciating sadness for you, for your anger, for your sadness, for the way it consumed you whole, because he knew what would follow—when a body burns up, all that is left after is ashes, scattered everywhere, mingling with specks of dust, meaningless, a heart that serves no purpose anymore.

He never told you, he is unsure if he ever would, but it was the fourth anniversary of his mother’s death when he met you. He had planned to spend the night in a willowing state of sadness, an incapacitating one that didn’t allow for his limbs to move, similar to the first anniversary, then the second, then the third.

But he had spent the rest of it sketching your tearful eyes as you looked up at him, as you cowered away from his words, as you relaxed in his car.

That is the image he finds in his diary entry. But now that he thinks about it, he didn’t skillfully depict the moles scattered on your face, the crease near your eyes, or the way your hair reflects the sun’s light. He didn’t capture the arch of your eyebrow or the way beauty seems to reside in every nook and cranny of your face, seems to pour out of your pores like the sun brushing against a waterfall the way timid lovers do—magical, beautiful.

He sees you in a whole different light, now.

Hyunjin runs a tired hand through his hair, before grabbing his sketchbook. In the hours that ensued, in which he tried to do your beauty justice, erasing and retracing the shape of you time and time again, numerous questions ran through his mind, racing against time to find answers.

Does he like you? No, too simplistic of a question, too dim to encapsulate what knowing you feels like.

Is his soul drawn to yours?

Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.

Would he be a fool if he ever confessed it to you?

It is his mind that answered then. A bit forcefully, in fear, in warning: yes, a thousand times yes.

…

There are places in your parent’s house that you always stray from, the way oil stirs away from water. One, the vicinity of their bedroom, two, the living room— the ones in which you are most likely to stumble upon them. Three, the attic, in which you will most likely brush against ghosts from the past.

But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight. 

It's 10 p.m. The sun has long sunk below Seoul’s horizon, leaving behind a sky awash in an exquisitely deep blue, so inviting you almost wish to disappear into it. Today was your rest day, no dance studio, no late night escapades with Hyunjin.

You find yourself missing his giggles and how they would linger in your mind long after you part ways.

The attic is still, the floorboards creaking beneath the weight of your feet as you fumble for a light switch, your hand sweeping along the dusty wall. It flickers on, weak and golden, and you squint as the air, thick with age, coats your lungs. 

Old furniture crowds the room, remnants of a life you left behind four years ago. You’re surprised they kept your bed untouched in your room, one last string tying them to your memory.

Your eyes sweep over old paintings, broken suitcases, and wooden shelves, a hand mixer—useless now. And then, you see it, the reason you climbed here. 

Your mother had once mentioned a box, in passing, filled with things your sister wanted to leave for you. Your mother wasn’t pregnant with you at the time nor did she intend to, but she’d entertain the idea to make her favorite girl happy. 

You kneel and pull the box to your lap, the cardboard soft and weathered under your fingers.

“She was so kind,” your mother had said, too many glasses of wine in her system, her words loose and unguarded. “She gave up her favorite toys for you, before you were even born.” You never asked why they were never passed on, deep down you already knew the answer. She never deemed you worthy of having them. 

Inside, you find a small doll with golden hair and big glassy blue eyes, its pink dress dotted with strawberries, a swan hairpin missing some crystals, and tiny, delicate ballerina shoes, pale pink, unused, small—so small. 

And then, a note. 

Your heart stumbles, the bile rising fast to your throat as you grip the worn paper in your hands. 

Your sister had always been a myth, a memory passed down to you by your parents. An elusive figure you have only seen in photographs, until now. 

You’ve never had words that she addressed to you. 

The paper crinkles as you unfold it. You can somehow hear the rush of hot blood in your veins—uncomfortable, deafening. 

The words blur together as your eyes skim over the paper. You catch fragments— to my future sister—then something about how she wants to play with you, urging you to hurry, come quickly, before I break all my toys.

Your vision wavers, the small, careful handwriting barely legible through the haze. I left you my favorite doll and hairpin. So simple. So kind. I also left you my new ballet shoes. You don’t have to like ballet but if you do that would be awesome.

I would love to dance ballet with you.

The note crumples in your hand as your heart lurches, body jolted upright as if struck by lightning. You stumble out of the attic, discarding the box as the walls close in on you. They press, like the past, against your ribcage until you feel like you might suffocate.

You’ve carried resentment like a stone in your chest, a tide pulled by the moon, ever present, ever rising. You resented her because her memory haunted you, grew larger than life as you did. But she never asked for that. She was just a child, a seven-year-old who loved you before you even existed.

How horrible are you? 

Guilt is bitter on your tongue, sour as acid, and you swallow hard against it, tasting the metallic tang of regret. You don’t think as you barge into your parent’s room, blinded by feelings too entangled like vines to tell apart. 

“What’s wrong?” your mother asks, sitting in a bed too big for her alone. You throw the crumpled note at her. 

“Why did you never give me this?” you demand, and her eyes widen as she skims the lines, a sheen glazing her pupils. 

“I…” she stammers, and you laugh—a hollow, jagged sound—as your hands press against your forehead, fingers digging into the migraine feeding off your pain.

“You know I hated her, right? I– I hated a child, my sister because I never felt loved by you,” you choke, voice fracturing, “how– my god how pathetic is that?” 

“i’ve always loved you,” she says, voice tentative. but it is too meek of a reply, too hollow before the depths of your abandonment. 

“I’ve never, NEVER felt once loved by you! YOU made me feel as if I was competing with a ghost. She wasn’t here but she was everywhere and I was never enough to fill her shoes!” 

“I was a grieving mother!” she yells, standing up to face you, her face flushed and her hands trembling. “Do you know how terrible it feels to lower your child into the ground? Do you know how horrible I felt covering her grave when she was scared of the dark, when she hated the cold? She–” her voice cracks like fragile glass, unraveling as tears spill over her face, “She kept telling me that she didn’t want to leave us, that she didn’t want to die. How am I—“ She sobs, the sound raw, torn, “how am I supposed to forget my baby’s last breath? how am i supposed to be a perfect mother to you when I couldn’t protect her?” 

“i never wanted a perfect mother.” you murmur, eyes shutting tight, chest heaving with hiccuped breaths. “I never said you had to forget her. But I was right here. I was alive. I was breathing, hurting, waiting for you to see me, to love me.” Your voice breaks, you sound like your seven years old self and you hate that. “Did I mean so little to you?”

You smile sadly before her silence, your shoulders dropping low. You are too tired for an offense, too tired to tear down her defenses. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t always a good child. I’m sorry that sometimes I threw tantrums. I’m sorry for all the ways I failed you. I know I’m not perfect. I hurt, I stumble, I make mistakes. I am filled with resentment. I choke with it, and sometimes I hurt others too. But I try. I always try to make things right. And I apologize if I do.” 

Silence thickens between you both like browned sugar, though this moment is anything but sweet. You remain quiet, hoping for your salvation to come in the form of two words, two simple words— I’m sorry—that is all it would take to soothe your heart a little. 

You wait, and wait, and more seconds pass as the silence stretches longer and your mother refuses to meet your eyes. And slowly, slowly the hope withers within you. You know she isn’t apologizing tonight. Maybe not ever.

“Forget it.” you whisper as you leave the room and hurriedly walk out of the house. You need something strong, something to burn away the ache, something to scald the memory from your bones, to forget.

It’s nearly midnight when Hyunjin finally steps out of the training building. The air is crisp, cool against his flushed skin, but his relief is short-lived as his eyes land on Sohee, the owner of the kimchi jjigae place nearby, hovering by the entrance. 

Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off. 

“Ah, hyunjin,” the fifty something quickly jogs up to him. “The security guard told me you still hadn’t left.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Yn has been drinking for the past hours, she looks.. Sad. And I’m worried she can’t get home safely.” Sohee’s tone sets off the alarm in Hyunjin’s mind. 

His worry tightens into a knot in his chest as he steps into the narrow restaurant. His eyes immediately fall on you—your cheek pressed against the table, five empty soju bottles scattered around you

He crouches in front of you, his heart twisting as he takes in the dried streaks of tears on your cheeks. What happened?

“Hey,” he whispers gently, afraid to jolt you awake. You stir, blinking groggily, trying to piece together your surroundings.

“Hyunjin,” you breathe, barely a whisper, and his heart softens at the sound. He nods, offering you a small smile, though concern darkens his eyes. “What’s wrong, hm?”

His words unlock something deep inside you, and your face crumbles like a porcelain vase breaking apart. The tears come swiftly, welling in your eyes until they spill over, your lower lip trembling like fragile branches in a storm.

“I’m a—I’m a horrible person,” you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling as much as your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shoulders quake, and Hyunjin’s hands move instinctively, gently covering your tightly clenched fists.

“No, you’re not,” he murmurs, his voice soft and steady, as if trying to hold you together with his words alone.

But you shake your head fiercely, a sob tearing from your throat, raw and unrestrained. “I’m a horrible sister,” you manage to whisper, your words barely audible as you wipe at your eyes, only for the tears to fall faster, harder.

Hyunjin watches you break, his heart aching with every tear that slips down your face. He feels weird, feverish, as if your pain has somewhat transferred to his heart. He glances at Sohee, who quietly steps out of the restaurant, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, dim light.

With a soft sigh, Hyunjin gently cups your face in his hands, his palms warm against your tear-streaked cheeks. His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles across your skin.

“You didn’t even get to be a sister, how could you be a horrible one?” 

“I hated her for so long when all she wanted was to dance with me. I hated a child for so long, I’m a-a horrible person.” 

Hyunjin tentatively licks his lips, thoughts jumbled in his mind like wires. His heart is beating so fast as he wraps an arm around your back, bringing your face to the crook of his neck. You seem to melt in his embrace, tension loosening off of your back as he gently pats your spine. 

“I don’t think you hated your sister. You hated how your parents treated you. Those are two different things.”

Your tears are unceasing, trickling down his skin as you sob more and more. He doesn’t mind the dampening of his shirt, he would never mind a lot of things when it comes to you.

“Humans aren’t straightforward lines, we bend and twist and stray from our paths because our hearts are too frail and sometimes we carry emotions too heavy for us to bear. Sometimes we are pushed to feel certain things when we’ve never wanted to go through them.”

He never stops patting your back gently, his hand traveling from the top of your hair to the base of your spine. “A bad person does not worry about being a bad person. I’m sure your sister knows you love her. You have nothing to feel horrible about.”

Your tears are unyielding and Hyunjin feels as if it isn’t enough— to press your body to his hoping the rhythm of his heart would calm down yours, to think of words of his own doing to soothe your pain. He has not had to comfort anyone in so long, he doesn’t know how to stop your ache. He wishes he could soak your sorrow into his heart instead— he’s used to it, he can handle your pain and his, at once.

He’s racking his mind furiously for things to comfort you. In his memory he stumbles upon the poem of Mary Oliver that has held his hand in the dark.

“Would you like to hear my favorite poem?” he asks, in a whisper.

He feels you nodding against his chest, and he peels himself away from you, painfully, like removing a bandaid from a wound that has yet to scab.

Hyunjin’s eyes are wide and glossy as he peers into yours, as he looks beyond your irises and gazes at your soul, as he recites to you, with a steady voice like a current that doesn’t fall prey to the hazards of storms— “You do not have to be good.” He smiles softly. “You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.” The verb strikes you like a thunderbolt. “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

It passes him like a vision, a flash of white that blinds him, him holding your cheeks but without tears, him cupping your face, in the mornings and in the nights, because it is you his soft clueless flesh aches to love.

It’s gone as quick as it came, his words come out much slower, much more disoriented as he continues— “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”

“I want to tell you,” you hiccup, your cheeks are all rosy, delicate red veins protruding the white of your eyes. Your lips are all swollen from how hard you bit them to muffle your sobs.

“I will listen,” he reassures. Hyunjin stays true to his words. He drives you to his place, there, atop his couch, lit by a flower shaped lamp casting warm shadows on you both; you felt safe, a vanilla tea in hand, to talk, to tell Hyunjin everything, how you felt and how lonely, excruciatingly lonely you have been for the past years.

And he listens, he listens well, nodding, holding your hand when it shakes, wiping your tears when they slip from your face.

You feel a sense of gratitude swell in your heart, as if a hundred tulips bloomed in your chest at once. You feel safe talking about your biggest fears to Hyunjin, handing him your heart on an open palm, bruised, bleeding. He would wrap it in a gauze for you, he would keep it safe till you can heal it once more.

You doze in and off sleep on the couch, you can feel Hyunjin placing a warm blanket atop you. You swear he sat by your side for a long while, his hand gently patting your hair and threading through your locks.

You resisted the urge to pull his hand, to beg him to climb near you on the couch and have him encapsulate you in his hold once more. It would be too much for him to bear. Too much of you to ask. Too hard for you to handle a no.

Because even in your drunken state, with a heart weighed down by alcohol and ten thousand stones of grief, when Hyunjin cupped your cheeks in his larger, warmer hands, when he peered into your soul with his brown glimmering eyes, when it looked as if he could mirror your pain, as if he could understand the guilt, as if he could hold your hand through the grief— for one second, for a fleeting instant, it was all forgotten. 

The grief became a simple myth in your mind, a distant memory, something you could brush away as a bad dream slipping away with the march of time; simply because he was there for you through it.

… 

Hyunjin is beautiful.

This isn’t new knowledge for you, per se. You've known it from the moment your eyes met his, through a veil of relentless rain and the sting of unshed tears. Even then, you recognized it—he was the most beautiful human you’d ever seen. 

But somehow, you’ve managed to tuck this knowledge away, placed it in a forgotten recess of your mind. You had found other things to like about Hyunjin, things that wouldn’t be weird for a friend to admire— and Hyunjin made that an easy feat for you. 

You enjoyed the poems, all the ones he’d recite to you from time to time. You loved watching people’s eyes turn to behold him, and him unaware of this magnetic aura coating his porcelain skin. You felt warm hearing his bright and unrestrained giggles, seeing traces of happiness carved into his eyes, watching his lips stretch into a wide grin that seemed to swallow the world whole. 

But there are moments when it’s harder to forget. Like now—when Hyunjin stands before you, slipping on the finishing touches of his performance outfit. His sky-blue top clings to his frame, bedazzled with pearls and diamonds that cascade like teardrops, swooping around his small waist and hugging his broad shoulders. The fabric melts into his black pants, carving his silhouette like a chiseled statue.

There are only ten minutes left before his turn on stage. Last night, over quiet spoonfuls of miso soup, Hyunjin told you to please stay backstage with him, his voice so soft it felt like a secret only meant for you. And how could you refuse? Hyunjin wanted you close—Hyunjin asked for you.

He is nervous, you can tell by the slight tremble of his hands as he struggles with his earring, the delicate hoop slipping from his grasp. It falls, and before you know it, you’ve stepped forward, picking it up, your fingers steady as you help him clasp it into place. 

His gaze is heavy on you, and your heart beats a little too fast. You avoid meeting his eyes—he’s too close, too vulnerable of a setting for you.

You finish, stepping back, but Hyunjin’s hand finds your wrist, gently tugging you close again. He doesn’t let go, his fingers playing with the hem of your sleeve. He bites his lip, lets go of the plush flesh before biting it once more, then he confesses. “i’m scared.” 

Your fingers find his wrist, settle above his wildly beating pulse, a small part of you selfishly wishes it is because of your proximity. Your thumb gently swipes across his soft skin as you say, “you’ll do amazing. I’m sure of it.”

He nods, though something flickers in his eyes, something unsaid that lingers between you. He swallows it down, offering you a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll see you after.”

“Okay,” you grin back, “I’ll see you with a gold medal.” 

You’ve seen this choreography countless times before, memorized every twist, every subtle motion of his body. But watching him perform, under the harsh, burning lights, is like witnessing something new. 

Hyunjin moves with a grace that defies reason, a dancer molded by the music, his body bending to its rhythm, his face crumbling as the music swells. 

Hyunjin glides around as if he is one with the ice, he glows, like the sun on stage, mesmerizing, dipping low with the music and soaring high with its rhythm. Your hand is on your chest as you watch him deliver the killing move, a deep dip, head thrown back, his body a perfect arch on his knees. 

He finishes, under the roaring applause of everyone around. You’re first to stand on your feet and the entire arena follows, giving Hyunjin the standing ovation he deserves, the only one of the night. He bows deeply, a hand on his heart as he soaks in the praise. 

You feel like throwing up as you anxiously await the results to show up on the screen. One minute of silence passes by, then, you see it. His name comes in first. 

Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.

He’s already skating towards you, and you’re moving, rushing down to meet him. You wrap him in a tight hug, feeling his chest rise and fall with quick breaths.

“How was it?” he asks, laughter bubbling in his voice. You find it to be such a silly question. 

How could he be anything but extraordinary?

“You fucking did it, Hyunjin,” you say, the words leaving you in a rush. He tips his head back, laughing, his happiness so pure it aches. You reluctantly pull away from him as Jihyoun comes to congratulate him, pulling him too for a hug.

“Proud of you son,” he says and you can see Hyunjin’s eyes well up with tears. you wish you could kiss them away, the tears and the sadness, will it to desert his heart, kiss his smile and happiness, learn the taste of his joys and sorrows. 

Oh god. 

The thoughts submerge you like you’re doused in gasoline, and being near Hyunjin is the crickling match that will set you on fire.

“There’s an afterparty to celebrate the man of the hour,” Jihyoun grins, patting Hyunjin’s back in a fatherly manner. You can feel the pull of the crowd, people waiting to shower him with well-deserved praise, like waves gathering to meet the shore.

“Are you coming?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft as his gaze lingers on you. You hesitate, and he pouts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I want you to come, please.”

“Okay,” you smile, though your feet are already inching away. “But I left my phone at home. I’ll go get it and come back.” That is the truth, or maybe just a shadow of it.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Hyunjin, ever the considerate one. His kindness cuts deeper than he knows, a dull blade slicing against your fragile skin. You hate how you pull his thoughtfulness to somewhere tainted with shadows. You hate how your mind cannot accept that someone could care for you. What if he pities you, still? It asks. What if he only sees you as the selfish girl sobbing at her sister’s grave? 

How could someone like Hyunjin, radiant as the sun pay attention to a mere rock floating in space, aimless, too unimportant to even be given a name? 

“No, it’s a quick drive. Enjoy your moment.” You flash a smile, hoping it covers the tremor in your voice. You quickly slip away before Hyunjin can notice, your pace quickening as his brow furrows behind you.

You’ve never dared to truly like someone. The harsh truth is that people like you, who were born sipping grief in their mother’s womb, only end up accustomed to its metallic tang on their tongues.

You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known. 

It’s been thirty minutes since you left and Hyunjin’s eyes keep drifting toward the door, pulled by some invisible force. Jihyoun is talking, excitedly introducing him to someone new, someone important from the sound of it. He hears snippets of the conversation— Switzerland, the best coaching center, a guaranteed win, but the words are distant, like murmurs underwater. 

His mind is a whirlwind of paranoid thoughts as Hyunjin redoes the calculations: it was supposed to be a fifteen minute errand, at most. Where are you?

His heart feels tethered to a storm as he steps out, muttering a feeble excuse to Jihyoun, feet moving before his brain catches up. The air feels heavy like trying to inhale metal, only to end up crushed from all sides.

He searches the parking lot, scanning the faces mingling there, but he finds no sign of you. His feet keep moving, driven by instinct, by a chilling feeling pulling at his heart, desperate to glimpse you.

Then he sees it—flashing lights up ahead. His world dims as he watches a man on the phone, gesturing frantically toward a car. A car that’s all too familiar. Yours, crumpled like a piece of paper, flipped on its side, crashed against a tree. 

A loud ringing floods his ears akin to the buzzing of a hundred angry bees, at once. His legs buckle, his hand slamming against a nearby car for balance, but it feels like the earth beneath him is giving way. His eyes squeeze shut, his back turning away from the wreck. Not again.

Please, not again.

His throat burns with bile, and it feels like nails are clawing at his chest, ripping his skin open and exposing his heart. It’s pounding wildly, erratically, like it’s trying to escape the cage of his ribs and splatter on his feet. 

He can’t turn around—he’s too afraid of what he’ll see. But he has to. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his vision spotted with white as he stumbles forward. He taps the man’s arm. He struggles to find his voice as if it were never his to begin within. “Did someone get out of the car?” he whispers, broken, pleading. The man shakes his head.

Hyunjin rushes to the window, desperate to find you, to see you breathing, but the glass is tinted, hiding whatever lies inside. Without thinking, he throws his fist against the window. Once. Twice. Again. And again. His skin splits, blood dripping down his knuckles, but he can’t stop. He pounds the glass until it shatters, only to find nothing within.

“Hyunjin?” A voice, so achingly familiar, cuts through the haze. He spins around, breathless, and there you are—limping, disheveled, but alive. You’re breathing.

In an instant, he’s in front of you, his eyes wide, frantic, searching yours as if they behold the answer to every fear, every prayer he has ever uttered. His hand trembles as it cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, needing to feel your warmth. His gaze flickers over your body, checking for any trace of life-threatening injury, his heart lodged in his throat.

“Are you okay?” His voice is raw, stripped bare.

“I am,” you reply, and your words are his salvation. A sigh shudders out of him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul, as if he’s been drowning and you’ve finally pulled him to the surface.

He falls to his knees, palms pressing into the ground. Tears spill from his eyes, hot and heavy, streaking down his face like rain in a storm. You kneel beside him, and his arms instinctively wrap around you, pulling you close. 

His fingers weave through your hair, pressing you to him, needing to feel you, needing to know you’re real. His body trembles as he buries his face in your hair, his tears soaking through your shirt, inhaling your scent, grounding himself in you.

“Yn,” he breathes, your name the only thing that could express the magnitude of his relief. He holds you tighter, the words tumbling out like a prayer, “I thought I lost you. My god, I thought I lost you.”

It takes a while for you to process his words, to understand the scale of his fear at the thought of losing you. Those are foreign notions for you, a sight you never thought you’d grasp one day. A sight you never deemed yourself deserving of. 

“You’d care this much if I died?” Your voice is a whisper, small, uncertain.

Hyunjin’s bloodied hand smooths your hair, his eyes red, chest heaving. “Yn, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking. “Yn, please don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry,” your lower lip quivers at the sight of his tears, somehow seeing him sob leads to your own unraveling, as if your emotions are tied by one red string. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to worry you,” you apologize, you the forgotten one, the ghost in your own home, apologizing because for once, your absence did hurt someone, because for once someone would miss you if you were ever gone.

Hours later, you’re in Hyunjin’s home, tucked into the safety of his bed. You’d refused to call your parents, not wanting them to know what had happened, how close their wish had become reality. 

The ambulance had taken you both to the hospital, where they patched Hyunjin’s wounds and checked you for a concussion. You repeated, over and over, like a broken record— “The brakes stopped working, and I jumped out of the car.” Hyunjin spoke for you when you grew tired.

“How are you feeling, Yn?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft, as he hovers over your figure. Your name sounds sweeter from his lips. It sounds as if it was always his to pronounce. 

“I’m okay. I’m sorry I ruined your night.” Your apology is quiet, but he shakes his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your eyes shut closed as his lips caress your skin, as if wanting to drown out all the other senses, useless, needing to focus solely on his touch. 

“If you’re okay, that’s all that matters to me.”

He goes to leave, but you catch his hand. You don’t overthink your next words, you think you’re long past that when it comes to him. “You called me by my name. I thought you didn’t remember it.”

“I never forgot,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve known who you were since the moment I saw you. I… I thought about you a lot for the past four years, Yn. I think about you now too,” a pause, “for different reasons. Sweeter reasons.”

He remembered. He has come to know you and he still thinks of you.

“Me too,” you smile softly, “I think about you so much it feels as if you’re all I’ve ever known,” you confess breathlessly. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and his do the same.

Before you can think, you’re standing on your tiptoes, your lips resting on his, unmoving, driven by a desire so raw it blinded you.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” You pull away, stumbling back.

But his hands find your waist, pulling you back. “Can I do that again, Yn?” His voice is soft, and you nod, dazed. How could you ever refuse him?

His mouth returns to yours, slow and deliberate, like a melody reuniting with its refrain. Sweetness spills from his lips onto yours, a blend of honey and wildflowers and something that is entirely his. His breath surrounds you, intoxicating, pulling you into a world where all you wish is to melt into him, to slip beneath his skin and flow through his veins. 

Fireworks bloom behind your eyelids, explosions of colors you’ve never seen before, as if the universe itself has unraveled in the space between you both. His hands cradle your face, thumbs tracing circles along your cheeks that send a thousand butterflies flapping their wings throughout your being. Your fingers weave into the silk of his hair, a breath of relief escaping you as you touch him the way you’ve longed for. 

You’re still kissing him and yet you already ache to do it again, again and again, till you forgive the world every cruelty it has inflicted into you, if it allows you to hold his warmth a little longer, to keep your sun cupped between your palms. 

“Is this what happiness feels like?” he murmurs against your lips, a smile threading between your breaths, your teeth grazing his in the closeness. You laugh softly, your foreheads touching softly, “I think it is. It tastes so sweet.”

“Mm, I think I need to taste it again, to make sure,” he teases, his lips finding yours once more, playful and hungry. Time loses its meaning, minutes slipping away like sand grains between your fingers. By the time you part, your heart has memorized the rhythm of his breath and the weight of his lips upon yours, as familiar now as your own pulse.

… 

“So, how do we do this?”

Your laughter echoes softly down the corridor. Hyunjin has you pinned against the wall near the skating rink, his right hand braced above your head, the other hovering over your waist—yet, it’s that mere sliver of air between his fingers and your skin that ignites a wildfire within you, burning bright with longing.

“Wouldn’t it be strange if we just walked in, holding hands? I mean, Jihyoun knows me, but…” Your voice drifts away like chimney smoke, dissolving into the background of Hyunjin’s thoughts. He’s no longer listening—he’s observing. Memorizing. His gaze skillfully captures every curve, every shadow of your face, as if this is the last dawn he’ll ever witness. As if, by morning, he’ll be blind, and this moment is his only chance to engrave you into his memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his voice soft, almost reverent. Your words falter, fading like the final notes of a song only he remembers. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek with a tenderness that paints your skin crimson red. 

He smirks, satisfied by the effect—perhaps, he thinks, that is how the sun feels as it kisses the horizon goodnight, leaving the sky a blushing mess. 

“You were saying?” he teases, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be exasperated. “I was saying that it would be—“ But his lips find yours once more, plucking the words from your tongue like petals from a flower. 

In the dim glow of the corridor, the world around you fades to an afterthought. It feels as though you exist only for this, only for him— to kiss and to be kissed by Hyunjin.

“Finally!” Jihyoun’s voice shatters the moment, ringing out like a bell, pulling you both apart. “Thank you for kissing him, Yn. Now he’ll stop with the longing stares at the door.”

“What stares?” you laugh, the sound bubbling sweetly up your throat. Hyunjin scratches the nape of his neck, shrugging innocently when your eyes meet, as if he has no idea what Jihyoun is talking about (though he knows all too well).

Hyunjin catches his coach’s eye over your shoulder, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Jihyoun once told him that he seems to bloom around you, like a flower starved of sunlight, finally nourished. The thought warms him—knowing that the people closest to him feel your presence like a balm to his soul. His mother would have loved you too, he’s certain of it.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hyunjin whispers later, as you’re leaving the practice building, his arm draped over your shoulder, yours wrapped around his waist. Natural. Familiar. Like two rivers flowing into one.

“I don’t have anything of mine there,” you pout, and Hyunjin stops, cupping your cheek, his nose grazing yours in a gesture so tender it makes your heart float within your ribcage. “That’s part of my secret plan—to get you in my clothes.”

“Oh, what a very secretive plan,” you giggle, stealing a quick kiss. “And what would we do tonight?” 

“Sleep together.” You raise an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, flushing crimson. “I mean—sleep, actual sleep, not that I wouldn’t want to make love to you,” Your laughter rings out, as his forehead finds its hiding place against your shoulder, embarrassed. “I just want to hold you close. That’s all.”

Your sweet Hyunjin.

“I want that too, Hyune.”

Hyunjin has never been much of a writer, his forté has always been to express himself with his body, spell out words out of the movement of his limbs. It is more evident as he opens the door to his apartment, with you trailing behind. As he looks at both your shoes sitting side by side near the entrance, your accessories resting next to his in the bathroom. 

He lacks the words to explain how right, how natural it feels for him to have you in his space, for you to fill it with the music of your voice and the fragrance of your perfume. As if it has always been his reality, to walk home with you, to watch you slip into his clothes, to brush his teeth next to you, to lay atop the bed with your warm eyes staring at him instead of a cold wall. 

“Do you believe in fate?” you suddenly ask, your thumb trailing alongside his neck, pausing right where his pulse beats. He has never been aware of the weight of life against his skin until he knew you. 

“I never did, I didn’t want to believe in something pre-written for me. Wouldn’t that confine who I am, who I could be?” he muses and you nod softly, inching closer to him. “But somewhat,” he trails off, lifting your hand to his mouth, peepering the sweetest kisses alongside your palm and wrist, like dewdrops caressing leaves. “I believe in it now, because of you.” 

“I think I was meant to find you that day in the graveyard. I think what I feel for you is too grand to be a pure coincidence,” he confesses. 

“And what do you feel for me?” you ask, your voice soft, curious. 

Hyunjin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gently twirls a strand of your hair away from your eyes, before tucking it behind the cuff of your ear. He presses his forehead to yours, like two pages of a book meeting one another, then he exhales slowly, like a man who has found peace after a lifetime of searching. 

And in a way, he has. He can stop looking frantically for something that would stitch his soul up, he has found you, now. 

“I used to resent hearing my own heartbeat. At times it felt like a punishment, because existing felt like a chore. I wanted the sound to quiet down, I didn’t want to hear anything, nor feel anything anymore.” 

“But now,” he pulls you closer, your legs intertwining with his, like roots seeking comfort in one another, “it’s reassuring to hear, because it means there is still life within me to love you in it.”

Love. The word has long felt like a thorn ingrained into your skin. You have always recoiled from it, less from repulse and more in fear— if the people who were put on this earth to love you, didn’t, then weren’t you meant to remain unloved for the rest of your life? 

But looking at Hyunjin now, at the way the word rests gently on his lips, rolls off his tongue with such ease, with such certainty, you don’t want to run.

You want to stay. 

It is when Hyunjin traces maps along your skin with his lips, as you drift down the constellations of moles on his chest, as you find yourself lost within everything that makes up his being— his scent, his sounds, the weight of him pressed against you— that you find your words to reply, to breathe your first I love you to him. 

And in that confession, another realization comes, though this one is bitter, sour, like a chilling premonition: if Hyunjin were ever to leave, what would be left of you after? 

…

Hyunjin has never been fond of the concept of time, minutes seemed to march differently when it came to him— seconds stretching out like thin threads, nights unraveling in restless turns, sleep plucked right off from his eyelids. 

But with you, time softened, as the hours spun forward, swift and gentle. Around you, Hyunjin no longer felt the weight of passing days on his heart. 

Hyunjin didn’t feel the two months of happiness you bestowed upon him slipping from his grasp. 

He was lost, adrift in the gentle tides of your being—swept by the melody of your laughter, cradled by the softness of your curves. He often wondered if he was deserving of this happiness, yet never lingered long enough to find an answer. He selfishly accepted the joy you gifted him, for once. 

Your belongings filled the empty nooks of his apartment gradually, corner by corner—your satin pajamas settling just above his plaid ones, your skincare nestled near his on the bathroom shelf, your favorite mug clinking against his in the dishwasher. 

In some way, it mirrored how you’d seeped into him, like sunlight breaking through the longest of nights— threads of the sun illuminating what was once lost to darkness. 

He’d steady your chin to help with your mascara, your doe eyes looking up into his. You’d brush his hair, pressing gentle kisses along his shoulder blades. He’d do your laundry. You’d make his coffee each morning. He’d brew your tea each night.

You didn’t have much time to talk during the day, both of you engrossed in the practice of your respective arts. Yet, the knowledge that you were just a floor above him, close if he ever wished to see you, was enough to soothe his heart.

It was at night that you bared yourselves to each other, in ways that went beyond the tender grip of his hands on your waist, or the slow trail of your fingers down the curve of his back.

In the hush of the twilight, you’d unfold softly, revealing the hidden layers within—you’d share your dreams and hopes, and the moments that shaped you, letting the fragments of your pasts settle in the safety between you both. 

“I think I know my purpose now,” you whispered one night, and he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “What is it?” 

“I think I kept ballet at a distance because loving it felt like surrendering to my parents’ dreams, like I’d be becoming what they always wanted me to be.” You paused, your voice a little softer, a little braver. “But I do love it, Hyunjin. I want to be the best at it. I want to honor my sister through it.” 

His gaze softened, as a tender smile blossomed in his lips. “You already do.”

Some nights were less sweet, tangled with heavy grief and unshed tears, yet it felt easier to walk through them if you were there holding his hand. 

“Would you go into her room with me?” he asked quietly one night, his gaze locked on his mother’s bedroom, its door sealed for a decade. He had never dared to enter it once more, afraid it would further cement the notion that she was gone.

That truth felt easier to confront with you near.

“Of course,” you replied softly. “Whatever you need.”

The room was just as he remembered, only stuffier with dust and heartache. Time hung in the air, dense and unmoving, clutching at her last moments alive, unwilling to let go. 

He looked to the bed, and he could almost see the shape of her there, frail and thin, her clothes too loose over a body worn out with sickness.

You held him close, steadying him as he took in each familiar corner: their photos framed with gold on the desk, her countless medals hung on the wall, her perfume and hairbrush untouched on the vanity, her rings resting in a small seashell container.

He walked slowly to the vanity, his fingers reaching for the ring he had loved most—a thin band of gold, crowned with a small emerald, dulled by time. Gently, he wiped away the dust with his shirt, before turning to you and slipping it onto your finger.

“Keep it,” he whispered. “It will live again through you.”

In the days that followed, you helped him breathe light and air into the room once more, sweeping dust from the framed certificates and photographs, polishing the medals until they shimmered as they once had. You washed the linens and her clothes, packing them carefully for a donation to cancer wards—something he never found the courage to do, until now.

Grief no longer felt like a knife lodged into his heart, its metal rusting with the passing of time. He saw its true face now—a soft ache, a quiet longing, a thicket of thorns that can only grow from the roots of love.

Your voice floated in his mind that night, echoing like the bells of a long standing cathedral. “your mom loved you, hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hands to be warm”— would want you to be happy.

Happiness swept into Hyunjin like an endless, gnawing hunger—an insatiable ache that demanded to be fed. He was ravenous for joy, longing to sink his teeth into it, dip his tongue into its sweetness and let it spill all over him. 

When an exoneree tastes freedom after decades of longing, it is the small breeze, the waves lapping hungrily at his bare feet that make his heart twitch. So it was with Hyunjin: the small joys swelled within his ribcage, vast and boundless. His heart strained against his chest, eager to burst free and feel it all. 

Somehow, Hyunjin’s biggest joy came from watching you dance— the principal dancer of your competition team. Whenever he had a break, he’d choose to slip away from the ice rink and climb the stairs at a hurried speed, slip into the dancing studio and sit in the corner. 

There, he’d watch you, leading the group of dancers you’ll perform with. You stood in the center, beckoning the attention of everyone around. Beautiful, so beautiful.

How foolish of him it was to try to deny it. How foolish of him to think that there was any outcome but to fall for you.

You always caught his eye across the mirror, your face breaking out in a wide grin, as you waved shyly at him, the strictness melting off your features and morphing into something warm. He felt special in a way, to be the sole recipient of such a breathtaking smile. He felt as if he could write hundreds of poems about that alone. 

That smile feels even more precious as you stand on stage at the Seoul International ballet competition, seconds before the light would turn on and you’d begin dancing. In the split second of darkness, it is him your eyes sought after in the crowd, it is him you wink at, before switching into your professional mode.

You aren’t as nervous as he expected you to be. Somehow your facade only slipped when five minutes before the stage you beckoned hyunjin in for a hug. “Do you need anything?” he asked as he kissed your temple softly, tightening his hold on you.

“I just need to hug you for a minute. It helps me calm down.” 

Hyunjin had always known you were a stellar ballerina. You were humble with your achievements, speaking of your art as if you don’t have years of practice to attest to your expertise, as if you hadn’t gotten acclaims nationally and internationally.

Still, seeing you on stage made a different pride bloom in his heart. You are the rightful star of the night, the swan of ballet as the media had dubbed you— delicate with your movements, spreading your arms like the unfurling of their feathers, spinning delicately into the air with a grace that made his breath catch in his throat. You were mesmerizing. 

You didn’t simply move, or dance, that would be too simplistic to encapsulate how you breathed life into this art. Into him. 

And it is hyunjin’s arms that you run into, scurrying down the stage steps, an overflowing bouquet in your right hand and a gleaming trophy held tightly in the other. 

“You won, my love,” he shouts, ecstatic as you throw your arms around his neck, as he cradles your waist, spinning you around like how he always orbits around you. 

He puts you down, leaning in to kiss you with no second thought, your eyes closed as you savor one another, as your lips move as if commanded by the stars, to part only to meet again, and again. Till your cheeks are both flushed and all he can taste is the strawberry in your lip tint. 

Your eyes lock on his, your pupils widening till they swallow your irises, mirroring your breathtaking grin. Hyunjin felt as if the sun had left the sky and lodged within his chest.

But what Hyunjin failed to understand is that, for souls like his, happiness is only a fleeting passenger. Even then, it isn’t meant to be swallowed whole; it is to be eaten bite by bite, back hunched, hidden from the harsh glare of the universe. Perhaps this is the price he pays for defying the sadness that shadows him—his own eager canines sinking into joy, ultimately tearing it apart.

…

“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”

It takes a few seconds for Hyunjin’s words to settle into your mind, for the syllables to unfurl slowly, like a wave gathering its strength before inevitably crashing on the shore. 

Once, Hyunjin had spoken of a figure skating center in Switzerland, one that Jihyoun praised endlessly—the pinnacle for skaters reaching toward gold.

“Will you go?” you’d asked, and he’d only shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.” The conversation had dissolved then, lost in the press of his body against yours, in the paths his fingers traced down your stomach— dizzying enough to make you forget the sound of your own name.

But you should have known—some things cannot be buried beneath the covers. They always resurface, haunting, inevitable.

You draw in a deep breath, your gaze settling on your congratulatory bouquet. The flowers have started to wither now, despite the sugar cube Hyunjin dropped in the water. 

Were they a trigger for the slow withering of your relationship, too? Did the fall of that first petal set the course for your own undoing?

“Okay,” you nod, biting your lip anxiously. “When will you go?”

“In three days. Or else I’ll miss the deadline to join.”

Oh.

You remain silent, feeling as though barbed wire coils around your throat, each metal spike pressing deep into your flesh. He steps closer, his warm hands cradling your cheeks. It takes you a few seconds to meet his gaze.

You suddenly imagine a life untouched by him. The thought fills you with a horrible urge to weep.

“I know it’s sudden,” he murmurs, voice low, “I tried to delay it as long as I could, but Jihyoun kept insisting, saying it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don’t want you to feel abandoned.” 

You shake your head, as if to push that thought away, as if the notion itself is meaningless.

“I’ve always known we wouldn’t stay in the same place forever. I have to go back to Juilliard soon, too. I just… never thought it would happen this fast.” You sigh softly, a tender smile slipping across your face as you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. “But you’re meant for grand things, Hyunjin. If Switzerland is where you’ll find them, then I couldn’t be happier for you.”

“I love you,” he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, a gentle, aching gesture. “We’ll make it work, right?”

He searches your eyes, pleading, his brows drawn into a worried knot.

“Of course, we will.”

It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin. 

“I love you,” he repeats, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the counter.

“I’ve only known love thanks to you,” you murmur. That much is true.

Hyunjin kisses you with hunger, his hand tangled in your hair, his body moving with a fierce rhythm—passion and love dripping from each one of his touches, each one of his spilled i love you’s between broken whimpers and moans. 

He loves you tonight like he has something to prove. As if his fingertips must be etched upon your skin, as if his name should be the one carved deep within you, the one found if you were split open to your soul.

Lying against his bare chest, you feel his breath rise and fall beneath you, the tip of his fingers sketching aimlessly upon your skin. Yet, you sense as if there is already a rift between you both. As if the news of his living has seeped between your bodies— the distance has already laid its claim, separating you both.

… 

You’re back in New York, slipping into the rhythm of your classes like a puzzle piece wedged into place, not quite fitting, yet you force it to. You spend each waking moment practicing your final dance at Juilliard—The Sleeping Beauty—the ballet that will close this chapter of your life.

Your apartment has remained unchanged; the conversations with your classmates are as futile as ever. And your heart still pulses, aches for Seoul, for the warmth you found there, in Hyunjin.

Winter settles in, snow gathering in quiet drifts along the streets. Two languid months slip by, time dragging its feet, as if too wishing to remain right where you left Hyunjin. You lose yourself in the pursuit of a perfect performance. And yet, the praise of your professors and peers no longer fills you as it once did.

It all feels hollow, empty, when you can’t remember the last time you and Hyunjin spoke, actually spoke, the way you used to.

You’d already seen this scene unfold in your mind the day he broke the news—more vividly still as he walked away in the airport. You had known the first few days would be good—frequent calls and texts, sharing the smallest details of his new life and of your familiar one.

But then, the silence would settle in, as it has. Because you and Hyunjin are both perfectionists. Because without your art, both of you are left with nothing but shadows of yourselves— hollow shells calling out in agony to what truly pleases your souls. 

You’re afraid to say it out loud, but Hyunjin’s face is blurring in your memory, details softening as though sketched by an impressionist’s brush. All that remains clear are the shadows under his eyes on your last video call, dark circles carved deep into his soft skin, his exhaustion bleeding through the screen as he struggled to stay awake for you.

There is no one to blame, and somehow, that only hurts you even more. You could sacrifice your hours of practice, and so could he. But then the guilt would come, ravenous, gnawing at your soul. And guilt is a hungry being, soon enough it won’t be satiated by you. Soon enough it will turn to your love for Hyunjin. 

And you couldn’t afford that. 

You miss him most on days like this, when nothing seems right from the moment you open your eyes. The city’s chill feels sharper, as though mocking you, reminding you of the warmth you left behind.

The wind bites as you step into the night, wandering aimlessly, your feet carrying you to nowhere in particular. Tears hover at the edge of your lashes, but you refuse to let them fall.

There’s no grace in the way you don’t allow yourself to cry, no mercy in how you hold yourself together. You've always been a performer, haven’t you? Even your pain feels like a scene you must perfect. Is it tragic enough? Does it carve deep enough to justify being felt?

You bite your lip, numb fingers pulling out your phone. You type out Hyunjin’s contact— my love. Your last message to him was two days ago.

With a sigh, you press call. He answers on the final ring.

“Hi, my angel,” he says, a bit breathless. Probably mid-training.

You force a smile, hoping he won’t hear the tremble in your voice. “Hi, baby. Practicing?”

“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”

“Im going for a walk.” Your voice quiets as the lump in your throat tightens, a chain wrapping around your words, binding you.

“Are you okay, my love?” he asks gently, and you nod though he can’t see.

“I am,” you lie. “I just miss you.” The confession slips out before you can stop it, and the weight of it crushes you. You miss him so much it’s killing you.

“I miss you too,” he says softly. You feel like throwing up. You have to make it quick before your courage betrays you. 

���I think we should end things,” you say quickly, biting down so hard on your lip that blood beads up, sharp and metallic on your tongue— just like your words.

“What?” he whispers, and you hear his faint apologies, the rustle as he moves to someplace quieter, someplace where you can break his heart without an audience.

“Why do you want this? Don’t you love me anymore?” His voice is small, fragile, and you feel the tears welling in your eyelids, but not yet.

“You know there’s no one I love but you,” you say, drawing in a breath that doesn’t wish to be trapped by you. “But we’re both so busy it barely feels like we’re together anymore.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, I’ll try to text more, I promise. I’ll cut back on my training for you, I’ll—.”

“You know I’d never ask that of you.” You cut him off, smiling sadly and he falls quiet.

You see him then, in a haze of memory—Hyunjin’s head resting in your lap, your fingers lost in his hair. You hear his voice again, soft and raw, “My mom’s last wish for me was to win that gold medal. I’m terrified of letting her down. Just thinking about it—” He’d let out a humorless laugh. “She isn’t here, and yet I still feel this debt to her. Isn’t that strange?”

You know it well—the pain of failing those you love, even those who don’t love you back.

“Your mom wanted you to win that medal, didn’t she?” you say softly. “I would never come between you and that.” A pause. “But doesn’t it hurt more to wait for a message that never comes?”

“I…” he stammers, a sniffle slipping through the phone, and it nearly undoes you.

“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”

And in that instant, you know he understands. It’s because Hyunjin understands that you love him.

“I love you too, my Hyune.”

“Then don’t say this,” he chokes out, “say something cruel—something that’ll make it easier not to miss you so much when you’re gone.”

You can hear him crying, and the sound permanently breaks a rib within your heart. It sounds so raw, so painful that you wish to abandon everything and run to him. Had life not been this harsh to you, perhaps you would. Perhaps you’d have enough courage to believe that love can suffice for everything. 

“I came back to Seoul because my mother was sick. I thought…maybe it would bring us close again. But I think now that I came back just to meet you, Hyunjin.” His name falters, slipping from your lips in a stuttered breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking, “thank you for making me happy.”

The call ends, and you fall to your knees in the snow, finally surrendering to the grief tearing through you. Sobs wrack your body, raw and relentless, so fierce it feels as if your heart might just stop, as if you’ve become nothing but an ache, a bruised, throbbing mass of memories, pulsing with each thought of him.

Is this enough for you? you want to scream at whatever cruel hand pulling the strings of your fate. Has my suffering finally paid the debt of my existence— for both me and him? 

… 

You’ve come to understand that the expanse of human emotions is boundless, as vast and unknowable as the space that holds the universe. And with each passing day, it feels as if another star dies within you, its light dimming slowly, far from rebirth.

You once thought your heart had grown accustomed to grief—your life spent in mourning: parents you wished you had, love you wished had dared, even just once, to find you.

But mourning the happiness Hyunjin brought is something else. It’s a different kind of ache, not like the eruption of a volcano that fades into a quiet resigning. This pain lingers, dull and relentless, day after day, a wound that refuses to close, a pulse that never stills.

It has been a month since your fateful call. Hyunjin first sent you a bouquet of white roses, with a note nestled within—To the one who made me find love again, I will love you until my last breath.

You didn’t reply, but Hyunjin kept sending bouquets, each one arriving with a message that tore at your heart a little more than the last. I am thinking about you often; please think of me, too. As if you could do anything but that. If I am to exist in only one place, let it be in your mind.

You’ve hung each note on the fridge, their words staring back at you every morning as you make your coffee, exactly the way Hyunjin likes it.

Sometimes, you’d let the water run, overflowing in the coffee maker as you read his words again and again. Then, you’d catch a glimpse of your own distorted reflection on the water’s surface, wondering what it would feel like to drown in the sea, to let the liquid fill your lungs and wash over you.

But you never let the thought linger too long, chasing it away with the hum of a song. You know it will only lead you somewhere scary.

After three, maybe four months, the bouquets eventually stopped arriving. Hyunjin had surely grown tired of your silence.

The heart is no rigid thing; it doesn’t stay frozen in one place. It stretches and contracts, bleeds, then patches itself together again. But you hadn’t done much to heal it—truthfully, you hadn’t believed you deserved to feel good once more.

Then month five came, and there was no time left to dwell on anything. A strange relief, you thought, for a mind like yours, that never quite stops turning, even in sleep. Graduation loomed on the horizon, and you were terrified of your efforts going to waste, of them somehow never being enough to set you apart.

But one night, your professor placed her hand on your shoulder, her gaze warm as it met yours. Suddenly, you felt seven years old again. “I think you could be this generation’s prima ballerina assoluta, she said—absolute first ballerina, the best of the best. 

“Really?” you whispered, hardly breathing, and she nodded. “Yes, if you keep going this way, you will be.”

You thought about calling Hyunjin to share the news, but quickly brushed the thought aside. Instead, you spent the night picturing his reaction. It was pathetic, maybe, but you liked to believe he would’ve said he was proud of you, called you angel, kissed the tip of your nose, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. You fell asleep with his words murmured on your lips, as if they’d been real.

Month six rolled in, then seven. You had been keeping tabs on Hyunjin’s name as the Olympics approached. There has been news of him wanting to attempt a quadruple axel spin— forty-four years after the triple one. An automatic win, some would say.

You knew that if anyone could do it would be hyunjin.

You wondered if he too read the articles released about your performances. Did he smile at them, his sweet dimple surging forth? Or did your name sting him, like droplets of acid falling into an open wound? 

Month eight arrived, genuine joy weaving into your life once more. You took your final bow on the polished stage of Juilliard, the roaring applause ringing in your ears for days to come. You had the highest performance score of the history of the institution. Your professor’s eyes then searched yours— “where do you see yourself now? where would you feel happiest?”

Hyunjin’s arms. You almost said. Barely holding yourself. 

“I don’t know. I think I’ll try at operas. I want to perform the white swan there.”

“Then go to opéra garnier in Paris. I have a friend there. Talk to him, feel it out.”

You had almost kissed her cheek right there and then. Not only because the Opéra Garnier had been your childhood dream but because now, Paris was where the Olympics would be held.

You now had an excuse to be there. 

You kept looking for Hyunjin in every monument you visited. In the hush of night by the Louvre, along the quiet flow of the Seine, in the gentle strokes of Monet’s paintings at Musée de l’Orangerie. What would you do if you met him on a random street in Paris?

Thankfully, or unfortunately, you still hadn’t decided, you never had to find out. You didn’t see him.

It is the men’s singles day at the figure skating Olympics, and somehow, you feel more nervous than in all your own performances combined. You’re seated close to the ice, close enough to feel the chill radiating from it, close enough to capture every detail of the performances.

Then Hyunjin steps onto the ice. If not for your seat, you might have collapsed, your knees a mass of useless ground bones. 

He’s dazzling—achingly, excruciatingly beautiful. His hair falls longer now, delicate strands brushing his forehead like a prince out of a fairytale. His outfit is pure white, adorned with emerald diamonds cascading like droplets of light. Instinctively, you reach for the emerald ring on your finger too. 

Your gaze follows him everywhere, drinking in the sight of him tipping his head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he talks to Jihyoun, every stretch, every step, every quiet act of his being. 

He was still as lovely, still as beautiful as you have always known him. 

You wonder if he’s thinking of you, too, as his eyes flutter shut before his music begins. What image knits behind his eyelids in that instant?

It has always been his face for you. 

The air buzzes with anticipation, thick with belief and doubt alike as everyone knows what Hyunjin is attempting tonight. All eyes follow him as he skates, tracing wide circles across the ice, bending low to the ground, spinning in perfect arcs.

Then, he launches into the air.

The seconds seem to trickle by as slowly as blood droplets rushing to a dying heart. You see it— one spin, planets orbiting around the sun, aching to inch closer to the warmth. 

Two spins— seconds marching forward to catch up with the next ones in a ticking clock. 

Your breath freezes in your throat, your hands grip the chair so much your knuckles turn as white as the roses hyunjin sent you after you parted ways.

Three spins— fireflies dancing around the light, drawn to it like milky stars.

And then he does it.

His fourth and final spin— your heart orbiting around Hyunjin as he achieves his dream, as he breaks the world record he long yearned for.

You fall back in your seat, a rush of relief loosening the tension in your body as the crowd erupts into thunderous applause. Unbelievable is the word on everyone’s mouths. 

But not on yours.

Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would. 

Tears gather in your eyes as he stares at the scoreboard, his gaze fixed, waiting, breath held alongside every other skater. 

Hyunjin’s name comes first. 

He collapses to his knees, the weight of his victory pressing down his body, finally breaking him open. Jihyoun rushes over, cradling him, shaking him, laughing, “You did it, Hyunjin! You did it, son!” The tears won’t stop rushing down your face; they have a life of their own now.

You watch as Hyunjin circles the audience, waving at the crowd cheering his name. He drifts closer to your section, his eyes scanning the sea of faces until, finally, he finds yours. 

The world stills, you force the earth to stop spinning to have this one moment with Hyunjin. You lock onto his gaze, holding it, savoring the way his lips form your name.

Then, as if pulled by a force greater than either of you, he climbs over the stands, moving swiftly across the seats until he reaches you. In an instant, his arms are around you, his head buried in the crook of your neck. “Yn, I…” he chokes, and you nod, whispering, “I know. You did it, Hyunjin.”

“I did it, Yn,” he echoes, his voice trembling. He pulls back to look at you, his hands resting on your shoulders, both oblivious to the flash of cameras, the seas of people flocking around you. 

No one here could ever understand what this moment means to him. No one but him—and you.

As he takes his place on the podium, tears shimmer in Hyunjin’s eyes akin to the reflection of the sun across the sea. He bites his lip, struggling to hold it together as the bronze and silver medals are awarded. Then the official steps forward, gold medal in hand. Hyunjin extends his shaking hands, watching as the ribbon drapes over his head, at long last. 

Suddenly, the past eight months of heartache are justified. You would endure it all again, twice over, if it led to Hyunjin having this moment. 

“Miss Juilliard,” Hyunjin says softly as he meets you by the door. He had asked Jihyoun to tell you to wait for him. Jihyoun seemed happy to see you once more. 

Hyunjin is different now than he was twenty minutes ago, when he threw himself into your arms, overcome by emotions too vast to name. Now, he stands before you, more composed, more guarded, though his gaze remains tender. He’s never been able to hide his eyes from you.

“Congratulations on your win,” you say.

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He knows.

In that moment, you see it all—the two paths unfurling before you. You could smile at him and he would smile back. Then you would part ways. And you would meet again, in a ceremony of some kind. And he would have grown only more beautiful, and the ache would have not softened. And his loving gaze would set on someone else but you.

Or, you could speak now.

“I made some tiramisu back at my Airbnb,” you say, your voice tentative. “Would you like some?”

Hyunjin’s shoulders stiffen, a debate flickering in his eyes. Then he exhales softly. “Of course.”

You sit side by side in the uber. His phone keeps lighting up with congratulatory messages until he switches it off.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling the need to break the silence. He tenses beside you.

“For what?”

“For stealing you away.”

His shoulders relax. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to come.”

The apartment you rented is small—studio-sized, really, but near Montmartre, where you’ve loved taking nightly walks by Sacré Coeur. Hyunjin slips off his shoes, placing them next to yours by the door.

For a moment, you both pause, staring at the sight of your shoes, side by side, once more.

He clears his throat as you gesture for him to make himself comfortable. He moves to the window, gazing at the city below, while you retrieve two plates, carefully setting a slice of tiramisu on each.

“Thank you,” he says softly when you hand him his plate. But neither of you takes a bite. It’s as if opening your mouth would lead to a torrent of words escaping, ones neither of you can contain. 

He yields first.

“You came,” he whispers, glancing over at you.

“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”

“I missed you,” he says, biting his lip. Hyunjin has always been honest, especially when it comes to you. “It hurt a lot to miss you, Yn.”

“I’m here tonight.” 

Your words settle into the air as the hum of the world outside fades away. Hyunjin’s gaze, sharp and knowing, meets yours—those piercing eyes that have always stripped away your defenses, reading between the lines of your every unspoken thought.

He holds your gaze for a beat too long, and you fumble for your fork, needing something—anything—to diffuse the weight of what lingers in the silence between you.

Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.

Kissing Hyunjin again feels like breathing in after being starved of air, like a cool breeze caressing your skin on a scorching day. A shiver spreads through you as he gently lowers you onto the couch, his body a pressing weight above you. Your hands find their way to his back, moving with the instinctive ease of muscle memory, while he kisses you with the fierce urgency of someone who’s finally tasted salvation. 

You wish to never part from him. You wish for your body to liquefy and morph into the hot rush of blood within his veins— anything so you wouldn’t have to part from him once more. You don’t think you can handle it. You don’t think you can lose Hyunjin again. You know you can’t.

When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed a soft pink, like fresh dahlias, his eyes glossy and filled with something unspeakable as they trace over your face. “Tell me, Yn,” he breathes, “do you still love me? I need to know, please. It’s been tearing me apart.”

“I love you,” you say, with every bit of honesty you can muster. “I loved you before I even knew what love is, and I will love you, Hyunjin. Whether you are near or not. I will always love you.”

A breathtaking smile unfolds across his face, warm enough to thaw every frozen corner of your heart, to make decades of loneliness melt away. You would endure it all again, face the heartbreak and the grief. Fall at your sister’s grave and repent once more. You’d do it all if it means your path will cross with Hyunjin.

“I was always ever yours to love.” 

Epilogue. 

Hyunjin has always felt as if he has lived many lifetimes at once. Like a serpent, shedding its skin, he had lost parts of his being in various places. Some he managed to retrieve, others not. He had a lot to learn, overwhelmed by certain things past. His thoughts weren’t always kind. His hands didn’t always sweep gently against his skin. 

But on days like those, you were there to love him. He had learned and unlearned many things with you. Hyunjin had found that love wasn’t a sharp emotion, it didn’t slice away at the heart, it didn’t puncture. There were no sharp edges when it came to you. Even if he lost you along the way, he would round up a corner and find you there. 

And he did. Hyunjin found you, even when you didn’t wish to be found. You scurried from place to place, set foot into Paris to Seoul, Alexandria and New York. The distance lessened then widened. But it never tore you apart once more. Your souls were satiated in a way. You could rest side by side now. 

And you did, as you settled in Seoul, decades down the road. Where both you and Hyunjin built a new training center. Figure skaters on the first floor, ballerinas on the second. The days passed by in happiness, laughter and giggles. There was no curse. No punishment. Not anymore. 

You are in a graveyard once more. You watch as Hyunjin sweeps the name atop the tombstone gently. Prima ballerina assoluta, he reads, the swan of my heart. His weathered hands shake as they clutch a bouquet of fresh red lilies, and your heart still aches at the sight. 

It is late at night at the graveyard, the branches are still humming to one another, like a melancholic flute. You understand now that they speak to the buried ones. “Not so long now,” they reassure, “your loved ones will follow.”

You believe them, and you will wait. For now, you’ll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave. 

They are now meant for you, at long last. 

[cat9901234]

She's got your genes

summary: you and Lewis Hamilton's daughter suddenly took an interest in go-karting whilst your husband was racing and proves she's definitely both you and Lewis' kid.

warnings: nothing but cute fluff.

Named daughter: layla.

When you found out you were pregnant in 2015, you were the least to say terrifyingly worried about telling Lewis with the rise of his wins, the drama, and change of careers plan for the both of you. But nonetheless, the two of you worked through the first rough two years together and Lewis proved to be a wonderful father.

You managed to get your career to settle down in Kensington home when your daughter was five and when the both of you could afford to see Lewis at his races that had always seemed to lift his spirits (and an ongoing suspicion amongst the younger F1 fans that Lewis always performed better when the two of you were around since before your little girl started school and you being more present at his races performed at his best.)

Layla, your beautiful little girl was the perfect mix of the both of you. She had Lewis’ spirit and sass as a youngster and your beauty and compassion Anthony, Lewis’ father would say. Lewis would always try to get as many video calls and flights back to London as possible where the two of them had formed a very close bond, and were always found either cuddled up on the couch as they watched a movie whilst she talked about as much as she could about in the time Lewis was gone or playing outside in the backyard with a soccer ball and Roscoe not too far off. 

As much as you tried from keeping Layla’s appearance and face out of the media, whether that be always making sure she’s wearing sunglasses or a hat, there was always either a fan’s shot or a lucky paparazzi at the paddock who managed to a glimpse when she took her sunglasses off to rub her eyes or when they felt uncomfortable. Speaking of the paddock, she was much adored by the drivers; especially Sebastian and George where a viral video went around when she was five of her and George hugging and declaring how he was his best friend. 

It was Friday night for the two of you in Kensington, and you were finishing off a meeting call with your colleagues when, just after you logged off, a knock came from your door. 

“Hey Lay, did you manage to work out the question?” you queried. 

“Yeah, it’s all good,” your eight-year-old nodded. “Hey mum?”

“Yes?” you hummed getting up.

“Can I go-karting? Like a race?” 

You stood there a bit shocked at her sudden interest. 

“You want to race?” 

“Yeah,” she smiled.

“Why the sudden interest sweetie?” you crouch to her level, your tone curious but laced with a familiar warmth that your daughter always sought.

“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret,” she whispered.

“Really now?” you put your hands on your hips, mirroring her sass. Layla giggles in response. 

“Mum!” she exclaims. 

“Well can I guess?” Layla thinks about it before nodding her head. 

“Is it because you wanna be like daddy?” you pretended to think by putting a finger in your chin.

“No, not really,” she shook her head. She didn’t seem like she was lying.

“Hmm, is it because you want to do it for fun?”

“Sort of,” she grins. An all too familiar grin that was nothing but identical to Lewis. 

You sigh loudly. She had go karted when she was a bit younger once or twice for birthday parties.

“Mummy Please! I really need to do this,” she pulls out a very folded and creased flyer of an upcoming open to all go-karting tournament. 

“Honey. That’s in like two weeks,” you read the key dates. 

“Yeah, but if I practise everyday after school! I promise I’ll still do my homework!” she pouts. 

“What about the go-kart? Where are we gonna get that?” you raised a brow. 

“What about my old go kart that we used for birthdays?”

“Baby, you haven’t used that since you were four. It’s going to be a bit small.”

“Uhhh… what about the go-kart that uncle George got for me last christmas?” She reasons. You had honestly forgotten about that poor thing left in the garage untouched, better yet it was disassembled.

Damn her mini-Lewis genes.

“Sir Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton, what did you say to our daughter?” You glare through the phone.

“Have I ever told you darling you look especially beautiful today?” He sweats.

“What did I say to our daughter darling?”

“Well that’s what I’m asking you Lew. It seems our daughter has taken a sudden interest in go-karting,” you say watching his eyes widen. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, there’s a race in like two weeks she really wants to compete in,” you hum. “When I asked her why she had your grin written all over her. Something’s up and I’m going to figure it out.” 

“When’s the race?”

“[random date]” you sigh. “I already checked, you have a race that same day, and it’s almost a seven hour flight.”

“Fuck,” Lewis dragged his hand down his face. “Fuck, I’m going to miss our daughter’s first race.”

“It’s fine Lew. I’m not sure at the exact times but maybe I can facetime you during one of the races. It goes on all-day.”

“Alright. Maybe send the time and we schedule something from my end.”

“Sent-, Layla what are you doing still up?” your head turns to the direction of her coming down the stairs in her pyjamas. 

“I was throwing my tissue box, mummy and my bin is full-, hi daddy!” she exclaims, her eyes widening. 

“Hey! Mummy told me you're going to do a go-karting race!”

“Yeah,” she nods, leaning her chin on the edge of the couch. “I told mummy that I’m going to work really hard. We’re going to build the car together-, and I’m going to practise everyday after school after I finish my homework and in the mornings as well.”

“That’s really good to hear sweetie. I’m so proud of you. Mummy and I are going to try to organise for me to video call you guys when I can, okay. It will be just like I’m there.”

“That’s fine daddy, me and you can race when you come back!” she suggested enthusiastically. She knew well of Lewis’ job and what it demanded, and although sometimes it saddened her she got eventually used to it in the best way possible with Lewis making an effort to video call her.

“Of course Lay,” Lewis smiled warmly. “Oh yeah, mummy was telling me that you wouldn’t tell her why you didn’t want to race.”

“Yeah, I’m the one taking you to these practices,” she ruffled her locks. 

“Well… it’s because last week, me and my friend and another group were talking about cars. I don’t know why. But like then my friend Katy-, who also does go-karting says that it’s pretty weird and lonely cause she’s the only girl-, so then I said we can race together so she’s not lonely and that it will be fun!”

“Aww, that’s very sweet of you honey,” you kiss her cheek. “But are you sure as well this is something you want to do as well.”

“Yeah! It seems really fun and daddy did it when he was younger and he made lots of friends as well! So I’ll make more friends too!” she yawned. 

“Alright sweetie, I think that’s a sign for you to go back to bed. Say goodnight to daddy.”

Layla leans over and sends him a flying kiss and Lewis pretends to catch it making her giggle.

---

When the two of you practised, three sometimes when Lewis would join on a facetime, and four when Anthony would join as well when he heard his granddaughter took an interest in the sport, it was alarming to say the least how well she absorbed techniques and small critiques that Lewis and Anthony would suggest. But beyond that, what you were more thrilled about was how her serious demeanour the moment she hopped off her go-kart would always switch to a wild smile, or when she fell or crashed she would always shake it off and laugh.

When the race day came, you purposefully signed her name up with your last name for extra caution and wanting her to focus on enjoying the day. She had been excited to meet up with her friend and noticed as well how well during each of the rounds how sociable she was with the other racers and converse with them, as she would often come running back to you and Anthony saying how she made a new friend. 

In terms of racing. Well, it was safe to say although she had a rough start that you suspected was her nerves, she completely dominated the track as the two of you would cheer loudly no matter what.

Feeling your phone buzz loudly, you picked up and immediately answered the facetime request with a panicked Lewis. “Did I miss the last race? I swear I was trying to get out of that interview but he wouldn’t shut up.”

“It’s fine. She made it to the finals, she’s starting third look,” you turned the screen around to the track where your daughter was sitting in the kart ready.

“Omg! Go baby!” he yelled loudly through the phone.

‘Welcome one and all to the finals of the eight to nine year old division.’ The speaker announced.

Once the quick inspection finished, the moment the race had begun Layla’s car struggled and began to get hit behind the cars behind as they passed her. 

“It’s alright baby!” You yelled as she finally got the car working and sped off in last position. The three of you watched anxiously as she began to take advantage of the sharp corners and quickly catched up to the middle of the pack within a few laps. 

In the last few laps, Anthony swore he saw Lewis racing as she began to hunt down each person in front of her at a terrifying pace. 

“Come on Layla! Go baby!” you yelled as she managed to regain her starting position and then second-,

“And in first place, [your lastname]!”

“THAT’S MY BABY! OH MY GOD!” you heard Lewis yell you began jumping up and down.

Once she was able to come off the track, she immediately ran to the three of you as Anthony hugged her tightly and gave her a high-five. When she turned to the phone her eyes widened at Lewis who had the proudest smile on his face. 

“Daddy I won! It was so much fun!” 

“Well done Layla!”

“Daddy, why are you crying?” her brows knitted in confusion.

“Those are happy tears honey,” you chuckled, then looked to the marshal who signalled that it was time for the trophies. 

“Go get your trophy.”

Bonus:

Lewishamilton

liked by susfiewolff, sebastianvettel, charles_leclerc and 4000 others

So proud of my baby on her first win. I've never had so much anxiety on watching a go-karting race 😂

redbullracing: dibs -> mercedesamgf1: no you don't. -> mclaren: she's ours.

[stwrrybwrry]

I wonder how Sukuna would be once he got married...💭

⊹　 ︶︶　 𖹭᪲　 ︶︶　 ⊹

Sukuna! Who was bound by duty rather than desire, found himself in an arranged marriage designed to strengthen the ties between your families. From the very beginning, he saw you as a mere pawn in a game of power, an obligation to endure rather than a partner to cherish. He was already sick of you, he couldn’t wait for the day to toss you aside. Maybe he would spare your life if he felt generous.

Sukuna! Who turned away from your attempts to connect, met each effort with frigid indifference. When you tried to share a meal or engage in conversation, his sharp words cut through the air, leaving you feeling small and unwanted. Each dismissal stung deeply, yet you clung to the hope that warmth lay hidden beneath his bitter exterior. But he couldn’t help but be a bit amused by your behaviour, trying to get along with the king of curse? What a joke you were.

Sukuna! Who lived within the same walls yet created an insurmountable distance between you. As you wandered through the empty halls, loneliness consumed you, the ache for connection growing more profound. You yearned for his presence, longing for intimacy, but he remained an enigma, a fortress of solitude. But deep down, he started to feel something, a tingly warm feeling when he was around you.

Sukuna! Who occasionally let his guard down, revealing brief glimpses of the vulnerability hidden beneath his icy façade. A lingering gaze or a soft sigh hinted at a humanity yearning to break free. In those fleeting moments, you dared to hope that he was capable of love, but just as quickly, they vanished, leaving you with an aching desire for connection and a haunting sense of isolation.

Sukuna! Who rarely showed vulnerability suddenly sprang into action when danger approached, fiercely defending you against outside threats. You witnessed a side of him that contrasted sharply with his usual demeanor, igniting confusion within you. Why did he only reveal this fierce passion when your safety was at stake? Did he care about you or was he just trying to protect his image of the ruthless king?

Sukuna! Who after another heated confrontation, the dam finally breaks. “Am I that embarrassing to you?” you ask, voice trembling with emotion. “Is that why you treat me as I’m invisible? I thought we were meant to be married, but all I feel is your shame.” Tears well in your eyes as you lay bare your feelings, revealing how deeply you crave a connection with him. For a fleeting moment, you see a shift in his expression, the weight of your words striking a chord. “I’m trying to be a good partner to you, but you make it feel like a punishment,” you add softly, your heart aching with each word. But he quickly masks his vulnerability, unable to confront the truth of his own emotions, leaving you feeling more shattered than before.

Sukuna! Who watches as night falls, you quietly pack your belongings, each item a painful reminder of the love you yearned to build. You don’t notice Sukuna standing in the shadows, his heart heavy with regret as he watches you. “Maybe I was wrong to think we could be more than this,” you whisper to yourself, tears spilling down your cheeks, each drop a testament to the hope that faded away. The air is thick with unspoken words, and though he longs to reach out, he remains paralyzed by his own fears. You finish packing, blissfully unaware of the heartache etched across his face. As you walk away, he feels the weight of an irreversible loss settle in, understanding too late that he has let the best thing slip through his fingers, left alone in the suffocating silence of what might have been.

[greensagephase]

Nonviolent Communication - Part 21

Pairing: Spider-Man!Miguel O'Hara x Spider-Woman!Reader Summary: Día de Los Muertos, year three. Word Count: 11.6k Warnings: possible second hand embarrassment at the beginning; a new character introduced; some Spanish, but translations are in-text; mention of deceased loved ones; fluff and more fluff; face painting due to the celebrations; I think that's all??? 🤭 A/N: Hiii, just want to remind everyone that three new chapters were posted in early October. I know some readers missed one or two because the algo sucks, so check this post out to access all three chapters just in case you missed one! Music Inspo: "Cuando Vuelva a Tu Lado" - Eydie Gormé, Los Panchos "Recuérdame (Arrullo)" - Gael Garcia Bernal, Lucy Hernández "Remember Me (Lullaby)" - Gael Garcia Bernal, Gabriella Flores, Libertad García Fonzi Masterlist

Part 21

You look around your apartment, making sure your place looks decent for the hundredth time. It smells good, you know that. Miguel told you so when he arrived earlier for breakfast with you. Unfortunately, he had to leave because you have a guest coming.

With a sigh, you return to your small kitchen to look at the coffee pot and freshly baked pastries you made for the occasion.

Despite spending the night in Nueva York at Miguel’s penthouse, you came back to your own place to bake because you’re expecting a person you never thought you’d be welcoming into your apartment ever again: Harry Osborn.

It’s been some time since you’ve seen him and ever since then, you decided to give him another chance. After debating for so long, you felt that it was right. At least, a part of you does. You have a feeling that neither Miguel nor the rest of the spider gang are happy with your decision because of Harry ditching you when you needed someone the most. You don’t blame them. If you were in their shoes, you’d probably dislike Harry, but well, you’re not in their shoes and you know Harry personally. There’s history with him, all the way to elementary school years. How can someone ignore that? Yet again, Harry did once, you suppose. You ultimately decided to do this for Peter, for his sake.

You figured he’d be open to giving Harry another chance, to maybe find out what happened, though that’s not a revelation you’re searching for right away. You’re sure with time, Harry will share the reason for his abrupt exit from your life. You’ve wondered already what the reason or reasons were, but none of your own explanations make sense. There was never a reason for him to do such a thing; to walk out of your life like you were no one to him.

There were no signs and that’s what made it hurtful, even if you were planning on cutting ties with him anyway when you thought you were doing everyone in your circle a favor by shutting them out. It came out of nowhere, just like your encounter with him that day at the flower stand, and now, you’re waiting for him to arrive to your home once more, so many years later.

You wipe the counter with a kitchen towel, feeling a bit anxious about this considering you’re practically strangers. Sighing heavily, you wish you were either going to be alone for the next hour or so, or back in Nueva York with Miguel at the penthouse.

You look at the spot where Miguel sat earlier during breakfast, the seat now empty. The two of you agreed that it was too soon for him and Harry to be introduced, at least in person and formally, so Miguel left about fifteen minutes ago.

That’s why you’re waiting for Harry alone, even though you wish you could’ve gone through the same multidimensional portal Miguel, who looked equally unenthusiastic about leaving you, opened. He didn’t say anything, but you could see and sense the hesitation. He didn’t want to leave you alone, but he had to.

Your cleaning ceases when you hear a knock at the door, realizing Harry is here. Breathing in and then out, you make your way to the door and look through the peephole to confirm. Seeing it’s Harry, you unlock and open the door with hesitation.

In front of you, Harry stares back at you, dressed in a business suit despite the fact that it’s Saturday, the second of November — Día de Los Muertos [Day of the Dead]. You notice he’s holding a bouquet of pretty flowers, but you don’t pay any more attention to it beyond that. Meeting your gaze, Harry offers a small smile, which you return.

Then, at the same time you offer your hand for a handshake, Harry steps in for a hug. He ends up running into your hand, freezing at the formal gesture before backing away in embarrassment.

“Sorry -” you start, lowering your hand.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that,” Harry apologizes with an awkward smile. He steps back again and then, simply offers the flowers. “These are for you. I was driving by the same little flower stand we ran into the other day, and I thought some flowers would be great since your building is back and running. Well… has been for a bit, but since I just arrived to the states, you know…” Harry trails off.

“That’s thoughtful of you, thank you,” you answer, carefully taking the flowers. “Come in.” You gesture for him to enter, closing the door once he’s inside. You lead the way to the kitchen. “Please take a seat. I have some coffee and freshly baked pastries.”

Behind you, Harry thanks you as he settles on the kitchen counter, taking one of the two chairs — Peter’s, or at least the chair that used to be his. “It’s so great to see you again,” Harry starts as you find a vase to place the flowers in. “I… Thank you for — for calling me back. I know you needed some time to think about it, and I… I’m grateful to have heard back from you. To be here after all this time.”

“I’m glad to have you here,” you answer, giving Harry a smile before continuing to fix the flowers. “Thank you for the flowers, by the way. They’re lovely.”

“Of course, I’m glad you like them,” he answers.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Harry replies, prompting you to withdraw two mugs from a cupboard, even though you already had one coffee with Miguel. You carefully pour the fresh coffee and fix some pastries on a plate before placing everything on the counter.

“It smells great in here,” Harry comments, flashing you a grin when you place the mug in front of him. “It always smelled amazing here though, with your great baking.”

You hum and offer a smile, staring at the man you never thought you’d see in this apartment again. Seeing him sitting in front of you, with the rest of the apartment behind him is a strange sight. You can’t help but think that Harry looks out of place, even though there was a time in which he visited this place every weekend. He was once in photos that decorated your gallery wall, too. You swallow subtly. “Thanks. It’s the baking. It’ll make your home smell great for hours. And, the oven will warm up the place — so it’s perfect for the colder months, too.”

“Yeah, I can see that. It’s so cozy in here. It always was,” Harry says, looking around the kitchen for a few seconds, observing, or perhaps remembering the days he used to come over.

You’re about to respond with another weak answer when there’s a knock at the door. You both look equally surprise to hear it.

“Are you expecting someone else?” Harry asks, looking over his shoulder and at the door.

“No,” you answer, putting your mug down and walking around the counter towards the door. “Let me see who it is. Might just be a neighbor,” you add, reaching the door. You peek through the peephole, feeling your spider senses act up probably out of the nervousness and awkwardness from this get together. You step back, unlocking the door while looking at Harry. “It’s your… Chauffeur? Butler?”

“Felix?” you hear Harry ask as you open the door to face the older man.

“Hey,” you start softly. “Come in. Is something wrong?” you ask, wondering if there’s an issue.

Brown eyes thoroughly scan your face, as if memorizing it. You remember this is the first time the man has seen you up close, so you disregard his focus on your face.

“Felix?” Harry says, standing next to you now. “What’s wrong?”

“Forgive me, sir,” Felix says looking at Harry to address him before turning to you. “And ma’am. Nothing is wrong. I noticed Mr. Osborn left his wallet at his apartment and decided to bring it to him since he’s driving.”

“Oh, I could’ve sworn I did pick it up,” Harry says while Felix retrieves the wallet from his own suit. “I guess I was a little… Never mind. Thank you, Felix,” Harry continues, accepting the wallet and tucking it away. “Shouldn’t be driving around without a driver’s license, huh?” he asks, looking at you with a sheepish smile.

“Certainly not,” you answer, still standing there, feeling Mr. Felix’s eyes on you. “You don’t want a ticket.”

“Definitely not,” Harry responds. “Thank you, Felix. As always, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Happy to help, sir. I’m sorry for my sudden appearance. I hope you and Ms. Y/N don’t mind the interruption,” the man says, lowering his face slightly as a form of apology before straightening again. “I shall leave you two now and return to my duties.”

“We don’t mind,” you answer, giving him a nod of understanding. “It’s kind of you to have brought Harry his wallet.”

Felix turns to face you, eyes meeting yours. You silently decide he’s about fifty years old or so, based on his demeanor at least. He nods back. “Just doing my job, ma’am, which I take very seriously.”

“Too seriously, sometimes, Felix,” Harry says with a bit of a chuckle, clasping his hand over the man’s shoulder. “He’s a great man, Y/N. He’s been working with me for years and I don’t plan to let him go until he decides to retire, which he states he has no plans on doing, so, he’ll be my right hand indefinitely.”

Offering a smile, you extend your arm to formally greet him, a sight that makes Harry wince internally when he remembers the awkward moment you both had earlier when he arrived. You introduce yourself and shake the man’s hand when he accepts yours.

“Felix. Felix Kerr,” he introduces himself, giving you a firm handshake while holding your gaze. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am. I have heard nothing but wonderful things about you from Mr. Osborn and his father.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir. And that’s kind of you, and of Harry and Mr. Osborn,” you reply, withdrawing your hand and turning to Harry. “We’ve known each other since elementary.”

“A long time,” Harry says with a grin before he remembers that you’re not so acquainted with each other anymore. As if sensing his boss’s change, Mr. Kerr nods at him.

“I’ll be at the apartment, sir. Please notify me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Felix. I doubt I will, but I appreciate it. Careful on your way back,” Harry softly says.

“Will do, sir. Ma’am,” Mr. Kerr addresses you once more, nodding at you before turning on his heel and leaving.

“Sorry about that,” Harry says as you gently close the door.

“It’s no problem, no need to apologize,” you answer. “You needed your wallet. Please, take a seat. Again,” you say with a soft amused smile, trying to break down the awkwardness. “Before the coffee and pastries gets cold.”

You both reach your previous spots again now that his personal assistant, or whatever title Mr. Kerr has, is gone.

Harry picks up his mug and takes a sip, smiling at you. “It’s great. Thank you for it.”

“You’re welcome.” You smile slightly, twirling a spoon in your coffee. “So… How was your trip? Did everything go smoothly?” you ask, hoping to make conversation, which you succeed because for the next thirty minutes, Harry tells you all about his trip from the elegant and luxurious hotel he stayed at, the food he ate, a brief summary of the business dealings, and what he did on his free time. You try to ask questions to keep the conversation going, showing interest. You figure this is a good way to begin to know the man in front of you again.

“But enough about me. What have you been up to? How was your move-in?” Harry asks once he’s done telling you about the different historic locations he visited on his free time.

“It went well. Smoothly,” you state. “I had to clean, a lot, but it didn’t take me too long.”

“That’s good to hear,” Harry says nodding, turning on his seat to look at the living room. “You had… help, I hope?”

You look at the living room, not answering for a few a seconds. “Yeah, I did. Thankfully,” you answer simply, not providing any more information beyond that, like how it was Miguel who helped you clean.

Harry hums and stands up, walking closer to the living room, still looking around. “It looks so different,” he murmurs. “Despite the fact that it’s still the same place.”

“Yeah… It’s been some time since you were here,” you reply, opting to keep to yourself that only over a year ago you redecorated the place for the first time. You don’t want Harry to know that you kept the apartment the same for years after Peter’s death, from the furniture to the placement of objects.

“I know,” Harry replies with a sigh, moving to touch the couch. “You’ve changed the couch.”

“I did,” you say, remembering that the old one is still at Miguel’s place in storage. Staring at the new one, you realize maybe it’s time to fully depart with the old one. You haven’t even thought much about it. You suppose it’s true what some people say: out of sight, out of mind. Perhaps much like you’ve been for Harry and him for you. “It was time to replace it, unfortunately.”

Harry nods and turns around, his eyes landing on the gallery wall where photos that included him used to be displayed. Now, there are photos of your new friends. With interest, Harry gazes at them, walking closer.

You watch him carefully, knowing this will be the first time that Harry looks at the entire spider gang and Miguel.

“Are these — Are these your new friends?” Harry asks.

“Yes,” you simply answer, moving so you can look at the photos, too. Your eyes spot the various photos that you left up since you made sure to remove every single photo in which you or any of your friends are wearing their super suits to avoid revealing your super hero identity and raising suspicions.

Harry nods again, his eyes stopping on a photo specifically — the one of Miguel and you with Mayday from New Year’s Eve. “Hm… That little kid again. What was her name again?”

“Mayday.”

“Mayday, that’s right…” Harry trails off, still staring at the photo.

Based on his interest, there’s no doubt in your mind that Harry is wondering about the man next to you in the photo, the one with the little kid on his shoulder.

“Is that her dad?”

“No. That man isn't her dad. Her dad's name is — “ you pause when you almost say Peter's name, realizing it might be weird for Harry to hear that you befriended a Peter after your own. “Benjamin. He's a good friend of mine along with his wife.”

“Benjamin…” Harry hums at that. “Is this ‘Mig’?” Harry asks, reminding you of your first encounter with him at that flower stand after years of not seeing each other. You were grocery shopping with Mayday and after a bit of conversation, Harry invited you to a coffee shop for a drink. It was there that Harry asked about your living situation because he had learned about the fire to which Mayday eagerly replied with ‘Mig’ — unfortunately revealing that you were staying at someone’s place. Thankfully, Harry didn’t prod for answers then. You recall his answer to Mayday’s simple response was that as long as you were safe, that’s all that mattered.

Now, it seems that Harry wishes to know more, especially now that he’s seeing all these new faces on your gallery wall. It must be strange for him, you realize, to see that the people you both knew once — laughed, ate, shared jokes and memories with — are no longer part of this space, and instead, there’s all these new people that are now your family, but strangers to him.

You stare at the photograph, at Miguel specifically. There’s no point in denying, or withholding information when you’ve left all these photographs out. You didn’t want to hide them. Hiding them would mean hiding the people who’ve brought you so much happiness, who have become your family. It didn’t feel right to hide them, the small family who took you in when you were all alone and helped you be where you’re now, not even to protect the feelings of the stranger in your living room who you once knew so well.

“Yes, his name is Miguel,” you finally say, not providing a last name. “And he’s my best friend,” you add, with a firmness and pride that leaves no doubt in Harry’s mind that you mean those words with every fiber of your being.

He turns to face you, tearing his gaze away from the man, Miguel, who seems to be in a lot of pictures with you. He hasn’t failed to notice that, of course. He'd be blind to not notice that Miguel makes up a big portion of your gallery wall.

In fact, the number of photos this Miguel is in, is the same amount as Peter, your Peter.

“Your best friend,” Harry repeats, with that thought on his mind. This man is your best friend, and he along with Peter, make up the majority of your gallery wall. This man is part of the gallery wall just as much as Peter, your previous best friend and lover, is. That thought makes Harry grow still before his eyes flicker to your left hand for a second, as if searching for something. His gaze returns to your face when he finds nothing special, yet the idea doesn’t abandon his head entirely. “I’m glad you have people to rely on,” he continues some seconds later, giving you a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, though you don’t notice that. “They seem like good people.”

“They are. They’ve been an amazing support system over the last few years,” you answer, turning to the gallery to scan your friends’ faces. A smile, one so warm and gentle, so tender, forms on your face.

“You truly seem happy,” Harry comments, taking notice of the smile. “I’m happy for you.” After a pause, Harry turns to the photos again. “So… This is who you were staying with… This Miguel?”

“Yes,” you simply reply. “With Miguel.”

Nodding once more, Harry turns to face the photos again. His eyes scan every photo with the man. There’s the one with you and him and Mayday on New Year’s Eve. There’s the two of you putting together some kind of furniture piece, which Harry quickly realizes is the new bookshelf in your living room.

The realization leads Harry to register the truth — this man is important to you and ingrained in your life, so much he's helped you build furniture for your apartment’s new look, which seems like a too personal task. A task that only close friends, or a boyfriend, would do. At least, in his mind it seems that way.

Harry continues to look at the photos before his phone begins to ring, startling the two of you. He apologizes for the interruption before taking the call.

Remaining in the same spot, you listen silently. It seems to be about work.

“I’ll be there soon,” you hear him say quietly. “See you in a bit. Bye.”

Hearing him end the call, you turn to face him. “Everything okay?”

“Yes… Yes, everything is okay. I just — I must go. Something came up at work,” Harry says, his tone apologetic. “I’m needed, so I must go now. Being the boss's son sometimes means work on Saturday. I’m sorry for how abruptly I’m departing.”

“That’s alright. I understand. Work is work,” you answer, genuinely. “Do you want some of the pastries to go?”

“I — Do you mind?” he asks, slipping his phone into his jacket’s pocket.

“Not at all,” you say, quickly entering your small kitchen to pack some of the pastries for him. In seconds, you gather a few pieces and wrap them up for him to take. “Here you go.” You hand him the package. “I hope you enjoy them. Maybe you can give one to your dad. Tell him I said hi, by the way.”

Harry takes the package and nods. “Thank you so much. I will. I told him I was coming here, so he knows. He was happy about it,” he says, giving you a smile before you both move to the door. Harry’s strides are long and quick, so much his handkerchief falls to the ground without his knowledge.

You stop and pick up the dark green piece of fabric. “Harry, you dropped your handkerchief.”

“Oh, I didn’t even realize,” Harry says, turning around to take it from your extended hand. He easily slips it back in place. “Thank you. For that, and for the coffee and pastries. And for having me here, in your home.” He looks down at the package with pastries, trying to formulate the words before speaking. Once he gathers his thoughts, he looks up at you again. “Thank you for the chance you’ve given me — You have no idea how much it means to me, Y/N. Thank you,” he gently states, stepping closer and looking at you.

“It was nice having you here,” you answer genuinely despite everything. “I hope you enjoyed the coffee and pastries, and of course… You’re welcomed here.”

Harry smiles slowly at you before he steps closer. “May I… May I hug you?”

You nod slowly, agreeing to it, and that’s all Harry needs. He carefully wraps his arms around you, placing his chin on your shoulder.

Not knowing what else to do, you hesitantly place your hands on his shoulders from beneath his arms, staring at the ceiling and feeling weird about hugging Harry after all this time.

You close your eyes slowly and think about all the times you’ve hugged your friends, the spider gang, before you think of someone else. Unbeknownst to Harry, you think about hugging that someone else: the man in your photos Harry kept staring at, Miguel.

You frown slightly. You got a hug from Harry Osborn, someone who hasn’t been in your life for years, before you got a hug from Miguel, your best friend.

At last, to your relief, Harry pulls back and so do you. You offer him a smile. “Go. Work calls.”

Reaching the door again and opening it, Harry gives you another smile. “Yeah, I must get going. Thank you again for everything. Be careful alright?” he says, already halfway out, his gaze sweeping over the place once more, thinking about the new look of your apartment and the fact that Miguel helped you — that that man has been here in your home and helped you redecorate it.

“Will do,” you reply as he begins to close the door. “You, too.”

“I will,” Harry says, waving goodbye and beginning to close the door, but stopping at the last second. You stare at each other for a few seconds. “I’ll see you soon, Y/N?”

You nod your head, confirming. “Yes, soon.”

“I’m relieved, thank you. Take care.”

“You, too,” you answer, waving goodbye.

With that, Harry finally closes the door. After a few seconds, you lock it and sigh, leaning on it. That was a bit awkward.

You finally push yourself off the door and clean up the kitchen before you hang the other photographs back on the wall. Over half an hour later, you change into your suit and slip out of your apartment for a quick patrol of your city, trying to clear your mind after meeting with Harry.

You swing around the city for almost an hour, stopping a bank robbery and a petty criminal from stealing someone’s purse in that time span. You eventually travel to Nueva York, where Miguel waits for you at the penthouse.

“Hiiii,” you say, offering a smile to Miguel as soon as you step out into the living room. You find him carefully laying out some of the decorations for his ofrenda [Day of the Dead altar] on the coffee table, preparing.

Hearing your voice first before he sees you, Miguel smiles and turns to face you. “Hey, how did it go?”

You sigh and sit down on the couch. “It went.”

Chuckling, Miguel sits down across from you as well, deciding to take a break to give you his full attention. “Was it that bad?”

“When he first arrived, he was going for a hug and I offered him a handshake,” you confess, feeling a rush of embarrassment at that. You press your hands to your forehead and sigh. “So embarrassing. And awkward.”

Miguel offers you a small smile of understanding, though his interest perks up when he hears Osborn went straight for a hug. He clears his throat. “That sounds uncomfortable. How did you handle it?” he asks, curious to know if you eventually hugged Osborn.

“We apologized to each other, and then, he gave me some flowers he brought,” you state, leaning back on the couch.

Flowers? Miguel watches you lean back, noticing the little get together got to you a bit. He hums, thinking about the interaction.

“We talked for a bit about his business trip over coffee and pastries. He eventually looked around the living room and saw my gallery wall. He asked about you,” you continue to share.

“He did?” Miguel asks, intrigued by that.

“Yes. He remembered that Mayday mentioned a ‘Mig’ that day we ran into him at the flower stand. He looked at one of the photos of you and I with Mayday, one from New Year’s Eve. He asked if you were ‘Mig’ and I confirmed it. I told him your name — just your first one — and that you’re my best friend.”

Hearing you say that, and the way you say it so proudly, brings a gentle blush to Miguel’s cheeks. He smiles fondly at you, elated with the fact that you told Osborn about him. Miguel silently wonders what Osborn thought about him and the rest of your friends, however.

“After that, he said he was glad that I have a support system,” you continue, telling him about the remainder of the get together, including the hug at the end.

The revelation that Osborn got a hug from you after all, leaves a slight pout on Miguel’s lips and a strange feeling he doesn’t have enough time to identify. All Miguel knows is that Osborn seems to have received what he wanted from the start.

“It was a bit awkward, but I suppose it will be like that for a bit, considering we’re basically strangers at this point. It’ll take some time before that feeling goes away. Anyway, I’m glad we had that little get together, no matter how uneasy it felt, and even gladder that I’m here again. I’m so excited to cook and bake, and help you set up your ofrenda,” you eagerly say, standing up.

“I’m excited, too. I started on a few things already to ease the workload. I’ve set up the other pots and pans we’ll be using, the dry ingredients, and the supplies for the ofrenda. I figured it would help since gathering the things takes a bit of time, too. I also finished the filling for the tamales [Latin dish].”

“Gathering everything is a process of its own,” you agree. “Collecting everything, or as much as you can, beforehand, helps so much. You avoid the running back and forth when you’re actually doing the task, and prevents you from entirely skipping a step because you’re all over the place. It’ll make the process run much smoother being organized, especially since we’re doing a lot of cooking! Do you want to start now?” you ask with so much excitement it’s clear to Miguel you’ve been looking forward to this.

“If you want to, yes,” Miguel answers, standing up as well. “But first, I think you might want to change into more comfortable clothing since we’re doing a lot.”

You look down at yourself, remembering you’re wearing your suit. “You’re right. I’ll be right back!” you tell Miguel, already halfway to the stairs.

After changing into far more comfortable clothes — clothes you’ve left in your bedroom, at Miguel’s penthouse — and turning on his record player, Miguel and you begin to work on the food for the ofrenda.

Hominy for the pozole [Latin dish] is placed in a pot to boil along with the necessary vegetables needed for the sauce and flavor.

With that done, Miguel makes the masa [dough] for tamales, so you can begin making them.

As always, you work together with ease. You move around the kitchen in sync, making steady progress while Latin romantic ballads play in the background.

You also open the packages of candy and set them on a tray to later offer to each of Miguel's family members.

Little by little, progress is being made. You reach a point in the cooking that allows you to take a break and have lunch before you both set up the ofrenda, using tables and shelves to give it two levels.

White tablecloths are used as the base before gorgeous and vibrant banners made out of papel picado [pecked paper] with intricate designs cut into it are hanged at the edge of each level. Colorful and handmade sugar skulls are placed throughout both levels along with white candles to be lit later on.

To finish, both Miguel and you add marigold flowers to the ofrenda. They're fresh and so lively, their scent filling Miguel's living room, where he decided to set his ofrenda this year.

While placing a flower down, you find it hard to believe that you’re here now. Three years ago, Miguel showed up to your apartment out of nowhere. Smiling, you recall that evening.

You were doing chores, specifically putting items away where they belonged and laundry. All of a sudden, you sensed a portal and when you stepped out into the living room, there he was, Miguel. He looked around your apartment, probably noticing the autumn decorations before you asked him if everything was okay. You were surprised by his random appearance and even more so because he looked calm, so your guess was that nothing was amiss. Still, you had to ask just in case you needed to change into your suit.

“Are you busy right now?” Miguel asked after he assured you everything was fine.

“I was just doing some chores, so, no…” you replied, unsure of why Miguel was there so late. He was calm and said nothing was wrong, so that meant there was no threat to the multiverse. At least, that was your impression.

After nodding and sighing to himself, he told you his reasoning for being there. “I would like — to show you something,” he said, meeting your gaze.

In the span of minutes, if even that, you were in the lab and looking at Miguel’s ofrenda for his family.

That was what he wanted to show you, his offering and way of honoring and celebrating those who were once in his life, but now gone. By doing so, Miguel also wanted to assure you that your own way of honoring and celebrating Peter was okay — that you weren’t alone. It was a way of reciprocating the vulnerability you had allowed Miguel to see on Peter’s birthday. And since you had made him part of your celebration, Miguel wanted to do the same for you, something that brought you so much tenderness at the time and continues to do so to this day.

Now, three years later, you’re at his penthouse helping Miguel set up his ofrenda again, just like last year. The difference now is that you’re here instead of at the lab because Miguel decided to set it up at home since he spends more time here than he did in the past. You hum softly and place the last flower before turning to look at Miguel just as he adjusts Gabriel's photo.

You smile at the sight. Gabriel, Gabriel O’Hara. How you wish you could’ve met him and Gabby, the same way Miguel wishes you could’ve.

Heck, Miguel even wishes you could’ve met Conchata. Perhaps she would’ve liked you. Perhaps she would’ve done better as a mother and grandmother to Gabby if all three of them were still alive. Perhaps.

You look at each photo before meeting Miguel’s gaze, both your mouths curving upwards into a smile.

“I was thinking,” Miguel says, still smiling, but with a hint of shyness and hesitation. Perhaps it’s too much what he’s about to say, what he’s about to offer. He scratches his neck nervously, his cheeks red. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, or offensive. Or… find it weird, or to be too much,” he continues, rambling without realizing it. “I was wondering if you’d like to — like to add your loved ones’ photos, too?” Miguel manages to ask at last, staring at you sheepishly. He has been thinking about it for days, about asking you, but he kept going back and forth on the idea, and now it’s Día de Los Muertos and you’re both here. Maybe it’s a stupid idea, or too much since it’s about your deceased loved ones. Miguel almost begins to apologize for the bad idea, but then he notices the look of surprise and then tenderness on your face.

You slowly smile at him, a sweet smile. “You’re serious?”

“Yes… Yes, I am,” Miguel gently replies.

“But this is for family,” you state softly, wondering if Miguel has truly thought this through.

Miguel nods and that’s how you realize that he knows, that you’re making his point. It’s for family. He’s offering your loved ones a place on his ofrenda because you’re… Family.

You’re part of Miguel’s family.

“Oh…” you simply answer, a small knot forming in your throat before you push it down by swallowing. You smile. “Are you sure? I mean…” you look at the ofrenda, thinking. “It’s your ofrenda and I don’t have any food for them anyway, and I don’t want to crowd —”

“There’s plenty of space,” Miguel says gently. “As to the food, I can help you cook just like you’ve helped me. There’s plenty of time for it.” Noticing your smile, Miguel smiles, too. “Just say the word,” Miguel continues. “And we'll start immediately.”

That’s how, a bit later, the ofrenda is no longer only Miguel’s. It’s his and yours.

Instead of only four portraits, there’s seven. There’s one of both your parents, one of Aunt May and Uncle Ben, Peter, Conchata, Gabby, Gabriel, and Miguel’s wife. Like Miguel, you’ll be offering favorite foods and snacks later on when he does, too. Additionally, you went ahead and added belongings to your loved ones that were significant to them in life. For Peter, you’ve obviously offered his record player and favorite albums.

When you place the last one, a Billie Holiday album, you step back to look at everything. There’s even more sugar skulls, candles, and banners than before. And, the scent of marigolds? It has grown tenfold because more were acquired by Miguel, who went out on a quick trip to buy more.

You smile, feeling thankful for the kind and sweet gesture and privilege to share and partake in such a beautiful tradition with Miguel.

“There,” Miguel gently says with his own smile, staring at the ofrenda with everyone now. He hums and readjusts a flower in front of your parents’ photo before stepping back, standing next to you. “We can place the food in a bit,” Miguel offers before something catches his attention through the windows.

A few seconds later, you both walk to the windows to look closer. Vibrant holographic sugar skulls decorate the sky above Nueva York’s downtown, announcing that the celebrations have started.

At the sight, Miguel smiles softly. It’s been several years since he’s gone to any of those events. Too many years. He slowly turns to face you, noting the smile and intrigue in your eyes. He doesn’t even think about it twice before he makes another offer. “Do you want to go?” he asks. “There’s always live performances, amazing food, small businesses, and great music.”

“Really?” you ask softly, looking at him. “Do you want to go?”

With you? Anywhere. Miguel grins and nods, not sharing that thought. “I’m up for it, if you are.”

You chuckle with a spark in your eyes. “I’d love to!”

-♡-

When you reach Nueva York’s beautiful downtown, the sight of sugar skulls and marigolds greet your and Miguel’s eyes. Lively music reaches your ears and the wonderful, mouthwatering scent of food sold from food trucks reaches your noses.

As you both walk side by side, you notice children eagerly pointing to the holographic sugar skulls in the sky, trying to get their adults’ attention. Countless of people walk around with their faces painted in the traditional sugar skull makeup with intricate patterns. You also notice that many girls and women walk around with beautiful and bright hair accessories, many of which include big flowers.

Pulling your jacket closer to you due to the chilly weather, you smile in delight because of the spirit. There’s always an energy to Nueva York, but tonight, you can sense a different kind — one that seems to be almost pulsing. You silently wonder if that energy comes from those who have departed this physical world, but are visiting their loved ones still on Earth once more.

Your thoughts are interrupted when a lady from a small booth beckons Miguel and you with a bright smile. You glance at Miguel before looking back at the lady, quickly realizing the service she’s providing: painting people’s faces for the celebrations.

“Would you guys like to have your faces painted? I have a special price for couples!” the woman offers, still smiling.

You look away with a small smile. There it is again.

Only three weeks ago on Miguel’s birthday, back in your universe, Mr. Stanley assumed Miguel is your boyfriend. Now, there’s this lady also making the assumption. Thankfully, Miguel didn’t seem to mind. He said it was an innocent assumption, which calmed your worries about him being offended that day.

Next to you, Miguel scratches his neck after hearing the woman’s words. Once again, someone has assumed you’re dating. Despite how many times he’s been told that personally, Miguel still finds it surprising. Do the two of you give that impression? He wonders, considering that this lady has to be the fifth or sixth person to make that innocent assumption. He then wonders how many more people make that silent presumption just from seeing the two of you walking around. Before he has a chance to think further, like what does it mean that you’re being mistaken as a couple, you smile and walk to the booth to look at the different design options. And, of course, Miguel follows you.

“You can do matching, or different designs if you wish,” the lady offers. “I can do different eye colors, too. And, just letting you know, my friend in the next booth is selling hair pieces if you’d like to complete the look, señorita [miss].”

“That sounds lovely! Thank you for letting me know,” you answer politely before looking at the lady’s work again.

“Do you want to get it done?” Miguel asks after he thanks her, too.

“I…” you trail off and look at him, wondering if it’s okay.

“If you want to, you should. It’s fun,” Miguel gently says with a small smile. “We have time, too.”

“Alright!” you happily answer before the lady leads you to a chair and begins to ask you what design you’d like.

Meanwhile, Miguel watches from the side, intrigued by the process. He leans on a street lamp, slipping both his hands into his pockets as he quietly listens to you and the lady make small talk while she paints your face. Unbeknownst to him, Miguel looks like a devoted boyfriend and/or husband, waiting on his partner.

To Miguel’s surprise, it doesn’t take long for the lady to finish the makeup, but then again, he realizes that the lady must have a lot of experience and your face is probably one of hundreds she’s painted today alone.

You stand up and look at yourself through a handheld mirror that the lady offers you, admiring and thanking her for the wonderful service before you return the mirror. You then reach into your pocket for money — cash you’ve converted to this dimension’s — to pay the lady, but before you even get a chance to pull it out, Miguel has already handed the woman a bill.

“Miguel —” you start, but Miguel politely shakes his head at you just as the lady, who silently finds the interaction cute, takes the money.

“It’s on me. Keep the change, doña [short for señora/madam],” Miguel says.

“You’re paying for two people, mijo [term of endearment; my son],” the lady says. “Let me give you your change.”

“No, that’s alright, really,” Miguel insists.

“At least, let me paint your face, mijo. You’re not only paying for your girlfriend’s, but for one more person. You might as well.”

“I don’t…” Miguel starts, but trails off. He’s unsure of how to explain to the kind lady that he’s not open to someone touching his face plus feeling sheepish because she’s called you his ‘girlfriend’.

“Your girlfriend can do it, if you want,” the lady offers, picking up on Miguel’s reluctance.

Standing there, your cheeks feel hot. Not once, but twice has this lady said you’re Miguel’s girlfriend. Pushing past that, you glance at Miguel. “I can if you want, Migs,” you offer.

Miguel looks around for a few seconds before nodding. “If that’s okay… Alright.”

Once Miguel agrees, the lady quickly sets things for you on the other side of the table, so she can continue to work if other customers arrive. In a minute or two, you’re sitting in front of Miguel with a makeup brush in your hand. You begin by painting his entire face with white paint, just like yours. While you do so, Miguel stares at the tent��s ceiling, not failing to notice how close the two of you are sitting. You’re so close to each other that your knees are slightly pressed against each other’s.

After a few seconds, Miguel finally looks at you. His gaze travels over your face, taking the opportunity to look at the painted details now that you’re closer. His eyes stop at your own, noting that you chose a light purple color for eye shadow.

“You chose purple,” Miguel states as you paint one of his cheeks, almost done with the white paint.

“Mhm,” you simply answer, eyebrows furrowed. You look away to gather more paint before resuming. “I chose it because of Gabby, since she loved the color lilac.”

Miguel’s lips part in surprise. He hadn’t made that connection, but now that he knows, his chest flutters with ternura [tenderness]. You chose it for Gabby, his daughter. He smiles, even as you work the brush against his cheek again. “That’s so sweet of you,” Miguel says very softly so the lady doesn’t hear.

You smile back, your cheeks warm. “I just thought it would be… Nice. In her honor.”

“It’s more than nice. It’s sweet, Dulzura,” Miguel answers. “It’s a sweet gesture and I like to think that wherever Gabby is… Perhaps here… She’s appreciating it.”

“I’m sure she’s here,” you answer, reassuring Miguel. “With you.”

Smiling, Miguel nods. “With us.”

“With us…” you repeat softly, your chest filling with happiness at the fact that Miguel said ‘with us’.

Once done with the white paint, you switch to black paint and begin to draw the lines on Miguel’s face. You do the cheekbones and teeth first, finding it the easiest to do. Then, you do his nose by drawing an upside down heart at the tip, finding it cute. You draw circles around his eyes next, tracing Miguel’s orbital cavities, before filling them in and adding a decorative outline.

When you reach his forehead, you think about it. You had flowers drawn on yours, but you don’t want to do that for Miguel. You wish to do something different, something more fitting for him, but what? You hum softly before you begin to draw.

You carefully draw a sun in the middle of Miguel’s forehead, with little rays coming from it to indicate that it’s shining. When you’re done with that, you add a few more details above Miguel’s eyebrows. With a smile, you pull back when you’re fully done and grab the handheld mirror so Miguel can see the final result.

“You drew a sun,” Miguel murmurs with a smile when he sees it.

“Yep,” you say proudly. “Solecito [little sun].”

Miguel’s eyes move from the mirror to you, finding a grin on your face.

“What?” you say. “Some time ago, you jokingly said you were everyone’s solecito. ‘A ball of sunshine’, if I recall correctly.”

“It was sarcasm,” Miguel says, chuckling. “I’m not.”

You sigh and put away the makeup brushes. “For them, maybe.”

“Wh-what?” Miguel stutters, caught by surprise.

With a smile, you close the paints. “I’m saying you’re a ball of sunshine. To me.” You look up, closing the last paint. “Solecito.”

“Solecito,” Miguel repeats, his cheeks growing hot. “Little sun.”

“Mi solecito [my little sun],” you say this time, nodding with a warm smile, leaving Miguel speechless when you add the ‘mi’. Your little sun. You’re saying he’s your little sun. You stand up and grab the materials before walking to the lady to return them. “Here’s everything, ma’am. Thank you so much!”

Meanwhile, Miguel’s brain is having a moment. He’s never been given such a nickname by anyone. Ever. And now he’s your little sun — your ball of sunshine. Miguel’s cheeks grow hotter the longer he sits there, your sweet nickname echoing in his mind, leaving him flustered.

Your solecito.

“Are you ready for the live performances?” you ask, standing in front of him, so eager to go while Miguel’s brain is short circuiting.

“Si [yes],” Miguel replies, clearing his throat. “Yes. I’m ready.”

Miguel forces himself to stand up, trying to push past his pleasant surprise from your new nickname for him. You both thank the lady and wish her well with her business before walking away, happy with the service.

Walking again, Miguel continues to push past his feelings when he spots the small business the lady who painted your faces mentioned earlier. His gaze quickly sweeps over the beautiful hair accessories, which reminds him of the lady’s words, about how you can complete your look with something like that. He stops walking, something you quickly notice.

“Miguel?” you ask, wondering what’s up.

“There’s hair accessories,” Miguel states, staring at one of the tables with organized accessories. He flashes you a grin and gestures for you to follow him before he walks to the booth, leaving you wondering.

You slowly reach his side, finding him already talking with the owner.

“We have several options. Are you looking for a specific color?” the woman asks.

“Hmm, Dulzura,” Miguel turns to face you. “Do you want it to match your makeup?”

You smile, realizing. “I suppose it would be appropriate,” you answer.

“Something purple, please,” Miguel politely says before the lady shows the two of you all the options she has.

The lady shows you headbands, bows, and other cute dainty hair accessories — all with the color purple in different shades. You watch with careful attention as she shows you thing after thing, all so beautiful you’re undecided on which one to buy until you turn to Miguel, who lifts a headband from another table to inspect it. Gazing at it more closely, you realize the headband has handmade flowers out of lilac and white ribbons. It also has some hints of pink due to smaller decorations glued to the ribbons for a little dazzle.

“That one, please,” you say with a smile.

“This one?” Miguel asks with a smile, moving it forward so you can get a better look at it.

“That one,” you confirm, finding it beautiful.

“We’ll take this one, then,” Miguel says, looking at the price tag. Before you even have a chance to pull out your money, Miguel, once again, pulls out his wallet and pays.

“Miguel,” you say softly.

“What is it?” Miguel asks, already knowing by the little pout on your lips.

“You can’t keep paying for everything, you know.”

Miguel grins. “It’s my treat, so please let me,” he answers with amusement before he steps closer to you. To your immense surprise, Miguel steps even closer while holding the headband in both hands. He moves them closer to your head carefully and slowly, as if to avoid startling you. And then, to add to your growing surprise, Miguel gently slips the headband on your head.

You’re so caught off guard by Miguel’s brave gesture that you’re not sure if you misheard yourself gasping, but you’re aware of your widened eyes and parted lips.

Happy with the way the headband looks and how it adorns your hair, Miguel steps back with a soft smile. A gentle blush covers not only his cheeks, but also the top of his ears. For a few seconds, Miguel seems to avoid your wide gaze out of shyness. At last, he meets your eyes, still finding surprise on your face. “Does it feel okay?” Miguel asks, slowly and almost reluctantly taking another step back to give you space.

“Ye-yes,” you answer softly, speechless. You clear your throat and smile, trying to shake off the surprise, or at least not make it so obvious that you're shocked. “Yes. It's fine. Perfect, actually,” you continue with a smile.

“Good,” Miguel says with a small grin. “Now your look is complete, Dulzura.”

“Your change, sir,” the business owner says, dropping the money on his hand.

While Miguel thanks the lady, your eyes land on a beautiful bow. It's lilac with little white pearls lining the two tails. You gently pick it up, imagining that little girl with the toothy smile who loved science and fútbol so much wearing it.

In seconds, you imagine what it'd be like if she was here. You can picture Miguel carrying her on his shoulders, both their faces painted for the celebrations. If she was walking, you can imagine her holding his hand as they walk, tugging him to the small businesses to see everything. You even imagine her pulling him to this booth and picking this very bow because it matches her dress.

Smiling, you check the tag before pulling money out. “I'd like to buy this one, please,” you tell the lady once Miguel finishes talking with her.

Miguel turns to look at you, surprised. “You should've told me you liked that one, too. I can pay —” Miguel starts but you hand the money to the lady before he can finish.

“It’s for Gabby and I wish to pay for it,” you gently reply to Miguel.

“Would you like to get this packaged?” the lady offers.

“Please. That way it doesn't get damaged on the way home,” you answer.

“Of course. Are you guys going home to your child? A little girl, maybe?” the woman asks the two of you with a smile, making another innocent assumption that you both have a daughter.

“I…” you trail off before you start to shake your head.

“My daughter — she — she's no longer with us,” Miguel explains gently, though not explaining that Gabby is just his daughter.

The lady's face softens when she hears that. “Oh, I'm so sorry for your loss,” she replies full of sincerity. She closes the small box and hands it to you, your money on top. “It's on the house, for your little girl.”

Both Miguel and you decline politely at the same time, but the lady gently pushes the box into your hands.

“Please. As a gift,” she insists, still pushing the box into your hands.

You accept it hesitantly, only to not come off as rude. You pick up the money bill and offer it again. “Please-”

“No, no. Please take it. For your daughter,” the lady continues, stepping back. “I want you to. Accept it as a Día de Los Muertos gift. I hope your little one enjoys it.”

You sigh softly and lower your hand. “Thank you so much,” you reply, holding the box carefully.

“Gracias, doña. You didn’t have to, but thank you,” Miguel says after you, sincerely thanking the lady.

“Of course, jovenes [young people; youths]. Please take care and enjoy the celebrations. Have a great night,” the woman says, wishing you well before another customer approaches the booth.

Miguel and you walk away and continue on your way to watch some of the live performances, holding the box closer to you to make sure the bow doesn’t get damaged somehow.

“That was so nice of her,” you say softly as you both reach the center of the downtown, where there’s already a lot of people waiting.

“It was,” Miguel answers, agreeing. “It was a kind gesture. Hers and yours,” Miguel continues. “I appreciate you trying to buy it for Gabby. I’m certain she would’ve loved it.” Miguel smiles at that, knowing it’s true.

You grin. “I was thinking about her wearing it with a matching dress.”

Miguel’s smile softens, imagining his daughter eager to wear her bow with a matching dress. It brings a warmth to his chest. “Thank you, Dulzura. She would’ve definitely worn it like that. I… I imagine she would’ve wanted me to do her hair in a ponytail to wear it, too.”

You both grow quiet, thinking about that vision until the live performances begin. With interest and enthusiasm, Miguel and you watch lovely performances by amazing artists, including a mariachi band, who sing some of the most iconic songs to Mexico and talented ballet folk dancers donning beautiful and authentic attires among other great presentations that keep the spirit for the celebrations high.

Towards the end, Miguel and you eventually decide to go home, but not before you run into an elderly couple who you both overhear quietly talking about not having enough money to buy food from one of the food trucks.

“Tenemos comida en la casa, mi amor [we have food at home, my love],” the elderly man said. “Maybe in a few weeks we can buy the ingredients and make this meal ourselves. We can save for it.”

“You’re right, Balby. We should go home now,” his wife answered.

Hearing that, neither Miguel nor you could simply walk away. So, you bought the couple dinner and even gave them extra money for food. You’re not sure how much it was in total, but Miguel gave them plenty and you gave them what you converted a few days ago. Knowing they’ll be enjoying a great dinner, Miguel and you wish them a good night before you walk away, wanting to go home to complete the ofrenda and have dinner.

While you both walk away, side by side as always, the elderly couple watch you from their seats.

“So you were right, mi amor,” the man says with a grin.

“I always am, Balby,” the woman answers with satisfaction. “Those two have pure and courageous hearts. And they’re meant to be together.”

“I cannot deny it,” the man says. “Even I can see that. However will we pay them for their kindness tonight?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the woman says, watching the two figures fade into the crowd.

“How about a wager, mi amor?”

“No wagers tonight!” the woman replies before they both disappear, invisible to everyone else, to pass on the kindness Miguel and you gave to them.

[Characters from The Book of Life film; La Muerte and Xibalba (Balby)]

It takes less than half an hour before you reach the penthouse, and upon arrival, Miguel and you change into lounging clothes before heading to the kitchen to reheat the food. In the meantime, Miguel also makes pancakes with chocolate chips for Gabby, wanting those to be freshly made.

Once everything is ready, the food is offered.

Plates with tamales and pink conchas are placed. Bowls with delicious pozole, too. A fresh batch of chocolate chip pancakes is set in front of Gabby’s photograph. Apples and oranges are placed for Conchata and strawberries for Gabby. The various kinds of candy you placed on a tray earlier are distributed between Gabby and Gabriel, which include Paletas Payaso, Canel’s gum, and Pulparindos. And of course, Miguel didn’t forget his loved ones’ favorite drinks like the Jarritos and Chocomilk for Gabby.

Your parents, uncle Ben and Aunt May, and Peter had their favorite foods and drinks served, too.

To complete the ofrenda, Miguel places other offerings for his loved ones. He begins by putting a few things for his mom and his wife. When he’s done with their portions of the ofrenda, he moves to Gabriel’s part. Miguel smiles at his brother’s photo before he gently pulls out Gabriel’s green scarf from his pocket, placing it on the lower level in front of the photograph, offering it.

At last, there’s the youngest O’Hara, Gabby. Like previous years, Miguel places dolls for her, from a scientist to a soccer player and a few other toys. He offers a few new books because she loved to read, books he bought a few days ago with you at his side. From the bag in which he stored everything, he also pulls out a soccer ball. It was a must, of course. And finally, Miguel places her guitar, too, hoping that wherever Gabby is, she can enjoy her beloved guitar.

“I almost forgot,” you say softly, walking closer with the packaged bow. You offer it to Miguel, so he can place it, but Miguel shakes his head.

“You place it,” he replies. “I know you were going to buy it for her, so you should do it. It’s alright if you do so.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, not wanting to push boundaries.

“I’m sure, truly,” Miguel reassures you with a small smile, one you return.

With a nod, you open the box and pull the bow out, admiring it for a few seconds and thinking once more about a different timeline in which Gabriella was here, physically. You place it between the two dolls, silently hoping that Gabby likes it. You step back to look at the fully finished ofrenda. It took some time and love, but it’s completed at last and it’s so beautiful.

Both Miguel and you stand in silence, admiring it. The silence is a comfortable one, not out of grief despite the several photos in display of loved ones physically gone. It’s a silence of comfort and hope that those who have left too soon and unexpectedly come home, even if just for a few hours to share a meal with their living loved ones once more.

Miguel’s eyes trace every single photo in silence. He feels at peace, something he didn’t feel three years ago. There was too much pain, too much heartbreak. And, too much loneliness, even if he didn’t fully admit it to himself back then. Yet, three years later, Miguel stands in his penthouse — same one that felt so incredibly void and cold before, but now feels like home.

Home.

Miguel turns to face you. Things are different now. There’s less pain, less heartbreak. He’s learned better ways to manage his feelings, too, that’s for sure. Even better, there’s no more loneliness. With a soft sigh, Miguel finally breaks the silence. “Dinner?” he simply says, watching the way you turn to look at him with your face still painted, much like his.

“That sounds good. I’m actually starving,” you confess with a grin.

“It’s all that walking,” Miguel answers before he gestures for the two of you to return to the kitchen for food.

Due to the celebrations, Miguel and you go back to the living room with plates containing food to have dinner with your loved ones. You enjoy the food over conversation regarding the wonderful performances.

Not surprisingly, Lyla shows up halfway through dinner to play music for the two of you. She also takes the opportunity to sneakily take pictures for her secret, or not so secret, folder of digital content before disappearing again.

Eventually, Miguel and you take off the makeup before returning to the kitchen for what feels like the hundredth time to prepare café de olla and arroz con leche specifically for Gabby. When all is done, more than two mugs are set on one of the kitchen counters to pour coffee into them. Together, the two of you carry the mugs to the ofrenda, placing one mug for everyone except Gabby.

“Para ti no, mija,” Miguel tenderly states with a smile on his lips. He places the mug you gifted him for Father’s Day earlier this year, the one with the two bees, filled with arroz con leche and topped with a generous amount of cinnamon powder with the rest of her food. “Estás muy chiquita para tomar café todavía, but I made your favorite instead.” Taking a step back, Miguel’s eyes soften when he looks at his daughter’s photograph. If only she were here, Miguel thinks, before he settles down on the floor with you in front of the ofrenda. He picks up his mug with coffee and takes a drink, the music from earlier still playing thanks to Lyla who left it on. “Thank you,” Miguel suddenly says, turning to look at you. “For joining me tonight and participating in the tradition… For allowing your family to join mine.”

You hum and offer him a smile, holding your mug in both hands. “No, thank you… Solecito,” you reply, using that nickname again. “For allowing me to be part of it again and for inviting my family into your ofrenda. It means so much to me,” you continue. “So, thank you.”

“Siempre,” Miguel whispers, his heart skipping a beat when he hears the new sweet nickname you’ve given him. “Always… But, seriously… Thank you for being here with me again. For accepting my offer.” Miguel’s eyes meet yours, his gaze tender. He knows that his invitation for your family to join the family ofrenda might have been too much — too personal — even for best friends, but still, Miguel couldn’t help himself from making it. He turns to look at the ofrenda again, noting how big it turned out with your family being part of it. After a few seconds, Miguel turns to face you again. “Thank you.”

You smile sweetly and nod, knowing what Miguel means. Having your family join the ofrenda was certainly a personal gesture, a much more intimate one than previous ones simply because it’s about family, and it’s a gesture you appreciate so much. “Always,” you whisper back.

Much, much later, you lean back on the couch with heavy eyes. It’s late at night, about three in the morning now. Miguel and you have spent the last few hours just talking and drinking café de olla. You were feeling alert, but all of a sudden, you’re hit with a tranquility, one that seems to caress you into a sleep. You lean into it for a few seconds, closing your eyes and feeling a warmth surround — embrace — you.

Feeling the same, Miguel’s crimson eyes flutter, but he fights the sleep. Or, tries to, anyway. He glances at you, remembering your meeting with Osborn earlier today. He thinks about the hug you two shared, pondering for a bit before he finally speaks. “Dulzura?” he whispers, not sure if you’re asleep already.

“Hmm?” you sleepily respond, your eyes fluttering just to look at him.

Miguel’s lips quirk up at the sight. You look so cute when you’re sleepy. “I was just thinking about how you said your meeting with Harry was awkward at first because he went straight for the hug,” he says slowly.

“Mhm, it was,” you confirm.

“Did the hug feel awkward, too?” Miguel asks, seeing you’re more asleep than awake now.

You yawn softly, covering your mouth, and nod. “It was. It felt weird,” you respond too softly.

Miguel hums as a response, thinking. He feels something in his chest again, something he didn’t register earlier. Envy, perhaps? Envy that Harry Osborn who has only been in your life for a few months now, if even that, has embraced you before he has, even if it was awkward.

He sighs and rubs his eyes. He doesn’t know why he’s even feeling like that. It’s silly.

Right?

On top of that, Miguel also feels a bit of shame and disappointment in himself. “I’m sorry,” Miguel sleepily murmurs to you.

“What — For what?” you ask, Miguel’s words waking you up a bit.

“For… I still haven’t — You know. I haven’t embraced you yet,” Miguel replies quietly, disappointment and shame laced in his tone.

“Miguel,” you start gently. “You don’t have to apologize. Not for that, you know that. This isn’t a race. It’s a healing journey, and everyone needs their own pace to heal from their grief and trauma. You’re going at your pace and therefore, honoring your boundaries and yourself, which is so important. That’s all that matters to me.” You offer him a reassuring smile before continuing. “That’s not to say, I don’t wish to… One day have the opportunity to experience that — a hug from you, but everything at its due time, okay?” you murmur softly, as if there were other people in the room.

Miguel nods, reassured by your words and gentle reminder. “Thank you, Dulzura. I appreciate it…” he answers, feeling better. You’re always so understanding of him and his boundaries. After a few seconds, he continues. “One of these days,” Miguel tells you softly, sounding like a promise he fully intends on fulfilling.

“One of these days,” you repeat gently, looking forward to the day.

You both think about it — about the day in which Miguel will be open to that kind of physical touch. You think about what it’d feel like, to hold each other close. To learn what it's like to be in each other's arms.

When that day comes, Miguel knows he will hug you close and remember what it feels like to hug someone after so many years of going without a single embrace.

With that in mind, you both admire the ofrenda again. It somehow looks even more beautiful now in the dark living room with the candles’ dancing flames. It almost feels like they're waving at the two of you.

Still looking at the ofrenda, Miguel wonders if there’s a chance that both your relatives are here tonight. If they made it. He hopes they did and that they enjoyed the food and belongings that were offered to them.

As the minutes tick by, that wave of sleep rolls over you again and instead of fighting it, Miguel and you surrender to it this time. There’s a warmth that reaches and embraces you both. It’s so familiar neither of you can help yourselves from leaning into it like a child leans into their parents’ warmth for safety and comfort.

The last thing you both hear is static coming from the speakers from which music was just now playing. A soft, sad guitar begins to play, but you’re both asleep already — lulled by a warm, gentle, and familiar energy not visible to the human eye, but always around.

Remember me

Though I have to say goodbye

Recuérdame…

Previous ⋅ ♡ ─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ── ♡ ⋅ Next

A/N: Hiiiiiiii!! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter 🥺 Ever since last year, I wanted to write a short chapter for Día de Muertos, but alas, I didn't get the chance to, so I couldn't miss it this year!

Guys... I was giggling and kicking my feet when MIGUEL PUT THE HEADBAND ON OUR HEADS RAHHHHHHHHHHH AND THEN THE FACT HE FELT A BIT JEALOUS OVER HARRY HUGGING US??? (forgive me for screaming but !!!) and then the fact he's thinking more about it -- about hugging us!! 🥹

Also, don't mind the direct reference to The Book of Life. I was working on this chapter Thursday and listening to the official soundtrack for it because it's genuinely one of my fav movies ever, which I plan on watching tonight, and then the idea popped in my head to include La Muerte and Xibalba somehow and well... I did it. 😌

Also, what do we think about Harry? I was cringing while writing that part because they're so awkward!😭😭 But anyway, what do we think? 🤔 Side note, I was fighting the urge to make Felix a hot old man, I'm ngl 😔(I'm still imagining him to be hot, I'm sorry).

Ok, I think that's all and I must go now because my siblings are bothering me to help them with something. I hope you enjoyed it and if you did, show it some love! Take care everyone, and happy November! 💖

Alondra❤️

p.s. I haven't forgotten about chapter 20's comments and reblogs. I'm sorry for how long it's taken me to reply to them. I got behind because of the three chapters I dropped 3 weeks ago, but I promise I'll get to them this upcoming week!! Thank you so much for the amazing love and support as always!! I love you guys 💖💖🥹

Credits: Gif by @/halloween-pumpkin-queen. Purple dividers by @/thecutestgrotto and green divider by @/vysleix

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@rorel1a @oceanstar19 @happishark @carmilla01 @somebodyelsethanyouthink @adora-but-ginger @angie2274 @vampi-amora @tired-writer04 @plzfeedmebread @shadow-pancake9 @tynakub @faretheeoscar @giulscomix @luvstuffies @coffeeauthorvibing @lauraolar14 @bl0osclues @pinkiemme @lil-cinn @mashiromochi @loveletterfrommwah @muzansucker @theleftkittycollection @kikookii @www-interludeshadow-com @holographicang3l @aisyakirmann @bucky-to-my-barnes @geraskier-thots @l3laze @yujyujj

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@kavimoo

[foreverisntenough]

‘Movie Night’

Summary: If only life was like the movies. For years, you’d flirted with the idea of something more with Trent, your brother’s best friend.  You'd always danced around the edges of something more with him, sharing flirty moments that felt like scenes straight from the cinema. You had been silently desperate for the main character of your life’s film to finally get the boy but you knew moments like that were saved for Hollywood. The lines were clear; you were always going to be his mate’s little sister. So what happens when you go off script? In a whirlwind of passion, secrets, and stolen moments, you're left wondering: will you and your brother's best friend get the happy ending you've been waiting for, or was it never meant to be more than a fantasy? 

Index:

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of dv, loss of a parent, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Chapter 4 - Saturday Night | ‘Movie Night'

word count - 10.8k

"Layla..." you called her that same morning after you darted away from the guest room, heart racing and mind swirling with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Your body was littered with remnants of Trent as scurried up to your bedroom.  

"What? You're making me nervous!" she replied, her tone a mix of concern and curiosity.

"I fucked him last night, Layla," you admitted, barely able to contain the shame and guilt that washed over you.

"Ermmmm, are you talking about...?" Layla trailed off, clearly aware of your long-time crush on Trent but shocked that you might have actually gone through with it.

"Yes," you confirmed, cringing at the admission.

"Oh my fucking god!" she screamed, and you had to pull the phone away from your ear, stifling a giggle.

"I know. But I'm such an idiot," you sighed, feeling a mix of exhilaration and dread.

"Were you drunk?" she asked, sounding almost hopeful.

"No, we were totally sober," you replied, feeling a little prouder that it hadn't been a drunken mistake.

"I let him fuck me. And then I scampered up to my room like a little girl this morning. What do I do?" you confessed, panic rising in your chest. “Also… ‘let’ is probably not the word to describe what happened. I begged him… he had me begging, lays.” You whined recalling how Trent had you acting in that bedroom.

“Lol so the dick was as good as you imagined.” Layala laughed. "Did you talk or was it like a quickie?" Layla asked, jumping around with questions, her voice lowering as if she were afraid someone might overhear.

"Erm... it definitely wasn't quick. It was roundsss, Layla, but we were trying to be quiet. I mean, It was literally in the house.. Jack was upstairs," you explained, feeling the embarrassment creep up your neck. 

"God, that’s fucked up. But girlie, maybe this is the shift! We’ve been waiting for this man to move on you," she encouraged, though you could hear her excitement laced with a tease about how long this had been building for bubbling through the line.

"I don't know, my brother would murder me. What if... maybe it was a one-off thing for him," you said, uncertainty flooding your voice. “Maybe he just wanted to do it once and then call it. Like get it out of his system.” You reflected back wondering what this meant for Trent versus what it meant for you. Maybe different things. For you, this had been years of longing coming to a head, finally he gave you a chance and took you to bed. You worried that for Trent maybe he was simply just horny that night and once he knew you’d kiss him, he finally took you up on a bigger offer. 

"Well, like how was it?" Layla pressed, her curiosity growing slicing through the onslaught of panic in your own head that she couldn’t hear.

"Lay.." you said, using her nickname as a cautionary warning.

"Like how good though?" she insisted, practically bouncing with anticipation and a dirty smirk.

"Layla... I was literally in heaven," you admitted, unable to hide the smile creeping onto your face. "I’ve never felt like that in my life. His hands on me– within the first minute, I was moaning like an embarrassing mess. He had me on the verge of blacking out. The way he felt... oh my days... he made me squirt, I was just for him in the best way possible," you confessed, feeling a thrill at your own words.

"Oh my god!" Layla squealed, her excitement palpable even through the phone. You’d never reported that happening with other men so Layla’s shock was fairly merited. 

"Shhh!" you hissed, glancing nervously toward the door, half-expecting Jack to burst in and demand to know what was going on. You could almost hear his protective big-brother instincts kicking in. Layla was silent for a moment.

"You need to figure out what's next. If it was that good for you… Y/N, he must’ve loved seeing you like that. If there are two things that boy loves, it’s winning and it’s you; having you begging for him… he must’ve been in heaven too. I’m sure of it. Don’t overthink this, maybe it's worth the risk. Plus, if the boy knows what he’s doing…." She sang cheekily. You pondered her words, the reality of the situation settling in. What if this was just the beginning? The beginning of a very dangerous relationship but also potentially the beginning of more very good sex. “Maybe you should see it through. Talk to him or have sex with him, whatever you’re feeling.” She laughed. You giggled, falling forward and hiding your face. 

“I’m so fucked…” You whined.  

“Literally.”  Layla teased, as you noticed yet another visible love bite on your skin.

A few days passed and you were laid sprawled out on your bed, phone in hand, staring at Trent’s pictures on google. It felt so silly, googling him like he was some distant crush you’d never met, but here you were, scrolling through articles and match reports. You wanted to know every detail—how his last game went, what people were saying, the headlines, the photos, the videos. Seeing him on the field in action, looking focused and sharp… and sexy stirred something deep inside you. And then, almost on autopilot, you dialed his number. The ringing made your stomach flip. 

“Hey, pretty girl” When he answered, his voice was warm but fairly surprised.  You froze, suddenly unsure of what you’d meant to say. Why did you just call your brother’s best friend? But his soft laugh on the other end nudged you, and then he spoke again, this time with a hint of something more in his voice. “I’m glad you called. Been thinking about you.” Oh yeah, because he fucked you the other night that’s why you called him. This was a disaster but his words hit you right in the chest, and you let out a quiet, shaky breath, smiling despite yourself. The playfulness between you two was easy and effortless, like slipping into an old habit. The conversation flowed naturally, flirty in a way you couldn’t resist.  When he asked what you were up to you told him you were already in bed, feeling the silence hang heavy between you. He chuckled softly. The moment hung between you, that delicious tension settling in as you lay there, holding your phone to your ear. Hearing Trent’s voice through the speaker, warm and inviting, made your heart beat faster. You took a breath, steadying yourself.

“In bed, yeah?” he murmured, and you could practically hear the smile in his voice. The way he said it was casual enough, but there was an edge—a hint of suggestion that wasn’t lost on you.

“Mm-hmm,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but the little catch in your breath betrayed you. This wasn’t like your usual banter, and you could both feel it.

“Well… that’s a shame,” he said, a hint of a chuckle in his tone. “Because I’m not there.” He teased.

“Not here yet,” you corrected softly, biting your lip. The words slipped out before you could think, surprising even yourself. You really wished he was in your bed right now. A guest bedroom didn’t have the same intimacy your own bedrooms would’ve. You hoped you’d get to have in him in your bed again one day.

“Yet?” he echoed, his voice dropping a bit. The way he said it sent a thrill through you. He sounded… interested. Was he interested?

“You sound a little… distracted, T.” You laughed softly, trying to keep things light. 

“Distracted? I mean, that’s a bold assumption for someone who just called me in bed.” He smiled and although you couldn’t see it, you could hear it.

“Touché,” you admitted. He let out a low laugh, and then his voice softened, almost as if he were drawing closer to you through the line. 

“I’ve been thinking about you, you know… Not just tonight, either.” A little breath caught in your throat, and you felt heat bloom in your cheeks. You’d been thinking about him too—more than you wanted to admit. And yet here he was, saying it so easily, without hesitation. You felt that familiar ease between you two, but now it had a sharper edge to it, something thrilling and dangerous. “Wish I wasn’t stuck in Milan right now… but since you’re in bed and… since you’re all cozy,” he continued, “maybe you could let me see what I’m missing in that bed?” You hesitated, heart pounding. It was so simple, and yet the thought of it felt electric. 

“You mean right now?” You asked almost in shock. There were moments lately that felt like a rubber band to the back of your neck. It almost confused you that Trent was talking to you like this now. Your brother’s best friend essentially was asking for photos. Your head was spinning at his composure. 

“Yeah, baby” he said, his voice almost a murmur. And it was back… suddenly you were ‘baby’ again. “Just a little something to tide me over. Unless you’re too shy? But I didn’t think you got shy when you’re in bed,” he teased, knowing exactly how to make your pulse race.

“I’m not shy.” You let out a quiet laugh, your confidence swelling

“Good.” His voice dropped, that familiar warmth and playfulness making your skin tingle. “Be a good girl and send me a photo.” His voice was soft, coaxing, and it sent a thrill through you. The anticipation made your fingers tingle as you bit your lip, considering it. It felt thrillingly new, even after all these years of knowing him—this version of him, of you, of you two together. You bit your lip, and after a quick glance around your room, you sat up, ripping off your hoodie, adjusting your hair and holding your phone up for a quick snap. You knew it had to be just the right mix of casual and tempting. You could see your nipples through the sheer tank top but the soft smile made it cute, innocent. You weren’t about to send him a nude out the gate but just something to get his mind thinking about being there with you. When you hit send, there was a pause on the other end, and then Trent let out a quiet groan.  “Nah, you’re killing me, you know that?” He groaned. You laughed, feeling emboldened by his reaction. 

“Think you’d want to see me when you’re back? Come be cozy in bed?”  You giggled teasingly. 

“Honestly?” he replied and your heart skipped a beat in the worst way, expecting the worst. A rush of worry maybe he was about to change his mind, “I’m not sure I can hold out much longer” He exhaled, sounding half-playful, half-serious, and you could feel his anticipation echoing back at you. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You smirked realizing he had been trying to play it cool since you two had sex. You weren’t sure what to think of that, a part of you wondered if he was embarrassed it happened but then the sexual tension of the current moment overruled any cautionary thought you were having. The line went silent for a moment. “There better be space for me in that bed once I’m back. yeah?” He added. The way he said it made your cheeks flush, a promise tucked into his words.

“There always has been, T,” you whispered, surprising even yourself with the quiet assurance in your voice. And with that, you both hung up, your heart racing as you lay back, feeling the anticipation buzz through you.

Layla was away for work down in London when you and Trent hooked up so it was a couple days' time until she got to come over and properly debrief. Once she was back in town Layla was immediately at your house, practically bursting with excitement as soon as she stepped through the door. You barely had time to breathe before you were pulling her into your room to spill all the details.

“Lays… look at me, look at this! He did this. Trent did this!” you said, lifting your little flouncy shorts just enough to reveal the cheeky bruise left on the inside of your thigh. You emphasized his name just to really hammer home that Trent Alexander-Arnold, long time crush, Jack’s best friend, sexy footballer left that on you. You were both giggling like teenagers as you collapsed onto your bed, recounting the details of that night.

“Oh my god!” Layla squealed, eyes wide as she burst into laughter. “That’s very secondary school of you getting love bites.” She teased. You couldn’t help but giggle, the thrill of the moment still fresh in your mind, not caring for her teasing joke. “I’m kidding, girlie, that’s actually kind of nuts considering...” She tilted her head as if you were supposed to know what she was implying. 

“Considering….” You inquired. 

“Y/N, this is the riskiest hook up you both possibly could be involved in, and while I don’t think Jack often sees that much of you… for T to be so in wrapped in the moment of finally getting you into bed, so into fucking you, claiming you, that he’s leaving marks… He’s so into this! He’s down because he’s risking a lot here.” She explained. You fought the sly smile pulling on your lips. The days that followed the night with Trent were a whirlwind of excitement and nervous energy but hearing her explain it like that felt like new insight. After you first had called her, Layla had insisted on analyzing every text message Trent sent you since that night. You were practically glued to your phone, reading and rereading his messages as you waited for more. But now, she was finally here with you so you could share your love bites. You and Layla had planned to drive to Selfridges this afternoon for some shopping for the new season. Whilst on the way there you received a text that made your heart race the second it pinged. 

“He texted meee!” you squealed, showing the screen to Layla, who couldn’t look right away because she was driving but she believed you. The sheer volume of your exclamation made her wince, only one person was eliciting that sort of response from you lately. 

“Oh my god, Y/N, get a grip!” She softly laughed. “You’ve had his number for years!” she teased, rolling her eyes mocking you lightheartedly of course but unable to hide the smile tugging at her lips. She was excited, you were excited. Trent’s text was casual at first, but as you read on, you noticed the subtle undertones. He asked if you and Layla just might happen to want to swing by a club in Manchester this Saturday night, specifically around midnight, and specifically to come join a certain table with him and his friends It was meant to sound nonchalant, but the specifics made it clear he wanted to see you.

The casual tone didn’t fool either of you as you read the full message allowed to her. The exact time and place felt a little too intentional, making it clear that he wanted to see you. Layla smirked, nudging you. You blushed, excitement and nerves churning in your stomach.

“Girl, he’s planned this. With teammates and not his boys i.e not Jack…” Layla remarked, leaning in closer to reread the message for herself at a stoplight. “You know what this means, right?” She smiled. 

“What?” you asked, your heart pounding. Naively, you were struggling with this new relationship with Trent. His ‘older brother’s best friend’ persona was so seared into your brain, the ideas that normally were flowing for you with previous men and what they wanted from you… weren’t coming as easily for some reason. You were overthinking your instincts. It’s not that you didn’t have the desire. You just were so afraid of him not liking you that way, you almost didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of Trent. You were scared.

“It means he’s not just interested; he’s invested. He’s making plans to see you. You have to go!” Layla cooed. You felt a rush of excitement mixed with a hint of anxiety. You couldn’t shake the thought of what if it was all just fun and games for him? But the way he texted, the way he seemed to genuinely want to see you in a setting like that, made your heart flutter.

“Do you really think I should? He also said you too Lays, so you have to go with me,” you told her, biting your lip nervously.

“Hell yes! We and by we, I mean you, are not going to let an opportunity like this pass you by. By the way… It’s obvious, T thought the first time was good too,” Layla said cheekily, her enthusiasm infectious. “We need to get you ready. Find an outfit that’ll make him forget his own name!” You laughed, feeling a little giddy at the idea. 

“Okay, okay, you’re right. I need to at least give it a go. But I’m still freaking out! Fuck!” You whined, burying your head in your hands almost embarrassed by your nerves. “I have to be careful though… like I can’t do too much. I’m scared he’ll be like… ‘what are you doing?’ or ‘who are you trying to be?’ You know?” You explained once the idea of fashion and outfits came into your mind.

“I get that… we need to be cool, calm, collected… and fucking sexy. Ugh a yellow shopping bag couldn’t come at a better time!” Layla said, pulling into the car park for the department store dreaming of filling the boot with those shopping bags. The thought of seeing Trent again filled you with a mix of excitement and nerves, but you couldn’t help but feel hopeful. You couldn’t help but feel a bit eager for another night with Trent, no matter the consequences at stake. You and Layla spent the entire afternoon bouncing from one brand’s section to another in Selfridges, rifling through racks, holding up options and critiquing each one. Layla was relentless, pushing you to try looks you had a hard time wrapping your head around that somethings so sexy could be for Trent. After some trial and error, you finally found the outfit. You took a deep breath and tucked off into the changing room, slipping lace fabric against your skin, watching how it transformed you. When you stepped out, Layla’s jaw dropped.

“Oh my fucking god, he’s gonna pass out.” Layla laughed almost in disbelief as you stepped out of the changing room in a sheer black lace dress. It was strapless and pushed your boobs up, hugging you in all the right places.  It was dangerously sexy. The dress was just the right side of bold. I mean, it was obvious but in a cool way. You checked yourself out in the mirror, feeling that same rush of excitement and  hint of nerves you’d felt since you got the text.  “This is perfect. It’s so fucking good — ugh I can’t wait to see his face. Nonchalant, my ass, he won’t be able to keep his hands off,” Layla grinned, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Do you really think this is enough?” you asked, adjusting the dress one more time, tilting back and forth to catch the way it moved on you. Layla smirked deviously making it very clear she had more ideas. 

“Yes, but we’re not done… We’re getting you lingerie. If you want him to never think of you as Jack’s sister again, we have to make sure this look, this version of you is seared into his brain Saturday.” She grabbed your hand and dragged you to find La Perla navigating through the store with a determination that made you laugh despite your nerves. The idea of buying this all for your brother’s best friend was fucking insane but you didn’t want him to be just your brother’s best friend anymore. The delicate lace and silky pieces of lingerie were making you blush, remembering how gently he pulled your own panties off you that first night. And so with Layla’s guidance, you started sifting through options, feeling bolder with each choice. At first, you stuck to safe-ish options, something that could pass as an everyday piece—but Layla wasn’t having it. She held up a set that was anything but modest: something lacey that felt both elegant and dangerously seductive. You stared at it, feeling a jolt of confidence and a hint of nervousness.

“Actually just this,” Layla said, putting back the set and grabbing just a scrap of fabric, holding out to you with a smirk. “We do this, no bra, and the dress, that’ll erase any idea that you’re a little sister. You’ll walk in, and that’s the only thing he’ll remember.” You felt electric, standing there, imagining the look on Trent’s face when he saw you in the skimpy piece of fabric you were about to ludicrously pay £200 for. By the time you left Selfridges, you had everything you needed: the perfect dress, heels that made you feel powerful, and a pair of panties that would stay with him long after the night was over. Layla squeezed your arm. “By the way, Y/N… You’re not Jack’s sister, you’re you. That’s why he’s interested. And Trent is not going to forget it.”

That Saturday night was a whirlwind of desire and temptation. Trent’s private table was an oasis of luxury, tucked in the club’s exclusive area surrounded by footballers and bottles of liquor. The lights were dim, casting a seductive glow over the scene, and the air was thick with anticipation.  When you walked into the club you were escorted to the area and Trent's usual composure shattered. He'd planned to keep it cool, but the sight of you in the dress threw his carefully crafted nonchalance out the window. His eyes traveled over you, taking in every curve with a hunger that made him feel both exhilarated and guilty. You were Jack's sister-his best mate's sister-but right now that was being erased. You were here… he wasn’t and now all he could think about was getting you close to him. Close to him so he could get his hands on you and those clothes off you. To keep things casual, he greeted Layla first, introducing her to his teammates so it wasn’t too obvious. But when he finally turned to you, it felt like the room silenced, as if nothing else mattered in that moment. Without a word, his arms wrapped around you, and his hands fell low, cupping the curve of your ass with a daring boldness that sent a surge of adrenaline through both of you. You nestled into him, breathing him in. The scent of him, a woody velvet encircled you wrapping you in the comfort of him. You didn't kiss though, you couldn’t, not out in public, but his touch told you everything. He wanted to. You wanted.

"You look so fucking sexy." He murmured, leaning in close, his breath warm against your ear. You could feel his perfect pout move against the shell of your ear. The words came out low, rough, igniting a blush that you couldn't hide. You draped your arms over his shoulders, letting your fingers trail down his neck as you pulled him closer, eyes gleaming. 

"It can be all for you," you taunted, leaving the promise hanging in the air before slipping away to greet Layla and the others. As you moved away, Trent exhaled, watching you move to greet some of his mates with an exasperated smile. It was going to be a long night, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could play it cool.

You and Layla seamlessly joined Trent and his teammates. It was easy. The energy of the night igniting a fire between you and him though. His eyes stayed locked on you, a mix of longing and mischievous intent as you danced with Layla. He wasn’t one to really dance so for the time being he continued on his quest to play it cool, leaned back on a couch watching you move. Even with distance between you two, the electric connection tether you to him. Your pulse quickening with every glance.  In the dim light of the nightclub, the bass thrummed like a heartbeat in the air, creating a pulsing rhythm that matched the intoxicating sway of the crowd. The atmosphere was thick with a heady mix of laughter, music. The club’s DJ mixed a seamless transition of songs rolling one into the next, a 2010 classic you knew Trent loved. You smirked at him and strutted over, reaching out to him. Your hand extended, unsure if he’d take it. But he did, he grabbed your hand as you pulled him to stand up. Against his usual reserved demeanor to avoid dancing,  he couldn’t resist you. The club pulsed with the rhythm of Jeremih’s mid 2000’s ‘Put It Down on Me’ vibrating through the floor and mingling with the heat of the room. As the beat of the music wrapped around you, you positioned yourself directly on top of Trent, your back pressed against his chest. The heat from his body radiated through the thin fabric of your dress, every movement heightened by the press of his strong frame. The boundaries between flirtation and something more had long since blurred. The pulsing bass of the club surrounded you, and as Trent's hands settled on your waist, every nerve in you ignited. He pulled you in, letting his fingers slip down, dragging you flush against him as you dragged your own hands down his strong arms before placing your hands overtop of his, guiding them over your body as you moved. You could feel his breath near your ear. The look in his eyes was electric, and as his hands caressed you, a thrill of anticipation for what could happen bloomed between you two. You pulled back just enough, tilting your head back to give him a shy, knowing smile that hinted you weren't about to play it safe tonight, that you didn’t want to. As the night wore on, Trent kept you on him and the drinks kept flowing, the boundaries blurred to a point where it felt like they didn’t exist at all to you. Any attempt to keep things casual had faded as you stayed pressed against him, feeling the heat of his body as you moved together to the rhythm. Your hips swayed, and Trent's hands seemed to find their way to every curve, guiding you as if the whole club had melted away, leaving just the two of you in the moment. The music wrapped you both in its seductive embrace, and every glance he stole felt like a secret promise. You found yourself feeling utterly alive under the spell of his charm. The longer his hands were on you, the more you wanted him, the more deliberate the way you moved against him got, you could feel him against you. 

"You're gonna get me in trouble," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice was low and teasing, but you felt the strain behind it, like he was barely holding back, on the verge of breaking. But he invited you tonight, he wanted this even if he was implying that you needed to be cautious. A smirk tugged at your lips as you glanced back at him, feeling bold. You reached up behind you, letting your arm drape back around his neck as you grinded against him, feeling his hands grip you tighter, the friction sending waves of pleasure through both of you. 

"Good," you whispered back. Your tone was playful, a little challenging, and you didn't miss the way his jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as they met yours. You let your free hand guide his up your body, tracing his touch from your hip slowly traveling up your side, over your ribs, the curve of your tits and finally resting on the curve of your throat. The placement of his hand was intoxicating, and Trent’s resolve wavered as he struggled to keep his composure.  Trent’s breath quickened, his other hand’s fingers tightening around your hips as you guided his hand to stay on your neck as you arched into his touch more. He squeezed his eyes shut fast, fighting the surge of desire that threatened to overwhelm him. His fingers gently squeezed your neck, sending a shiver through you. Trent closed his eyes once more for another second, as if willing himself to stay in control, but you knew exactly what you were doing and he knew he wasn’t going to manage much longer, not like this. Every little touch, every brush of your skin, sent his mind spiraling back to the night you'd spent together. And so you continued, your hand guiding his, bringing it from your neck up to your lips. You took his hand in yours and slowly dragged one of his fingers over your lips, letting it linger there. Then, feeling daring, you kissed his finger before slipping it into your mouth with a teasing grin. You took the finger into your warm, wet mouth, your tongue circling it seductively. Trent's eyes snapped open, the tension clear in his expression. Trent’s breath hitched, his control slipping as the warmth and wetness of your mouth made his pulse race. 

"Y/N..." he cautioned, his voice husky. He was trying to keep it together, trying to hold his composure, but you could tell he was barely hanging on and you wanted him to falter. The air around you was charged, electric with the intensity of the moment. The nightclub’s atmosphere seemed to amplify the tension, every beat of the music syncing with the quickened rhythm of your hearts. The intimacy of the gesture, the way you drew him into your world with such daring confidence, left Trent in a state of heated disarray. The private area, the pulsating music, and your body pressed against his created a searing contrast to the cool sophistication of the setting. He could barely think straight as you continued to tease him with your movements and your touch, each moment building towards a crescendo of irresistible need.

"Get me in trouble," you whispered a plea, your voice a soft taunt, challenging him to let go. You felt his breath catch, and for a split second, it seemed like he was going to give in, pull you closer and damn the consequences. His fingers dropped to tighten on your waist, his gaze intense, and you could feel his resolve crumbling with every second. The thrill of it sent a rush through you, knowing you'd pushed him to this point, both of you teetering on the edge of what came next.

Layla was watching with barely concealed amusement, a grin spreading across her face as she took in the scene, proud of her handiwork considering the dress seemed to be more than effective but then again, his fingers were in your mouth moments ago so it was a toss up what really was sending Trent over the age. But she wasn't the only one who saw you two– Trent's teammates had also noticed, exchanging looks that ranged from amused to confused. One of them leaned over to Layla, eyebrows raised.

"That's his mate's sister, right?" He asked earnestly. Layla chuckled, shaking her head. 

"Oh is she ever," she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That is one, sexy, ticking time bomb," She laughed. The music pulsed around you, bodies moving under the lights as Trent leaned in close, his expression intense. He’d had enough. 

“You’re leaving with me. Right now.” He murmured seriously, the command laced with an impatience you could feel from a mile away.

“What do you mean? Why? ” Feigning innocence, you tilted your head. He bit back a smirk, annoyed but undeniably amused by your act. So he decided to play along.

“I mean, you just look a little hot, baby… Think you have too many clothes on.” He told you, making up a farce.  His gaze trailed over you, lingering with obvious intent.  His arm wrapped around you letting his massive hand run over your collarbone over to your shoulder and then down your arm brushing over your skin, slick from the club’s heat.

“I’m in a mini dress, T baby, I think I’m okay.” You whispered with a shrug, biting back a little laugh. He moved in closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as his fingers gripped your waist. 

“I said, you have too many clothes on." He said more commandingly. A thrill ran through you, your pulse quickening. "Let me help you, yeah?” He cooed cheekily.

“Maybe you’re right. I think I need you.” You gave him a sly smile then glanced over to find Layla. After making sure she was all set for the night, she told you to go and you hugged her goodbye promising you’d check in to make sure one of the other boys got her home safely. She wasn’t exactly keen about leaving since she had hit it off with one of the other boys there. She shot you a knowing grin and a wink as you slipped away with Trent, his hand gripping yours with unmistakable possession as he led you through the crowd. You quickly mouthed a ‘love you’ to her, her smirk only widening as she watched you and Trent disappear. Trent tugged you closer to him, his hand dropping to your lower back to keep you close and protect as he guided you through the crowd and toward the exit. As he led you out to the private exit, his hand firmly grasping yours, you felt a giddiness wash over you. It felt surreal to leave somewhere like this with him. The alcohol and the adrenaline from the night's adventures had left you feeling fearless and carefree. You giggled as he dragged you along, your high heels clicking against the ground. 

"Hey, slow down, needy boy" you slurred, attempting to match his long strides. "I can barely keep up with you.” You giggled. Trent needed to leave out the back for his car service to pick him up. He did it often but especially tonight, he couldn’t risk paparazzi. He looked at you, his expression torn between frustration and desire, his hand still warm in yours.

"I fuck… I couldn't... God, fuck baby… I hate that I can’t just…" he started, stumbling through thoughts you had a hard time connecting. His voice was rough as he struggled to find the words. But then his gaze met yours, and in a second, he was leaning in, his lips crashing onto yours in a kiss that made everything else disappear. The restraint he'd held onto all night finally snapped, and you felt his hands tighten around you, pulling you close in the back exit halls as if he couldn't get enough.  “I need to get you home. Been dying to kiss you. I couldn’t take it anymore. Been driving me crazy all night." Trent chuckled, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine.

“I want to go home, baby.” You playfully whined,  your eyes sparkling with mischief. The cool night air hit you like a shock, but Trent's firm grip anchored you, his urgency undeniable. As soon as you were outside, he pulled you into him, glancing around once over as if checking to make sure no one followed towards the car.

“Gonna be a good girl f’me when we get home?” He asked you and you nodded slowly but desperately.  The lights from the club cast a hazy glow around you, making everything feel surreal. You got into the black car equipped with security that had waited for you two. The drive back to his place felt like an eternity. You were dying to get there but terrified to go at the same time. His hands were subtly all over you during the car ride building up the tension even more than you thought possible. The heat radiating off your bodies, and the way his gaze lingered on your lips had you desperate for him. As you approached his house, you could feel your heart pounding in your chest, a mixture of nerves and anticipation. 

With a swift movement, Trent unlocked his front door and pulled you inside, his eyes dark with desire. The moment the door closed behind you, he crashed his lips against yours, hungrily devouring your mouth. His kiss was aggressive, demanding, and it took your breath away. You responded eagerly, your hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt. He pulled back momentarily, his eyes scanning your face, searching for any hesitation. 

"Are you sure about this, Y/N? I don't want to push you too far. But I’m having a hard time controlling myself here" He asked earnestly. A wave of desire washed over you, and you knew you wanted this as much as he did, maybe more. 

"Stop asking," you whispered, your voice laced with need. "Just fuck me, T. I want you to fuck me again. Make me cum again." A devilish grin spread across his face, and he wasted no time in taking control. His hands roamed over your body, unzipping your dress and roughly pulling it down, exposing your bare skin. He traced his fingers along the curve of your waist, down to the swell of your hips, and then back up, cupping your tits.

"You're so fucking sexy," he growled, his lips finding your neck, nipping and suckling on your sensitive skin. "You promised you’d be a good girl f’me. Yeah?"  He smoke against your skin. You nodded as you arched your back, offering yourself to him, your breath coming in shallow gasps. 

"T, baby… don't hold back. I’m serious. I’ll do whatever you want. I want it rough. I want to forget everything but your touch."  Trent’s eyes lit up. This was all still so new and he was more than excited to hear you talk to him like that. His hands moved with purpose, completely removing your dress freeing your heavy tits. He palmed them, squeezing and kneading, his thumbs teasing your sensitive nipples. 

"Fuck, your tits are incredible," he groaned, his lips moving to capture a nipple, sucking it into his warm mouth. You moaned loudly, your head falling back as pleasure coursed through your body. His mouth felt incredible on your sensitive flesh, and you couldn't help but beg for more. 

"Oh fuck, please. I need more." You cried out. He released your nipple with a pop, leaving it aching and tingling. 

"You've always wanted me, haven't you, baby?" he teased, his voice laced with a hint of dominance. "Admit it, you've been craving my cock inside you since the other week." He growled.  Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and arousal. You weren’t sure you were ever going to get over how sexy it was to hear Trent talk like this to you, and it sent a thrill through your core. 

"Yeah huh... I've always wanted you. You know I have,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I want you to use me,T." You weren't thinking it in real time but you almost didn’t recognize the words coming out of your mouth, you’d never been this down for a man before, so willing, so submissive. 

“Fuck… Wear these just for me, baby?” He asked lust burning behind his dark mahogany eyes as he admired the La Perlas you’d worn exactly as he said... just for him.  You hummed confirming. “Such a good girl for me.” Trent snickered, his hands moving down to the waistband of your thong roughly pulling them off you, exposing your glistening folds. You gasped. "I’ll buy you more baby, don’t worry. I know you… you like to be dirty for me. You’ve been craving my touch, my cock, huh?” Your skin was on fire under his touch, your pussy throbbing and dripping with need. 

"Please, Trent," you pleaded, your voice hoarse. "Touch me, I'm so wet for you." He didn't need any more encouragement. His fingers delved between your legs, finding your swollen clit, and began to stroke and tease. 

"Fuck, you're so fucking wet," he grunted, his breath hot against your ear. "I love how you get so turned on by me." Your body trembled as his fingers worked their magic, circling your clit, sliding into your slick heat.

"Yeah– I fuck.. Oh my god. For you baby. Oh God, yes," you whimpered a jumble of words, your hips thrusting against his hand. "Right there, please, don't stop." You moaned. Trent's touch was relentless, his fingers plunging deep inside you, curling and stroking your sweet spot. 

"That's it, baby, cum for me. I want to feel your pussy clench around my fingers." Your orgasm built rapidly, your body coiling tighter with each stroke of his skilled fingers. 

"I'm gonna cum, baby!" you cried out, your voice hoarse and raw. He increased the pace, his thumb rubbing your clit in firm circles. 

"That's it, let it all out. Cum for me, pretty girl.” He cooed as your release hit you like a tidal wave, your body shaking as pleasure consumed you. You cried out his name, your nails digging into his shoulders as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over you. “Good girl.” He gently praised you kissing your neck. As your tremors subsided, Trent gently removed his fingers, leaving you feeling sensitive and sated. He picked you up and brought you up to the bedroom, his eyes locked on you, your chest heaving as you came down, kissing his neck "Get on the bed f’me, baby," he commanded, his voice thick with desire. "I want to taste every inch of you." And so you did as he asked, your body still buzzing from the intensity of your climax downstairs. You laid back on the soft sheets, your eyes never leaving his as he stood before you, his erection straining against his trousers. With deliberate movements, Trent undressed, revealing his toned, sculpted body. He pulled his shirt over his head and your jaw slacked as his muscles flexed. Your mouth went dry as you took in the sight of him, his cock thick and hard, straining towards you. He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between your thighs, his eyes smoldering with hunger. "You're so fucking beautiful," he growled, his hands caressing your inner thighs, spreading you open. "I'm gonna eat you out until you beg me to stop." You nodded. You were borderline delirious. The first time you had to be quiet, you almost had to be quick before but so far… this had been a complete 180 from that and it was proving to somehow be even better. His head lowered, his warm breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh. He teased you, kissing and nipping at your inner thighs, kissing over the faded remnant of his last visit to your core, making you squirm with anticipation. Finally, his tongue found your aching clit, flicking and swirling, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

"Oh God, Trent," you moaned, your hands threading to grip his hair, holding him close. "Your mouth feels so good. Don't stop, please." He chuckled against your skin, his smugness palpable but you didn’t care, the vibrations sent shivers down your spine, it felt too good. 

"You taste so sweet, baby. I could do this all night." His tongue delved deeper, penetrating your wetness, licking and sucking, driving you wild. You were lost in a haze of pleasure, your body responding to his every touch. His fingers joined his tongue, thrusting into your tight hole, stretching and filling you. 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, please, baby!" you cried out, your hips bucking against his face. Trent's mouth and fingers worked in perfect harmony, driving you to the brink of another mind-blowing orgasm. Trent could feel his cock getting so hard from hearing and watching and making you cum. He was almost about to explode himself but he needed to experience it again. He was obsessed. 

"Cum for me again, baby," he urged, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Let me feel you squeeze around my fingers. Be my good girl again." Your body obeyed, the sensations overwhelming you as you tumbled over the edge once more. Your cries filled the room as your pussy clenched and spasmed around his invading fingers. As your tremors subsided, Trent slowly withdrew his fingers, leaving you breathless and spent. He rose above you, his cock poised at your entrance, ready to claim what was his. "You're so fucking responsive, baby. I love how you cum for me." You reached up, running your hands over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your touch. 

"I need more of you, T. Please, I need you inside me. I want to make you cum now, baby." You told him as he positioned himself at your entrance, his cock teasing your wetness.

"Tell me what you want, baby. I want to hear you beg." Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but your desire overrode any inhibitions. 

"Please, T," you pleaded, your voice thick with need. "Fuck me, hard. I want to feel you deep inside me. I want to be a good girl for you.” Your words went straight to his cock. He smiled deviously and with one swift thrust, he slid inside,  filling you completely, in your lustful haze forgetting condoms existed. Your eyes widened at the sensation of his thick shaft stretching you, taking you by surprise. "Oh my God," you gasped, your body adjusting to his size. 

"You like that, huh?" he grunted, his voice strained. "You love my cock inside you, don't you, baby?"  You nodded, unable to form words, your body already building towards another climax. Trent began to move, his hips thrusting in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each stroke hitting your sweet spot you’d never known before. “Take my cock. That’s it.” He growled, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you open for his possession. The pleasure was intense, each thrust sending sparks of ecstasy through your body. You matched his rhythm, your hips rising to meet his, your breasts bouncing with each impact. 

"Oh fuck, baby. You’re so deep." you chanted, your nails digging into his back, marking him as your own. Trent's eyes rolled back as he pounded into you, his control slipping with each thrust. Your mind turning to mush. You couldn’t think of anything else but the roll of Trents hips. Each thrust clouding your mind more. His lips coming to kiss and suck on your exposed collarbone. 

"Fuck, you feel so good, baby. I want you to cum on my cock. I need to feel you– Fuck!” Trent grunted. You were wrong the first time, that wasn't the best sex either of you had ever had… this was. Your body was on fire, your pussy clenching and milking his shaft, desperate for his release. 

"Cum inside me T," you begged, your voice hoarse. “I want you to fill me up, please." You whined. His thrusts starting to become sloppier.  Hearing you say that made his mind go blank. He tried to ask you ‘what?’ Or ‘are you sure?’ But he couldn't process what you were saying. It turned him on too much to even think straight. “Please, I need you. I want to feel you cum.” You demanded wrapping your legs around his waist tighter, holding him to you. 

“Baby…” Trent grunted, not sure what to do. He felt like he was glitching; he couldn't process both minds. 

“I’m on birth control, please T… Do it, baby. Please.” You whined pathetically. It’s all you could think about. It’s all you wanted. You wanted to feel him. So you clenched around him and he moaned. He reached down between your body’s to rub your clit in sync with his rough pace. 

“Yeah? Alright, I’ll give you what you want, baby.  I’m gonna… fuck…” He babbled through words. You nodded as the knot in your stomach grew tighter and tighter. 

“Oh fuck…” You whined as he hit your g spot again and again relentlessly. You gripped his biceps, nails leaving crescent marks on his tanned toned arms. 

“Doing so good, baby. I got you. I’m gonna cum. Shit! Squeezing me so fucking tight.” He grunted still thrusting into you as his abs tensed. His eyes rolled back a little with deep breaths. He let out a guttural roar as he plunged deep, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself inside you. Wave after wave of his hot cum filled your depths, triggering another earth-shattering orgasm within you. Your body quivered as your pussy tightened around him. Your bodies convulsed together, locked in a blissful embrace as pleasure consumed you both. He slowed almost to a halt as his cock pulsed inside your warm pussy. He pumped you full of his cum, painting your insides. He caught your lips with a sweet kiss.  As your tremors subsided, Trent collapsed onto the bed beside you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He turned towards you though just in time to see your eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "You okay? Did so good f’me. You were incredible, baby.” He kissed your temple pulling you tight to him. He smiled, his eyes full of affection. You hummed but couldn’t get any words out just yet, completely spent. You snuggled closer, your fingers tracing the contours of his face.  He captured your hand, pressing a tender kiss to your palm. Trent kissed your forehead and rolled off the bed. “Stay right there f’me. One minute” He cooed softly.

“You’re perfect,” You giggled quietly as Trent returned with a warm towel gently wiping up your thighs and sensitive core. He was so soft as he worked his way around, cleaning you up, leaving kisses on your warm skin after it was wiped clean. He laid down next to you and you just stared at him appreciatively. 

“Okay… all good, baby?” He tenderly asked. You nodded, pulling him into you. As you lay there, entwined in each other's arms, you knew that this night had changed everything. The secret you shared would bind you together, and the passion that ignited between you was burning brighter than ever before.

Naively, you hadn't exactly anticipated waking up naked and tangled in your brother's best friend's sheets after the club, feeling the steady rhythm of Trent's heartbeat under your cheek. As reality set in, you let out a quiet groan, a mix of bliss and uncertainty. You really liked Trent, but what were you both doing? What were you thinking? Sure you didn’t kiss at the club but anyone could've seen you together last night. Not to mention what happened in the privacy of Trent’s bed last night. This wasn't fair to Jack. Yet, the warmth of Trent's arms around you made it hard to think of anything else. Then suddenly you could feel those gorgeous brown eyes fixed on you. 

"Stop staring at me," you giggled sleepily, sensing Trent's gaze on you as you lay draped across his chest.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his fingers tracing light circles on your bare back, pulling you from every nagging worry.

"Stop," you muttered shyly. "Also, you've 100% seen me sleep before..."

"Not like this," he replied, his voice soft but teasing. "Not in my bed, not on top of me, not naked... definitely not after we had sex." His smirk made you both laugh and blush, but you didn't pull away.

"Did I live up to your expectations?" you teased, hiding a bit of genuine curiosity.

"Surpassed them," he whispered, tilting your face to look at him. "From the first kiss," he added, his eyes warm, making you feel seen in a way that felt new and thrilling. You cuddled closer, sighing into his warmth, a quiet, affectionate 

"My T..." escaping your lips in a soft murmur. Trent's lips curled into a smile. 

"Yeah? Yours now?” He teased as a wave of embarrassment and surprise washed over you. You felt the urge to pull back, realizing what you'd just said. You felt it, you felt he’d been yours for forever but now with your arms around him it felt more real. You just regretted saying it aloud massively.  But before you could say anything more to backtrack, he beat you to it. "Good. I like that." His voice was a gentle reassurance, grounding you in the moment. You couldn't help but smile, pressing closer into his embrace, thinking that maybe-just maybe-this was worth all the risk. You stayed in bed, savoring the lingering warmth and thrill of the night before, feeling like you were tangled up in the best and most complicated decision of your life. Trent stretched beside you, rubbing the back of his neck. He groaned, dramatizing his soreness. 

“I gotta run to training, baby,” he murmured, sitting up, his voice hesitant. “But you know, like… where stuff is, or… I don’t know,” he added with a shy laugh, glancing over at you.

“It’s fine,” you assured him, trying to mask the slight guilt you felt for even being at his place. “I can let myself out.” You shyly told him. But Trent shook his head, looking at you earnestly. 

“Nah, I don’t mean that. I meant…” He paused, then took a deep breath. “If you want, you could… hang out, y’know? Till I get back.” A small, hopeful smile played on his lips. He wanted more than just a hook-up, but he also didn’t want to push you too much, too soon. There was a fine line here. You knew each other so well already so it was hard to find the right medium. 

“Okay…” you replied softly, rolling over and nuzzling deeper into his bed, feeling the comforting scent of him on the sheets. It was the softest, most comfortable place you’d ever been, and every inch of you wanted to stay wrapped in that feeling. Trent leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder blade, lingering just a moment. He rested his forehead there, warm and content. The quiet promise hung between you both, and when he finally pulled away, the smile on his face mirrored your own. This was everything you’d ever dreamed of.

That night and the following day made everything very real for you. You would text but it was tense. Not in a negative way, just in a dangerous way. It was flirty but cautious. Neither of you knew what the other wanted out of this. It was insane you were doing this, risking it all, but it felt far too forward to just jump into something like dating. It was hard not to wonder if this was all just a physical thrill for him. He could get any girl, so why just use you for that… But in any case you weren’t exactly going to stop him. The two times you had sex were the best of your life. The days after would unfold in a series of stolen glances and held-back smiles, a mix of excitement and uncertainty hovering between you and Trent. Now that you both knew how good the sex was, you made sure not to spend too much time alone, knowing full well how easily things would spiral. Whenever he’d text you something cheeky, it’d leave you grinning and tense all at once. The messages bounced back and forth, his words flirty but guarded, your responses mirroring the same cautious playfulness. Both of you circled around what you wanted, but neither quite daring to define it. The tension simmered, unspoken questions lingering. Did he just want something physical? Was this a fling, or was he holding back for the same reasons you were? A small part of you worried, wondering if he saw this as a thrill, something exciting but ultimately fleeting. But another part of you couldn’t let it go—not when the chemistry felt this real, this undeniable. Not after some of the things he’d said to you. So you found yourself slipping further into it… into him, savoring the anticipation, not ready to pull back even as you held on tightly to the ‘what ifs.’ For now, neither of you were stopping, and maybe that was all that mattered.

One evening, you returned home from a dinner with friends, laughter still lingering on your lips when you saw him there…Trent, perched at the kitchen island next to your brother, Jack. The ease you'd felt moments ago fizzled into something else entirely, a mix of excitement and nerves. You hadn't expected him to be here tonight, and the realization set off a charge between you that felt impossible to ignore. Trent's eyes found yours the second you walked in, and you saw something flicker in his gaze. The cocky confidence he usually wore so easily faltered; he swallowed, letting his eyes flutter closed for just a second, as if seeing you threw him off balance. He knew he should've texted to give you a heads-up, but he didn't know the rules any more than you did. Were there rules at all? There had been no conversations, no ‘what are we doing’ talks, only late-night touches and whispered promises that lingered like secrets. Now, here he was, in your space again, and the unspoken tension between you felt all the more real with Jack in the room. 

Jack was hunched over, engrossed in a tub of ice cream as he scooped out of it directly with a spoon, clearly settled in the comforts of his own home. You walked over and playfully swiped a bit off the lid, the cold against your finger a welcome distraction as you licked it off. The whole time, you could feel Trent's gaze tracking every movement, his stare so intense you almost felt heat radiate off him. When you glanced up, his eyes were fixed on you, almost as if willing himself to look away. You sucked on your finger pretending to be innocent purring a ‘yum.’ He shut his eyes briefly, as though watching you was more than he could bear. Once the ice cream was cleanly off your finger and you knew Trent was locked in you casually peeled off the sweatshirt you had on, too aware of the way your shirt underneath it clung to your frame and you wanted to show him just that. As you pulled the jumper over your head, the fabric of your top underneath rose up, you watched as Trent's jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the bare skin revealed beneath the hem. He mouthed ‘stop; at you, his eyes pleading, though his lips hinted at a smirk, like he was caught between amusement and frustration. You couldn't help but return the smirk, leaning into the innocence of the moment while savoring the effect it had on him. As you moved to brush past Trent's kitchen island stool, your hand slid against the cool countertop, steadying you as you sent him a flirtatious look. Jack, completely oblivious but mildly annoyed by your stealing swipe, reached for the ice cream tub and turned to walk back over to the freezer to put it away with a small grumble. Tren wasn't having your teasing though. As Jack’s back turned, his hand shot out, grabbing your waist and pulling you closer with enough possessiveness to make your breath catch. His fingers pressed into your side, holding you in place as he leaned in, his voice low and rough against your ear.

"Stop it," he whispered, his words a command masked in a tease, his breath hot against your skin. His smirk was still there, but you could sense he was barely keeping his composure. You swallowed, feeling his grip tighten ever so slightly, each inch between you charged with electricity. “Thought you liked being a good girl f’me?” His voice was soft, teasing, and you felt his fingers flex against your waist. He chuckled under his breath. His fingers slid from your waist just as Jack shut the refrigerator door, your cheeks flushed as you stepped back, trying to steady your breathing and maintain the playful pretense. But the truth was, every touch, every glance was unraveling the control you'd both been clinging to. Jack turned back around, oblivious once more, but you and Trent exchanged another look, the kind that said everything you couldn't out loud. The thrill was undeniable, but beneath it all was a question that neither of you wanted to ask-was this just a game, or was there something more? And with Jack so close, both of you knew one thing: the stakes were only getting higher.

You headed up to your room, turning down the invitation to join Jack, Trent, and their friends who’d since come over for another movie night. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to, but being in the same room as Trent right now—so close, yet unable to act on how you felt—seemed like torture. And in addition to that torture you couldn’t do this to Jack. The touches in the kitchen were already unfair. Not in his own home. You needed space to cool down, away from the tension that always sparked whenever Trent was near. But once upstairs, your phone buzzed. It was Trent, and just seeing his name on your screen made your heart race.

The message read, casual but with an undertone you couldn’t quite place. You smirked, already forming a response in your head.

You replied, keeping it short and sweet, trying to play it cool. You didn’t want him to think you were avoiding him, even if part of you was.  Seconds later, another buzz. 

You couldn’t help but laugh. It was a little inside joke between you two. Trent always teased you about your habit of talking through films, but secretly, you knew he liked your commentary and questions. And now, you definitely knew he liked your company. Your fingers hovered over the screen as you typed out a response, trying to ignore how giddy you felt.

His next message came in almost immediately, and it stopped you in your tracks. 

Your heart skipped a beat, and you had to read it twice just to make sure you weren’t imagining things. Was he really asking what you thought he was asking? You stared at your phone, biting your lip as a wave of nervous excitement washed over you. This wasn’t a casual hangout invite—it felt like something more. Something you’d both been skirting around for too long. Your mind raced as you considered how to respond, trying to balance your excitement with the need to not come off too eager. You didn’t think it was a date but it was hanging out alone and not some sort of drunk lustful afterthought. 

You finally typed, keeping your tone light, though inside, your pulse quickened. You didn’t want to give away how much this meant to you—not yet. You were relieved Trent’s reply came fast.

You flopped back onto your bed, covering your face with a pillow to muffle the excited squeal that escaped your lips. Your legs kicked the air as your mind raced. Was this really happening? The thought of being alone with him, away from prying eyes, sent a thrill through you that you couldn’t quite suppress. You typed out your next reply, trying to keep your cool. 

You typed feeling mildly braver.

Trent texted back, simple, direct, and flirty… and perfect. All of it somehow made it even more exciting. You tossed your phone onto the bed, rolling over as a grin spread across your face. You couldn’t even play it cool on the outside, inside, you were buzzing but your texts read calm… at least you hoped they did. Regardless, Trent and you had just decided the line was officially gone and you couldn’t wait to see what happened now.

•

Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter or of what's to come!

Next part - Chapter 5 xx

[mind-intheclouds342]

The perfect one - Trans Curly x Reader

Warning: Smutty!

To you, he was the best man you could have ever met, tall, blonde, with blue eyes, his beard tickled you every time you kissed him, his hands were big and perfect for holding your face, kind, compassionate, and you could keep naming many other qualities of his.

After so many failed relationships, you felt that you had finally met the right person for you. 

Maybe the only bad thing you could say about him was his job, which meant he was away too much, but in the last few months you were dating, there wasn't a day when you didn't receive a call from him and he would tell you how everything was going.

While you were waiting at the mall for their arrival to meet, someone had approached you. 

He looked familiar when you gave him a glance, until you realized he was a friend of Curly's, whom you had only seen in photographs. 

Jimmy: "Aren't you (Y/n)? Curly's girlfriend?"

"Um- yeah, it's me..." 

You nodded somewhat nervously at the man's sudden closeness. 

Jimmy: "Are you gay?"

"Excuse me?"

That question had caught you completely off guard. 

Jimmy: "Sure you are, otherwise you wouldn't be with Curly, right?" 

"I don't understand what you're talking about."

Jimmy: "You know, because he is a woman."

"Eh?"

Every word that came out of his mouth only made you feel more and more confused. 

Jimmy: "Didn't you know? He may look like a man and all, but he doesn't have what really makes a man."

"You know- I don't feel comfortable talking about this with you. I will kindly ask you to leave me alone and go away."

Jimmy: "Ugh, I'm just telling you the truth, you don't have to react that way."

He rolled his eyes. 

Jimmy: "You should be with a real man, I'm available if you're interested in that."

"No thanks, I would prefer to eat cockroaches."

You made an unpleasant grimace at that idea, but the thought of being much closer to that person for a longer time seemed even more disgusting to you. 

After rejecting him in a thousand different ways and having him insult you for rejecting him, he got tired enough to leave you alone. 

"What kind of friends does Curly have?"

You wondered, looking at the time on your phone, hoping he would arrive soon. 

And when you looked up from the screen, all you could see were yellow tulips in front of you. 

Curly: "Have you been waiting a long time for me?"

You melted at the sight of that beautiful smile he has, and the gesture of the flowers in a pot won your heart once again. 

"No, not at all, I arrived just a few minutes early."

You responded by greeting your boyfriend with a kiss on the lips, happy to see him again. 

Curly: "Great, shall we go to that new café you wanted to go to?"

"Of course~"

You clung to his arm and, attached to him, walked together until you reached that place.

You took a seat, leaving the flowers aside, and after glancing at the menu, you decided to place  your orders. 

Curly: "And? Have you thought about my proposal?"

"To go live with you?" You smiled, playing with the paper napkin on the table. "I don't know..." It's still a bit early~ we've only been dating for half a year"

Curly: "Mmm, but we've known each other for two years." 

"But it seems like you haven't told me everything~" 

Immediately, his calm demeanor changed to a more nervous one. 

Curly: "Hehehehe, what are you talking about?"

"I had the strangest conversation with your friend Jimmy, you told me he was a good guy, but damn, he's an idiot!" 

Curly: "Oh- um- and what did he say?"

"He started calling you less of a man and those things, he even called you a woman, I thought it was a bit exaggerated."

Curly: "Well... About that..."

"...Why would you hide something like this from me??"

Curly: "I didn't know how you were going to react... I like you a lot and I don't want to lose you..."

"Fool, it's not worth hiding those things, sooner or later they come to light, and it's better to say them beforehand." 

Both sighed and rested their heads in their hands. 

Curly: "You're going to leave me, aren't you? It's okay if you do it..."

"What?"

Curly: "At this point, this is where everyone leaves... For women, I was never a 'real man,' and for those who like women, I was never quite a woman, so... no one was satisfied with me after finding out that I am trans. " 

"I'm angry because you didn't tell me earlier. Not because you were born a woman"

Curly: "...Are you not going to leave me?"

"How could I leave the best man in the world?"

When he saw your smile and heard what you said, he couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and joy. 

At that moment, your drinks were brought to you, and you continued your conversation as if nothing had happened, talking about your jobs and friends, catching up after not having seen each other for a while.

You had decided to go to his house, you wanted to stay for dinner and sleep with him. 

"Was that you??" 

You said, surprised, looking at some photos from when he was a teenager, before testosterone. 

The two sitting on the couch in their living room. 

Curly: "Yeah... They always told me I looked very masculine, so I tried to look as feminine as possible so they wouldn't talk weird about me, but I think I just looked dumber." 

"You were so beautiful! You have always been handsome your whole life, it's unfair!"

You buried your face in his chest and hit him a couple of times softly, until you stopped and looked at him. 

Curly: "There's nothing left" he laughed lightly as if he could read what you were thinking. 

"Can I see?"

He blushed a little at your proposal, but he was quick to please you and take off his shirt. 

You attentively observed his scars, carefully touching them with the tips of your fingers. 

"I love them" 

Curly: "And i love yours," he smiled, seeing how focused you were on his chest. 

He became somewhat curious when you started looking at his face and chest repeatedly; he suspected you were up to something and confirmed it when you bit his chest out of nowhere. 

That was the greatest show of affection you could give him. 

"By the way! You need to work on your friendships. "

You told him when you stopped biting him, he was lying on the couch breathing heavily from how you had attacked him, his entire chest and neck marked with small bites and hickeys.

Curly: "Can we talk about that later?"

He said with a sigh and his cheeks red. 

"Of course" 

You smiled to climb on top of him and kiss his lips. 

You felt his hands resting on your thighs and then slowly sliding down to your butt to squeeze it. 

You let out a small sigh between your lips, causing him to pull away from you. 

Curly: "Are you sure about this?"

"More than sure" 

You confirmed it and let out a squeal when he grabbed you to carry you, getting up from the couch ready to take you to his room. 

When he laid you down on the bed, he immediately began kissing your neck and slipped his hands inside your shirt, trying to unfasten your bra. 

You felt his hands glide over your body to take off your shirt, momentarily parting from your neck to get rid of it and then placing a kiss back on your lips. 

He gave you a smile before turning to your breasts to start kissing them first, then licking them, and finally dedicating all his attention to your nipples, one in his mouth and the other being massaged by his left hand. 

He sucked, pressed with his lips, and moved his tongue in circles over one, while with the other he gently pulled and twisted, making them hard, causing you to arch your back while letting out small moans. 

Curly: "You sound so lovely..." 

"I didn't know you could be so eager..." 

You laughed a little until you saw him run his tongue between your breasts and then down to your stomach, leaving a kiss on it before he started to take off your pants.

"Hey! I'm not a rag doll!" 

You shook your legs to prevent him from completely removing the lower part of your clothes, it didn't bother you at all but you felt a bit lazy letting him do everything. 

You finished taking off your pants by yourself, left only in your underwear, sat on his bed, and smiled. 

"You have more clothes than I do."

Curly: "And if we leave that for another day? It doesn't bother me at all to please you today."

"Pants down"

You said it almost like an order, crossing your arms.

He sighed to start unbuttoning his pants, and as he lowered them, you saw that he was wearing boxers, but what caught your attention the most was the hair peeking out from the lower part of his stomach. 

"...Jungle?"

Curly: "Don't say it like that!"

"I see that the curtains match the rugs. "

Curly: "Don't keep on with that"

You let out a giggle and pushed him, making him fall back onto the bed. You rested your cheek on his thigh, playing with the edge of his boxers between your fingers, then slowly pulling them down to his knees. 

"Oh wow-" 

You just said that and Curly was already covering his face with his arms. 

You had never seen an erect clit in your life, but you didn't mind it at all, not to mention the amount of hair covering that area. 

You couldn't help but lean in and soon take it into your mouth to suck it, surprised when he suddenly lifted his hips and his legs trembled, perhaps you hadn't considered the sensitivity of that part. 

When you tried to pull away, his hands went to your head, pushing you against his pussy. 

Curly: "No, no, no, please don't stop"

And those words were enough for you to continue with the pleasure of that man, too immersed in his moans, not wanting to stop and even exploring a bit more by inserting two of your fingers inside him, giving him goosebumps. 

Curly: "Yesss, keep going like that- a little more- a little more and-!"

You could only drown your moan in his intimacy when his legs pushed you even more against him at the moment he reached his orgasm. 

Little by little, his trembling legs slid down your back, leaving you free, finally lifting your head with your cheeks red and your face all wet.. 

"Bleh"

You stuck out your tongue to get a hair off it, and both of you ended up looking at each other and then laughing for the same reason. 

Curly: "I think I got carried away-"

"Do you think so?" 

You murmured to lean over him and kiss his lips.

Curly: "Eew, you are soaked."

"Now you deal with it" 

They laughed as you planted kisses all over their face. 

Curly: "If you want to soak my face, do it like this"

He took your sides and pulled you up until your stomach was against his face, he started kissing you, tickling you, and making you sit on his chest.

"Hehehe what are you- oh my God-"

You let out a moan when he took your sides and ended up dragging you to his face, moving your panties aside with his teeth and inserting his tongue in an instant. 

You were definitely going to seriously consider moving in with him. 

[sosa2imagines]

Follower celebration

Dad!Bucky suggestion: Bucky with his newborn son/daughter (you decide) marvelling at what he helped create and talking to them about things. (Again, you can decide) and rocking them to sleep.

Lame I know, sorry.

Hi firstly it is not lame at all! I love the suggestion, thank you so much.

Warnings- Fluff.

Bucky's journey to finding love and starting a family was unexpected. He had spent so much time believing that his past mistakes had left him undeserving of happiness or a family of his own. The idea of having a child, let alone finding a partner who could love him, seemed like a distant fantasy

But then you had come into his life like a ray of sunshine, breaking down his walls and showing him what it was like to love and be loved in return.

And yet here he was, holding a tiny bundle of joy in his arms - his 'angel' his son, he had created with you, the love of his life.

As he looked down at the newborn, he couldn't help but marvel at the fragility and strength of this little life he held. The emotions swirling through him were unlike anything he had ever felt before, a mix of awe, love, and a deep sense of protectiveness.

Bucky took it upon himself to take on the night duties, insisting that you needed rest after the childbirth. You insisted that you were fine, but he was adamant, gently shooing you away to bed.

In the quiet hours of the night, the world outside seemed to hold its breath. Bucky sat in the rocking chair by the window, gently cradling his newborn son. The moonlight cast a soft glow on the baby’s face, highlighting their son's delicate features. Bucky marvelled at the tiny life in his arms, a mix of awe and gratitude filling his heart.

Bucky gently stroked his son's soft hair, smiling as he gazed at his newborn in the pale moonlight.

“Hey there, little angel,” he whispered, his voice soft and tender. “You have no idea how much you mean to us. Your mom and I, we dreamed about you for so long. We wanted you so bad. And now, here you are.”

He paused for a moment, the weight of the situation settling in. The baby stirred slightly in his arms, opening his eyes for a brief moment before closing them again.

Bucky continued to rock the chair, each movement sending a gentle, soothing rhythm through the room. He looked down at his angel, the small bundle wrapped up in a soft blanket in his arms.

“You know, I did bad things,” he started, his voice barely above a murmur. “Things I never wanted to do. I didn't think I'd ever have something like this. There were times when I didn't know if I'd make it through the day.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting as the memories flooded back, before he pushed them away and continued.

“But then I met your mom,” Bucky said, a soft smile playing on his lips. “And everything changed. She saw past all the darkness, all the things I thought defined me. She saw something worth saving, worth loving.”

The baby stirred in his arms, opening his eyes once again, as if listening intently to his father's words. Bucky gently caressed his son's cheek, marveling once again at the miracle he was holding.

The baby gurgled softly, his tiny fingers grasping onto Bucky’s thumb. Bucky’s smile widened and he felt a wave of warmth wash over him.

Bucky chuckled softly, reminiscing about the days when you were still pregnant with their child. He looked down at the baby in his arms and said, a hint of nostalgia in his voice,

“I used to talk to you daily, when you were inside your mom's tummy. I know you could hear me.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes soft as he recalled the countless conversations he had had with his unborn son, hoping his words would provide comfort and connection.

Bucky's heart melted as the baby, still asleep, seemed to respond to his words by giving a slight smile. It was as if the baby was saying, 'Yes, I heard you.'

Bucky couldn't help but chuckle, feeling a mix of love, pride, and just a hint of wonder at the bond he was already forming with his son.

He looked down at his son, “You’re a miracle, you know that? Your mom, she’s the strongest, most incredible person I've ever known. And you... you're our little piece of heaven.”

Bucky continued to rock, his mind filled with a mix of memories of the past and hopes for the future.

He looked down at his son, and said softly, “There’s so much I want to teach you, so many things we’re going to do together. We’ll explore the world, and I’ll tell you stories about your uncle Steve, about how brave and kind he is. Especially your annoying uncle Sam.”

The mention of Steve and Sam brought a small, nostalgic smile to his face.

Bucky's voice cracked slightly with emotion as he continued.

“But most of all, I want you to know how loved you are. Your mom and I, we’ll always be here for you, no matter what. You'll never have to face the world alone.”

He swallowed, trying to push down the lump in his throat. The baby gurgled again, as if sensing the change in Bucky's demeanor. Bucky chuckled softly, running a finger over the baby's tiny hand.

The baby’s eyes fluttered closed with an adorable smile, lulled into sleep by the gentle motion and the sound of Bucky’s voice. Bucky looked down at his son, a sense of peace washing over him. “Sleep tight, little one. Dream sweet dreams.”

The night wore on, and Bucky remained by the window, holding his son close. Outside, the world continued to turn, but inside, within the quiet sanctuary of their home, time seemed to stand still. In that moment, everything felt perfect.

“Thank you,” Bucky whispered, looking up at the sky. “For giving us this chance. For giving me this family.”

And as the first light of dawn began to break, Bucky closed his eyes, content in the knowledge that he was exactly where he was meant to be. With his son in his arms, and his heart full of love, he knew they were ready to face whatever the future held.

TAGLIST- @imyourbratzdoll @blackhawkfanatic @ordelixx @sapphirebarnes @ilovetaquitosmmmm

@differenttyphoonwerewolf @vicmc624 @thezombieprostitute @nekoannie-chan

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@unaxv @pattiemac1 @lovely-geek @hzdhrtss

[kpop---scenarios]

Words Unspoken (1)

Pairing: Lee Know x Reader

Warning: A little angst, some hurt, more in other chapters

Summary: You and Lee Know used to be best friends, but after an issue, you weren't. 6 years later, he's back in your life and you hate it.

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: big thank you to @pali-writes-atiny-bit for all your help with this one!!

Everything Taglist: @wife2straykidss @piscesrising01 @baby-stay92 @kisses-too-the-moon

@dwaekkiiracha @silly250 @rylea08 @imperfectlyperfectprincess1

@satosugu4l @gabriellamarie @tsunderelino @iovecb97

@1810cl @lordmaahes-nsc @sailorkoss @minh0scat @pixie0627

@50-husbands @jinnies-muse @yaorzu-blog @anskiiz @joyofbebbanburg

@number1jeonginstan @skzooluvr @jisunglyricist @ambersnowxxx

@ayyonoona @31maze13 @stay-tiny-things @thegingerthatwaited @hoesheez

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.” You deadpan, your eyes twitch, as you glare at your editor. She sighs as she adjusts her stance, poking her hip out a little, crossing her arms. 

“Are you really going to argue with me over what you're assigned too?” She asks. “You write about celebrities, he's a celebrity. What's the issue?” 

“Yes, I do write about celebrities, but this particular one I will not write about. I just can't. I guarantee he will even talk to me. He hates me!” You explain. She looks at you with that unimpressed look.  “And I'm also just not a fan of his music.” You yell, throwing your hands up in the air. You can't even find the right words to express to her how much you didn't want to see him and have to write this article. Although you shouldn't be panicking, he would never talk to you. Hell, it had been 6 years since you'd last seen or talked to him.

“Well, I'm sorry Y/N but you not being a fan isn't a good enough reason for you to not do this interview. He's the hottest artist right now and I want that exclusive.” She says, glancing at her watch. “You better hurry. You've only got an hour to make it to the Cafe.” She grins, walking back into her office, sliding the door closed. 

You fake cry and whimper as you throw your head back, stomping your foot like a child. God dammit. 

“Y/N.. this might be a good thing. You can maybe clear the air?” Han asks, popping his head out from behind his cubicle. 

“There's nothing to clear, Han. He did what he did and I did what I did and that's that.” You sigh, gathering your belongings. 

“YN. It's been 6 years. Don't you think it's time?” He asks. 

“Do you still talk to him?” You ask. 

Han’s eyes darted around the room, avoiding your question. 

You roll your eyes. The betrayal you felt. “Ouch.” You whimper, placing your hand over your heart. “That stings, Jisung. I thought I got custody of you in the end.” You say, walking to the front door. you can hear him behind you scrambling to stand up. 

“Jisung!?” He yells. “You only call me Jisung when you're mad at me! Are you? Are you mad at me? Y/N!” He yells even louder as you walk out the door. 

45 minutes later you're sitting at a table, your legs crossed, your foot shaking as you wait for Lee Know. Your fingers tap the cup of coffee that you hadn’t even taken a sip of. 

“Oh fuck no.” You hear. You look up and see a very unimpressed Lee Know. 

“I feel the same.” You say, crinkling your nose and rolling your eyes at him. “Believe me, I tried to get out of this.” 

“Clearly you didn't try hard enough. You know what? I'll make this easier on both of us, I'm not doing this interview unless it's with someone else.” He deadpans. 

“I'll call my editor.” 

You pull out your phone dialing her number before putting the phone on speaker, placing it on the table in front of you. 

“I swear to god Y/N..if this is you complaining about him..” she starts. 

“Mrs. Shin, you're on speaker phone and he can hear you.” You start. She stops talking. “He's refusing to do the interview with me.” 

“I don't believe that. You're wonderful and a great journalist. Stop making things up.” She scoffs. 

“She's not making it up. I will not do it with her. You have to send someone else.” He interrupts. 

“What the hell have you done to each other to hate each other so much?” she sighs. 

Your mind travels back to the past. 10th grade and you had gotten your first boyfriend. Park Chanyeol. He was everything you had ever dreamed of in a man. Tall, handsome, funny, sweet, not to mention he was one of the most popular guys in your school, and he had asked you out. 

Even though you were fairly popular, a lot of people knew you but you didn't feel like it. You felt like a fraud even when you were being your authentic self. It was almost as if your life was a movie and you were playing the role of someone else. You shook all that off once you got with Chanyeol. He seemed to bring out the best in you and all your friends were so happy for you. 

Until they weren't and he started bringing out the worst in you. 

“Okay, Y/N. It’s time for the truth, honestly. What the fuck is going on with you?” Chan asks. You sit on the couch in the basement of his parents house, surrounded by your closest friends. 

“What are you talking about?” You ask, trying to force yourself to laugh. You hoped it sounded real but you knew it didn't. 

“You look terrified all the time, the circles under your eyes are awful, You're jumping at every turn.” Seungmin sighs. 

“Not to mention you look like you're about to burst into tears constantly.” Jisung pouts. 

You knew they cared about you and you knew that you should tell them. But you didn't know if you could. Things with Chanyeol were good, when they were good. But as of late, things had mostly been bad. It seemed like you couldn't do anything right for him and he'd stand there and scream at you for hours, telling you how shitty of a person you were, how ugly you were and how much of a slut you were apparently. And the saddest part of it was his parents would see you on your knees, crying and pleading for him to stop and they would walk away and pretend not to see anything. If you walked around with bruises on your arms around them, they ignored it. They enabled him because they were scared of him. You knew that now but not back then. Back then you thought that it was love and you thought that you deserved it. So you put up with it, everyday, only trying to be better for Chanyeol. You just wanted his approval and love. Sometimes he would give it to you, and he would be the boy you fell in love with but once he got into one of his moods, or accused you of something that was the end of it. He was back to ignoring you, belittling you, doing everything he wasn't supposed to do. 

Until one day it stopped. 

Chanyeol wouldn't look at you, he wouldn't talk to you. He stopped returning your phone calls, he stopped replying to your texts. It was like he ghosted you but you still saw him at school. He acted like your relationship Never even happened, like you were nothing to him. So you made a plan to confront him. You watched him walk into the bathroom and you followed him. There was nothing he could do now. He couldn't run away from you. 

“Why are you ignoring me?” You ask, arms crossed. Chanyeol jumps, turning around to face you. 

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” He snaps. 

“What did I do now? Why aren't you talking to me?” You ask. 

“Because I'm done with you. It's over. Leave me the fuck alone.” He says. 

You didn't like that answer. And you could tell that he didn't care. “I don't want it to be over.” You whisper. “I love you.” 

“I don't give a fuck what you want. Fuck off.” He snaps, moving past you and out of the bathroom. Leaving you trembling, trying desperately not to cry. 

Why weren't you good enough for him?

You walk out of the bathroom, seeing Minho talking to Chanyeol at the lockers. You had come out only to hear the last of Minho's sentence. 

“She's pathetic, right?” Minho asks. 

You stare at him. “What?” You ask. 

Minho turns to look at you. “That's not…” he pauses. 

“That's what you think of me?” You ask, sniffling. “Nice.” You murmur, turning to walk away. He doesn't try to stop you. He doesn't care. He thinks you're pathetic? Then fuck him. But you couldn't let him get away with it. Not now. You turned back around, storming up to him. 

“You think I'm pathetic? I've done nothing but support you and your dreams! I can't believe you think so lowly of me after everything I've done for you. You're a real piece of shit, and an even worse friend. At this rate you're no better than Chanyeol. Don't ever talk to me again!” You scream, tears streaming down your face. Your heart was shattered. Chanyeol, yeah that hurt but Minho? Who was supposed to be one of your closest friends? That fucking shattered you. And from that day, you and Minho did not talk. You wanted nothing to do with him and you had nothing to do with him and assumed he wanted the same. You avoided him at all costs, and eventually lost touch with a few of the other guys. The one two you remained close with was Jisung, who you worked with and Felix, who lived with you and Jisung. The rest of them, you  had no idea what their lives had turned out like. And that made you sad. 

** 

“It doesn't matter, it was years ago. He doesn't want to do the interview with me. So can you send someone else?” You ask. 

“Can he stick around for an hour to wait for someone?” Mrs. Shin asks. 

“I'm a busy man. No I can't.” Minho answers. 

“Y/N, we need this interview.” Mrs. Shin tries to whisper. But Minho hears and rolls his eyes. 

“I'll come to your office tomorrow. But I want a different journalist.” Minho says. 

“Yes, Okay you got it. Thank you, Minho.” She says, way happier than when she talks to you. 

“Yeah.” He grumbles, turning around to walk away. 

You scoff. “Still an asshole, I see.” You say to yourself as you pack up your belongings. You grumble to yourself as you walk towards the train station, to make the 45 minute journey back to your office. 

When you do return, Han stands there with a coffee in his hand and a smile on his face. “For you, my most favorite Y/N in the world.” He smiles, handing the coffee to you. 

“I'm the only Y/N you know.” You say, giving him the side eye. 

“How was it with Minho?” Han asks. 

“How do you think it went?” You ask. “He refused to do the interview with me.” You say. 

“Seriously?” Han says. “What even happened between the two of you?” He asks. “Neither of you will say much about it.” 

“And I still won’t. Sorry, Han. It's in the past and I'm not trying to relive it.” You say.  “He's coming to the office tomorrow to do the interview with someone. Whoever that is, I have no idea but good luck to them.” You say, taking a sip of your coffee before sitting back at your desk, trying to focus on your work. But unfortunately you could only think about the past. Sometimes you miss him. You missed his friendship, his hugs, his warmth, but you were still hurt by what he said and the way he didn't give a fuck about it. You tried to not either but that was easier said than done. 

“You okay?” Han asks, bringing you out of your thoughts. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah I'm good.” You say, picking up your phone, reading a text. “Felix wants to meet for drinks.” You say, looking up at Han. 

“I could drink.” He says, walking back to his desk. You send a quick message to Felix letting him know you guys would meet him there before you began packing up your things. This was just what you needed to forget this shitty day. 

A few minutes later, you and Han are walking out of the office, heading towards the train to head over to the bar. 

“How was your day?” Felix asks, taking a sip of his beer. 

“You'll never guess who I was face to face with today.” You say, sipping your cocktail. 

“Mr. Lee Minho.” Felix smiles. 

“How'd you know?” You ask, a little shocked. 

“He texted me.” Felix says, shrugging his shoulders. 

“What? What did he say?” You ask. 

“He just said that you were the one who was supposed to interview him.” Felix says. 

“What else?” 

“That he refused to do it with you.” 

“Yes he did. I didn't even want to do it in the first place but I was forced to.” You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “Why did it have to be him?” 

“Do you know how many people are trying to get literally anything from him? You guys are lucky he's even coming down to your office to do it. He turned every other company down.” Felix explains. 

“Then why this company? Why would he choose the one Han and I work at?” You ask. 

“Han. You wanna take this one?” Felix asks, looking over at the quiet man. 

“I um… might have asked him…as a favor.” Han smiles. 

“Jisung.” You murmur. 

“Not the Jisung again! I was just trying to help! This interview could really boost our credibility!” He says. “We needed something big.” He says. 

“I mean I can't blame you for that. It just sucks. But now no more talking about him. Felix, how was your day?” You ask, trying to change the subject, and thankfully it worked. But only for a little bit, as you continued to drink, your inhibitions were lowered, leaving you feeling slightly vulnerable. What sober you didn't want to talk about, drunk you was ready to spill some of the tea. 

“You think I'm pathetic?” You scoff. “You're fucking pathetic.” You sigh loudly. “Does he still think that?” 

“What are you talking about, Y/N?” Felix asks, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. 

“What does it matter?” You slur. “It's been 6 years… who cares anymore. Not me!” You mumble. 

“Y/N, are you talking about Minho?” Han asks, glancing over at Felix who was wondering the same thing. 

“Who wants to talk about Minho?” You ask. “Not me.” You pout. “I just… I just wanna know why.” You whimper. “Did he always think that? Why was our friendship so fucking easy to give up on?” You sniffle. You can feel the tears welling up in your eyes and you didn't want to cry. 

“I've been fine for 6 goddamn years. I'm not going to start this now. Let's drink!” You yell. 

“Maybe we should call it a night?” Han asks. 

“I think that's a good idea.” Felix laughs, placing some cash on the table. 

“You're a good idea.” You murmur as Han helps you up, wrapping his arm around you to help you walk. “I'm sleepy.” You yawn, making Han and Felix laugh. 

You slept well that night, and remembered nothing in the morning time. 

** 

“Y/N, good morning.” Mrs. Shin smiles at you. You hold your head, sunglasses covering your bloodshot eyes. You felt like a bag of shit and you just wanted to go home and go back to bed but you unfortunately were an adult who needed to do adult things. 

“Morning.” You croak. She looks at you concerned but you just wave her off. You're not in the mood to talk about it right now. You sit down at your desk, putting your head down on the desk, groaning, loudly. 

“Y/N… I need you to sit in on an interview today.” Mrs. Shin says, leaning against your desk. 

“But why?” You groan. 

“It's one of the newbies. That's the only person I had available for this interview.” She says. 

“I could have done it.” You say, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“No you couldn't have.” She says. “It's Lee Minho. And he's going to be here in 10 minutes.” She says. 

“What makes you think he's gonna say shit when I'm in the room?” You ask. 

“Technically you're not doing the interview.” She smiles. “So it shouldn't be a problem for you to just supervise, right?” 

“Oh my god.” You groan. This was it. This was your fucking nightmare and you had absolutely no way out of it.

[anyydidi]

I can see what you’re saying, but in my opinion, it is a bit of a narrowed view of thinking.

Ford is (was) a selfish, self-centered person. I would argue that a lot of it was ingrained into him by the people around him, but it’s not the point of what I’m trying to say.

I don’t think he was like that in his childhood, but he grew into it by time. Not only that, but the isolation from other people (in the friends department, since people avoided him because of his hands) got to him and he began to feel stiffled and suffocated, especially with Stanley breathing down his neck. Now, why I mentioned him being selfish? He only considered that HE felt stiffled and suffocated and wanted to run away as far as possible, without considering how it would make Stanley feel.

I’m not really trying to excuse his ignorance, but to better understand his character, you have to take into account that he was only a teenager with not an ideal childhood. His enviroment sent him mixed signals of rejection and high expectaion and grew a hero complex in him. Just because he was ignorant doesn’t mean that he did not care about Stanley. He only made the mistake of letting his view of his brother get stained by bitterness and a grudge, that only festered as time went on.

In the time of Stan getting kicked out, he was in this strong belief that Stanley deliberately ruined his future, that he sabotaged him for his own gain. He thought that everything that came to Stanley after was just the consequences of his own actions and that he deserved being kicked out. You’re right that he should have done something, shouldn’t have let his 17 year old brother get kicked out (well, he probably wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it either way. Filbrick is Filbrick. If we only looked at it that way, we could say that Caryn also didn’t give a crap about Stanley, because she didn’t do anything and we know that’s not true. But he could have shown at least a bit of worry.). But I still wouldn’t say that he didn’t care, just that he was blinded by anger and their father’s view of Stanley, that very clearly made an impact on Stanford.

We might be entering headcannon territory, but I’m pretty sure that Journal #3 backs this claim up. Stanford never stopped caring for Stanley and missing him, at least during the ten years period. He makes notes in his journal, he keeps old tapes and memoribilia with his brother in his house, he keeps an old photo that obviously means a lot to him on his person for 40 years. But the perfect example of how Stanford felt for all that time is a little quote from J3:

Reminds me of camping with my brother. I wonder what he’s up to…

The reason why I’m talking about this quote specifically is because it’s crossed out. Stanford obviously misses Stanley and wonders about his wellbeing in a moment of sentimentality, but then refuses those feelings by crossing it out. I simply think that Stanford desperately tried to be the person everyone writes him up to be: not caring and hateful towards Stanley, having a horrible view of who his brother is. But, as much as he tried, deep down he could never bring himself to actually be that way.

(This might be a bit janky, I’m tired and not feeling well, but I hope I got my point across).

WRITING THIS POST BECAUSE I'M SO SICK OF PEOPLE MISCHARACTERIZING FORD!!!!!!!!!

Before we begin, everyone is entitled to their opinion. If you really think Ford wouldn't truly care, you do you.

That being said, I feel like people who claim that Ford wouldn't do a single thing to bring Stan back if their places were switched do not understand his character at all.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think that he would open the portal. At least not right away. The one thing I agree with is that Ford wouldn't put the life of his brother above the whole planet like Stan did. He realizes the threat of the portal and Bill too much to do that.

But have people forgotten that Ford also loves his brother? Yeah, he was angry, bitter and resentful, but he wouldn't have just let Stan die in the multiverse. Especially since that would be entirely his fault he got stuck there in the first place.

For people thinking, "But Ford was too blinded by rage! He didn't care for Stan until after Weirdmaggedon!", have you seen the show? Have you read the journal? Through everything that happened, Ford kept a photo (tattered and worn, obviously taken out a lot) of him and his brother in his left, inner breast pocket which is the one closest to the heart. If that wasn't enough, for those who haven't read the journal, Ford kept reminiscing about and mentioning his brother before the portal incident. Even though those lines were often crossed out, it was obvious that at least unconsiously he had Stan in mind a lot. And at the end of the journal, it is written that he worked day and night, to the point of passing out, to bring Stan's memories (and essencially Stan himself) back. (Oh and have we forgotten about the absolutely shattered expression he had when he erased Stan's memories? You don't look like that for a person you don't deeply care about).

Still not enough to believe that Ford cared about Stan before Stan's sacrifice?

Let's talk about the fact that when Ford was at his lowest, that being paranoid, sleep deprived, tortured by Bill, drowned in guilt, and completely alone, he reached out to Stan? He says it himself, "I needed help, someone I could trust." After everything, he still trusted Stan to an extent and believed him to be his last hope. You don't give trust like that to people you truly hate.

Ford was self-absorbed and egocentric, but also hurt and betrayed. That feeling came from a misconception, but that doesn't make it any less valid. It is understandable that he acted towards Stan the way he did, with venom and bitterness. But we can be angry at people we love and still care for their well-being.

How I said earlier, I don't think Ford would really open the portal. He wouldn't risk the entire world for Stanley. But I do think he would do anything in his power to be able to bring Stan back safely. You cannot be telling me that he'd be able to live with the guilt and not do anything about it if he could. After all, in his head, it would be his fault. He got tricked by Bill, he built the portal, he made Stan come to him and showed him the portal and he wasn't able to let go of the journal and fought Stan for it. I'm convinced he'd still throw some blame at Stan for some of the fight to make himself feel better at first, but after some time he would just blame himself completely (the same way I think Stan did with the science fair incident). The guilt for all of that would eat him alive.

Let's not forget, Stanley worked for 30 years, basically half his life to bring Stanford home and I believe Ford would be willing to do the same. He would just go about it differently. He would either try to get rid of the threat of Bill and then be willing to upgrade the portal and turn it on again, or maybe try to find a completely different way to get Stan back from the multiverse, or in the end something entirely different, I'm not fully sure.

What I am sure of is that Ford wouldn't just let Stan be stranded in the multiverse without doing absolutely nothing. Maybe he wouldn't succeed, maybe Stan would actually have to find his own way back home because Stanford wouldn't be able to find a solution without risking their entire universe. But Ford would at least try, give it his all, because despite everything, he still loves his brother. Differently than Stan loves him, because Ford is a different person than Stan, but he still does.

So I beg you, people. Stop taking Ford's complex character from him. He can be a selfish, self-centered asshole, but he's not heartless.

[mayrose713]

Beautifully Cruel World-Chapter 7

Series Masterlist | Previous | Next

ABO Non-Idol Stray Kids UniversePoly OT8 x Reader18+ MDNI

Warnings in the Series Masterlist as well as any other information needed

I'm sorry for anyone on my tag list who haven't been getting the notifications that I posted. I'm not sure what the problem is or why it's doing that. If anyone knows how to fix it please let me know.

Enjoy this chapter

Chapter 7

A storm rages outside, thunder booming, causing the house to shake each time. Y/n doesn’t have curtains in her room so every flash of lightning lights up the room causing the omega to toss and turn unable to sleep. 

With a huff she looks at the clock on the nightstand to see it’s about three in the morning when another loud clash of thunder shakes the house once again causing her to sit up, shaking a bit in fear. She wonders if anyone else is up because of the storm or if she’s the only one. 

The alphas told her if she ever needed anything at night to just go to their room and Felix said if she wants to cuddle but she feels silly going to one of them because of a storm. She’s not afraid necessarily but she just doesn’t like how the thunder shakes the house and the sound of rain that normally soothes people irritates her. 

With a sigh she gets up deciding that she’ll go downstairs and maybe watch tv in the living room or game room to keep her occupied and distracted. Walking past everyone else’s rooms as quietly as possible she makes it down stairs stopping in the kitchen first to grab a glass of water. After gulping down most of it, setting it down on the counter, thunder boomed causing her to jump and the kitchen light turned on. 

“What are you doing up?” Chan walks in having been the one to turn the light on after seeing her jump from the thunder. 

“Sorry, did I wake you?” 

The alpha shakes his head no. “I’m a light sleeper, anyone walking past my room I hear. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Y/n leans against the counter. “Just  having trouble sleeping, I don't really like storms.” 

Thundering crashing causes her to tense up. 

“Why didn’t you come to one of us?” 

Y/n blushes feeling embarrassed. “I felt it was silly to need comfort just because of a storm”

“We get it, Felix doesn’t like storms either.” He tries to help her feel better. “Pretty sure I heard him go to Hyun’s room when the storm first started.” 

“Oh.” She now feels stupid for thinking it was silly.

“Baby girl, we’re here if you need anything, even if it’s something as small as needing to be with someone during a storm.” He moves to her and pulls her to him. “Why don’t we head to my room? You can sleep in my bed.”

“You really don’t have to do that.” Y/n protests. “I’ll be okay.”

“You’re a real stubborn omega.” Chan huffs, gently grabbing her around the waist, throwing her over his shoulder making her squeal a little and walks up stairs after turning the kitchen light back off. “You’re not getting a choice in this.” 

Y/n huffs accepting her fate letting him take her to his room, pulling the blankets back and placing her in the bed tucking her in. 

“I normally sleep without a shirt, is that okay?” He asks hovering over her. “If not I can sleep with it on tonight, I don’t mind.” 

“It’s okay.” The omega whispers. “I want you to be comfortable too.” 

He smiles down at her before taking his shirt off causing her to blush as she sees how muscular he is. She turns away as he climbs in the bed next to her getting situated. 

“Is this okay?” He checks in on her since she’s turned away. When she hums a yes he smirks before wrapping an arm around her and pulls her so her back is against his chest. “What about this?” 

“This is fine.” She mumbles, glad he can’t see her as she’s blushing so hard right now. 

“Good.” Chan hums snuggling her closer to him if that was even possible and kisses the top of her head. “Goodnight baby girl.”

“Goodnight Channie.” 

The next morning Y/n wakes up alone in Chan's bed with a headache. She heads downstairs to find anyone. 

“Where is everyone?” She asks Jisung as she walks in the kitchen.

“Chan and Changbin had to go into the office one last time this week. They normally don’t have to go in more than once a week but because of your dry heat starting tomorrow or the day after they decided to head up there to make sure everything is good since we don’t know how long it could last.” He starts to explain. “Minho had one of his advanced dance classes today as well as a one on one so he’ll be back in a little bit. Felix went with Hyunjin to teach his art class at the community center in town. Seungmin is around here somewhere and Jeongin is in the home gym.”

The omega nods but quickly regrets it as it makes her head hurt worse.

“Are you okay?” 

“Have a headache.” She whimpers, placing a hand against her temple. “Didn’t really sleep well last night because of the storm.”

“Oh, you don’t like storms either like Felix?” He hums in understanding and grabs her arm leading her to the living room. “Why don’t you lay down on the couch for a bit? I’ll get you a glass of water. I’m about to go take a walk around the property anyways so it’ll be quiet down here for a bit. I’ll tell Jeongin and Seungmin to keep it down too.” 

“Thanks Ji.” She smiles, laying down on the couch as he places a blanket over her. 

He brings her a big cup of ice water placing it on the coffee table as well as places the house phone with it. 

“If you need anything my cell is speed dial five. Jeongin’s is eight but he’s got music playing in the gym so he might not hear his phone ringing.”

She gives him a weak smile before he leaves through the back door making sure his ringer is turned up all the way in case she calls. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Seungmin sits in his room strumming his guitar, a little annoyed after Jisung had messaged him saying to keep it down because the stupid omega has a headache. He’s really getting irritated with her presence and doesn't understand how almost all of his other mates are accepting of her. He’s just glad he has Hyunjin on his side. 

Needing to get his anger and frustration out he decides to head out to the batting cages Chan had set up for him in the field in the back near the shed. But that all changes when he walks out of his room and smells a distressed scent and his beta starts telling him that his fated mate is in pain. 

He runs downstairs as quickly as possible, scared it might be Jeongin as he knows he’s been in the gym and remembers how Jisung once had to save Changbin when he was being crushed by weights. What he wasn’t expecting though was to find the omega in the living room, writhing in pain as she clutches her lower stomach, moaning and whimpering in pain. And he realizes it’s her his beta is telling him is in pain.

“Fuck, fuck.” Seungmin runs over realizing her dry heat has started sooner than the others had expected and now that the suppressants have worn off he can fully smell her and his beta is telling him that she is in fact his fated mate. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m here.” He shushes her while rubbing her beck, trying to put out calming pheromones but she’s in too much pain for it to help. “I’m going to move you to the den, okay?” 

He picks her up and realizes just how light she is as he carries her to the den and settles her into the nest. He grabs one of the heating pads Minho bought, placing it where she’s clutching. She’s sweating and is hurting and he doesn’t know what to do. 

He brushes her hair out of her face to see if she’d look at him but it’s as if she’s not aware of anything around her. 

“Fuck.” He growls, pulling his phone out and dials Chan's number. 

“Hey Minnie, miss us already?” The alpha tries to joke. 

“It’s Y/n.” Seungmin pants knowing he can hear the fear in his voice. “She started her dry heat. I don’t know what to do. She’s whimpering in pain and clutching her abdomen. I moved her to the den and gave her the heating pad but she’s sweating and doesn’t seem to be aware of anything right now.”

“Fuck.” Chan groans then says something to someone else in the background. “Alright, Changbin and I are leaving now, we’ll be home as soon as we can. Where’s Innie and Ji?”

“Umm, Ji went out on his daily calming walk and Innies in the gym, but I’m too afraid to leave her alone.” Seungmin is frantic as he looks around. “I don’t know how to help her hyung.” He whimpers. “I know now, I know she’s our fated mate and I’ve been such a dick.”

“Listen to me, Seungmin, she’s going to need you right now.” Chan speaks slowly. “She shouldn’t be alone, it can cause separation anxiety. I’ll call Innie so he can get done and shower and will take over for you if you want or will just come and help you. As well as Ji. For the meantime just lay with her in the nest, keep the heating pad on her. Try and keep your scent calm, you might need to scent her if you’re okay with doing that. If she seems to get too feverious call me back. I’ll call Felix, Hyunjin and Minho and tell them what’s going on so you don’t have to worry about it. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“Okay Channie.” Seungmin takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry for how I’ve been acting and treating her.”

“It’s okay Minnie. I know you were upset about all of this, it’s okay.” Chan reassures the beta. “Just be there for her now okay? She’ll forgive you for everything, I know she will.” 

“Thanks hyung.” He sighs. “I’ll see you guys soon.”

“See you soon baby.” 

Seungmin hangs up and tries to stay calm for the omega as he curls up behind her, wrapping an arm around her abdomen to hold the heating pad to her. His other hand plays with her hair as he tries to soothe her. He decided on singing to her hoping it’ll keep her calm. Her moans and whines of pain start to lessen as she relaxes against him a bit, her eyes stay closed though. 

“If you can hear me Y/n, tap my hand.” He whispers and she taps his hand lightly. “Good girl. I know you’re in a lot of pain right now but I’m right here. The hyungs and Innie will be here soon too. But I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” 

“How is she?” Jeongin steps into the doorway, still sweaty from working out. 

“In pain but she’s calmed down a bit now.” The beta explains.

The youngest nods in understanding, setting a glass of water down next to the nest before moving to the windows closing the curtains so the sun isn’t shining into the den. “Make sure to keep her hydrated. I’m gonna pull the curtains on the glass doors and close them, hopefully the lack of light will help with her headache as well as closing off the den will keep any loud noises from the others when they get back from disturbing her.”

“Good idea Innie.” 

“I’m gonna go shower. Jisung should be back soon.” The alpha watches them for a moment. “If you want we can take over for you when we’re back, or we can just join you guys.”

“I’ve been keeping a distance long enough.” Seungmin grunts. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Jeongin smiles at him. “Alright hyung, I’ll be back.” 

“You need to drink some water. Can you sit up for me?” Seungmin looks down at the omega who groans. “I know pup but you need to stay hydrated.”

He helps her sit up, leaning heavily against his chest, groaning and whimpering with every movement as he brings the cup to her lips helping her drink.

“Minho said she should take these. They should help with her headache and cramping. ” Jisung walks in with the two pill tablets and hands them to Seungmin to help her take them. “He’s having to go pick up Felix from the community center because Hyunjin is being an ass and won’t drive him back.”

Seungmin rolls his eyes but then reminds himself that he was acting the same way the last few days. But he tries not to think too heavily on that as he makes sure Y/n takes the tablets.

After he made sure she drank a good amount of water he settles her back down as Jisung refills the cup before crawling into the nest as well. 

“I’m here Y/nnie.”

“Ji.” She whimpers but cuddles closer to both betas and they both scent her to help ease everything.

“Move over.” Jeongin walks in. “Let me have her.”

The two betas don’t want to but know that the alpha must be going crazy internally having the need to protect her. They make room for him but stay as close as they can not willing to leave her at all. 

“Alpha.” Y/n whimpers.

“I’m here omega.” Jeongin coos petting her head. “I’m here, you're safe.”

The three of them stay like that with her for a while until Chan and Changbin get home, rushing into the den. They pause when they see the betas and alpha snuggled up to her. She’s still clutching a heating pad to her abdomen and her face scrunches up occasionally in pain but for the most part she seems okay. 

“Hi hyungs.” Jeongin whispers, giving them a small smile.

“Hi baby.” Chan smiles back. “You pups did really good taking care of your omega. I’m proud of you guys.” 

When Y/n whimpers again Chan walks over and kneels next to the nest placing a hand on her cheek.

“Hey baby girl.” He whispers, she leans into his hand and opens her eyes a little. 

“She doesn't seem to be as hazy as she was when I first found her.” Seungmin mentions seeing that she’s more aware now. 

“You guys being with her probably helped a lot.” Changbin explains watching the omega. 

“We made sure she drank water and everything but she hasn’t eaten yet.” Jisung speaks up. 

“Where is she?” Felix runs through the house and into the den, but gets stopped by Changbin real quickly.

“Calm down.” He holds the younger one in his arms. “You don’t want to overwhelm her with your emotions.” 

Felix pouts but nods as he takes a few deep breaths relaxing in the alphas arms.

“Alright, everyone out.” Minho walks in with the paper bag from the doctors as well as some of Y/n’s new comfy clothes.

“But��”

“Out.” Minho interrupts Felix’s protests. “I need to make sure she gets her medicine and I’m going to help her change, so everyone get out. You can cuddle with her after I’m done.”

Changbin picks up Felix to make the omega leave as Minho walks over and switches spots with the three in the nest to help take her weight and hold her up. 

“Where’s Hyunjin?” Chan asks, still kneeling next to the nest.

“Wouldn’t leave the community center.” Minho sighs. “I told him if he’s going to be an asshole then don't bother coming home.” 

“I’ll call him while you do this, try and talk some sense into him.” Chan rubs the bridge of his nose and stands up.

“Good luck with that, he yelled at Lix and made him cry.” 

Chan growls and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“Where’s your head at, kitten?” Minho asks once everyone left the den. 

“It hurts, Min.” She whines as he lifts her shirt up over her head. 

“I know baby, but let me do this real quick then you can snuggle with Felix.” He starts to rub the cream on her side then moves to her arm.

He makes her take her antibiotic then slips her new shirt on her before helping her change from sweatpants to sleep shorts. He lays her down, placing the heating pad back on her abdomen.

“Alpha.” She whines and he moves closer to her.

“I’m right here kitten, I’m not going anywhere.” He scents her, keeping her close for a moment enjoying the time alone with her. “Alright, she’s good.” 

Minho knew that Changbin and Felix were standing right outside the door and would hear him and laughs a little when Felix bolts in and crawls into the nest as quickly as possible while still being gentle and snuggles up to the younger omega. 

“Channie hyungs making her a snack while he yells at Hyunjin on the phone.” Felix tells the alpha still upset at the oldest beta for refusing to take him home and yelling at him.

“Are you okay baby.” Changbin asks Felix, joining them in the nest. 

“I am now that I’m here.” He whispers curled up with Y/n. 

The two alphas smile down at their omegas as they hope Y/n’s dry heat goes by quickly.

Tag list: @pixie0627 @sinfulfic @estella-novella @mbioooo0000 @ms-flowergirl @blindspot143 @ihrtlix @arishoriasims @fic-for-readers @motheraiya55 @hwangrfrnd @lxvxchxrlxttxbxrsx22-blog @juskz @borahae-reads @dreamerwasfound @galaxy4489 @kayleefriedchicken @lostgirlinthewoodss @catkight

[bxnfire]

Lines Blurred || Satoru Gojo

✎ synopsis: Heartbroken after dating “the boy of your dreams” you’re looking towards living a new life, one with new people and possibly new experiences, except the light hearted fun you hoped for became something stronger than that

✎ warnings/content: smut, fluff, tiiiny bit of angst, fingering, oral (both receiving), p in v, fwb, pet names, college!au

✎ a/n: this is my first ever fic!! english is not my first language, so please excuse any faulty grammar. please lmk if you have any suggestions or comments, they’d help a lot ❤️

✎ part 2 here

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏMINORS DNI ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏ

It had been 3 months since your last relationship ended. You dated one of your closest friends, and tauntingly enough, he was also in your friend group. Having spent your summer heartbroken and trying to move past things, if you were certain of anything it was that you wanted to spend the least amount of time in his presence, something near impossible if you also wanted to be around your friend group, therefore, you decided it was time for a change.

You had been friends with Shoko for a while, but didn’t really know her friends nor hung around her much, and seeing how she got you through your heart ache you decided it’d be a good idea to stick to her.

💬 Shoko ❤️: you comin w us for lunch?

💬 You: sure thing!

You were nervous. Geto seemed so hard to read, you wondered if he’d be annoyed by your presence, and you didn’t know Gojo at all. Would they like you? Would they make you wish you were back with your other friends? Would they welcome you like Shoko did?

All your questions suddenly coming to a stop when you felt someone bump into you.

“My bad! I got caught up playing ball over there, please let me know if I hurt you,” said an energetic but apologetic voice. As you turned to look at the speaker, you noticed you were met with his chest instead, and looking up at him, you realized it was none other than Satoru Gojo.

“No worries! You just caught me off guard, but I’m good,” you said reassuringly.

“Wait! Aren’t you Shoko’s friend? What was it,” he hesitated, then said “Y/l/n, right?”

Surprised he knew about you at all, you unknowingly smiled at his recognition. “Yes, that’s me!”

“I remember her talking about you,” he smiled, “she said you were going through it. Is that true? Are you feeling better now?”

Embarrassment ran through you. As your cheeks turned pinker than usual, you scratched your head and replied “yes, that’s true. Luckily, I’m doing better, but as you’ve probably heard I’ll be hanging with you guys for now. I hope we can get acquainted soon!”

“Sure we will, see ya around Y/l/n!” He said as he ran off back into the field to play once again.

You didn’t know it yet, but in no time Gojo would be your door to a new world.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏ

One month had passed, and Gojo was more than just your friend. It had started innocently enough, sending each other dumb reels, sharing snacks, and even studying together.

You found yourself enjoying your conversations with him more than you enjoyed anyone else’s. He was really easy to talk to, and was always there to lift you up and make you smile whenever you felt down. His easygoing nature making you feel at ease with him, something you realized you were missing more than you originally thought.

It was no secret that he was very attractive, his beautiful blue eyes every girl seemed to fall for surely had similar effects on you. His cocky confidence made him even more likable to you, was there anything this man couldn’t do? His build was also very attractive, not too muscular but still built enough to be easily noticeable whenever he hugged you or took his shirt off, something you found yourself treasuring more and more.

It was all friendly until one night the jokes started to change tone, and after a week of tension, and stolen glances, you finally had enough of his teasing.

💬 Gojo 🍰: y/l/n, do u think u could do this?

💬 Gojo 🍰: *VID*

💬You: oh please, that’s nothing. i’ve fit bigger things than that banana in my mouth before

💬 Gojo 🍰: oh is that so?

💬 You: yes 🤭

💬 Gojo 🍰: what if i don’t believe you?

💬 You: well in that case i’d have to convince you right?

💬 Gojo 🍰: and how would that be?

💬 You: come to my dorm and find out

Gojo was running. Unbeknownst to you, he had been into you for a while, even before you two officially met. He remembers the beginning of your sophomore year in college. You two had ethics together, and he remembers you as the kind girl who helped everyone around you. Anybody could come to you if they didn’t understand something, and indirectly, he’s learned a lot from you. Shit, you were the only reason why he passed that boof ass course. The only reason to keep him coming. In the halls, he’d gotten to see your humor. Playing silly pranks in your friends, hiding phones for fun, having sassy remarks ready whenever the time called for them, and how loudly, although cutely in his eyes, you laughed at your friends’ jokes.

In no time, he found himself easily picking out your voice from others, differentiating your laugh in a sea of noise, and noticing you whenever you were around. But oh, he really disliked your boyfriend. Not hated of course! Never that, he wasn’t a hateful person… Though if he were to be, he’d hate him. Your stupid boyfriend who didn’t do well in class and didn’t care enough to ask for your help, who believed anyone’s opinions about your relationship over yours, and who, in the end, preferred to spend time with anyone else but you.

In retrospective, he didn’t really hate your ex; if anything, he started to like him. After all, after he proved he was too shitty for you, you were smart enough to leave him, meaning Satoru finally had a chance with you. He was more than psyched when Shoko told him you were sticking around for a bit, something that didn’t go unnoticed by her, but she knew Satoru could do you better than your ex did, so she let it slide.

You, on the other hand, were a wreck. Letting your lust get the best of you didn’t let you truly think through what you were about to do. What if this screwed your newfound friendship over? What if he didn’t actually want you? What if…

Your thoughts were interrupted once again by Gojo, but this time it was through a text.

💬 Gojo 🍰: open ur door

Running to your door, you gave yourself a second to shake the nerves off before opening the door. There stood Gojo, so handsome even with his white hair messy from running and his clothes a little rustled, making it obvious he wanted to waste no time getting here. His smile, shy but curious, didn’t go unnoticed by you.

“You’re so goddamn thirsty,” you tell him, finding enough confidence to smile back.

“You don’t even know,” he whispers as he gets closer to you while shutting the door behind him.

Next thing you know, you’re pinned against the wall with his hands all over your body. His kisses are desperate yet gentle, as if he had been waiting for so long he was scared this was just a dream, one he didn’t dare wake up from. Flushing at that thought, you tangled your hands in his hair and pulled him even closer, something that ignited a fire in him.

Until he woke up and stopped. He pulled away for a second, looking into your confused eyes.

“Are you sure you want to do this? Don’t get me wrong, I want to keep going, but I’d rather not make you uncomfortable ‘cause I know you may not be ready yet.”

This makes you smile. Couldn’t he tell how down bad you were for him? You truly found it sweet that he cared, but in that moment all you wanted was to have him down your throat. “I’m as ready as all I’ll ever be, unless you’re scared of course,” you reply, trying to bring back the mood.

“Scared? Baby you have no idea of how long I’ve waited for this, if anything, you should be scared of how desperately I want you,” and with that, he pulls you back in for a more passionate kiss.

Your response gave him the confidence to get bolder. His hands now ran under your shirt, every breath you took making them go a centimeter upper, until he eventually reached the hem of your bra. Shifting from your mouth to your neck, his kisses starting to get slower but more calculated, you started to moan at his touch, and in no time you felt something starting to poke your stomach. This made you even more flustered, and a familiar warmth pooled between your legs.

He picked you up and laid you down on your bed. Kissing your neck slowly, your whimpers get louder and louder as he presses him self against you, giving your soaking cunt well-received pressure.

Wanting to please him, you instinctively changed your positions so that you were on top of him and kissing down his body.

“Take this off,” you commanded.

“Who’s the thirsty one now?” He asked as he took his shirt off.

“Shut up. You came here so I could prove my point yeah?” You asked trying to hold on to you wavering confidence. His bulge was big, bigger than you would’ve thought it to be, but you were ready to take it, you wanted to taste him so bad.

Going over to him and taking his pants off, he stopped your hand from going further. You look up at him confused, wondering if you were doing something wrong.

“I want you to promise me something.” He said, looking deep into your eyes.

“And what would that be?” You asked, trying to guess what he could possibly be asking you.

“If you’re gonna show me your skills, it’s only fair I get to show you mine. Can’t let you one up me,” he said playfully, hoping you’ll let him in a little closer.

“Sounds good to me, but I don’t think you’ll be one upping me in any way,” you say, not wasting any time and going back to what you were doing.

Sliding down his underwear, his arousal sprung out, bigger and thicker than you thought it’d be. Giving it a few experimental strokes, your hand moved along his shaft trying to see what he liked, but to no avail, given that he was very reactive to all your touches, and this only encouraged you. Opting for leaving one hand at his balls and getting closer to him, you lick all over his dick.

Gojo is fucking losing it. He’s gripping the sides of your couch trying not to buck his hips into you. Who would’ve thought that all those late nights hopelessly scrolling through your profile stroking himself silly would eventually lead him to your bed were your mouth would finally replace his hands?

“F-Fuck, yeah, just like that,” he breathed out, lost in the feeling of your tongue deliciously swirling around his tip as you took him deeper in your mouth.

He started bucking his hips into your mouth soon after, gripping your hair and guiding your movements, fucking your face as he noticed how well you were taking it. As he was near the edge, he pulled your head away, once again leaving you confused.

“Why didn’t you let me finish the job?” You asked him almost mad, you wanted to see how he tasted.

“I want to make you cum first, told ya you won’t be one upping me tonight.”

“Oh really? You know I don’t need my mouth to make you cum right?” You say as you sit on his lap and start making out with him and put your hand to work. Since he was close not that long ago, you knew he’d be worked up enough to not take long to cum. Gojo was no longer kissing you as dominantly as before, having to take breaks to breathe and even moan under your touch.

Not even 10 minutes passed until he came all over your hand. Sticky ropes of cum shooting out coating your fingers, his abdomen, and your pants. Moving your hand to your mouth to suck his cum off your fingers, you look at him seductively. He wanted to be a brat and take control, but just watching you do that made him his dick throb once again.

Kissing you, now tasting himself in your mouth, he took your shirt off and tried to take your bra off. Inexperienced, he fumbled many times, which made you both laugh.

“Talk about one upping me and you can’t even take my bra off. What’s next, you won’t be able to find my clit?” You tease, doing the job for him.

“Oh please, let’s see who ends up begging for more by the end of the night,” he challenged, and for the first time, you realized you wouldn’t mind losing at all.

You were about to reply, but you realized he was no longer focused on your little banter. His eyes were glued to your bare chest, scanning every inch of your skin, wanting to remember everything for later, archive it in a special place in his brain.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says.

“You’re so fucking horny,” you reply, knowing better than to believe lust-filled words.

“I mean it! I’ve thought so even before we met,” he confessed, giving you no time to respond as he took one of your tits into his mouth while he played with the nipple in your other tit by rubbing it between his thumb and index finger.

Moans took over the room. Your smart mouth not shut, but rather occupied making progressively louder sounds in response to Gojo’s touch.

“Oh p-please G-Gojo!” You mewl, melting in his touch.

“Satoru.” He responds

“H-Huh?”

“Call me Satoru. You tried my nut, I think that’s enough to be on first name basis,” he joked, and in any other circumstance you would’ve laughed, but you were too caught up in the pleasure he was giving you.

“S-Satoru I-I need m-more!! Please give me more!!” You struggled to get out, but once you did, Satoru got to work quick pulling down your shorts and kissing down your torso to reach your thighs.

He licked, bit, and kissed around them, wanting to test how impatient you could get. It didn’t take you long to tug on his hair and pull him into you, his nose deliciously coming in contact with your soaked cunt, only the thin, wet fabric of your panties between you. Bringing one hand down to jerk himself while the other pulled your panties down to start kissing your sweet pussy, until he goes up to your clit and starts sucking it lightly, making sure you knew he was well aware of where it was and how to treat it.

His other hand reached up to your entrance and one digit started pumping into you. Your moans got louder and louder, and Satoru was wondering just how much longer he had until you were over the edge. Sticking in another digit and matching its curling pattern to the one inside made you start seeing stars, so lost in your own pleasure you couldn’t even manage to tell him you were about to come undone.

Eager to see you cry for him, all of a sudden he stopped, seeing your cute little flushed face with teary eyes look at him enraged.

“Why’d you stop?” You ask, forgetting all your pride and letting him know just how much he worked you up.

“Can’t have you wasting your arousal sweets. If you’re gonna cum, it better be all over my cock.” He said, waiting to see if he had fingered you dumb or if you had a smart remark for him.

“Then don’t fucking waste your time.” You replied, sitting on his dick and riding him to your own pleasure.

“S-Shit! You’re s-so big!” You moan, ecstasy reaching your system once again.

“This dick is all yours babe. Do as you p-please with me,” he replied, having a hard time keeping his composure as he watched your tits bounce in his face and feel you clenching his dick so fucking good.

It didn’t take you long to reach your climax, and seeing that you were unable to keep up with your own pace, Satoru took over and fucked you through your orgasm as he came closer and closer to his own. Pulling out in one quick motion, he came on your belly and kissed you as he did.

You both laid there quietly, trying to process everything that had just happened, not daring to say a word but also make a move away from each other. You were consumed in your thoughts until Satoru snaps you out of it.

“You impressed me sweets, you’re even sweeter than you look, and you take dick like a fuckin’ soldier,” he said as he caressed your face and you laughed with him.

“You’ve fucked a soldier before? Do those uniforms turn you on?” You reply playfully, happy that it’s almost like nothing has changed at all.

“Yes I have, she’s right in front of me, and I’ll need that soldier pussy putting me out of combat often,” he laughed as he said so, returning your energy as he always did.

You lay there naked just basking in each other’s presence, giving the bubble separating you from the rest of the world a little more time before bursting. Satoru ended up spending the night, but since he had a morning class the day after and you didn’t, he bought you breakfast before leaving your dorm.

You woke up to your favorite kind of coffee along with a butter croissant and a note in his unmistakable handwriting.

“Don’t miss me too much!! After lab is over I’m coming right back, so don’t leave juuust yet, I wanna see ya again ❤️

—Satoru”

Giggling, you sipped the drink as you recounted the events from last night, the memories flooding through and clouding your brain, making you genuinely wish he would come back soon.

Even then, after your daze was over, you really sat down to think of it all. Satoru was known for being a ladies’ man, could you just be another one of his conquests? You loved him, but you couldn’t stand to lose yet another friend due to your stupid feelings. Unsuspecting of his feelings for you, you decided to make it clear that you would just stay friends once he came back. Friends that were there for each other, but if the time came, friends that could call each other on those late, restless nights. This would be a sweet deal would it not? Or at least that’s what you told yourself.

Once Satoru came you acted normal. The usual banter between you two never failing to appear, but you could tell something had shifted. High fives or fist bumps were changed to hugs a little too long or kisses a little too intimate. Whenever people couldn’t see you, your usual friendly bickering turned into heated makeout sessions, always testing who gave into the other first.

Even if you placed the boundaries, ones that Satoru adhered to and respected almost religiously, you felt the dangerous beat of your heart whenever his name popped up on your phone or you happened to see him by chance. Once calling each other friends started to hurt, you knew you were screwed.

What you didn’t know though was how hurt he was too. How it pained him to have to hide his love for you all because he was scared you didn’t want to date him after all. He spent an awful lot of time dreaming of what it could be like if you were more than just friends with fucking benefits, if you would let him truly take care of you the way you deserved to be taken care of, if you could only give him a chance to prove that love, when good, is worth it after all. But he knew better than to push your limits, and so, he kept stealing glances, longing for your touch, and clinging to your little fuck sessions in hopes that one day, you’d see he had loved you all along.

[mingyuonlyfans]

Between The Heavens and The Earth

You remind yourself. You're just a measly baker, an apprentice, and he's the crown prince, the successor to the throne that you'll serve for most of your life. Yet you take his hand anyway, and let him pull you into his luxurious chambers as he playfully blows out your candle.

featuring: Prince!Mingyu x Baker's Apprentice!Reader

genre: smut, angst

note: if this looks familiar to you, send me an ask 😝

You shouldn't be here. It's half past midnight and you should be in bed, resting well in preparation for a long, hard day tomorrow, not out and about wandering the halls of the castle with a candlestick in hand. And you most definitely should not be making your way to the crown prince's quarters.

Well, when you think about it, you're not really all to blame for this. As the royal baker's apprentice, it is technically your duty to serve the prince, make whatever sweet and flaky pastry or cake the young royal craves.

You were only doing your job when you hand-fed Prince Mingyu the strawberry tarts he'd commissioned, you were only doing your job when you wiped the fluffy whipped cream from the corner of his lips, and you were definitely only doing your job when you let him suckle on your thumb to clean it of the thick cream. 

It doesn't matter that you felt yourself heat up and slicken in various parts of your body, doesn't matter that you had to suppress a weak moan when his tongue swirled around the digit, it doesn't fucking matter that in less than a second the prince was kneeling before you and eating out your cunt like it tasted better than the strawberry tarts while you looked around to make sure nobody was near the kitchens to catch you before succumbing to the bliss of having his mouth on you.

And now... well now you're ready to succumb to your forbidden pleasure once again.

This isn't the second time, nor will it be the last. The prince and yourself know it's wrong, it is so fucking wrong but it's so hard to keep your hands off each other. All those longing glances and searing but fleeting touches in the dining hall, it's not enough. Even your nearly nightly rendezvous aren't enough. It's almost sickening how much you miss him during the day and even after he'd just made you cry and drool into his silk sheets. Surely, the king and queen would have your head if they knew what went on in their castle, especially in their precious son’s room.

Speaking of the prince's room– you sigh as you take your final steps towards its heavy oak door. Just as you’re about to meekly knock on the door, it swings open to reveal the prince in his slacks and flowy dress shirt from dinner, the two top buttons open and offering a tempting view of his golden skin. The young royal grins at you like a schoolboy who’s been told he’s allowed to have sweets after dinner. 

“My love,” it's quiet, almost cautious, the way he calls out to you. Especially with those warm, sparkling eyes, looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars for him. 

You remind yourself. You're just a measly baker, an apprentice, and he's the crown prince, the successor to the throne that you'll serve for most of your life. Yet you take his hand anyway, and let him pull you into his luxurious chambers as he playfully blows out your candle.

Immediately you're engulfed in his arms, the floral scent of the royal gardens and his natural musk greeting your senses. It's intoxicating, and it's so, so bad for you. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a fond smile etching into your heated skin. He inhales your scent just like you did his and sighs, voice dreamy and floaty. It only ever does become that light when he's with you, and you try not to read into it too much. It'd only hurt if you do. But there's a painful heaviness weighing down on you anyway. “I missed you.”

You deflect, you always do. And you have to wonder if he's sick of it yet. “You just saw me not two hours ago, Your Highness.”

The smile pressed against your skin falters for a second before it's pulling away. Yet when you meet Mingyu's gaze, the eye-crinkling grin is ever-present. "Baby, I thought we were past formalities at this point." He jests, tilting his head and making you think of a confused puppy. Forcing out a chuckle, you shake your head, heart ridiculously heavy in your chest. "Right, right. Sorry, Gyu. Old habits."

The nickname appeases him and the prince's smile brightens if that was even possible. Old habits indeed; ones you can only drop when you're in his bedroom, away from prying and judgmental eyes, away from whispers of you seducing a royal to advance yourself in society. Away from everything that's been haunting you ever since you and the prince let your bodies entangle. He doesn't need to know your current thoughts, nor will he ever hear of them.

"It's alright," he says, and he tries so hard to convince you as well as himself. Mingyu leans in, kisses you gently, and holds you just as carefully. He unloops his arms around your waist and leads you to his bed, large and luxurious and expensive. The silk will never not feel foreign against your skin, too used the worn-out linen of your own bed. You let yourself fall into its strange comfort anyway. “I’ll take care of you, darling.”

The prince is a man of his word, evident in the way he slowly and carefully undoes every button on the back of your blouse, how his fingers -- foreign to labor and free of callouses -- dance their way to push your underthings out of the way. The warmth of his soft, unsoiled hands travel all across your body, from your chest, to your waist, and to where your plain, linen skirt is tied and holding up the remaining layers separating your skin from his. 

All the while his lips were marking you wherever they could. For every inch of skin his hands reveal to his eyes, his lips follow diligently like a moth to a flame. But as enamored as the prince is with you, as dizzy as your scent makes him, he still has enough sense in him to be careful. Whatever marks he leaves are for his eyes only; he couldn’t even bear to think of what would happen to you if someone else were to notice how you would wince when you accidentally touch one of the tender spots under your clothes. 

“So beautiful,” you hear him mutter under his breath as he finally swipes your underwear down your legs and kisses the gentle swell of your abdomen. You’ve heard that from him countless of times– you could never understand how something so sweet could tug at your heartstrings so painfully. You only let out a smile and soft exhale in response, a hand coming down to rest on the back of his head. 

Mingyu settles himself between your legs, handsome face nearly pressing into your apex. With your fingers now treading and tugging at his soft hair in impatience, you could simply push him forward. You could, but you’d never. Even now, when your prince is quite literally preparing himself to worship you and show you his love in the most blissful way he could think of– you still have to remember your place.

The prince finally dives in, moaning against your heat at the taste of your arousal, and your other hand clamps down on your mouth. There would be nothing more incriminating than noises of pleasure coming from the prince’s quarters when he’s not wed and not one to bring women to his bed when he pleases. No, not your prince. Never your prince.

He has your hips bucking against his face in no time– you hate nothing more than feeding his ego, but your heart flutters anyway when you feel his lips stretch into an intoxicated smile against your folds. It’s dirty, but he’s so sweet, so caring, so considerate. Mingyu pulls away for a second to nip at your thigh before soothing it with a kiss.

“G-gyu,” you breathe out, nails scratching deliciously against his scalp. He makes a humming noise, quite clearly enjoying himself a little too much. “My love, stop. I… I need you.”

His response is immediate if not a little embarrassing for someone of his title. “But you haven’t-”

“I need you, Gyu.” You’ve never asked him for anything until now; that has always bothered him. He had hopes that you’d be convinced that he sees you as an equal at this point– as his lover, for god’s sake– but you regrettably cannot seem to shake your role of a royal servant off. You still act like your only purpose is to heed to his every beck and call when truly all Mingyu wants is to take care of you. To show you what he cannot when you’re outside the solitude of his room. To love you as you deserve.

He sees it in your eyes– the desperation, the sorrow, the longing, and most especially, the love you could never bring yourself to profess. So, Mingyu rises, swipes his hair back from obscuring his sight, and reaches down to grip your thighs. They melt at his touch, almost perfectly malleable. Your thighs are slightly pressing against your stomach; the position completely exposes your puffy, glistening cunt to your lover and you grow bashful at the realization.

You try calling out to him, to maybe make your shyness known, but Mingyu is just awestruck. No matter how many times he’s seen you bare, you always manage to blow him away. He sucks in a breath when his finger touches your wetness, tempted to once again dive in and lap up your nectar. He’d have to ask you to shirk out on your kitchen duties and let him spend the entire day between your legs one of these days. Mingyu shakes the incredulous thought out of his head and instead focuses on the way your cunt is eagerly sucking in his digit. 

“I’ll take care of you,” he sighs, almost to himself. He pumps his finger inside you a few times before adding another, checking on your expression for any discomfort. When he sees none, he continues. You fight off any pathetically needy sounds that might escape you all the while. Mingyu notices, he always does. With a reassuring kiss to your calf, he repeats himself. “I’ll take care of you, my love.”

You’re seeing stars by the time he pushes his cock inside you. Mingyu exhales shakily, steeling his self-control so as not to pound you in the mattress and make you miss your duties for a week. Oh, truly, he would if he could. Your thighs are shaking and your hands are almost frantic, searching for something to hold onto. 

“Sshh, darling, I’m right here. I’m here.” Mingyu spreads your legs, allowing him to rest his body on yours, hand interlacing with your wandering one and face pressed into your neck. You’ve also found purchase on the pillow supporting your head. His weight embracing you is comforting and serves to push him deeper inside you. Soon you find your hips rolling against his, eager for the mind-numbing pleasure of thickness drilling into you over and over again. 

“M-move, please,” you choke out; it’s only then that either of you notice the tears welling in your eyes. Before Mingyu could speak, you exhale something that almost sounds like an order. “Move, my love. Please take care of me.”

Mingyu makes a sound of pleasure that sounds just on the edge of cockiness; you fight the smile that was just starting to spread on your face because of his antics. It’s no use as your expression quickly distorts to that of pleasure as the prince slowly but surely picks up the pace of his hips. He groans out praise after praise into the crook of your neck. Then he’s moving, planting words of affection into your skin with a kiss until he reaches the swell of your chest. Your legs are pushed up higher both to accommodate the prince’s comfort and to drive him deeper into you.

He suckles on the bud of your left breast, hand squeezing yours in ecstacy, a reminder of sorts. You once again slap your hand over your mouth, muffling your wanton moans that were riser higher and higher. Mingyu rises from your chest and pulls you up with him so that you’re on top instead. You gasp at the feeling of him being so deep inside you, thickness stretching your velvet walls so deliciously that you couldn’t help but clench around him. It seems it’s not only your heart that doesn’t want to let go of your prince.

“F-fuck, baby,” Mingyu lets out a breathy laugh, the warmth of his words hitting your collarbone. You look down at him as if to say that you’re listening; you’re met with dazzling brown eyes, love and passion and pure dedication simmering underneath his almost honey-like irises. It takes your breath away. “S-so beautiful like this, feels so good.”

You gyrate your hips on top of his, suppressing a moan at how he continues to fill you up still, bullying your insides and the tip of his cock nudging your most sensitive spot. Your arms are now looped behind his shoulders, pulling him close to your chest. Mingyu goes back to mouthing at your breasts, hands firmly planted on your hips and encouraging you to start bouncing on him.

He realizes that to be a mistake as he nearly cums from the feeling of your cunt gripping him as you bounce, his grip aiding you in your movements. Mingyu marvels at your self control; you’re already so cockdrunk yet your words are stable as you gently sigh, “Touch me, Gyu, please.”

The prince nods, eager to please you and make you feel good. Sometimes he thinks about being at your beck and call– and not only in the bedroom.

His fingers expertly find your clit, teasing the sensitive bundle until he feels you leaking all over his lap. When he feels your hips stutter, a surge of determination washes over him, and suddenly his fingers are rubbing fast circles. He watches you in awe as you throw your head back, hand silencing your whorish sounds. Oh, how your prince longs to hear those sounds.

You don’t even manage to choke out a warning before your whole body seizes up, your sticky and warm arousal making a mess of your lover’s lap and his silk sheets. Without missing a beat, you leap off his lap with trembling legs and take his cock into your mouth, stroking with a passionate hand what you don’t currently have the energy to fit back inside you.

Mingyu shudders and bites his forearm as he floods your mouth with his cum. You help him ride it out, stroking and stroking while he calms down and subdues his moans. A contented hum emanates from your chest as you swallow his release, looking up at him. Mingyu loves you even more like this; when you don’t have a care in the world and hold the purest of love in your eyes as you look at  him. He wishes you could look at him like that without having to worry for your life. 

His hand soothes your hair as you rest your cheek on his thigh, your own legs still shaking. A few moments later, Mingyu scoops you up, just holds you against his chest and leaves drops of kisses onto the crown of your head. He lays you both down soon after, chests pressed against each other.

"There's something I must tell you," he starts off slowly once you've both caught your breath, cautious and afraid, and you realize this is the same tone he greeted you with earlier. Your gaze catches his, and it bothers you just how foreign the worry on his face looks. Yes, you've seen him worried before, but not like this. Not like his world would end the moment he told you whatever's causing him anxiety like this. It doesn't belong on his face; all there should be is happiness and love and kisses, not whatever the fuck this is that's hurting him. "I'm sure you've heard it already-"

"No, I haven't." you cut him off, precise and final. It's true; you've been doing your best to avoid any and every hot piece of gossip circulating in the kitchens and amongst the servants. You lean into his chest, breathing in the fading familiarity of his scent. Mingyu's hand comes up to caress your hair, afraid to look down at you and see the pain that will undoubtedly paint your face once he unburdens himself of the news.

You nod, cheek squishing against his broad and firm chest. Mingyu sighs when he feels you tracing nondescript patterns on his warm skin. "You can tell me, Gyu. It's all right, you can tell me."

The nickname squeezes at his heart so painfully he actually feels his chest tightening. He leaves one more kiss on your forehead. It feels like a goodbye. He prepares the three words on the tip of his tongue and prays to what powerful being above that you reciprocate it like he knows you want to.

“I love you.” A strong-willed declaration, and your heart simply flutters. After all, how could it not? Your very own prince charming is proclaiming the strongest of feelings for you. Your forehead is pressed against his chest; the loud thumping of his heart chokes your own.

“I love you too, my prince.”

The next time you see Prince Mingyu is when you’re arranging tarts at the buffet, making sure they look presentable and will not teeter off the edge of the tower to be wasted. You catch his eye, and you hope yours are mirroring his– full of sadness and longing and desperation. You look away first.

“Staring at the prince again?” your fellow apprentice Chan nudges your arm, grinning like he’s just said the funniest joke to ever exist. “Aren’t you getting sick of your crush on him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Chan. This is his engagement party, for heaven’s sake.”