#making me wanna make a gravity falls opening

[camficdiner]

1;4] [2;7-14] [3;1-3] [4;2-3]

heyyy babyy! how are you doing?hope you're doing fine,

i don't a lot, i made the worse-best choice of my life and got my nipples piercings..now i can't stop think about Matt with a girlfriend with those..heheheh

love you <3

☕️ cams fic diner — order 122

🍒 thank you: to the girls who spill coffee and own the room. for tall men on their knees and jersey mornings. for rough kisses, nipple piercings, and chaotic first impressions. this one’s yours.

💬 “He likes it bitter”

✨ description & prompts:

character: Matt Rempe

prompt: you accidentally spill coffee all over him + a slow, sleepy morning in his kitchen — wearing only his jersey

type: chaotic meet-cute, rough smut, nipple piercing kink,

🍒🛼✨🧁

You didn’t mean to spill the coffee on him.

You really didn’t.

It’s just—he walked into that downtown bakery like he was trying to make a scene, all six-foot-eight of him with the wind in his hair and the door not even fully shut behind him. And your iced latte? Slipped right out of your hands like gravity stopped working just for him.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, already pulling napkins from the counter.

Matt laughs. A big one—deep and shameless. He’s already drenched in oat milk and espresso, but he just leans over the counter and says, “Is this your way of flirting?”

You nearly choke. “You walked into me!”

He shrugs. “You looked like you needed to be humbled.”

You exchange numbers somewhere between the laughter and the apologies. And somehow, later that same night, you’re at his place, half-drunk, buzzing from the chaos of it all, wrapped in one of his hoodies, watching shitty movies on his couch. You don’t fuck. You don’t even kiss. You just fall asleep pressed into his side, the comfort of his heat knocking you out like melatonin.

—

The next morning is slow.

Sunlight through the slats. Bare legs cold against the kitchen tile. One of his jerseys hangs off your body, baggy and weightless, swallowing you whole.

You open a cabinet above the stove and wince.

He notices from the island, still shirtless, hair messy from sleep. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you say, pulling a mug down. “Just—my tits are sore.”

Matt freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth.

“From what,” he asks. “Me?”

“No, Jesus,” you laugh. “From the piercings.”

His entire body straightens. “Wait. What piercings.”

You tilt your head toward your chest. “The ones currently under this jersey, Rempe.”

He blinks. “You pierced your nipples?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Why, that a problem?”

“Problem?” he says, voice already lower. “Babe, I’m about to fall to my knees.”

He drops the spoon. You swear it bounces.

“Let me see,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but your fingers slip under the hem of the jersey anyway. One quick flash—just enough to show him the healing silver bars through each nipple—and Matt groans like he’s in pain.

“Holy shit. Can I touch?”

You nod. Just barely. But it’s enough.

He’s in front of you a second later. Hands on your waist. Nose brushing your collarbone.

“I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs. “I just wanna taste ‘em.”

You don’t even make it to the bed.

He drops to his knees right there in the kitchen, mouthing up the jersey. His hands spread over your thighs, then your hips, then higher—dragging the fabric up until your chest is exposed.

His eyes stay locked on yours when he licks you.

His tongue moves slow, flat and warm against the metal. He groans like it’s better than anything he’s ever tasted. Like he’s never wanted anything more than this — mouth on your tits, body between your legs, hips already grinding softly against your shin like he can’t help it.

“Matt,” you whisper, clutching his hair. “Fuck—”

He stands, sweeps everything off the island in one motion, and lifts you up onto the countertop like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively. He grinds against you, cock hard beneath his boxers.

“You’re so hot like this,” he growls, kissing down your chest again, thumb rolling over your left barbell. “This yours?” he asks. “This pain? This body?”

You nod. Desperate.

And when he finally slides inside — it’s not gentle. Not this time.

It’s deep. Hungry. Borderline messy.

He fucks you right there in the kitchen, rough and breathless, your hands gripping his shoulders while he ruts into you, licking and sucking at your sore nipples like a man starved.

You moan his name over and over again — and he eats it up like dessert.

Afterward, he doesn’t pull out for a while. He just keeps you close, forehead to yours, arms around your waist, jersey bunched at your ribs.

“You spilled coffee on me just to end up in my kitchen like this,” he mutters.

You laugh. “You’re lucky I didn’t pour it down your pants.”

Matt grins. “Next time,” he says. “If I’m lucky.”

[anqkinsgrl]

Heat Under Pressure.

18+ MDNI

TW: teasing, fem reader, pussy eating, praising

wc: 3.4k

______________________

You weren’t supposed to fall for a man like James Kelly.

He was unpredictable, rough around the edges, a walking red flag wrapped in sweat and denim. But under the heat of his anger and the shadow of his past, he had this gravity. Something that pulled you in. Something dangerous, but human.

You’d met him through Frankie. At first, it was all business — plans, getaway routes, code names, and backup stashes. But tension bloomed between you and James like a cigarette ember left too close to gasoline. He’d hover too long. Watch you with those tired, sharp eyes. You’d fight. Tease. Bicker. But never touch.

Not until tonight.

⸻

The safehouse was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood or car driving by outside. You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching James clean his gun at the table. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms veined and flexing as he moved with precision.

“You ever relax?” he asked, not looking up.

“Not around you,” you replied, a hint of a smirk in your voice.

That got his attention. His dark eyes flicked up, lingering. “Why’s that?”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You make everything feel… dangerous.”

He stood slowly, deliberately. The tension thickened as he approached, footsteps heavy on the floorboards. He stopped just short of touching you, voice low.

“I’ve been tryin’ real hard to stay away from you.”

“You haven’t been doing a very good job.”

His hand slid along your hip, firm and warm. “You really want this?” he asked, voice like smoke.

You didn’t hesitate — just nodded.

That was all he needed.

⸻

His mouth found yours in a kiss that wasn’t rushed but carried weeks of restrained hunger. His lips were soft, his movements precise, but there was weight behind it — like he needed to memorize the taste of you. His hands cupped your face, then drifted lower, rough palms sliding under your shirt. His thumbs brushed over your ribs, reverent.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he muttered, kissing down your jaw. “Been thinkin’ about this every damn night.”

Your back hit the kitchen table with a soft thud as he lifted you effortlessly, standing between your legs, crowding you in. His mouth was on your throat, teeth grazing skin, tongue dipping into the curve behind your ear.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. “Then stop thinking,” you whispered. “And do it.”

His laugh was low and hoarse. “Bossy tonight, huh?”

He peeled your shirt off with a slow drag, exposing your skin to the cool air. He paused, eyes scanning you like a man staring down salvation and sin at once. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Then his mouth was on your chest — kissing, sucking, teasing. His tongue flicked over your nipple, lips wrapping around it as he groaned. One of his hands slid up to cup your other breast, thumb rubbing lazy circles over the peak.

“James…” you whispered, hips shifting toward him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

He raised a brow. “Be specific.”

“Your mouth,” you said, voice cracking. “On me. Now.”

That crooked grin. “Say less.”

⸻

He dropped to his knees like he’d been dying to.

He tugged your pants down slowly, dragging his knuckles along your thighs, then mouthed at the soft skin as he went. When his mouth hovered just inches from where you needed him, he looked up. His breath was warm against your inner thigh.

“Last chance to tell me to stop.”

“James,” you whispered, threading your fingers into his hair, “shut up.”

He smirked — and then licked a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, groaning as he tasted you.

“Fuck, you taste sweet,” he murmured.

His tongue moved with maddening precision. He licked, sucked, and circled your clit, alternating pressure until your head fell back with a moan. He gripped your thighs, holding you open, forcing you to take every flick of his tongue.

“Look at me,” he said suddenly.

You glanced down, breathless.

“Wanna see your face when you come.”

You broke on his tongue minutes later — hips jerking, thighs tightening around his head as your orgasm surged through you. James didn’t stop, not even when your legs trembled or your fingers clutched at his hair. He licked you through it, like he wanted to savor every shiver, every gasp.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, eyes half-lidded, face flushed.

“You good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded, chest heaving. “Holy shit.”

He rose slowly, kissing up your stomach, your chest, your throat — then your mouth. You could taste yourself on his lips, and the intimacy of it sent another shiver through you.

⸻

You tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling in your haze. “Your turn.”

He helped strip himself quickly — shirt, jeans, boxers all in one careless heap. You stared openly, taking him in. The bruises on his ribs. The ink trailing up his side. The weight of him, thick and hard, hanging heavy between you.

You reached for him, wrapping your fingers around his length. He hissed through his teeth.

“Careful, baby… I’m tryin’ to make this last.”

You guided him to you. “Then fuck me.”

James lined himself up, sliding his tip through your slick folds. Then, with a slow, controlled push, he sank inside. Inch by inch.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, burying his face against your neck. “So tight. So warm.”

You held on, nails raking lightly down his back as he bottomed out. He stayed still, breathing hard.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you breathed, kissing the shell of his ear. “Move.”

And so he did.

⸻

He rocked into you with a rhythm that stole your breath. Deep, steady, deliberate. His hand tangled in your hair as he kissed you again, muffling your moans. The table creaked beneath you, wood protesting the weight and force of him.

Every thrust hit deep, sending sparks up your spine. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, anchoring him to you. His mouth moved along your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone, leaving marks in his wake.

“Could fuckin’ live in you,” he growled. “This—this is what I’ve been needin’.”

You whimpered, nails digging into his arms.

His pace quickened, hips snapping harder, rougher. The sound of skin slapping echoed in the room, mixed with broken moans and the sound of your name on his lips.

“I’m close,” you gasped.

“Yeah?” He reached between you, rubbing your clit in tight circles. “Come for me again, baby. Wanna feel you.”

You shattered around him a second time, your walls clenching tight as he groaned, driving into you faster, chasing his own release.

With a strangled moan, he spilled inside you, pulsing deep. His hips stuttered before slowing, then stilling. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.

Silence followed — heavy, thick with sweat and heartbeats.

⸻

You both collapsed onto the floor minutes later, too spent to make it to the couch. James lay beside you, one arm around your waist, the other under his head.

He stared at the ceiling, breathing slow, steady. Then he turned to you, brushing a strand of hair from your damp face.

“You scare the shit outta me,” he said quietly.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Good.”

He laughed, chest rumbling. Then, more serious: “Don’t disappear after this. Not after tonight.”

You rolled to face him fully, hand splaying over his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip tightened slightly around you, like he didn’t fully believe it yet.

But for now, the world outside the safehouse didn’t matter. For now, it was just you, him, and the smolder of something finally set free.

______________________

[blabberoo]

Im going insane over people making their own animated openings for their own gravity falls au itS SO COOL IM GONNA START FOAMING ON MY MOUTH

[daycore-frisk]

dude. DUDE. come with me for a moment to this beautiful garden and ponder on this absolute bombshell im about to drop on you

BRAZIL CIPHER

Say no more my friend

I actually had a ton of fun making this you guys need to send in more asks 😭 /polite

Also BONUS:

Baby Brazil Cypher :333

@cinocappu @4cerace

[mofuguru]

sweet enough ╱ toji . 18+

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 toji has always been the gruff, broad-shouldered single dad next door. You were never supposed to get involved. But when he shows up at your door late at night asking for sugar, you both know that’s not what he really came for. 〞

pairing: toji x fem!reader

genre: smut, neighbour!au ; wc: 1.9k

warnings: unprotected sex, dirty talk, dilf!toji, mild size kink, light roughness, breeding talk, toji in grey sweatpants (a warning itself)

You hear the knock at exactly 10:07 PM. Three slow taps. The same way he always knocks.

You open the door, already knowing who it is.

Toji stands there, shirtless—just grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, a faint line of sweat still clinging to his collarbone. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he says. “But… you got sugar?”

You arch a brow. “Sugar.”

“Megumi wanted pancakes tomorrow.” His voice is gravel and sleep. “I was halfway into bed and remembered I used the last of it.”

“Sure,” you reply, stepping aside. “Come in.”

You expect him to wait at the door. He doesn’t. He walks in like he always does—big, broad, filling the room with his presence like gravity. The smell of sandalwood and something smokier follows him, something warm. Familiar.

You grab the sugar from your pantry. “Here.”

He takes it from your hands but doesn’t leave. He sets the bag on your counter instead and leans back, palms braced on the edge, flexing those thick arms just a little too easily.

“What’s the real reason you came over?” you ask quietly.

His mouth twitches into a smirk. “Knew you were smart.”

You wait. You don’t trust your voice if you speak too soon.

Toji’s eyes flick over your figure, lazy and deliberate. “Megumi’s asleep. House is quiet. I just… I get restless sometimes.” His voice drops. “And I kept thinkin’ about you.”

You swallow.

He steps closer. Just one step, but it’s enough.

“You keep answering the door lookin’ like that,” he murmurs, eyes on the loose sleep shirt clinging to your curves, “and I’m gonna start thinking you want something.”

“Maybe I do,” you say, breath hitching.

He’s on you before you finish the sentence.

Mouth crashing down on yours, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding up the back of your neck. His kiss is all heat—messy, deep, and desperate. He tastes like peppermint and something darker. Hunger.

You clutch at his back, nails digging into skin. He groans, low in his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathes, lips dragging along your jaw. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

He walks you backward, lifting you up onto the counter. You gasp as the cold marble hits your thighs.

“I won’t be gentle,” he warns, eyes dark. “You okay with that?”

“God, yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hand is under your shorts in seconds, fingers slipping past your underwear, finding you soaked. “This all for me?” he growls, voice gone rough.

“Yes—fuck—”

He sinks two fingers inside, curling deep, thumb rubbing circles over your clit with practiced precision. You fall forward, forehead against his shoulder, moaning into his skin.

He pulls his fingers out, licking them slow. “You taste good. Wanna feel you ‘round my cock.”

He tugs your shorts down and turns you on the counter, bending you over. Your cheek hits the cool marble as he slides his sweatpants low, cock already thick and hard, tip leaking.

“No time for condoms,” he mutters, lining himself up. “Been clean. You?”

“Yes. I’m on the pill—”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He pushes in with one deep thrust, groaning as your walls stretch around him. You cry out—he’s big, the stretch delicious and brutal at once.

“Shit,” he pants. “Tight little pussy. Gonna ruin you.”

He fucks into you slow, then hard—deep, punishing thrusts that make your legs tremble. Your hands scrabble for purchase on the counter. He grabs your hips, yanking you back to meet every thrust.

“So pretty like this,” he grunts. “Bent over, takin’ it all for me. This what you wanted, huh? Every time you smiled at me over the fence, dressed like that?”

You whimper.

He slides a hand under you, fingers back on your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

You shatter around him, body trembling, crying out his name. Your orgasm drags him over the edge—he curses, grip bruising your hips as he pumps into you one last time, spilling deep inside.

You both stay there, catching your breath, skin slick with sweat.

After a minute, he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, dazed and wrecked.

He pulls out gently, tucks himself back into his sweats, and smirks. “Might need to ‘borrow’ more sugar next week.”

You roll your eyes, breathless. “Pancakes again?”

He grins. “Nah. You.”

© 2025. mofuguru ─── all rights reserved. do not repost or translate.

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — blazed . . . sweetheart!matt

in which . . . the universe shrinks to just you and matt, and nothing else matters but the way he feels.

warnings . . . smut , making out , car sex , unprotected sex , riding , praise kink , size kink , creampie.

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #1

the night air is soft and cool, brushing your skin through the cracked window as matt’s car hums quietly beneath you. the two of you are parked just outside the city, the lights fading away into a dark sky dotted with stars—like the universe put on a private show just for you two.

you lean your head back against the seat, heart already fluttering even before matt’s hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like they were made for it. the way he looks at you is like gravity pulling you closer, a silent promise whispered without words.

you try to steady your breath, but it’s impossible. the whole world feels suspended, held in this moment that’s both intimate and infinite.

“you ever think about how wild it is?” matt’s voice is low, barely louder than the night around you. “like, of all the people on this planet, it’s just us right here, right now.”

you nod, your fingers tightening around his. “it’s kind of crazy.”

“yeah.” he smiles, that shy little thing that makes your chest ache. “like fate or something. like we were always supposed to find each other.”

you meet his gaze, feeling the truth of it in the way your heart pounds. “yeah.”

the music playing softly in the background seems to wrap around you both, the lyrics drifting through the car like a secret only you share.

matt shifts closer, his breath warm on your cheek. “i wanna make this last forever,” he murmurs, voice thick with something you can’t quite name. “you, me, right here. nothing else.”

your breath catches, familiar heat pooling low in your stomach as his hand slides to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone gently.

you lean into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, the tension between you electric. when you open them again, matt’s lips are just inches from yours. slow. deliberate. waiting.

“can i?” he asks softly, the vulnerability making you melt.

“yes,” you whisper back, barely able to contain the rush of feeling.

his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s everything—soft and hungry, sweet and urgent all at once. your hands find his chest, while his hands trace the curve of your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you, just heat and breath and the dizzying certainty that this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

you get lost in the moment—the way his lips move against yours, the way his fingers thread through your hair, the steady beat of his heart under your palm. it’s magnetic, like falling into a star you never want to stop orbiting.

the world outside the car disappears completely, leaving only the two of you wrapped in a private bubble of warmth, love, and light.

and as the kiss deepens, his fingers slip beneath your shirt. the heat between you flickers and grows, promising so much more—promising a night you’ll never forget.

but for now, it’s just this—this perfect, blazed moment under the endless sky, where you belong in his arms and nothing else matters.

matt pulls away, panting, his hands reaching down to his jeans and tugging the zipper down. you take the cue to rid yourself of your shorts and panties, lifting your hips to slip them off and drop them in the floorboard. your turn to matt, and he’s already got his boxers and jeans down to his mid-thighs.

“c’mere, baby,” matt motions you over, to which you climb over the center console, plopping down on his thighs. he groans softly as he feels your warm wetness start to spread across his even warmer skin. “fuck, you’re so wet…”

your face flushes deeply at his truthful but humiliating words, dropping your gaze down to his cock. matt hooks his slender finger underneath your chin, dragging your gaze back up to his face. god, he found it so cute that you were so bashful. “gonna ride me, sweetheart?” his voice is sickeningly sweet.

your teeth sink into your plush bottom lip as you nod, looking up at him with big, glossy eyes. matt drops his hands down to your bare hips, lifting you up so that you’re hovering above his erected length.

you help him out, lining him up with your dripping entrance. “deeep breaths, baby,” matt reminds as he starts lowering you down onto him. you let out a whine at the delicious stretch—the fullness.

“fuck, you’re tight.” matt groans, and the sound of his voice alone has you clenching around him. his hands trail down to your ass, cupping it firmly, fingers digging into your flesh. matt looks at you with that questioning look, to which you nod, giving him the ‘okay’ to start moving you up and down.

he tightens his grip on your ass, lifting you up and bringing you back down on his cock, a loud moan leaving your lips. “matt…”

he starts moving you faster, the sound of your ass coming down on his thighs ringing in your ears. each time he drops you back down, his tip brushes your cervix, bruisingly delicious. you swear you’re seeing stars already, and it’s all thanks to matt.

“fuuuck…feels good, sweet girl?” matt rasps, his voice almost as shaky as your ragged breaths. “y-yes, i—mmph—“ you’re cut off by your own moan, unable to keep your head up any longer and dropping your face into the crook of his neck.

matt chuckles softly—shakily. your walls clamp down on him at the sound, eliciting a gasp from the both of you. “shit, baby, you feel perfect—god, this pussy was made for me,” matt groans, tossing his head back, starting to move you up and down faster, the sounds of your skin plopping down against him growing louder and wetter.

you feel his cock pulsing inside you, the feeling only heightening your pleasure, the knot in your gut tightening. matt feels your walls flutter around him, and he starts thrusting up into you, his grunts getting noisier. “fuuuck, sweetheart—keep takin’ it just like that. squeezin’ me so good—makin’ me so proud.”

“m-matt—“ you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders as he starts hitting your sweet spot dead-on. “yeah, baby? you close?” he grunts, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. you nod desperately, eyes squeezing shut and jaw falling slack. “just a little longer, princess…m’almost there.”

your whiny moans get more prominent, which only drives matt closer to the edge. you feel his cock twitch inside of you, and you’re not sure if you can hold it any longer. “matt, i—i can’t—“ you babble.

“give it to me, baby. i’m right behind you.” matt encourages. you snap. you feel it first in your core, then in your chest, then everywhere—white-hot and all-consuming. your body quivers on top of him, tears pricking your eyes as you cry out. matt relishes in the feeling of you creaming on his cock, which sends him straight over the edge. he grips you tighter, hips stuttering as a rush of heat blurs his thoughts and leaves him gasping as his load shoots deep inside you.

you lift your head so you can see his face and god, he looks gorgeous. he leans in, lips brushing over your jaw with a quiet, “you okay, sweet girl?” you nod, too blissed out to speak. he smiles.

“good. ’cause i’m not even close to being done with you.”

author’s note . . . HI!! first fic of the marathon 🥳 hopefully this was a good kickoff! and thanks to bae @sturnsblogs for proofreading 😁 ALSO im doing a different layout and color scheme for this marathon, but afterward it’ll be back to usual!

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @zenithsturniolo @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @mattsgracie @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo

© cayleeuhithinknott

[bernardsbendystraws]

Synopsis: Matt helps love feel easy on Valentine's Day.

Warnings: Fluff & Smut. Doll Reader x Obsessive Matt. Troubles saying 'I love you.' Established relationship, cheesy shit, p n v, emotional intimacy and very fluffy smut.

A/N: Hiiiiii, welcome to my Valentine's Day special! This is one of my favorite holidays ever. YOU DO NOT NEED A SIGNIFICANT OTHER TO HAVE A GOOD V DAY. My dream Valentine's Day is spending it with my girl friends in a cabin, just hanging out in matching pjs and shit lol. This is also based off this request (ty anon, pls lmk if you like)

With love and big tits, Rose

wc: 1500+

“I love you.” 

Matt showered you in those three words all day, making sure you felt absolutely cherished. And you did. It was hard not to, between the flowers, chocolates, gifts, and everything else - you felt utterly worshipped. 

01: Breakfast in bed

“Sweetheart,” Matt coos, gently petting your cheek, trying to wake you up slowly. Your eyes lazily flutter open, your senses perking at the smell of delicious food. Usually, you’re the one to wake up first. Mornings are usually a little lonely since Matt is able to sleep in longer than you, but not today. Today was special. After all, it was Valentine’s Day. 

Your smile makes it all worth it. Matt only feels content watching you sit up, embracing him around the waist as you mutter a million gratitudes. 

“-thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! This is so sweet!” you acknowledge. 

Matt climbs back into bed, carefully pulling out the food for the two of you to enjoy. Pastries, both sweet and savory, an option for any way you were feeling. 

And - apple juice. He knew how much you loved it, even if you felt a little dumb for saying juice was your favorite at your age. Hence why it was always stocked. It only became his favorite since it made you so happy. 

“I really appreciate this, this is so thoughtful,I can’t believe you did all of this for me-”

Matt cuts off your rambling with a swift kiss. You laugh as the crumbled pastry falls from your lips, feeling your cheeks burn as Matt pulls back, his thumb swiping gently over your lips. 

“I love you,” he smiles, pressing another soft kiss to your lips, “-I also love seeing you in our bed. And in my clothes.” 

You go to respond, the three words lingering on your tongue as your lips smack back together. Those three stupid words, ones that he made look so effortless. I love you. You want to say it so bad, but you just can’t. 

“Don’t worry about it, Doll. I just wanna spoil my girl, I know. Okay?” he says, looking into your eyes. 

Sadly, you nod your head.

02: Taking a stroll 

One of your favorite activities to do together - a stroll. This one was special though. Matt had been swinging your hand in his, your steps synchronized as you walked deeper on the dirt path surrounded by colossal trees. 

And then you see it. Both your initials, carved into a heart on the trunk of a thick tree. 

“Matt…” you whisper, completely breathless. 

He tugs you to come closer to the tree, watching with a proud grin as your fingers trace over the carved bark. It had taken him hours. He didn’t mind though, it was all worth it to see the look on your face now. 

“Do you love it?” he asks. 

Quickly, you nod your head, trying to fight the gloss in your eyes. You don’t wanna cry, but something about the effort he used for you made your heart clench in your chest. 

“So much,” you whisper, pulling him into a hug while looking up to the sky. 

You wanna say it. You really, really do. The fresh air gets caught in your throat as you go to whisper the words, your feet digging into the ground as you slug with gravity just the slightest. Disappointment is heavy. 

The gloss of endearment in your eyes turns into sadness. If only you could just say it. 

Matt pulls you in even closer, digging his nose into your hair as he inhales. “Love you so much, I’d do anything for you.” 

He’d do anything for you. It makes you happy, but so jealous. Matt was able to do so much, and you could barely muster up the courage to say the bare minimum. 

03: Dinner confessions 

The restaurant is busy. Fancy silverware is set in front of you, an array of tables crowded with more couples makes your shoulders stiffen as you look around. 

“Hey,” Matt whispers, pulling you back to reality and out of your anxious thoughts as he clutches your hand from across the table, “-just pretend it’s us okay?”

You nod, trying your best to drown out the surrounding chatter. The small conversation isn’t very distracting. Although Matt’s presence and voice soothes you, your body refuses to calm down, screaming at you that this is too much. 

The scratching of the utensils on ceramic dishes makes you flinch. An overly loud man cackling is distracting enough for your eyes to gloss over, making you dissociate. 

“-she’ll have this - yeah, thank you,” You look back to see Matt handing the waitress your menus. “Don’t worry, got what you wanted,” he cheers. 

You’re more than grateful for his consideration. The embarrassment of a server trying to get your attention in the middle of dissociating made you wanna curl up into a ball and die. 

“Thank you, it’s so loud in here, I-” your words trail off into the buzzing air. Matt frowns seeing your brows furrow. You wanna say it so bad. Those three simple words, in a light-hearted manner too. 

You just can’t. 

04: Lost in pleasure 

Oh fuck. 

Your mind was deathly silent, your soft moans breathing into the air as you felt him rut deep inside of you over and over again. 

“Thaatt’ss it,” he husks, hovering over your body in missionary, leaning to place kisses along your neck that’s covered in love bites, “-taking - umph,” he groans hissing as you clench around him tightly, “-takin’ me so good.” 

It’s unbearably intoxicating. He’s so deep, thrusting his length into you repeatedly, slowly but with force, grinding his pelvis onto you and stimulating your clit in unimaginable ways. 

“Matt - Matt, I,” you strain, crying out as he plunges directly into that spot - the spot so deep that it makes you feel like you’re nothing but a vessel of euphoria. 

It feels so good. Tears are threatening to leak from the corner of your eyes, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge as your back arches up, pushing your chest further against him as his teeth nibble into the plush skin of your neck. 

“Tell me how good it feels. C’mon, I - fuck, tell me,” he urges, his hips starting to rock unevenly as he nears his own orgasm. 

“So, so, so good, I,” your words are interrupted by a low moan, your hips starting to flex upward and stiffen from the waves of pleasure starting to crash down, “-love it so mu - ch, love you.”

Matt stills for a second. The words falling from your lips seem to tug a certain nerve that nearly makes him topple over the edge right then and there. 

“Fuck,” he husks, leaning further onto you, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he feels your legs wrap around his waist, pulling his cock back inside you. 

“I love you - love you -,” he snaps his hips extra hard, relishing in the way a sharp whimper pursues through your lips, “-love you so much. Say it again, baby, c’mon, can you do that? For me? Please - I - know you can. D - do it, for me,” he pleas, his rhythm unbalanced and even as he struggles to hold himself back. 

You’re gone. Your mind is a mess - but you love it. The words are hard to fight off when it’s just him, no other thoughts except for how much you love him, how good it feels…

How good it is to be loved so brutally. 

“Lov - love you,” your voice quivers, your throat straining to let the words escape as you feel the knot in your stomach burst. 

“Oh, god,” Matt purrs, letting his instincts take over as he lets himself go, releasing inside of you as your legs pull him in even deeper. 

Matt slowly rides you both through the intense high. His eyes drift down to where both your bodies meet. “Oh - oh my,” he strains, feeling more of his cum spill into you. Around the base of his cock is a creamy ring of both your orgasms. There’s never been so much before. 

“Look at that…” he husks, mostly talking under his breath as he pets over your lower stomach. 

Your eyes follow downward. The scene displayed in front of you makes you clench around him again, making him whimper as his hand grips on tightly to your hip. 

“Baby, oh my god, I - I fuckin’ love you,” he breathes, dipping his lips down to suck gently on your over senstive skin, smiling as he feels your heel press against his back, pushing his cock back into you.

Back in deep. 

You’re both overstimulated. Every sensation outweighs your thoughts, you can’t help but blubber out every word that passes through your brain.

“Mmmmm, Matt… it feels so good, you - you treat me so good, I,” you gasp as he grinds his pelvis onto your clit, his teeth pinching into bruised skin delicately, “-love you so, so, so much,” you cry. 

Matt can’t help but start making his cock rut into you even deeper, his breath coming out as short pants, his warm breath fanning on your neck shakily. 

“Love you more. I… love you - love you more than anything.”

And he’s shown you. He’s making you feel it. 

And it feels so brutally good. 

It feels like love.

[theeafterparty444]

Quiet Hours

Remmick x Reader

Summary: You and Remmick were supposed to be a casual thing—no strings, no feelings, just tension and release behind closed dorm doors. But when he shows up outside your room in the middle of the night, needy and jealous, it’s clear something’s shifted. What was once just sex has turned into obsession. He doesn’t just want your body anymore—he wants you. And tonight, he’s not leaving until he’s sure you remember exactly who you belong to.

Wc: 5.7k

He shouldn't be here.

That’s the first thought in your head when you see Remmick leaning against your dorm door past 1:30 a.m.—hood up, lips red, fists in his hoodie pocket like he’s trying not to knock again.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” he mutters. “You were with that guy. From class.”

You raise a brow. “Are you jealous?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw flexes.

“I just don’t like people looking at you like that. Or you looking at them.”

A beat.

“’Cause I know what you sound like when you’re under me. Know how you taste when you’re shaking. And he doesn’t.”

Your stomach clenches.

You unlock your door and say nothing.

He follows you in like gravity, like he’s trying to stay chill—but his hands are already twitching like he wants to wreck you.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours—hot, needy, a little reckless. You can taste the way he’s spiraling. His hands grip your face like he hasn’t touched you in weeks. Like you’ve been out of reach too long.

“You wore those shorts on purpose,” he pants against your lips, walking you backward. “The tiny ones. You wanted attention.”

“I wanted coffee,” you shoot back, tugging his hoodie off.

“Liar.” His lips move to your neck, biting just hard enough to make your thighs press together. “You knew I’d see.”

“Maybe I wanted your attention.”

He groans like it physically hurts.

“You’ve got it, baby. Fuck, you’ve got it.”

Your shirt is gone. Bra unclasped and flung somewhere. His hands are everywhere—palming, squeezing, thumbs rolling your nipples until you're arching under him.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “Barely touched you and you’re soaked, huh?”

He drops to his knees and shoves your shorts down, mouth open and greedy.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, eyes locked on your dripping pussy. “You’re fuckin’ dripping.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh slow—then licks one stripe up your slit that makes you gasp.

“Shit, baby,” he groans. “You taste like everything. I could live down here.”

And he proves it.

Remmick eats like it’s his last meal.

Messy, hot, tongue deep inside you while his nose presses your clit. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open as he moans against your pussy like it turns him on more than it does you.

“Let me hear it,” he says between sucks. “Let them fucking hear you.”

You’re panting, hips grinding into his mouth without shame.

Then he slides two fingers in, slow, and curls them just right.

You scream.

“Atta girl,” he growls, fingerfucking you steady while licking your clit like a man possessed. “Come on. Give it to me.”

You unravel—loud, legs trembling, pussy clenching around his fingers.

But he doesn’t stop.

You gasp and writhe, trying to close your thighs.

He just growls. “One more. Be a good girl and give me another.”

He sucks hard on your clit and you snap—back arching off the bed as your second orgasm hits harder, messier.

You’re panting, dazed, but he’s already stripping—shirt gone, sweats shoved down, cock heavy and red and leaking against his stomach.

“Look what you do to me,” he pants, stroking himself slow. “I could fuck anyone on this campus and all I want is you.”

You crawl back on the bed, open your legs.

“Then come take it.”

He fumbles for a condom, but hesitates.

You blink. “You good?”

“I want you raw so bad,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “Wanna feel every fuckin’ flutter.”

Your pussy clenches.

You reach into the drawer. “Wrap it up. If you go raw, I’m not leaving you alone again.”

He laughs, breathless. “Bet.”

He pushes in slow.

You both groan.

“You always this tight for me?” he grits, voice strangled. “Fuck—feel like your pussy’s choking me.”

You wrap your legs around him, pull him deeper.

He starts slow. Deep. Rolling his hips until you’re panting.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “So wet. So fucking full. You love this, don’t you?”

You nod, whimpering.

“Say it.”

“I love your cock,” you gasp. “I love how you fuck me, Remmick.”

He curses and fucks you harder, hands gripping your hips.

You claw at his back, dizzy with the stretch.

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” he growls. “Mouth open, eyes all dumb, begging for more. This pussy’s mine.”

You nod again, barely coherent.

Then his thumb presses your clit.

“Gonna come for me again?”

You cry out.

“Come on, baby. Cream all over me. Let me feel you soak this dick.”

You shatter, clenching so hard around him he stumbles into his orgasm seconds after, grunting deep in your ear.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m coming—Jesus—”

He stays buried inside you, trembling.

You both lie there, covered in sweat and each other, breathing hard.

Then:

“I hate seeing you smile at other guys,” he whispers. “Makes me wanna fight someone.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’re insane.”

He kisses your shoulder. “I’m obsessed.”

You stroke his hair. “I know.”

A pause.

“You staying?”

He doesn’t move. “Try and make me leave.”

The End ❤︎

@001-side, here's your slightly needy Remmick.

[ineedpaigebuckets]

ALWAYS YOU

chapter 1

synopsis: paige surprising azzi in quarantine, and realizing just how hard it's gonna be to fall in love with her best friend.

an: GUYS PLEASE, i pray, give me feedback, tell me how it is, tell me what you wanna see in future chapters or future stories anything!!! also thank you @averyisnotpresent i love you beautiful!

-----------------------------------------

the second paige bueckers opened the door to azzi fudd's room, she knew she was fucked.

she'd spent the last week crying over facetime, while her best friend azzi did everything in her power to make her feel better. her senior basketball season, something she’d poured her heart and soul into, was canceled with covid, and the future suddenly felt like an empty court. azzi had stayed up with her every night, whispering comfort through the screen until paige's eyes shut from exhaustion. when one night the tears didn’t stop, azzi made the only offer she knew might help. "come stay with me. for as long as you want.”

and of course, paige jumped at the chance.

azzi told her to come next week, but Paige couldn’t wait. she wanted- no needed- to be near her. so she texted tim and katie, quietly coordinated a surprise, and booked an earlier flight. maybe, just maybe, showing up unannounced would be the first thing to make the both of them smile in days.

dragging her suitcase down the quiet hallway, she pushed open the bedroom door slowly, heart thudding against her ribs like it was trying to warn her. the sight of azzi, curled up on her back, an open book resting gently on her chest, lips parted slightly as she breathed, soft curls spilling like poetry across her cheek, stopped paige cold in her shoes.

she looked like something out of a dream paige didn’t know she’d had until this moment.

dropping her stuff, she stepped inside, quiet as she could. she knelt beside the bed and hesitated, then gently brushed a curl off azzi's cheek, her fingertips trembling. she'd always known there was something about azzi- something that pulled at her like gravity- but seeing her like this, so peaceful, so heartbreakingly beautiful, it hit paige just how deep she was.

she ran her fingers along azzi's cheekbones, traced the soft angle of her jaw, paused at her lips. her throat went dry. her heart clenched with something she didn’t want to name yet. slowly, tenderly, she leaned in and pressed her lips to azzi's forehead, her palm cupping her cheek like something sacred.

“az,” she whispered, thumb grazing her skin.

azzi stirred, eyelids fluttering, and breath catching in her throat, and paige yanked her hand back like she’d touched fire. azzi's eyes blinked open, dazed and confused, and they both looked like they’d been caught doing something they couldn’t explain.

“paige?” azzi rubbed her eyes, sitting up fast, like maybe this was all a dream. paige stood up and shifted awkwardly on her feet, rocking slightly, trying not to look like she’d just kissed her best friend awake from her sleep.

“what the fuck, big head,” azzi finally said through a breathless laugh, tugging paige's hoodie like a lifeline- the hoodie paige had stolen from azzi months ago. she pulled her down onto the bed and they collapsed into each other, rolling and laughing and tickling like kids, like nothing weird had just happened. but it had.

it really had.

eventually, the laughter faded. the silence that followed was different—charged. paige, still tangled in azzi's arms, laid her head against her neck, her voice soft and vulnerable.

“azzi, I missed you so much. like… i just love you. you're the only person i ever wanna talk to. you're my person.” she paused, then added with a nervous chuckle, “when I came in here and saw you asleep- with your book and everything- you looked so pretty. you always look pretty. is that weird?”

she pressed herself closer, her eyes squeezed shut like she couldn’t bear to look at her while saying it. “you're the most beautiful person i've ever seen. you're perfect. like… annoyingly perfect. you're annoying.”

azzi swallowed, hard, because she didn’t know what to do with this. paige's words were muffled against her neck, her body warm and heavy on top of her, her arms around her like she never wanted to let go. and maybe azzi didn’t want her to. but she couldn’t- shouldn’t- think about it like that. Not like that.

“damn, paigey,” azzi said, laughing a little too loud, trying to pull herself out of the fog of emotions. “you in love with me or something?”

it was a joke. that's how it always started—how it always had to be, because joking made it safe.

but the moment the words left her lips, the air shifted. they both went still.

paige pulled her head up slowly, grinning like she wasn’t sure if this was a game or something much, much bigger. “what if I am?”

azzi's breath caught. her whole body flushed, heat crawling up her neck, flooding her cheeks. she shoved Paige’s face gently, trying to laugh it off, but her heart was pounding so loud she was sure paige could hear it. or feel it. paige was still on top of her, for god's sake. it was too much.

too real.

she'd always known paige meant more to her than she should. that the little glances lasted too long, that her heart always did this fluttering thing when paige smiled, that sometimes- when no one else was around- she caught herself wondering what it would feel like to hold her like this without pretending it was a joke.

but azzi wasn’t gay.

or, maybe she was. she didn’t know. she didn’t want to know.

because being gay meant changing everything. it meant giving people something to label her by. it meant losing control of her own story, becoming that girl, the girl who liked other girls, instead of just being azzi. she wanted to be her own person. not someone else’s idea of who she should be, or worse, who she was allowed to love.

but paige… paige wasn’t just anybody.

and that terrified her.

so she smiled, pushed her onto the mattress, and said, “you're so dumb.”

and paige, always too forgiving, laughed like she hadn’t just handed azzi her whole heart for what felt like the millionth time.

later that night, they lay side by side in the dark, the quiet hum of the dmv outside the only sound between them. paige's arm was still thrown loosely around azzi's waist, like it had been since they laid down a few minutes ago, except neither of them had actually fallen asleep. not really.

paige's breathing was slow, steady, but azzi could feel it, how awake she was. paige always had a way of making her presence known without saying a word. her fingers kept brushing the hem of azzi's hoodie like she needed the contact to breathe.

azzi stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, heart doing laps in her chest.

she loved Paige. she loved her more than she’d ever loved anyone in her life. and not in the casual, best friend way she told other people about. it was the kind of love that made her stomach flip when paige laughed, that made her want to win every game just to impress her, that made her want to reach out and touch her even when nothing was wrong. it was the kind of love that settled in her bones like a truth she didn’t want to admit out loud.

and paige? paige never didn’t say it.

she told azzi she loved her like it was her favorite sentence. she looked at her like she hung the damn moon. she clung to her like her world started and ended with her, and sometimes azzi let her, let herself fall into that warmth, because it just felt so good. but every time paige got too close to the line, azzi pulled back. laughed. changed the subject. nudged her. anything to keep the world from shifting under her feet.

because if she admitted it, even just once, what did that mean for the rest of her life?

“are you okay?” paige's voice broke the silence, gentle and curious. she always knew when something was wrong. azzi had the worst poker face around her.

azzi rolled onto her side to face her, nose to nose now in the dim glow of the moonlight slipping through the blinds.

“yeah. i'm good.”

“you sure?”

azzi nodded, biting the inside of her cheek.

paige stared at her for a long moment. then, “do i make you uncomfortable when i say stuff like that? about you being pretty. or loving you.” it wasn't that paige was taking it back, but she just felt guilty- because what if azzi didn't want it... what if. she never told azzi she was in love with her, but she knew everyone under the sun could feel it.

azzi's stomach twisted. “no,” she said, too fast. “you don’t.”

paige nodded, eyes flicking down to azzi's lips for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. “it's just… sometimes it feels like i'm saying too much. and you never say anything back.”

azzi didn’t have an answer for that. or, she had too many, and none of them felt like the right one.

instead, she reached out and brushed paige's hair off her face. her thumb lingered against her cheekbone. it was her way of saying i love you, without the weight of the words.

paige leaned into it. “i just don’t get it,” she whispered, voice cracking. “i don’t know what i'm doing wrong. everything changed and nothing even happened."

“you're not,” azzi said quickly, heart aching. “you're not doing anything wrong.”

paige gave her a sad smile. “then why does it feel like i'm the only one who’s really here?”

azzi couldn’t answer that either.

because she was sure. in all the ways that mattered. but being sure didn’t make it easier. being sure didn’t make her brave. loving meant standing in a spotlight azzi wasn’t ready for, meant admitting things she wasn’t ready to claim.

so she didn’t say anything. she just scooted closer and buried her face in Paige’s neck, wrapping her arm tight around her waist, hoping it said what she couldn’t.

paige held her back, because of course she did.

that's the thing about Paige- she loved azzi in the loudest, softest way imaginable. in forehead kisses and early morning texts and always choosing her first. in showing up, in holding on. she didn’t know how to not love azzi out loud.

and azzi loved her in secret. in stolen glances, in late night clinging, in not being able to sleep unless paige was there. she loved her when no one was watching, because that’s when it felt safe.

but it wasn’t fair. not to either of them.

and in the silence, paige felt the weight of that unfairness settling on her chest like a stone.

“i'm gonna fall in love with you so bad it’s not even funny,” she whispered, half asleep, half audible, but azzi heard it- of course she did, she always did.

a zi smiled into her collarbone.

you already did, she thought.

but she still didn’t say it back.

[lostintransist]

Broken Beyond Bearing | Part 7

-… . - .- / -… .-.. —- —- -.. / .—. .. -. - / -.-. —- … - / —-.. ——- ——-

Part 1 found here | AO3

Tepid is not a word Johnny uses regularly. You though? You embody the word right now. Tepid. It trips off the tongue and hits every one of his teeth on the way out. The shower seemed to settle you, and neither one of you commented on the cloying mixture of his body wash and your not-right scent.

You won’t make eye contact. Sitting on the couch three seats between your body and his, he watches you watch your fingers.

“Do they turn into snakes and bite?”

Blink. Blink again. There it is, the turn that pricks at him with a look of confused disbelief. Even expecting it doesn’t make the familiarity of that look hurt less. Johnny had learned that being dismissed for being too loud, too quick, ached like stretching scars.

“What?”

“Your fingers,” he pointed with his chin, “You’re staring at them like they might get you. So I’m wondering if they bite.”

“They don’t.” The slant of your brows is an invitation to barrel roll into madness.

“Wanna see my favorite thing to do when the guys aren’t here?” Johnny waggled his eyebrows.

The mouth falling open as your eyes squint at him says a lot. Mostly it says you are exasperated and unsure how to deal with him. Not like he had really found anyone good at dealing with him so far. His pack loved him. Truly they did. That didn’t mean Johnny didn’t swallow the hurt of getting snapped at for needing too much affection or being in all ways too…too much. Simon and Kyle were alphas, they didn’t understand the need that clawed at him with the force of gravity to soothe, to hold, to love. John understood. Either the need held his captain with a less fierce grip or Johnny truly was more than could be comfortably handled.

Jumping to his feet he sets the sting alongside the others that littered his inner world.

“Come on. Be a bonnie lass and help me push the couch back to the window,” Johnny winks at you as you do as he asks.

Three strong shoves and the area is now mostly clear.

“You roll the rug out to the couch and I will grab you a pair of socks.” He doesn’t wait for your reply before he shifts around you and up the stairs into the nest room.

Two pairs of his thick wool socks fill both hands as he bounds down the stairs; he shoves them in the pockets of his sweats when he sees what you’re up to. You’ve started to lift the couch and it looks like you’ve decided to try and kick? Yeah, kick the rug. Johnny had planned on lifting the couch but since you had it already in the air he pulled the rug with a quick jerk. Without a word, he finished rolling it up and dropped it beside the couch. He let out a small smile at your squeak of surprise.

Straightening up, Johnny tossed you a pair of socks. You caught them. They bobbled between your palms before you trapped the black bundle to your chest.

“Ever slide on hardwood in socks?”

“This is your favorite activity to do while everyone is gone?” The simple curiosity in your voice tugs a true answer from him. It slides like a Jenga piece that should have much more resistance than it does.

Johnny sat on the edge of the couch, donning his socks as he replied.

“They wouldn’t want to join if they were home.” Your face is clear when he glances over his shoulder at you. “Come on then, let’s see how fast we can go.”

The casual dismissal of not being able to share something so simple with his pack cracked something in your chest. Did they not see it? The spring that fed Johnny’s omega instincts had started to run empty. John, who you knew positively was also an omega, couldn’t see it? You know alpha’s missed things; of course they did, they didn’t know what they were looking for. Their scents were so interwoven that even now if you crept up the stairs to sit outside the door of their nest you couldn’t smell four people, but one unique scent that spoke of pack. Their pack. Could they really not see the slow death Johnny suffered under? You were intimately familiar with those kinds of death. You, yourself, were dying one.

Beta’s had risen out of a dearth of omega’s over a thousand years ago. The oral histories passed from beta to beta spoke of alpha’s becoming pregnant by other alphas and producing children who could be either. They became the peacekeepers as they walked with a foot in each realm. Your grandfather had told you before he died that the most important thing a beta could do is love an omega and soothe an alpha. You had been eight and in no way prepared to understand what that meant.

You got it now.

Johnny is glancing at you now. Wiping any distress from your face, you slip the sock on and pull them halfway up your calf. The heel sat somewhere above your ankle, the gap feeling weird and misplaced, like you.

Stepping a toe closer you reach out and tap Johnny’s shoulder.

“You’re it.”

By the time his brain has caught up you are passing the stove. The sound of him scrambling after you have you squealing and pushing off the kitchen counter to try and corner a tad faster. When you slam into the couch and shout ‘SAFE’ Johnny’s body lands next to yours.

“Cheatin’ already?”

His entire face has shifted, beaming with joy and beauty. A scent of elation, something you hadn’t smelt in nearly a decade tasted sweet on your tongue. Did his pack really not see that he was suffering? Shaking from having a hand extended for too long, all his muscles cramping trying in vain to beg for love.

You shrug one shoulder, “Can’t be cheating if there are no rules.”

With a wink, you took off. This time Johnny caught up. With a light touch to your hand, he zoomed past faster than you could spin to tag him back. Your laughter, horse and broken from lack of use, ignited Johnny’s. Back and forth the two of you zipped and slipped until the game devolved into pirouettes and challenges of who could do the splits further.

Sleep stole you away within moments of sitting down for Johnny’s turn at ‘But can you do this’. When you woke the unwashed shirt you had squirreled away under your pillow sat stuffed in your face, filling each breath with a scent that made you think of laughter and safety. Your heat crept closer; the inexorable march of summer’s flame coming to scorch the skin from your bones.

Damn, the omega for waking the urge to care. You thought you had killed that feeling when you lost your last friend in Scorpio.

After a bout of nausea that trapped you in your bed longer than you cared for, escape is finally possible. As the door clicked shut behind you a bright call came from the kitchen.

“Morning Sprinkles!”

Best efforts did not keep a smile from your lips. You didn’t even like sprinkles; they made your teeth ache.

Rubbing your eyes as you join Johnny you pause. The tension in his neck is less than it was yesterday. He is standing at the stove, frying up some eggs. On the counter a plate sat covered in foil, peeking under it you find pancakes. The breakfast makes you think of your first morning here.

“Oh no. That plate is probably still out there,” you muttered as you replaced the corner.

“What plate?” Johnny questioned over his shoulder. “Can you grab the juice from the fridge?”

“My first morning here John scared me and I launched a plate into the snow,” you pause when you peer into the fridge and find milk and three kinds of juice. Leaning around the door you stare hard at the eggs in the pan. “Where did you get all the food?”

Johnny clicked off the stove and transferred the eggs to the open plate that sat on the counter. “Went out after you fell asleep. Had a chat with the grocery manager and fixed the issue with your deliveries. Sorry, those failed. Did you try anyone when they stopped?”

He isn’t looking at you as the question lands. No, you didn’t try anyone. The last person you leaned on choked to death on his own blood in your arms. You could soothe Johnny but you couldn’t let him care for you or else he would die too.

You set the juice on the counter and step back. Folding your arms, a hand creeping out to rub your sternum, you negotiate how to answer the question.

“No. From what I understood, calling any of you could be dangerous for you or no one would see it. Ghost overheard me wondering to myself what to do if I needed something. His response? Don’t. So I didn’t.” With a shrug, you nip a piece of pancake from under the cover.

“He what?”

Johnny’s quiet fury triggered something in your hindbrain that warned of danger. Eyes snapping to his face you find a fierce warrior who ran comfortably with some of the most dangerous beings on the planet. His anger coated the back of your throat, searing your nose hairs with its potent rage. That tension you worked so hard to ease out of his shoulders last night is back, muscles bunching and tensing as his bright eyes scour your form. The placid and wide-eyed mask that let you through so many moments clicked into place as if you had never breathed free air.

The inferno of his blue eyes is turned to the counter. Johnny rests both hands down, elbows straight and spreads his fingers wide. He takes deep, slow breaths; his chest expands for a lift and drop of each of his fingers, then he repeats the fingers with his breath out and then again with empty lungs. After three rounds his eyes do not burn when they turn to you.

No fidgeting, barely sucking in air, the sirens of lockdown screech between your ears.

How can the eyes that scorched you moments ago now look as deep as a lagoon?

“Sprinkles? Will you sit? I’m sorry I triggered something in you. I’ll make you a plate,” his hand stretches to hover over my arm.

The bits of you that are beta first and only snarl at the pieces of you that tremble in fear. ‘Let him touch us’ the bits cry, the pieces can’t stop crying, weeping.

Robotic in your movements, you sit. Breakfast is silent other than the cutlery tinking against the plates. When you push yours away half-eaten, Johnny gives it a sad smile and finishes your meal.

You exist somewhere in that half state, between the memories, the dreams, and the traumas, as you stare through the grain of the table. A finger tapping the surface where your eyes have focused draws you to the present. Turning you find Johnny, squatting with his chin resting on a tattooed forearm as he gazes up at you.

“I got you a surprise while I was out. It’s for your room. Will you help me get it set up?”

A surprise? Did Johnny know you well enough to give you a gift? Pushing back from the table, you stand. Johnny follows suit and trails you to your door. Shit. Did you hide his shirt before you left this morning? No time to check now. Pushing into the room you let out a sigh of relief

“Okay, you sit and I will do the hard work.”

He pointed to your bed as he pulled out a stack of smallish sheets from his pocket. A yellow, rectangular, almost oblong shape and a red one sat atop the paper. They almost looked like…

“I got you sprinkles for your wall. I’ve noticed you like a lot of color and this seemed like an easy way to brighten up your space,” Johnny glances up, hope ringing his mouth.

“How,” you started slowly, “How am I supposed to help with this?”

“You get to tell me where you want them,” Johnny shifted from foot to foot, eyes watching you for any sign of distress.

Nodding slowly you get more cozy on your bed, back resting against the wall.

“How many colors do we have?”

Johnny’s face lit as he knelt beside the bed and spread the pages apart to show all of the colors there were to work with. The endeavor took all morning. Pleased with the wall Johnny invited you into the kitchen as he taught you how to work the stove and oven as he made lunch. When the food disappeared the two of you shared the duties of cleaning the dishes, the brushes of his arm against yours were not enough but all at once too much.

He then coaxed you into the driver’s seat of the truck. Johnny explained every button and knob and pedal as you crept down the drive. The speedometer never reached above a 45° angle. Turning around at the bottom of the drive set tears in your eyes and saw Johnny shifting the truck into park, pulling you across the seat into the passenger side, and driving home.

Dinner followed the pattern of lunch, with teaching and light jokes. Lounging on the couch as the meal settled you stretched across several cushions, one arm outstretched to where Johnny sat with a tablet resting on his leg as he read. There is at least four fingers space between the tips of your fingers and his pants but it is the closest you’ve willingly been to someone in so long.

“What are you reading?”

He replies without glancing up, “A study about the chemical composition of C4.”

“Will you read it to me?”

That causes a look, assessing but not judgmental.

Glancing back to his lap he starts reading from where he had been. The sound of his voice washes over you as if the blue of his eyes were the ocean lapping at your toes and inviting you into the peaceful waves.

You wake in your bed again. This time though? Pangs of need rip through you leaving agony in the wake of your cries. Your heat has arrived.

Broken Masterlist | Masterlist | Taglist

@lucienofthelakes @gg-trini @talia-the-gemini @thriving-n-jiving @z-wantstowrite @asialovesyou09 @literallegendicon @canthavetoomuchchaos @reinekoya @jsptmoche @demothers-empty-blog @hbaasaad @sun-daddy-yoriichi @wiciclesatmidnight @kaoyamamegami @little-mini-me-world @corvid007 @skeletonsucker @feyresqueen @dreamland08 @sweetybuzz25 @minxx3d @ovxlovxy @night-shadowblood-writes2

[citricacidprince]

I wanted to ask if you can make a doodle of that drifting star gravity falls au but it’s relativity falls. Stan gets sucked into the portal and Dipper has to take care of him.

Took a hot second but I finally did it!!!

This family makes me wanna lose my mind I adore them so so much <333

(Sorry it’s a bit messy and clunky, my brain is fried atm lol)

Notes under cut!

I like to think that Dipper is oh so tired and is trying so hard to find a way to kill Bill so he can get back home to his sister as fast as he possibly can that he’s sooooo willing to aim guns at people. Like sure a laser gun works fine most of the time, but it’s soooo much easier to bring lead to a knife fight, ya know?

Stanley would think Dipper is so fucking cool and Dipper has to do a double take because no one has ever called him cool and meant it

Stanley is wearing a mini version of his homeless hoodie, as a treat :]

Mabel was inconsolably crying for a hot second after this all happened and Stanford was utterly pissed and in denial, weakly kicking her and hitting her with his little baby arms to bring his brother back

Mabel manages to reverse engineer the memory gun to erase the government agents minds, but unlike Dipper, who could’ve done it in 5 minutes tops, it takes her about an hour, so she tells Stanford about her brother Dipper and everything that happened while she does so

While doing this she asked Boyish Dan to block the door and gave him permission to beat up anyone who tried to get in, something the concussed teen was very happy to hear

They manage to buy time, and thankfully Mabel already knows how to open the portal again, but it’s gonna take a week or two maximum to get it fully running again

Stanford is still very very pissed, but it’s a silent and resigned anger aimed at Mabel. She lied to them all summer, she not who she said she was, she won’t stop apologizing when she looks at him now, how could he not be mad?

Besides it’s easier to be mad when the alternative is being so sad you feel nauseous over the fact your brother is missing, you have no clue if he’s okay or even alive, and every passing moment is making you regret trying to push him away all summer because you miss his stupid jokes and laughter and antics so bad it makes you steal all the blankets off his bed and praying to something, anything, that he’s going to be okay so you can just hug him one more time.

Mabel isn’t doing very well either. She completely locked down the Shack until she can bring Stanley and Dipper home. She told Dan and Anjelita that they didn’t have to come to work, something Anjelita gladly accepted, while Dan insisted that he could help. After all you expect him to go home and be normal about this later??? He got a concussion and punched an FBI agent so hard he passed out. He’s in this for the long haul.

I don’t want Stanley and Dipper stuck in that portal for longer than a week, because even if Mabel and Ford opening that portal again would cause Weirdmageddon they don’t care in the slightest, they just want their brothers to come home

[jibitzlesscrocs]

i need sleepy late night/early morning slow passionate sex with matt x reader. and i know you can gift this to us.

hii this one’s for yall enjoy !!

matt sturniolo x reader

warning : smut, p n v, size kink, aftercare at the end

4am love

in which , early morning sex with matt

It starts the way a lot of your nights do lately — half-asleep, tangled in sheets and heat, wrapped up in Matt.

He’s behind you, body curved perfectly into yours, chest pressed to your back, one arm heavy around your waist. You don’t know what wakes you — maybe the hum of rain outside, or maybe just the way he shifts in his sleep, his hips rolling forward against your ass, slow and subconscious.

You feel him.

Hard.

Thick.

Pressed against you like gravity itself, and suddenly there’s nothing sleepy about you at all.

“Matt…” you whisper, shifting back into him, letting your hips nudge his.

He groans, deep and raspy in your ear, not quite awake. “Fuck. Baby…”

His hand slides down automatically, gripping your hip, fingers digging in like he needs to ground himself.

“Can’t sleep,” you murmur, voice breathy, teasing.

He chuckles softly, that low, sleepy sound he only makes at this hour. “Yeah? Thought you wanted rest.” His lips ghost along your shoulder. “Thought you said I wear you out.”

“You do,” you smile, arching your back slightly to press your ass against him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”

Matt hums, and you feel the smirk against your skin. “What do you want baby, hm?” His hand trails under your shirt, finding your bare breast and cupping it.

God, yes.

He rolls his hips again, slower this time, letting you feel every inch of him through your thin underwear. You let out the softest whimper, and that’s all it takes — he’s awake now, and he’s not letting you go.

“Pull these off,” he mumbles, voice thick with arousal, tugging at your panties. “Wanna feel you around me. Wanna stretch that perfect little pussy open and make a mess of you.”

You lift your hips and help him, tossing the fabric somewhere off the bed. He doesn’t even undress himself fully — just pushes his boxers down enough to free himself, and then his hand is between your legs, fingers sliding through your slick folds.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, barely touching you and already obsessed. “So wet for me. You knew I’d take care of it, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically, breath hitching as his fingers tease your entrance. “Please, Matt. Want you in me.”

“Yeah?” He positions himself behind you, lifting your leg just slightly to line up his cock. “You want this big cock filling you up, splitting you open, slow and deep?”

You whine, desperate now. “Yes. Please, Matt…”

“Then take it, baby.”

He pushes in.

It’s slow — so slow — because Matt knows he’s thick, and he knows you feel every inch. Your body stretches around him, tight and slick, and he holds still when he bottoms out, letting you adjust.

“Jesus,” he groans into your neck. “Every time. You’re so fucking tight, baby. You take me so good.”

You can’t speak, just clutch the pillow and gasp as he starts to move — slow, rolling thrusts that rock you forward, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him.

You feel full — in every sense of the word. He’s everywhere. Wrapped around you, buried in you, whispering filth in your ear while worshipping your body like he’ll never get enough.

“You were made for me,” he grits out, thrusting deeper, slower. “Fucking made for this cock. Feel how deep I am? Gonna cum so deep in this little cunt, baby. Gonna stuff you full and let you fall asleep leaking me.”

“Please,” you sob, grinding your hips back into him. “Want you to—fuck—want you to cum in me, Matt.”

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Gonna give it to you. Take every last drop.”

You’re already clenching around him, high and breathless, your orgasm building fast and hot. His hand finds your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles while he fucks you just right — until you’re gasping and shaking, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave.

He cums right after, deep inside you with a long, broken moan. His hips press tight against your ass, cock pulsing as he fills you.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, still inside, still holding you. “Fucking heaven.”

⸻

Aftercare + Breafast

You wake up to the smell of coffee and something sweet.

Your legs are sore, your body still humming from earlier, and you’re wearing one of Matt’s t-shirts now — oversized and soft, just barely covering the mess he left between your thighs.

He comes back into the bedroom with a tray: pancakes , strawberries, syrup, a mug of coffee, and a glass of water.

“I was gonna let you sleep,” he smiles, brushing a kiss to your temple, “but you looked too good lying there all fucked-out in my shirt.”

You laugh, pulling him down beside you. “You made breakfast?”

“Of course,” he shrugs. “You let me destroy you at 4 A.M. It’s the least I can do.”

He feeds you a bite of the pancake, wiping syrup off your lip with his thumb before licking it off his own. Then he wraps his arm around your shoulders and lets you curl into him while you both eat off the tray.

“You okay?” he asks, soft and sweet.

“Better than okay,” you say, looking up at him through sleepy eyes. “You always take care of me.”

Matt kisses the top of your head. “Always. Every time. You’re mine, and I’ll never stop showing you that.”

taglist: @courta13 , @sunkissedsturniolos , @ivysturnss , @imsoborediwannadie , @emeraldsturns , @beabadoobeelvur , @moth-feeet , @lezleeferguson-120 , @theowensturniolo , @leahfaith , @nickysturnss , @mattspillowprincess , @mqttsbunnyies , @passionfruitchris , @emely9274 , @riggysworld , @kenah-sturniolo , @hannahsturniolo , @tezzzzzzzz , @sturniolo-szn2 , @stayingstromboli

MAI’S STORE

-

[levanterhaze]

SUPERNATURAL, BANGCHAN

♡  ― 󠀬󠀬producer!bangchan x f!reader praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, possessiveness, creampie, mention of anxiety, slightly toxic relationship, phone sex, dirty talk, fingering, thigh riding, overstimulation, masturbation (both receiving), angst and a bit of fluff bc why not?

♡ synopsis ― You left Bangchan to protect your heart. He waited, hoping you'd come back. A silent month, one crowded room, and the gravity between you never left. Some loves don’t vanish—they haunt, they ache, and if you’re lucky, they bloom again.

[14.2k words ]♡― guys, here is part two as promised! thank you to everyone who read and commented. it means a lot to me!

This love's possessin' me, but I don't mind at all It's like supernatural It's takin' over me, don't wanna fight the fall It's like supernatural

You slipped out of the party minutes later, leaving Jisung fretting behind you, calling your name. But you couldn’t bear the thought of going downstairs — of seeing Bangchan again and pretending like none of it had touched you.

Your pride stung where he'd cut it, even if you knew, deep down, that you’d both been guilty of the same cruelty. He had only mirrored what you once did over the phone — pulling away before you could pull him closer.

But the truth was, you were tired.

Exhausted from the push and pull, the games neither of you wanted to admit you were playing. Tired of waiting for promises that dissolved before they could ever reach you.

Somewhere along the way, you had slipped through each other's fingers. The little celebrations that once mattered — anniversaries, tiny milestones only the two of you would remember — faded into afterthoughts, swallowed up by meetings and deadlines.

You have tried. God, you had tried with everything you had to keep the threads together.

But love cannot survive on good intentions alone.

Bangchan's world demanded everything from him, and he had given it willingly. Again and again, you watched him choose the studio over your shared bed. Choose the endless hours of perfecting someone else's music over the simple, stubborn love you tried to offer him.

You had lain awake more nights than you could count, the glow of your phone painting the darkness, waiting for a message that came too late or not at all.

You understood — you always had — that his dreams were colossal and heavy. You had never wanted to be the weight that slowed him down.

But there is a difference between understanding and acceptance. And you could no longer bear being the afterthought, the thing he returned to only when the work had drained him dry.

If Bangchan had decided to chase his future with everything he had, you would let him. You would not beg for space in a life where you were already disappearing.

Even if it cost you more than you knew how to bear.

It all started to crumble the night you waited for him, heart full and hands shaking with excitement.

You had spent hours getting ready for your birthday — slipping into the dress you knew he liked, the soft blue one that matched the earrings he once said made your eyes look brighter. You dabbed your favorite perfume behind your ears, the one he used to bury his face in when he hugged you after a long day.

You didn’t want anything extravagant. No parties. No gifts.

 Just him.

Just a few quiet hours where life didn’t pull him in a thousand different directions. You understood how hard he worked — the pressure of his dreams weighing on his back — but you thought, for tonight at least, you could be his priority.

So you waited. First by the window, tapping your nails against the glass. Then on the couch, your phone cooling in your hand as the minutes blurred into hours.

When the clock struck midnight, your chest tightened around the truth you didn’t want to accept.

Three hours later, the door finally opened. Bangchan stumbled in with messy hair, a hoarse voice full of apologies.

He kissed your forehead too many times. He promised he'd make it up to you. He swore it would never happen again.

But it had already happened. And the ache had already rooted itself deep in your chest, in a place where no amount of love could reach.

You loved him. God, you loved him enough to burn.

But you had learned, slowly and painfully, that loving yourself had to come first. And sometimes — no matter how deep the love ran — it wasn’t enough to patch over everything that had cracked between you. Leaving him wasn't like slamming a door. It was like tearing your own ribs apart with your bare hands.

And it felt even worse because he didn’t let you go easily. He held you in shaking arms, his face wet with tears you had never seen him cry before. He pleaded, whispered over and over that you were his everything, that he could change, that he would do better.

It would have been easier if he had yelled. If he had turned cold. But instead, he broke down in front of you, raw and unguarded — and you hated yourself for every second you had to pull away from him.

You felt like the villain in a story where he had always played the hero.

And that was what made it so much worse. Because loving someone isn’t the same as being able to stay. And breaking his heart didn’t mean yours survived it either.

There were nights when you cried until your pillow was soaked, your chest aching from the memories you couldn't shut off. Nights when you scrolled through the photos — snapshots of sunlit trips, blurry pictures taken in bed, stolen kisses in crowded streets — and asked yourself if any of it had even been real.

Because sometimes the happiness felt like a story someone else had lived, like you had imagined it all just to make the ending hurt less.

Either way, it didn’t matter anymore. You weren’t talking to each other.

After the party, after the final look he gave you in that mirror, you knew you couldn’t keep playing these small, cruel games. No matter how good it felt for a fleeting second, it wasn’t real — not anymore.

Now you were trying to build a different kind of peace. And today, that peace looked like Jisung sprawled on your living room floor, laptop open, working on a song, while you pretended to study.

You both sat there in a comfortable kind of silence, the kind that only existed between people who had seen each other at their worst and stayed anyway.

The TV murmured quietly in the background, a forgotten drama flickering across the screen, while the smell of greasy food filled the air — fried chicken, fries, and way too many dipping sauces.

You were lying on your stomach, highlighter in hand, pretending to read an article for class. But your eyes were burning from exhaustion and your head throbbed dully.

Eventually, you gave up the charade and turned to Jisung, nudging his foot with yours. “What are you writing?” you asked, grateful for any distraction.

He glanced over his shoulder, cheeks puffed out like a hamster from the mouthful of chicken he had just stuffed in. He swallowed dramatically and narrowed his eyes at you, suspiciously.

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asked, voice teasing but edged with something more playful.

You squinted at him, smiling despite yourself. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well,” Jisung began, eyes flicking down to the crumpled sheet in his hand, “a while ago Chan gave me these lyrics and the melody to analyze. Said he wanted a second opinion, maybe even help shaping it into a full song.”

You nodded slowly, your body still relaxed on the mattress.

“I didn’t get around to it at the time,” he continued, “had other projects on my plate. But now that he’s—” Jisung hesitated for a second, his gaze shifting slightly. “Now that he’s not doing too well, he asked me to finally take a look.”

You sat up like the air had been pulled from the room. The reaction was so fast, so sharp, that Jisung jumped slightly, his eyes widening.

You were on your knees in a heartbeat, sitting back on your heels. “Wait, wait—what do you mean he’s not doing well? Is he sick?”

Jisung sighed, the sound low and reluctant. He rubbed the back of his neck, like he regretted saying anything.

“Yeah,” he admitted, quietly. “Been a couple weeks now. Nothing serious—I think. He didn’t give me details, and he sure as hell won’t slow down. Stay locked in that damn studio like it's the only thing keeping him alive.”

Your chest tightened. Of course he wouldn’t slow down. Of course Bangchan would keep pushing himself until his body couldn’t anymore. He was relentless like that — stubborn, reckless, and always carrying more than he let anyone see. 

You knew that about him. You loved that about him, even when it hurt.

And now, despite everything, your worry comes back too easily, too naturally. Like your heart still had a thread tied to his and it tugged the moment his name slipped into fragile territory.

“Can I see it?” you asked, your eyes fixed on the sheet in Jisung’s hand.

He hesitated. Looked at the paper, then at you. “If he finds out I showed you this…”

“He won’t,” you said, voice low but firm, a quiet promise wrapped in a smile. “I won’t say a word.”

Jisung held your gaze for a moment. Then he exhaled, defeated by your determination, and handed over the paper. You took it carefully, like it might burn your skin. Your fingers hovered for a second before you unfolded the page.

And then, with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, you read the first line.

I hate to admit

I still miss you

How could I forget?

Even though you promised

Don't go anywhere, stay by my side

No point in saying it, it's already too late

You, who I've always dreamed of

Have suddenly changed, what happened?

Maybe you could come back

What are you saying? You said that last time too

In my eyes, it's already over

You're the one who made it crumble, yeah

I can't give up on you

His handwriting. Familiar loops and jagged lines, words crossed out with hesitation, tiny question marks hanging at the ends of uncertain phrases, as if he was second-guessing every syllable. As if every thought of you had been too fragile to capture cleanly the first time.

It hit you like a wave. A tight ache blooming quietly in your chest, the kind of sorrow that made your throat burn. You had to look away from the paper or you were sure you'd cry. Right there, in front of Jisung.

Did he feel just as lost? Did he miss you the way you missed him — in the quiet, in the ordinary? Did he ever consider walking away for good, the same way you’d tried to convince yourself to?

Even after Jisung left, those questions clung to you like static. You didn’t know if this was a mistake, if it would only make things worse. But you moved anyway. On instinct. On hope. You made vegetable soup with meat, pineapple juice on the side — and carried it with shaking hands, straight to the studio.

The hour didn’t matter, even though it was well past nine. You weren’t thinking about time. You were only thinking of him. Of whether he was sleeping enough, eating anything at all, or just burning himself out like always.

The security guards let you in without question. They’d known you for years, smiled as if nothing had changed. As if you were still his. Still his girlfriend. You didn’t have the heart to correct them.

Bangchan heard the knock, confused — no messages, no scheduled work. Still, he stood, the silence of the studio wrapping around him as he walked to the door.

And there you were.

Small, uncertain, standing just beyond the threshold with your shoulders drawn in like you’d stepped out of a storm and hadn’t shaken it off yet. And God — his heart. It stumbled inside his chest at the sight of you.

“Hi?” Your voice was soft, uncertain — like you were trying not to break something delicate.

Bangchan looked at you. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold, eyes bright with something between nerves and quiet resolve.

“Hi.”

“I… um, I heard you weren’t feeling well.” You held up the bag in your hand, a little awkwardly, like a peace offering. It was oddly endearing — so much so that he had to fight the small, instinctive smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh. So, now you care?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Sharper than he intended. But the look on your face — the way your expression flickered — made his chest tighten.

“Don’t say that,” you whispered. “I’ve always cared.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He didn’t mean to sound bitter, but the weight in his voice betrayed him.

He wanted to ask why you were here. Why you’d come. But maybe he didn’t want to hear the answer. Maybe it would hurt worse than silence.

“Look,” you said, voice gentler now, as you pressed the bag against his chest. “There’s soup. With protein, so you don’t end up passing out in the middle of a session. And ibuprofen. Just… take it, okay?”

He accepted the bag, but his eyes never left yours.

“I should probably go,” you said quietly.

But before you could step away, his hand reached for your wrist. Not to trap — just to anchor.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Stay. I’m sorry. I was being an ass.”

You glanced around, feigning indifference. “Do you actually want me to stay?”

“Yes.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you want me to beg?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real bite in it. “No.”

He stepped aside.

“Come in.”

Crossing the threshold felt strange — like walking back into a dream you’d convinced yourself you were done with. The studio has always been complicated for you. You loved it because he did, and hated it for the same reason. This room had given him so much — and taken just as much from the two of you.

But tonight, you were here. And maybe, that meant something still could be salvaged.

Bangchan sank into the familiar leather chair, the one worn from years of long nights and endless sessions. He pulled the bag onto his lap, peeking inside, and for a moment — a brief, genuine moment — a soft smile broke across his face.

“Thank you, princess,” he murmured.

“You're welcome,” you replied quietly, easing down onto the sofa behind him.

For a split second, it felt like nothing had changed — you, sitting there, him at his desk — the comfortable rhythm of old times. But the truth sat heavy between you: everything had changed.

“How did you even know?” he asked, swiveling slightly to catch your eye.

“Jisung,” you said, flashing him a guilty, sideways smile. “Don’t be mad at him.”

Bangchan huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head.

"You don't have to worry about me," he said. "It's just a cold. Maybe some inflammation. It'll pass."

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. Of course he hadn’t bothered seeing a doctor — you could already see it in the stubborn set of his jaw, the tired sag of his shoulders.

"How long have you been here without a break?" you pressed.

The silence that followed was answer enough. You whined, exasperated, the way you always did when he pushed himself too far. “Ugh. You're so annoying.”

He chuckled at your familiar pout, the sound low and warm, settling somewhere deep in his chest.

“Please,” you said, softening. “You need to rest.”

“Angel," he said, voice low with apology, "I have to finish this song tonight.”

You looked at him then — really looked at him. The dark circles under his eyes, the weary way he held himself upright. Your nose was a little red from the cold outside, your eyes so full of quiet concern it almost undid him.

“You're exhausted, Chan.”

And he was. God, he was. But the need to prove something — maybe to himself — weighed heavier than his own body tonight.

He just didn't know how to stop.

"Why don’t you sit your pretty ass on the couch and wait for me? I swear I won’t take long.” His tone was soft, coaxing — the kind that tried to make a command sound like a favor.

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. It wasn’t like you had much choice, and you hated how easily he knew that. “Still an idiot. And still annoying,” you muttered, curling into yourself and hugging your knees.

Bangchan just laughed under his breath, swiveling his chair back toward the mixing table like your barbs were little more than background noise.

And so you stayed, quiet but close, letting the silence between you stretch and settle — familiar, almost comforting — like all the times before when you watched him lose himself in the only world he never shut you out of.

The hours slipped by quietly, marked only by the soft hum of the computer and the occasional sound of Bangchan sipping soup or juice. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, fingers dancing over the keyboard with quiet urgency. There were still a few final touches to make before the track could be sent off — his name attached to it, his reputation carried in each beat.

By the time he leaned back in his chair and exhaled, the clock had already passed two in the morning.

“Okay,” he whispered to no one in particular, voice low and worn. “I’m done.”

When he turned around, he found you fast asleep on the sofa — curled into yourself like a child, your hand resting gently against your cheek. Your breathing was soft and steady, strands of hair falling into your face, your expression calm in a way he hadn't seen in a long time.

A smile formed slowly on his lips, unguarded and aching. You looked so peaceful. So heartbreakingly beautiful. His chest tightened with the weight of everything he hadn’t said — the apologies, the longing, the love that still clung to him like a second skin.

He didn’t want to wake you. He didn’t even want to breathe too loud, afraid the moment might break. But it was late. You needed to go home.

Still, he moved gently, as if cradling something fragile. Slipping one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, he lifted you with the kind of care that said everything he couldn’t.

You stirred in his arms, your voice a soft murmur, your lashes fluttering.

“Shh,” he whispered quickly, brushing your hair away from your face. “No, no, don’t wake up. Keep sleeping. I’ll take you home.”

You were so deeply asleep you didn’t even stir — not when he lifted you, not when the night air kissed your skin. Instead, your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, your face tucking into the crook of his shoulder. The warmth of you, the familiar weight against his chest, sent a quiet ache blooming in Bangchan’s ribs. He inhaled slowly, letting the scent of your hair — something soft and sweet — tug at memories he thought he'd locked away.

He held you a little tighter.

At the car, he draped his jacket around your shoulders before setting you down gently in the passenger seat. His apartment wasn’t far, just a short drive through sleepy streets — yet it felt like a quiet journey through another life. The one where you still belonged to each other.

You didn’t wake, not even when he parked, not even as he carried you up. He laughed under his breath — not mockingly, but in awe of how completely you trusted him, even now. As if no time had passed at all.

Inside, he flicked off the main lights, leaving only the soft glow of the neons — pinks, purples, pale blues — washing the room in a kind of nostalgia. The colors felt like you. The bed, too, still seemed shaped by your absence. He laid you down on what had always been your side, your body curling instinctively into the space as if it remembered more than you’d admit.

You shifted once, a sigh leaving your lips, but didn’t wake.

Bangchan stepped into the shower, letting the heat roll over his tired limbs, trying to shake the heaviness that hadn’t left him in weeks. But it was still there — behind his eyes, in his chest, in the quiet hum of the apartment with you just a few feet away.

When he returned to the bedroom, towel-drying his hair, he moved quietly. Slipping beneath the sheets, he faced you in the low light, watching the calm rhythm of your breathing.

He brushed a few strands from your face and let his thumb trace the curve of your cheek, slow and reverent.

He still loved you. He always had.

And maybe in another life, or maybe even this one, you’d open your eyes and feel it — before the distance between you grew too wide to cross.

You woke to a tangle of soft murmurs, distant and blurred like echoes from a dream. For a second, you weren’t sure if you were still asleep. The world around you was bathed in gentle pink and violet hues, as if reality had melted into something more delicate, more unreal.

But then your heart flipped. Because you knew this place.

The room was unmistakable. The spacious bed you used to share. The neon glow that painted the walls. Even the scent — a mixture of warm cotton and something that was just… him. Wrapped around you like a memory.

You turned your head, slowly, careful not to stir too much. And there he was.

Bangchan, lying on his side, brows drawn as if in thought even in sleep. His lips were a tight line, the muscles in his jaw tense. He didn’t look peaceful — not entirely. Something unsettled pulled at the corners of his expression.

You shifted slightly beneath the covers, your hand moving toward him almost on instinct. But you paused halfway when his breathing hitched, deeper, more erratic. For a moment you thought he might wake.

A few unruly curls had fallen across his forehead, and without thinking, you reached out. Just a featherlight touch, as if you were afraid your fingers would break the moment.

You smiled quietly. Tenderly.

“Sometimes I can’t believe you happened,” you whispered to no one in particular — maybe to the moment, maybe to him.

But then you noticed the sound. Not distant anymore. It was him.

His breath came in broken murmurs, the edge of a whimper slipping past his lips. A quiet sound of discomfort, like he was wrestling with something in his sleep.

“Chan?” you whispered, inching closer. But he didn’t stir.

His body tensed under the covers, caught in some invisible turmoil, and your heart clenched.

He wasn’t just dreaming. He was hurting.

Gently, you laid your palm against his forehead, then slid it down to the curve of his neck. The heat radiating from his skin confirmed what you’d already feared — he was burning up. 

Your heart sank as your hand moved to his cheek, and you stroked it with quiet tenderness, the pads of your fingers slow, as if the gentleness could soothe him.

“You’re burning up, stupid” you whispered, concern thick in your voice.

You reached for his arm through the blanket and gave it a soft shake. “Chan, wake up.”

He murmured something unintelligible, but just as always, he stirred easily — even in sleep, he was attuned to the slightest sound, the smallest touch. His eyes fluttered open after a few sluggish blinks, and instinctively, his hand found your arm.

“Are you all right?” His voice was hoarse, raw at the edges.

But your worry was for him. “You’re not well. You’re shaking with fever.”

He groaned softly and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, as if even gravity had become too heavy. “Did you take the ibuprofen I gave you?” you asked, your voice gentle but firm.

He didn’t answer right away. Just offered a sheepish smile, eyes darting sideways in guilt — and that was enough.

“Unbelievable.” 

But still, your hand never left his.

You sighed again, this time louder, pushing yourself up from the mattress. 

“You can’t just ignore it, Chan. Come on, I’ll get you some water and a fresh dose of ibuprofen. We’ll bring the fever down.”

But as you tried to leave the bed, his fingers tightened around your wrist — not hard, just enough to make you pause.

“Don’t go,” he murmured, voice gravelly from sleep and fever. His eyes were half-lidded, but you could see the truth in them.

He wasn’t just asking you to stay for comfort. He needed you in that moment, in the way people only need the things they’ve missed too long and too deeply.

“Chan—” you began, your voice caught between soft protest and something that ached..

“I feel better when you’re here.” His thumb brushed against the inside of your wrist like a secret. “Just… stay a little longer. Please.”

You gulped. Your body was already leaning toward him, traitorous in its longing. But your brain pushed back, reminding you that no amount of shared silence or pink neon light could fix everything.

“You need medicine. Fluids. Not—” Your words faltered as he looked at you.

“Not me?” he finished quietly.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Because it wasn’t true. You wanted to stay.

“I’ll go get you the meds,” you said at last, trying to sound stronger than you felt.

But he sat up, slower this time, fighting the weight of his fever. His hand reached for yours again, warmer now with the heat pulsing from him. “Just five minutes. I swear. Lie down with me.”

You stared at him for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall too quickly, his eyes already beginning to gloss again from the fever. He was too sick to argue. And you were too tired to fight the part of you that still loved him.

“Five minutes,” you whispered, crawling back under the sheets.

The moment you did, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. His arms slipped around your waist, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck. The heat of his skin against yours made you shiver.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

And yet, your heart screamed every word you weren’t ready to say.

You stayed like that for a while — tangled in silence, in warmth, in everything neither of you had figured out how to say. His breath was uneven against your neck, arms wrapped firmly around your waist like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

“Are you comfortable?” you asked quietly, not without a trace of concern. “You’re burning up.”

He hummed low in his throat, voice rough. “Yeah. I don’t care.”

You shifted slightly to look at him, only to find his eyes half-lidded, watching you through lashes heavy with fever. His expression was soft in a way that made your chest tighten.

“You should,” you murmured. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Maybe I haven’t.” His voice broke a little on the last word. “But you’re here now.”

That silence again — the kind that makes you feel like you’re standing too close to something that still hurts. You swallowed.

“Why didn’t you call me?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

His thumb rubbed the inside of your wrist, slow, almost absent. “Didn’t think I was allowed to anymore.”

Your breath caught. “Channie…”

He looked at you then — really looked. And the playfulness that usually sat at the corners of his mouth was gone, replaced by something rawer, quieter.

“You still care,” he said, more of a realization than a question.

“I do,” you admitted. “I always do.”

He didn’t speak. Just rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in like that alone could steady him.

“You’re still running hot,” you said, breaking the moment before it swallowed you both whole. “You need to eat something, drink more water. Take the stupid ibuprofen.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t tease. Just nodded and closed his eyes again.

“I missed this,” he said after a beat, voice hoarse. “You. Us. Even when it hurt.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, your hand finding the back of his neck, holding him close like maybe that would stop the ache.

“Don’t say things like that unless you mean them,” you whispered.

“I meant every word.”

And somehow, that made it worse.

Eventually, he took the ibuprofen — reluctantly, like it pained him more than the fever — washing it down with the last of the juice. You watched with your arms folded, waiting for a sarcastic remark, but it never came. He just blinked, slowly, eyes a little unfocused, then reached for you.

“Come here,” he murmured, quieter now. His voice had lost its edge. Softer. Like he didn’t want to scare you away.

You hesitated.

But he didn’t push, didn’t coax — he just pulled. A gentle tug, like muscle memory. And that’s what made you give in. You let yourself be drawn back into his space, your spine pressing to his chest beneath the weight of the blankets.

He was too warm — but not just from the fever. It was everything: his arm around your waist, the steady drag of his breath against your neck, the weight of him folding around you like you were something fragile. The way he held you made your throat close up.

“Just for a bit,” he said into your hair, almost a plea. “Let me hold you.”

Your heart answered before your voice did. You stayed.

The silence that followed was thick — not awkward, not even heavy. Just full. Of everything unsaid, of old comforts and too-recent wounds. His hand found your arm, trailing lightly down it, fingertips like memory. Your skin prickled under his touch. Your pulse quickened. It didn’t feel like nerves. It felt like recognition.

You shifted — trying to make space to think, to breathe — and that’s when you felt him.

Hard.

Your body stilled. His breath caught.

“Shit,” he muttered, the word nearly inaudible. He pulled back a fraction, like he was suddenly aware of himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t— It’s not—”

“It’s okay,” you said, too quickly, and not quite steadily.

But it wasn’t. Not when you could still feel him against you. Not when your pulse wouldn’t settle. Not when your whole body was remembering what it meant to be wanted like that, by him.

And you hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

He swallowed hard behind you. “You do something to me,” he whispered, like it was a secret he’d been choking on. “Even now. Especially now.”

You turned your face slightly, not enough to look at him, but enough for him to feel the shift. The silence pulsed.

“Chan.”

“I’ll behave,” he said, his forehead lowering to your shoulder. “But don’t ask me to lie. Don’t ask me to pretend I still don't want you.”

You turned in his arms slowly, like the moment might break if you moved too fast. His breath brushed your cheek, warm and shaky, and when your eyes met his—half-lidded, glassy, filled with something raw—it hit you just how long you’d both been holding this in.

You lifted your hand, tracing your finger across his bottom lip, and he froze like he didn’t dare breathe. Like he didn’t want to risk waking up from this.

Then you kissed him.

Not desperate. Not rushed. Just full—of longing, of memory, of everything you’d both left unsaid. Your mouths moved together like you’d done it a hundred times before, and still, it felt brand new. His hands slid to your hips, tentative at first, then gripping like he was afraid you’d vanish. You melted into him, fingers curling in his hair, tasting every soft sound he gave you.

When you finally pulled back, both of you panting, your forehead rested gently against his. Your palm brushed his cheek, still warm, still flushed.

“How are you feeling?” you whispered.

His answer was breathless. “Never felt better.”

But his body told the truth—tense, trembling, undeniably hard against you. The heat between you was unmistakable, alive. And when your hand drifted down, slowly, his eyes widened in disbelief. You didn’t rush. Just rested your palm over him, gentle, steady.

His breath hitched. Then he caught your wrist.

“You shouldn’t,” he murmured, voice rough and low. His fingers around your wrist weren’t firm—they were trembling. “Not if you don’t mean it.”

You looked at him. Steady. Sure.

“I want to,” you said, soft but clear, like a vow. 

The moment stretched—charged, delicate. His grip loosened, and his gaze held yours like he was afraid he’d fall in if he blinked.

You leaned in, your voice brushing his skin: “Let me take care of you.” A beat. “Let me make you feel good”.

Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats, fingers searching until you found him—already hard, warm, and slick at the tip with need. He sucked in a sharp breath and caught your wrist, his grip tight but trembling.

Whatever resolve he had left shattered right then. His hand fell away.

You touched him through the soft cotton of his boxers, slow and measured, feeling him twitch beneath your palm. His hips shifted, desperate to stay still, desperate not to beg. You bit your lip, gaze dropping as you peeled the last barrier away and took him into your hand—hot, veiny, heavy against your skin, damp with arousal.

Bangchan’s head fell back, a low grunt breaking from his chest, raw and guttural. His fingers dug into your waist like he was grounding himself, trying not to lose control.

You swiped your thumb along the red tip, catching the silky there and spreading it in slow circles. He made a sound—part moan, part exhale—and you could feel the tension melting in him with every careful stroke.

You licked your fingers, then wrapped it around the length of him, slowly beginning to move. The way he responded—every breath, every quiet curse—felt like a kind of worship. 

And through it all, the tenderness didn’t fade. If anything, it burned hotter—wanting him, yes, but wanting to take care of him, to give him something he couldn’t ask for out loud.

“Kiss me,” you whispered, your hand still rubbed around his cock, your breath warm against his cheek.

He obeyed, almost clumsily, lips crashing into yours like he was falling—into you, into the moment. His moans slipped into your mouth, whiny and broken, like he couldn’t hold them back anymore. It was messy, aching, raw—his body snaking beside you as you pumped him slowly, then deeper, faster, your fingers glossy with pre-cum and saliva.

He gasped against your lips, hips jerking into your hand, chasing every glide like he was starved. “Don’t stop,” he begged, breathless, his voice cracking. “Please, please, don’t stop.”

His eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, head tipping into the pillow. Every sound he made—those ruined, wet moans—tore something loose inside your mind, branding you with the image of him surrendering beneath your touch.

You leaned in and kissed the edge of his jaw, then nipped at his ear gently. “You’re so close,” you murmured, fingers tightening around him, gliding up and down his thick, veiny length. 

Bangchan shuddered, thighs tensing as his whole body arched. His whines turned frantic, throat tight with euphoria as he writhed beneath your hand. His muscles went rigid—then he let out a broken groan, panting through clenched teeth as he came hard, spilling hot into his stomach.

You held him through it, working him through the tremors, his pleasure loud and ragged in the quiet room.

When his eyes finally opened, they were glassy and dazed, but burning with hunger. Like he still couldn’t believe you were real. 

He grabs your waist, dragging you into his lap like he needs to feel your weight, your warmth, your heartbeat pressed to his. His hands tremble slightly against your hips, not from weakness, but restraint—like he’s holding back everything he doesn’t know how to say.

You feel it instantly. The shift. The want. The plea.

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, but not quite your mouth. Not yet. You press a hand to his chest, stopping him.

“Chan,” you whisper, “we shouldn’t. Not like this. You need to rest, not—”

He lets out a low, frustrated sound in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a growl. “Fuck, you drive me insane,” he says, voice low and raw. “You say you want me, then you pull away like you're scared of it.”

You try to explain, to steady your breath, to ease the heat that's already caught between you. “I’m not pulling away. I just… I want to be careful.”

He exhales harshly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There's nothing careful in his gaze—only fire and ache.

“Please,” he says, almost broken. “Please don’t do this to me. I’m losing my fucking mind without you.”

You can feel every word of it in the way he holds you—desperate, reverent, like you’re the only thing tethering him to himself.

“I don’t care if it’s messy,” he breathes. “I don’t care if I’m not healed yet. I just— I need you. All of you.”

“I think we should sleep now.��� Your voice barely carried, but it hung between you like a thread — fragile, teasing, unsure.

Bangchan let out a low laugh, the kind that curled through your spine and settled in your stomach.

“Are you trying to be funny now, angel?”

You gave a subtle shrug, your smile too soft to be convincing. Your hand rose to his neck, thumb gliding along the edge of his jaw before you pressed your palm to his forehead. He leaned into your touch without thinking — the heat of him still there, but dulled, no longer consuming.

“You look better,” you whispered.

He caught your wrist gently, lips tilting into a slow smile. “You just touch me like that and expect me not to feel better?”

Your cheeks flushed before you could stop it. He leaned in and kissed your cheek, then didn’t stop. His lips trailed lower, grazing the line of your jaw, then pausing just beneath your ear. 

The way he moved wasn’t hurried. He kissed like he was trying to memorize you. Like he didn’t know if he’d be allowed to do it again.

His breath skimmed your skin between kisses, his mouth hot and slow. When you shifted slightly, your thigh brushed his, and his hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer with a quiet, shaky inhale.

You felt the tension low in your belly — the ache, the pull, the way his body seemed to mold against yours without trying. Not when he kissed you like this — like your skin was a secret only he knew how to read.

Bangchan kissed your cheek with quiet reverence, then let his lips trail lower, slower — across your jaw, down to the soft skin just below your ear. His mouth was warm and open, tongue brushing in gentle flicks that sent a sharp wave of heat spiraling through you.

“I want you,” he murmured, voice husky against your skin. You felt his breath — hot and uneven — just before his tongue slid along the edge of your neck, tasting the salt of your skin. You gasped, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other lost somewhere in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Do you want me, princess?” he asked, mouth barely lifting from your skin. “Tell me.”

You shivered, a sound escaping you before you could hold it back. He smiled against your throat, almost like he knew exactly how broken you were — and how much more you still had to give.

“Use your pretty mouth,” he coaxed, dragging his lips up to your ear. “I’ll only touch you if you want me too.”

You didn’t hesitate this time. “I want you,” you breathed, the words tumbling out, raw and honest. “So bad.”

He groaned, low and deep, his hand sliding over your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Yeah?” he whispered. “Show me, then. Show me how much.”

You moved against him without thinking, your body searching for friction, for contact, for the relief only he could give. The fabric between you felt unbearable — too thick, too wrong — and the need coiled tighter in your belly.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes on your face, your lips, the heat in your gaze.

Your chest heaved with raw need, every breath ragged. The ache between your legs was unbearable—you needed him inside you, desperately, hungrily. It had been too long since you felt his weight, his heat, the way he filled every inch of you.

Bangchan watched, completely spellbound, as you stepped back and hiked your dress up with trembling hands. There was something so dirty and sensual in the way you undressed just for him—slow, teasing, knowing exactly what it did to him. Your bare tits bounced free, flushed and heavy with arousal, your nipples already hard from anticipation. Your breaths came in short, needy pants.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Every curve of your body was seared into his memory, but seeing it again like this made his cock throb—aching to be buried inside you. One brush of his fingers over your skin and goosebumps erupted like fire under ice.

“Holy shit” he growled, then latched onto your breast, lips hot and wet. You leaned back against his thigh, your spine arching to offer him more, to beg without words.

His teeth grazed your skin, then bit—not too hard, but enough to make you cry out. He sucked and licked like he was starved for the taste of you, like your body was something he’d been craving for years. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard, and he groaned into your chest before thrusting into you in one smooth, brutal stroke.

His left hand found your nipple again, pinching it between his fingers, twisting, making you tremble. You moaned—low, broken, filthy—as pleasure ripped through you like lightning.

Your hips started grinding faster, the soaked fabric of your panties dragging against the rough texture of his pants. Bangchan muttered under his breath, lifting his hips just enough to shove them down, desperate to feel her heat.

When you dropped down onto his bare thigh—firm, warm, and thick—your body jolted with a violent shiver, your cunt clenching at the contact.

“Is that it, princess?” he rasped against your neck. “You wanna fuck yourself on my thigh like a filthy little thing, huh?”

You bit your lip hard, breath hitching, arousal dripping at the thought alone.

You didn’t even realize how soaked you were until his fingers shoved your panties to the side, letting your swollen clit and wet folds drag directly against his skin. You gasped—loud and unrestrained—as the friction hit you right where you needed it.

“Fuck…” Bangchan breathed, staring down at the way your pussy slid so easily against his thigh, already shining with your soak. His hand grabbed a firm hold of your ass, guiding your movements with a grip that left no room for teasing.

You held on to his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself, but your hips had a mind of their own. You were grinding like you needed it to breathe, chasing the edge shamelessly.

Soft, desperate moans spilled from your lips—raw little cries that only made him harder. His fingers dug into your waist as he watched, jaw clenched, cock twitching in his briefs again. He had just come, but he was ready to lose it all over again just from watching you fuck yourself against him like that.

“Feel that? Your creamy little pussy grinding on my thigh like it needs me to fuck it?” His voice was dark, sinful, hands gripping your waist so tight it made you whimper.

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip so hard it almost hurt, but the pleasure tearing through your body drowned out everything else.

You were soaking him—slick dripping down his skin, loud and obscene every time your clit dragged across his thigh. The sound alone could’ve made him come again.

“You hear that?” he groaned. “You’re soaked, baby. Can’t even control how messy you get.”

He pressed your hips down harder, locking you in place as you rolled your cunt right over the thickest part of his leg. The friction hit perfectly—white-hot, unbearable. Your body jolted, tits bouncing with every frantic grind. Bangchan leaned in, mouth greedy, sucking your nipples like they were his to ruin.

“Oh, god” you whimpered, voice cracking as your thighs began to tremble.

It was too much and not enough, the pressure in your core burning bright and fast until it snapped. You came hard—hips jerking, abs tightening, a helpless cry tearing from your throat as you soaked his skin even more.

Bangchan caught your mouth with his, swallowing your sounds like they belonged to him. He kissed you through it—deep, hungry, proud.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your lips, smiling like the devil. “Fucked yourself raw on me. Goddamn, angel. You made a mess of me.”

Bangchan flipped you onto your back in one swift motion, his body hovering over yours, eyes dark with hunger. “You want to be filled with my cock, baby?”

“God, yes—please,” you breathed, barely able to speak through the sensitive ache between your thighs.

He tugged your panties down and tossed them aside, spreading your legs wide until you were completely open for him. His cock, hard and throbbing, pressed against your clit, the head rubbing slow, teasing circles that made your whole body tense and shudder.

You purred, soft and wicked, back arching at the torturous friction. Bangchan let out a low, matching groan, eyes locked on your face like he was memorizing every twitch, every gasp.

He slid the tip between your folds, dragging back and forth, never slipping in—just gliding along your dripping heat, slick coating him so well he cursed under his breath. You bit your lip, panting, hands gripping the sheets like you could ground yourself somehow.

Then he pushed in—slow, so fucking slow you could feel every inch stretching you, filling you, your mouth falling open with a silent cry.

“Fuck,” he hissed, staring down at your trembling, spread-open body. “Look at you… already wrecked and dripping, and I haven’t even fucked you properly yet.” His voice dropped lower, filthier. “You love when I drag it out, feel every fucking inch, make that needy little pussy beg for it, don’t you?”

You nodded desperately, words caught in your throat as he stayed deep, barely moving. His voice dropped lower, intimate and commanding.

“Tell me how much you love it, baby. You like when I fuck you like this? Slow and deep?”

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you cried out, trying to lift your hips for more, but he pinned them down with a firm grip.

“Stay right there. Let me give it to you, princess.”

Then he snapped his hips forward—hard. You gasped, legs flying up as he grabbed them and pushed them against your stomach, folding you in half. The new angle had you seeing stars, his cock driving so deep your toes curled and your mind went blank.

He pounded into you, relentless, calling you his good girl, his perfect princess taking all of him so well. You could barely hold on—moaning, twitching, begging.

“Please,” you whined. “Please come inside me—I want it. Fill me up, Chan…”

That broke him.

“Fuck, are you insane?” he groaned, voice wild. “Want me to stretch you out and stuff you full, huh, princess?”

“Yes, I need it, please…”

“You’re mine,” he growled, thrusting harder. “My filthy, perfect girl. You’re gonna take all of it.”

Bangchan’s thrusts grew punishing—deep, fast, each one slamming into you so hard you could barely catch your breath. He angled his hips just right, and it felt like he was reaching places no one ever had, like he was buried so deep inside you he might never leave.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice low and broken. “I can feel your pussy squeezing me. You’re gonna make me lose it.”

Your whole body was on fire—nerve endings lit up, overstimulated, your moans spilling out without a hint of shame as he fucked into you with bruising force. The way he stretched you, thick and deep, had your toes curling, your thighs trembling, your nails clawing desperate red lines down his shoulders.

“I’m close,” you choked out, voice cracking as your body tightened around him, walls clenching with every brutal thrust. “Fuck, Chan, I’m gonna cum—fuck, I can’t hold it…” Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as the pressure inside you coiled so tight it was ready to snap.

And then you did—hard.

Your body seized beneath him, hips jerking, your thighs trembling violently as the orgasm ripped through you like a wave crashing, dragging a helpless, high-pitched moan from your throat. You could feel him deep inside, still fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

He grunted, his rhythm faltering for a split second before he cursed and shoved deep one last time, cock twitching as he spilled inside you. You both gasped at the same time—it was obscene, messy, perfect. You felt the heat of it fill you, dripping out almost immediately as he slowly pulled out, watching with a fucked-out smirk as his cum started leaking from your swollen folds.

“Look at that,” he murmured, running the head of his cock over your pussy, dragging it through the slick mess he’d made. “Took all of it like a good girl. You’re perfect.”

You moaned at the overstimulation, your body twitching, but still so hungry for his touch. He leaned down and kissed you—deep, messy, all tongue and teeth, like he still hadn’t had enough. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, your lips moving together with a kind of desperation that made your head spin.

After a moment, he pulled back and smiled, a soft contrast to how wrecked you both looked. Without a word, he scooped you up into his arms and carried you into the bathroom. The warmth of the water washed over you as he held you under the stream, his hands gentle now, so different from the way he’d just been claiming you minutes ago. He washed your skin carefully, massaging your hips, your thighs, kissing your shoulder while whispering quiet praises into your ear.

When you were both clean, he dried you off with a towel, helping you into one of his oversized shirts. You didn’t bother with anything else. He liked you like that—bare and soft under his clothes.

Back in a now clean bed, he pulled the covers over both of you, wrapping you in his arms. You lay on your side, his body pressed to yours, warm and solid. He nestled his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in before trailing soft kisses along the curve of your nape.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice rough with honesty. “So fucking much.”

Your heart clenched. You reached  for his hand beneath the sheets, lacing your fingers through his.

“I love you too,” you murmured, and he smiled against your skin, holding you tighter like he never wanted to let go.

You woke up feeling suspiciously rested — the kind of sleep that made you question if you were dead. Stretching lazily, you reached out, only to be met with cold sheets. Of course he’d vanish and leave the bed like some seductive ghost.

Still groggy, you padded out into the hallway. The murmur of quiet conversation led you to the living room, where Jisung was slouched on the sofa, scrolling his phone, and Bangchan sat across from him, half-curled in an armchair with a mug of coffee, looking far too put together for this early.

You paused. They both looked up. Blinked. Then silence.

“…Morning?” Jisung said, squinting like you were a glitch in the matrix. “What the hell…”

You just raised an eyebrow. Bangchan didn’t even flinch. He glanced at you, then reached out, dragging his fingers down your arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Morning,” he said, soft but smug.

You leaned down and kissed the top of his head, still half-asleep. “Hey.”

“Okay, no. What the fuck is going on?” Jisung asked, tossing his phone aside like it offended him. “Are we just pretending this isn’t weird now?”

“What do you think happened, genius?” you said, resting your hands on the back of Chan’s chair.

Chan, unbothered, tilted his head toward the coffee table. “Brought you coffee.”

Then, as if Jisung wasn’t still having a mild crisis across the room, he pulled you down for a kiss — slow, the kind that ignored all forms of social etiquette.

You smiled against his mouth. “You’re really not gonna explain anything to him, huh?”

“Let him suffer a little,” he murmured.

Then you mumbled a quick thanks and made your way to the kitchen, the coffee already saving your life with each sip.

“You know,” Jisung called out, “it’s kinda nice having you two back. I felt like an orphan. Like… my parents split up and never explained why.”

You gave him a look over your mug. “You’re a grown ass man.”

Bangchan laughed under his breath, clearly enjoying the chaos.

“Hey,” Jisung pointed at you with faux seriousness, “some respect for your kid. I’ve been rooting for this relationship since day one.”

“Appreciate it, bro” Chan said.

You moved back into the living room, the warmth of the coffee grounding you. “Okay, but what are you even doing here this early?”

“First of all, it’s almost noon,” he said, raising his brows. You mirrored his expression behind your cup, mocking him wordlessly.

“Second,” he continued, undeterred, “I couldn’t wait to show this to my guy.”

He held out an envelope like he was about to hand over state secrets. You took it, eyes narrowing slightly. Inside was a glossy invitation. Formal, all-gold serif fonts. A music industry awards event. You scanned the details and caught it near the bottom: 3RACHA nominated for Producer of the Year.

You looked up. Jisung looked like he might actually combust from pride. Your eyes widened before a squeal slipped out. Without thinking, you launched yourself into Chan’s lap, arms around his neck in a tight hug.

“This is huge! Obviously you’re gonna win. No doubt.”

Bangchan laughed, cupping your face to pull you into a kiss—deep and warm, with just a hint of coffee on his tongue. Jisung immediately groaned.

“Oh my god, gross.”

You pulled back, laughing against Chan’s mouth.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Jisung muttered, grabbing his phone. “You two are disgusting.”

You turned to Chan with an exaggerated pout. “Did you hear that, baby? Our son is ashamed of our love.”

Bangchan dropped his head, laughing quietly while Jisung yelled on his way out, “Bye, perverts!”

The door slammed shut. Quiet settled back in. Chan's fingers traced lazy circles over your thigh as he looked up at you, soft and affectionate.

“Sorry I didn’t wake you,” he murmured. “You looked so beautiful. Couldn’t do it.”

You shrugged and curled a little closer. “It’s okay. I slept like the dead.”

One of his brows lifted, teasing. “Wonder why that is.”

You barely had time to roll your eyes before he leaned in again, pressing kisses to your cheek, then your neck, his mouth trailing heat as he bit back a grin.

“Off me, you pervert!” you shouted, using Jisung’s words against him as you slipped off his lap and darted down the hall. Chan laughed, chasing the sound of your footsteps with a low, mock-threatening growl.

Things with Bangchan were better—easier, even—but you still felt like you were tiptoeing through it all. Like if you moved too fast, said the wrong thing, it might all slip through your fingers again.

You texted often, saw each other almost every day. But calling it anything still felt too fragile, like naming it might jinx it. Still, your heart was his. You just had to be careful with it this time.

It was a typical workday, and you had a shoot lined up for a sneaker campaign. You walked into the building feeling good, excited, even. But as you spotted Mingi across the room and smiled, ready to greet him, he walked right past you without a glance. Like you were invisible.

You stood there for a second, blinking. That... was weird.

The vibe had been off for a few days, and you still didn’t know why. Up until recently, Mingi had been friendly—like the start of a solid friendship. Then, out of nowhere, he started treating you like you barely existed.

Later at lunch, you sat poking half-heartedly at your salad while Soyeon was glued to her phone. You’d been trying to ignore the tension, but now it was buzzing in your head like static. You needed to say something, ask someone, before it drove you crazy.

“Haven’t you noticed Mingi acting kind of weird lately?” you asked, cutting through the quiet.

Soyeon didn’t look up from her phone. She just glanced over the top of it and shook her head. “Not really.”

You sighed, pushing a cucumber around your plate. “He’s been cold. Like, actively ignoring me. Did I do something? Say something?”

That finally got her attention. She set her phone down and took a slow sip of her iced tea, like she was trying to decide whether to tell you something or let it go.

“Might be because of that night,” she said casually.

Your brows pulled together. “What night?”

She mirrored your confused look. “Wait… you seriously don’t remember? Girl, you were gone. The drinks knocked you straight out.”

You blinked. “Okay, and…?”

Soyeon leaned back in her chair like she was settling in for a gossip drop. “Some guy showed up, hot, dark hair, built. I’ve seen him with you before, right? He and Mingi got into it. I couldn’t hear much, but it was definitely a thing.”

Your stomach dropped. You didn’t even have to ask. Of course it was Chan. Suddenly, all those unanswered questions clicked into place—how he found you at the bar that night, why Mingi’s been acting weird.

“They argued?” you asked quietly.

“Yup,” she said, biting into her sandwich. “Next thing I saw, mystery guy scooped you up and walked out like some drama scene.”

You sat there, stunned. Bangchan had actually gotten into it with Mingi. At work. Over you.

Your appetite vanished. You pushed your salad aside, jaw tight. You were going to talk to Mingi, clear the air. And then? Bangchan and you were going to have a very real conversation.

Later that day, once the shoot had wrapped and most of the crew had cleared out, you finally caught Mingi alone.

He was quietly packing away some gear when you approached, trying not to overthink every step.

“Need a hand?” you asked, voice casual.

He looked up, a little startled, but shook his head with a polite smile. “I’m good, thanks.”

You nodded, stepping back a bit, watching him work as you tried to line up your words without making it weird. Eventually, you just went for it.

“Mingi... did I do something wrong?”

He paused, hands hovering over the camera case. You pushed through the awkward lump in your throat.

“It’s just—lately you’ve been distant. Like I pissed you off and you’re not saying it.”

Mingi sighed and gently zipped up the bag, his jaw tight like this was a conversation he really didn’t want to have. Still, he turned to face you.

“Look, you’re great. Seriously,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “In any other situation, I’d probably try to ask you out.”

That wasn’t the answer you expected.

“But I’m not trying to get caught in the middle of anything,” he added carefully. “I don’t do drama.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?” 

He didn’t say it outright, but the weight behind his words said enough. This wasn’t about you alone. It was about Bangchan. And whatever happened that night.

“Your boyfriend made himself pretty clear the other night,” Mingi said, biting the inside of his cheek, eyebrows lifting just slightly. “I didn’t want to step on any toes.”

“God, no—Mingi, you didn’t do anything wrong.” You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “I’m sorry. I honestly don’t even know what to say.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just studied you for a second, your furrowed brow, your tight-lipped frustration.

“I liked being friends with you,” you added. “Can we... just go back to that?”

His mouth tugged into a half-smile. “If you’re cool with it, then yeah. No weirdness here.”

“I’m cool with it. Promise.”

You forced a smile, but your chest was already buzzing with heat. As soon as you saw Bangchan, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do—because what he did? Way out of line.

Bangchan opened the door with that familiar, easy smile and leaned in like he always did, ready to kiss you. But you turned your face away.

His smile faltered mid-movement. He blinked, pulling back, his hand still hovering near your waist like he didn’t know what to do with it now. "What’s wrong?"

You didn’t answer. Just brushed past him, walked into the living room like it was muscle memory. You sank into the edge of the sofa, but didn’t relax. You sat like a loaded gun. Rigid, coiled, ready.

He didn’t sit. Just stood there, watching you. Waiting. Slowly lowering into silence.

You looked up at him. “What happened at the bar that night?”

Bangchan flinched like he’d been slapped. His lips parted, but no words came out.

You cocked your head slightly, voice quieter now, more dangerous. “Mingi told me you confronted him. That you made it clear he shouldn’t even try talking to me.”

He let out a breath, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to scare him off. I just—he was all over you. And I—”

“You had no right.” You cut him off. Flat. Final. “He’s my coworker. My friend. And you showed up like a jealous asshole trying to mark your territory.”

Bangchan gulped. He wasn’t trying to defend himself anymore, just bracing. “I thought I lost you. I thought he was taking you from me.”

Your laugh was short, bitter. “You didn’t lose me. You were the one who let me go. And now what? You think you get to control who I talk to? Who I laugh with?”

He stepped forward, but you held up a hand.

“Don’t.”

His whole body was tense, as if holding back an impulse to drop to his knees and beg. “I was scared,” he said, voice rough. “That night, I saw you across the bar and it felt like someone had ripped my fucking heart out. I panicked. I acted stupid. I know I did. But please don’t let that be the thing that breaks us again.”

“You don’t get to pull the ‘please don’t leave me’ card every time you mess up,” you snapped, and your voice cracked, finally, under the weight of how tired you were. “I’ve been walking on glass since we started talking again. Scared of saying the wrong thing, pushing too hard, needing too much. And now this?”

He crouched in front of you, not touching, just looking up like you were something slipping through his fingers. “You’re not too much. You never were. I’m just… not enough sometimes. And I know that.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “I need space.”

His expression shattered. “Wait… No, no. What do you mean? Space how?”

You stood up, gently backing away from him. “I mean I need to think. About us. About all of it.”

Bangchan stood too, like standing would somehow fix it. “So that’s it? After everything?”

“I’m just… pausing. I need to breathe. To figure out what I want, not just what I’m scared to lose.”

His chest rose and fell quickly. Panic was setting in—real panic. “Can I at least text you? Call you?”

You shook your head. “No. Please don’t.”

He looked like you’d just gutted him. “I don’t know what to do without you.”

You gave him a sad smile. “You’re gonna have to learn.”

And then you walked out, not looking back. Not because you didn’t want to, but because if you did, you might not leave at all.

You kept herself busy. Too busy.

Long hours at the agency. Back-to-back shoots, endless edits, meetings that bled into late evenings and left you blinking at your screen, unsure if the headache was from the laptop glare or the ache behind your ribs. When people asked how you were, you smiled. When they didn’t, you drank.

Sometimes alone. Sometimes with friends. Usually with Soyeon, who knew better than to press too hard and kept the conversations light—clothes, gossip, what filter to use on their latest group selfie. But there were moments, in between the wine and the forced laughter, when your mind slipped.

You’d imagine Bangchan's hands curled around a mic cable. His worn-out hoodie with the sleeves rolled up. The soft rasp of his voice when he said your name like it meant something only to him.

And then you'd down another drink. Or change the subject. Or pretend it didn’t matter as much as it did.

Bangchan was unraveling. Quietly. Efficiently.

He lived in the studio now—figuratively, maybe literally, depending on who you asked. Jisung made a joke about it once and Bangchan didn’t even smile, just said “We’ve got work to finish,” and turned back to his screen.

Jisung stopped joking after that.

Changbin picked up on the shift too—the way Chan would bark about small things, like a slightly off-beat snare or a mic being in the wrong place. The way he’d edit the same track five different ways and then scrap it completely. The way he started bringing energy drinks in like they were oxygen and forgot to eat until someone put food in front of him.

At first, they figured it was just pressure. The nomination. The workload. The usual.

But then the silence started to stretch.

Bangchan didn’t talk about you—not directly. He didn’t need to. Your absence was stitched into every part of him, like fraying thread in a sweater worn too thin. He worked like he was trying to sweat you out of his system. Like if he pushed hard enough, stayed busy enough, maybe the memory of you saying “I need time” would stop replaying in his head like a loop he couldn’t mute.

But it never stopped.

He still checked his phone. Never texted. Just… looked. Stared at your name in his contacts like it might light up on its own.

Jisung saw it once. Chan zoning out at the screen, thumb hovering like he wanted to send something but couldn’t.

“You alright?” Jisung asked carefully.

Chan didn’t look up. “Fine.”

But the next beat he dragged into the session was minor key, dark and thick and heavy.

Changbin eventually pulled him aside. “You need to go home. Sleep. Talk to someone. Do something.”

Bangchan just stared at him. Hollow. “She asked me not to.”

Changbin didn’t push again after that.

He didn’t even turn the engine off.

He parked a little up the street, where the shadows of the trees fell just right to keep him out of sight. Not that it would matter, he wasn’t planning to get out. He wasn’t even sure why he came.

Maybe it was just to see her. Maybe that made him pathetic.

But after another sleepless night and another day of making everyone around him uncomfortable with his clipped tone and cold silences, he needed something that felt real. Even if it was just a glimpse. Even if it was through a windshield.

He watched you say goodbye to your coworkers—Mingi, Soyeon, a couple of others he vaguely recognized. They were laughing. Easy, flushed with wine and the comfort of good company.

You looked radiant. Happy. Effortlessly out of reach.

Bangchan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. Something coiled in his chest, sharp and bitter and so heavy it made his breath catch. You looked like yourself again. Like the version of you he used to know before everything cracked between you.

And maybe that should’ve made him smile. But it didn’t. It only made the emptiness settle deeper in his ribs.

He didn’t move when you waved to your friends, didn’t blink when you turned toward your building. But then—you paused.

Squinted. Tilted your head the slightest bit in his direction. His heart stopped.

You stood there, on the edge of the sidewalk, wine-warm and unsure, eyes narrowing toward where he sat frozen in the driver’s seat. For a second, it looked like you were about to walk over.

But you didn’t.

You shook your head, rubbed your temples, and let out a little laugh that he couldn’t hear but imagined anyway. You disappeared inside without looking back.

Bangchan stayed in the car long after the door shut behind her.

He didn’t cry. He was past that. Or beneath it. Or maybe too tired to bother.

He just sat there, the engine humming quietly beneath him, the ghost of her silhouette burned into his vision.

You looked happy. And he was the one who used to make her happy.

You were already warm from the wine when you got home, shoes in hand, face still flushed from laughter. It had been a good night, objectively. Mingi had been surprisingly chill again. Soyeon made you snort rosé through your nose at one point. For a little while, you felt light.

But as you stood in the hallway, keys halfway to the lock, a chill crept up your spine.

You could’ve sworn you saw his car.

Same make. Same dark silhouette, headlights off, parked just a little too neatly. For a moment, your heart lurched in that old, familiar way—like it remembered him better than your head wanted to.

You waited. Squinted. Tilted your head like an idiot trying to identify a ghost.

Nothing happened. The car didn’t move. The window didn’t roll down.

So you shook it off. Laugh at yourself. You were buzzed and nostalgic and clearly imagining things.

But the seed had been planted.

By the time you were curled up in bed, makeup wiped away, the silence began to crawl in through the cracks in the walls.

What if it really was him? What if he came just to see you? What if he’s out there right now, alone, breaking apart the same way you are?

And then, like someone twisted a faucet inside your chest, the tears came. Quiet at first. Just a couple that rolled down into your pillow, inconvenient and warm. But they didn’t stop. You pressed your face against the sheets and sobbed.

Because you missed him. You missed him.

The dumb way he talked in an aussie accent when he was trying to cheer you up. The feel of his palm between your shoulder blades when you fell asleep on his chest. The stupid nicknames. The way he looked at you like the whole world lived in your smile.

And you hated that. You hated that you still loved him this much.

Because he had shown up at that bar, and he had warned Mingi off, like you were some prize he owned, not a person he was trying to rebuild something with. That wasn’t love. That was possession. Fear. Ego. You didn’t want to be someone’s territory. You wanted to be safe. Trusted. Chosen, not guarded like a secret.

And the worst part, you weren’t sure which side of him would win. The one that cherished you... or the one that couldn't handle not being in control.

You turned to your side, curling up tighter, like it might hold you together.

“I just want to be okay again,” you whispered into the dark. But it came out cracked. Like a lie.

You wiped your face with the sleeve of an old hoodie—his hoodie. You hadn’t realized you were wearing it until now. That hurt all over again.

You missed him. But you didn’t know if missing him was enough.

A month had passed, but you were still caught in that exhausting loop of should I just fix this? and what if he hasn’t changed?

You missed Bangchan—God, you missed him—but that wasn’t the whole story. Missing someone didn’t erase what they did. It didn’t unmake the silence, the possessiveness, the night you cried yourself to sleep wondering if you were loving someone who might ruin you without meaning to.

Jisung had been relentless for the past week, pushing you to attend the upcoming awards event. It was a big night—the kind that could define careers. “Come for me,” he said. “Not for him. Just support your idiot best friend, yeah?”

And how could you say no to him? He’d stuck by you through every raw, unraveling piece of this mess.

So you agreed.

But the moment your heels touched the red carpet, your heart was already in your throat.

You wore black. Not just any black—but a gown that said you belonged here. Strapless, with a structured sweetheart neckline that framed your collarbones and bare shoulders like sculpture. The fabric clung and then flowed, draped in all the right places—sharp on one leg, dramatic on the other, a mix of precision and softness that echoed how you felt inside. Every step made the asymmetrical hem trail behind you like a whispered warning: Don’t look back.

The flash of cameras hit your skin. Strangers turned their heads. And still, all you could think was: he’s here.

When Jisung, Changbin, and Bangchan finally stepped onto the carpet, the world tilted for a second. They looked like they belonged on a movie poster—black and silver in complementary cuts, all sharp edges and polished confidence.

Chan hadn’t seen you yet.

So you slipped through the entrance, breath tight in your chest, weaving between gowns and tuxedos, careful not to turn around.

You took your seat at the guest table tucked just behind the main section, where the nominees were seated. Jisung’s name was on the front table—he’d be right there with Bangchan and the rest of 3RACHA.

You folded your hands in your lap. Your fingers were shaking slightly. You told yourself it was just adrenaline. That this was just an event. That you were just here for a friend.

But deep down, you knew better. You didn’t come for closure. You came because some part of you still wanted to see him.

The lights dimmed. A soft hush fell over the room, broken only by the gentle clink of glasses and the subtle rustle of gowns. You sat still, almost too still, your heart pounding like a drumline beneath your dress. The night was moving forward, speech by speech, category by category—and your eyes kept drifting to the front table. To him.

Bangchan hadn’t turned around yet.

But Jisung had. He’d spotted you the moment you entered and had given you the faintest nod—a silent thank you across the space.

Then it happened.

The presenter stepped up to the podium, smiling wide under the stage lights. “This year’s award for Producer of the Year goes to…”

A beat. The whole room held its breath.

“3RACHA!”

The explosion of cheers and applause hit like a wave. Jisung was already out of his seat, arms thrown around Changbin, and Bangchan—Bangchan just sat there for a second. Stunned. Eyes wide. Until Jisung grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet.

You clapped, too. Mechanical at first, then more sincere as it sank in. They’d done it. He had done it. You felt pride swell inside your chest—unexpectedly warm, unexpectedly painful.

As they climbed the stage, the lights caught him in full. Bangchan looked beautiful. Exhausted, but beautiful. His black suit shimmered slightly at the edges, crisp and tailored, collar loosened just enough to show that sliver of skin at his throat you always used to kiss when he couldn’t sleep.

Jisung stepped up first, hands trembling just enough to notice, his voice soft at the edges. “I don’t think any of us really expected this—maybe we hoped. But it was just long nights, too many near-burnouts, and holding each other up when we were ready to quit. That’s what got us here.”

The room laughed. He softened. “No, but really… this means everything to us. Years of work. Mistakes. Growing. I think the only reason we survived it was because we stuck together. We kept choosing the music… and each other.”

He looked over at Bangchan then, gave him the space.

Chan stepped forward slowly. The crowd quieted again.

He gripped the microphone, cleared his throat, and then searched for his voice. But it wasn’t the crowd he was searching for.

It was you. His eyes found you instantly—and didn’t move.

“I’ve… made a lot of mistakes,” he started, quiet, voice low and raw. “But somehow, I’m standing here. Not because I deserve it, but because I have two people who never gave up on me.” His hand hovered slightly toward Jisung and Changbin without looking away from you. “They pulled me through when I couldn’t find my way out.”

You blinked, and a tear slid down your cheek. He saw it.

Chan’s voice cracked slightly. “And there’s someone else… someone who changed everything for me. Who reminded me why I do this in the first place. If I could thank her by name, I would. But all I’ll say is—if she’s listening… Thank you. And I’m proud of you. And I’m sorry.”

It was too much.

You stood and slipped out quietly, heart in your throat. The claps behind you blurred. The lights blurred. Everything felt like it was breaking at the seams.

In the bathroom, you braced your hands on the marble sink, staring down at your reflection. Your makeup was a mess—eyes glossy, mascara starting to smudge. You didn’t even care how expensive the setting spray was.

You tried fixing your eyeliner with trembling hands. Took a shaky breath. Another. Then the door creaked open behind you.

You caught his reflection in the mirror before you heard his voice.

“Hey.”

Your heart dropped.

He looked unsure—no longer the man onstage. His jacket was undone now, his hair a little out of place, like he’d run a hand through it too many times. His chest rose and fell too fast. Like he’d sprinted just to catch you before you disappeared again.

You turned, slowly, mascara wand still in hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” he said, stepping in anyway. “But I had to. I needed to see you. I couldn’t let you walk away again without saying something.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Your voice wavered, and it made you angry. “I came here for Jisung. I wasn’t ready to see you.”

“But you did.” He stepped closer. “And you cried. I saw you.”

“Because you’re still in my life, even when I don’t want you to be,” you snapped, voice thick. “Because I can’t hear your voice without remembering everything we didn’t fix.”

He swallowed hard. “I know I messed up. I was scared. I handled it wrong. I got possessive, and jealous, and angry—and I didn’t trust you when I should have.”

You stared at him, broken open. “I just wanted to feel safe with you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

“I know.” His voice was quiet now, trembling. “And I broke that. I know I did. But I’ve been trying—every day, I’ve been trying to be someone who could earn you back. I just don’t know if I ever can.”

The silence sat between you like a fourth person.

“I don’t know either,” you whispered.

He looked down, pain flashing across his face.

“I still love you,” he said. “That hasn’t changed.”

You shook your head, tears spilling again. The bathroom air was too still.

Bangchan took one slow step closer, like any sudden movement might scare you off again. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The weight of everything, the silence, the months, the unsaid things—held you there like gravity.

His hand lifted, hesitant at first, before it brushed against your cheek. Gentle. Reverent. Like he was scared you might disappear.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” he said, voice cracking. “I swear… I’ll be better. Softer. Honest. Whatever you need—I’ll be it. Just… give me one more chance.”

Your bottom lip trembled. You tried to breathe, but the ache in your chest swelled too fast, too full. You’d wanted this—needed this—but the fear was still clawing at you.

And yet… the second his thumb wiped the tear that slipped down your cheek, you folded into it. Into him.

Your arms found his chest, and the moment you buried your face there, your voice came out small, desperate. “Please, please, keep your promise.”

“I will,” he whispered instantly, hands cradling your back like something sacred. “I will.”

“I love you so much,” you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “I tried to stop but I… I couldn’t. I missed you every damn night.”

“I know, princess” he said, forehead pressing to yours now. “Me too. Every single one.”

Your lips found his in the middle of a sob—wet, messy, trembling. He kissed you back like he was drowning in it. Like he hadn’t felt anything real in weeks.

And it wasn’t a fairytale kiss.

It was too full of ache and history and months of unspoken things.

But it was yours.

He held you tight, hands in your hair, mouth never leaving yours for too long. The tears didn’t stop—neither of yours—but neither of you cared anymore. Not when you were here. Finally.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Really look.

His eyes were glassy, rimmed in red. That careful composure he always kept was gone, and what was left was just a man—tired, scared, but still loving you with everything he had.

So you kissed his forehead. Then his cheek. And then curled into him again as he leaned against the wall, arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like he was terrified the world might steal you back.

And then…

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

The bathroom door swung open with a bang.

Jisung stood there, dumbfounded and scandalized. “This is a public bathroom at an awards show!”

Bangchan didn’t even flinch. He just laughed, eyes never leaving yours. “Sorry.”

You giggled, hiding your face in his chest, flushed from crying and kissing and now being caught mid-reunion.

Jisung made a dramatic gagging sound and backed out, hands in the air. “I’m telling everyone you’re a menace.”

Chan snorted. “Do your worst.”

Still grinning, still wiping your cheeks, you laced your fingers with his.

Bangchan didn’t say a word. He just squeezed your hand and took off running, tugging you behind him down the narrow corridor and into the night.

The cold air kissed your cheeks, the slap of your shoes against pavement echoing in the quiet, but none of it mattered. You were laughing—giddy, breathless—and he kept looking over his shoulder to make sure you were still with him, like he couldn’t believe it was true.

He pulled you around the corner, then another, past a delivery truck, past two people smoking near the dumpsters, until finally he stopped—behind the venue, tucked between brick and ivy and nothing but stars overhead. No photographers. No guests. No half-heard conversations.

Just you.

He turned, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding something in for weeks. Maybe he had.

“You’re really here,” he said, almost in awe.

“I’m really here,” you echoed, just as stunned.

You took a step closer. So did he.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer now. “For hurting you. For letting fear get loud enough to ruin the good things. I should’ve never made you feel like love had rules. Like I could stake a claim on you. That’s not love. That’s fear. I’m done with fear.”

You reached up, fingers brushing over his jaw. He leaned into it like a man starved.

“I just want to build this with you,” he whispered. “For real. No possessiveness. No games. Just you and me figuring it out. Even if it’s messy. Even if we trip.”

“And we will,” you murmured, hand resting over his chest now. “We’ll probably mess it up again. Say the wrong thing. Forget to listen. But—”

“But we’ll stay,” he finished. “That’s what matters. We stay.”

The space between you vanished. This kiss wasn’t wild. It wasn’t perfect. But it was full. Full of intention, of breathless hope, of a thousand unsaid things. You kissed him like you meant every word you hadn’t said yet.

When you pulled back, your forehead against his, you were smiling through your tears.

“I don’t want easy,” you whispered.

He let out a soft laugh, his hand cradling the back of your head.

“Good,” he said. “Because I want all of it. The stubbornness. The long nights. The weird little routines we’ll make up. I want the morning coffees and the three a.m. fights. I want to learn how to love you better every day.”

You stood there, wrapped up in each other, the world paused just long enough to breathe.

And then he held your face again, gaze steady. “This is real. We’ll make it work.”

You nodded, the weight in your chest shifting—not disappearing, but changing. Becoming something lighter. Something shared.

And in that quiet, in that tucked-away sliver of night, two people made a silent promise: Not perfect. But real.

And that was enough to begin again.

(taglist) — @diary-of-a-lazy-woman @hwangjoanna

[literaryslapshot]

perv | pt. 2 | s. crosby

after being called out for his perverted actions, he gets a taste of his own medicine.

warnings: smut (18+ ONLY MDNI, piv, oral, for visual purposes only), sidney being a perv,

retired!sidney crosby x younger!fem reader

read pt. 1 here

"i was wondering, if you'd wanna see the real thing?"

sidney was sure he was in a dream. how did he end up here? how did he get himself in this promiscuous situation? oh, right. he was being a perv, that's how.

he was frozen in time. his mouth slightly agape as he was stuck, watching her- the stunning young woman in front of him take her bikini top off. the top strings come undone, gravity making them fall and unfold on top of her stomach. god, he feels like a teenager again, remembering what it felt like looking at a playboy magazine for the very first time. hard. painfully hard.

then she reaches around her back, pulling at the delicate bow that sidney had politely tied for her. then, it falls.

she steps closer to him, reaching for his hand. inside she's freaking out a little bit- why hasn't he said anything? but she pushes the thoughts aside and takes his hand, forcing him to palm her breast. he breathes in sharply, biting his lip.

"y'know sidney, i've heard rumors about hockey players," she whispers, leaning into his touch as his hand plays with her breast.

"probably all bad," he chokes out. he takes his other hand and rests it on her back, pulling her closer to him while he squeezes lightly on her round flesh.

"just mostly, that hockey players only care about themselves in bed," he hums, "they only have one setting when they're fucking women," he raises his eyebrow.

"and what might that be?" he teases, the tip of his nose just centimeters away from hers.

"rough. hard, fast," she runs her hands up his chest, she can feel the toned but soft muscles that are underneath his soft t shirt. she feels his breath pattern change, his eyes have grown a little bit darker by now. "i've even heard that they can't even make a woman cum." he grins, "is that true, sidney?"

by now, his hands have started to play with the strings on the bottom pice of her bikini. he's lightly playing with the bows that are holding it together, teasing to pull them apart.

"partially," he grips her hips, pulling her close to him as he starts to walk backwards into a hallway. "what part is not true?" she responds.

he opens the door to his bedroom. he backs her up to the bed, the back of her knees hitting the mattress and forcing her to sit on the bed. he stands in front of her, taking off his shirt to reveal his broad, tan chest. she takes in a deep breath.

"not true? that i can't make women cum," he takes her legs in his hands, spreading them as wide as she would let them go for him. she bites her lip while feeling his rough hands smooth over her soft thighs. she lays back on her elbows as he sinks to his knees, putting her legs over his shoulders.

he stares at the bright red, thin material that's been keeping him from getting the good stuff this whole time- it's been taunting him. he presses his nose up against her clothed cunt, taking in a deep inhale of her scent. she doesn't know whether to be turned on or turned off, but the feeling of his nose pressed up against her clit is heavenly. he mouths at her pussy a couple times, his teeth grazing against her clit draws a moan from her. he chuckles.

"you sure you wanna keep going?" he asks.

"now you're asking for consent? after taking pictures of me, groping my breasts, and putting your nose in my pussy?" she laughs, untying her bottom piece and shimmying to get it off, tossing it onto the floor. "get to work sidney, show me you're not lying about that rough and fast part."

he takes a rough grip on her thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs there's going to be bruises in the morning. he doesn't care, she asked for it to be rough. he spits on her pussy, taking his tongue and pressing it flat against her clit, shaking his head side to side.

out of pure physical response she spreads her legs wider, arching her back off the mattress. she moans, feeling the hot, wet friction against her clit. sidney pulls back to get a breath, kissing the inside of her thigh just briefly before sucking at her folds. inserting his tongue into her hole, then licking up a stripe along her wet cunt.

she's giggling out of pleasure, gripping the sheets and moaning into the air. she takes a hand and stuffs it into his salt and pepper hair, gripping tightly, as if she is holding him in place. "don' stop," she breathed out, grinding her cunt up against his mouth. she feels him smile against her, what a dirty dog.

he starts to lap up her juices, licking fat stripes up and down her cunt. she's giving him the loudest moans he's ever gotten, letting out a string of curses with his name mixed in with it.

"please," she inhales sharply when he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks harshly, "ohmygod- fuck i'm cumming sidney!" she shrieks, gripping onto his hair he thinks she might pull some of it out.

with just a few short hard sucks, she cums on his tongue just like he wanted her to. squeezing her thighs around his head, his ears ring just a little bit before he spreads them with his hands. one more lick to her cunt, getting every last drop on his tongue, he swallows everything she just gave him. dirty.

she sits up, brushing her hair back with her fingers and reaching for the waist band of his shorts. she pulls his hard cock out, grinning at how big he is. that gets his ego going.

she licks her hand, jacking him while looking deep in his eyes. this girl is going to kill him- and they only met twenty minutes ago.

"goddamn- lay back again. all the way on the bed," sidney climbs on the bed with her, keeping her legs spread as he stood on his knees in between them. he picked her up by the back of her thighs, pulling her against him to line his dick up with her aching hole.

he took his thumb, pressing it against her clit as he drug his tip through her folds. he got a kick out of watching her facial expressions, her eyes screwing shut as he teased her pussy. "ohmy- please put it in sidney-"

she let out a sharp gasp as he started to press inside of her, hearing him moan as he slipped inside her tight hole. "suckin me in baby," he pressed the palms of his hands on either side of her head, inching in all the way in her cunt until he couldn't go any further.

he saw tears brimming her eyes, for a second he felt bad but then he felt her thighs squeeze around him, pulling him forward as close as he could get. "it hurts so good," she breathed out, dragging her nails down his chest.

"yeah? you like your hole stuffed full of cock don't you?" she nodded her head while he started to thrust. starting off slowly, grinding into her in and out, in and out, in..and...out.

"keep going," she arched her back and moaned, locking her hands around his neck to try and bring him closer but he isn't budging. he wants to stay above her, to watch, to analyze. see how she's reacting to his big and bad attitude.

he hasn't picked up his pace, he's stayed slow and steady for at least a minute. it's driving her crazy, he can tell. and he loves it.

"c'monnnn sidney, is that all you got?" she whines, nails scraping down his shoulders, trying to get him to do something. "thought you were s'posed to be...fuckin' rough..or something," she whined in between thrusts from sidney.

"you want rough?" she nodded eagerly, "yeah baby?" he pulled out just halfway.

then suddenly he pushed back in, and started to push her halfway off the bed. the only part of her on the mattress were just her hips and nothing else. "fuckin' take it then," he said through gritted teeth.

holding onto her hips with an iron grip he fucked her hard, rough, and fast. just like she asked. the bed was creaking with every thrust he made and she was moaning and whining with every deep thrust she made, hitting her g spot every time.

he was deep inside of her, and she was so overwhelmed with pleasure. she shrieked again when she felt her orgasm coming along fast, her hands gripping onto the carpet underneath her while she felt him abuse her cunt with every snap of his hips.

"fuckin' cum baby, cum hard for me please-" that was all he had to say before she was screaming his name in pleasure, her orgasm coming like a tidal wave over her body. she felt her arms give, before she was going to fall completely sidney held onto her legs, using his strength to pull her up and face him again.

still inside of her, he kindly brushed hair out of her face and brushed his hands along her flushed cheeks.

"was that enough for you? or you want more?" he teased, both of his hands gripping her ass hard to keep her in place.

she's still catching her breath, but she lets out a light laugh, "give me all you got, captain."

feedback | masterlist

[seastar-bunny]

Cloud Nine

A/N: Caleb x MC wedding night fic. MDNI, filth, but it's also a little fluffy, too.

Her wedding dress was in shreds on the floor. Cloudlike wisps were scattered, her heels kicked off, her veil a puddle on the floor. Her husband smirked down at her, sunset eyes gleaming with triumph and desire.

'You're such a dog Caleb,' she said as he sent her falling into his bed, hands gentle but firm on her hips.

'Oh, I think you'll forgive me,' he growled playfully, surging forward to kiss her hard and breathless. 'Far as I'm concerned, all your clothes look better on my bedroom floor anyway…' He splayed his hands either side of her head. 'How do you want this to go, Pips?' He wiggled his fingers. 'Want me to use my evol on you?'

'Even if you didn't,' she said, leaning up for another kiss, 'you'd find a way to take control, you freak.'

'You like it.' He laced their fingers, pushing her hands above her head. 'Makes a change from you bossin' me around anyway, huh? Let me take care of things for a while.'

'I almost thought with how you tore that dress off, you wouldn't have time for talk.' She grinned, but it died when his pupils dilated, boring into her. 'Caleb…'

'Say my name again,' he said dangerously. Slowly, he released her hands, but with a flick of the fingers she was held in place by his gravity evol instead. He never broke eye contact as he rose off her, throwing jacket and tie and shirt to the floor in rapid succession. 'That's an order, Pips.'

'Caleb,' she said hoarsely.

'You're cute when you're nervous.' His dress pants and underwear discarded, he stood for a moment. His gaze burned as he slowly brought his hand to his cock, stroking. 'You wanna know how many times I've done this, thinkin' of you? Ooh, so many. Almost got caught a couple times, too.' Something flared in his eyes. 'And I imagined you, covering your mouth to keep you quiet, playin' your body with my hands, how you'd feel…' he loomed over her now, his free hand prying her thighs apart and dropping the evol at once. But she never moved. 'Fuck, you're already so wet…'

'Well, go on, Colonel,' she said, trying to sound braver than she felt. 'Don't stop now.'

'I'll be gentle.' Carefully, slowly, he breached her velvet softness. She gasped softly, his fingers laced with hers again, broad chest pressed to her tits, face buried in the crook of her neck. 'Oh,' he sighed. 'You feel so good, princess. Warm, an' soft…' He shifted to drink in her expression. Her eyes fluttered closed, mouth open a little as she whimpered. 'Look at that face. Blissed out already, huh? Haven't even started.'

'More,' she breathed. 'Move. Fast.'

'More,' he repeated, chuckling. 'Greedy girl. Alright. I've got you.' He pulled his hips back, studying her face, and then slammed into her again. She cried out, brow crinkling in pleasure, and he did it again. His teeth set to marking her, every bruise and bite saying 'mine, mine, mine,' over and over.

'Caleb! Hah- ngh- feels good- more-'

He laughed, capturing her lips with his own. Their breaths mingled, heavy and hot. 'Oh, what am I going to do with you?' He grinned slowly, whispering huskily in her ear, 'my demanding little wife…'

She clenched around him and he moaned, a strangled, desperate thing. His fingers moved to grasp her hips, to guide her body to his brutal pace. Her hands tangled in his hair and pulled. 'Fuck-' She rose to attack his neck with her own marking ritual, her tongue soothing each one.

'Hang on tight, Pips.' He was glowing with sweat, freckled golden skin more beautiful in the light of sunset. 'You know I can go all damn night, and if you let me…'

'Want you to! Shit, Caleb, Caleb… I-'

'I know, princess.'

Nails raking red lines down his shoulders, back bowing as she rose with the force of pleasure crashing through her, she was held by his strong hands, his arm snaking around her so he could fuck her through it. She muffled her cries in his skin, tumbled right into another dizzying peak as he just kept going.

'You wanted more,' he grunted into her ear, lips sucking a mark just beneath. 'You ready for me? Gonna give you everythin' I have, gonna fill you up. G-gonna keep you stuffed even while we sleep- fuck-'

'Yes, want it, need it, need you,' she babbled. 'Need my husband-'

And that broke him. He came with a keening whine, sloppily kissed every part of her he could reach in worship, shifted to cradle her face in his hands. 'You're a fucking dream,' he said roughly. 'My wife, my wife, my beautiful fucking stunning gorgeous capable wife. Never gonna get tired of sayin' that. Not ever.'

'You're the fucking best,' she replied, turning to kiss his palm. 'My man. Forever and ever. Can't back out now, hubby.'

'As fucking if,' he snorted. 'Never fucking leavin' you again. I'm yours. I'm more yours than mine, and I like it that way. Always had my heart, you know that.' His hands stroked down her neck, thumbs massaging lightly.

'I know. And that feels really good…' She shifted slightly underneath him, eyes widening as she realised he was still hard.

He rolled his hips, grinning. 'Surprised I can go again? Does my tired girl need a break?'

'Damn you and your freak stamina,' she muttered. 'Give me a bit.' She mock glared. 'If I don't sleep, it'll be your fault and you'll apologise accordingly.'

He snapped a salute, eyes dancing with mischief. 'You got it.' He rolled over, steadying her as she gazed down at him, hands stroking up her back. 'You just tell me when you're ready for round two.'

[boycrazygirllover]

psst... we got more adrian chase recently... he does have a new haircut

YOU SHOULD EXPECT NOTHING OF ME!

That being said... enjoy cutting Adrian's hair.

-

"It's awful. Oh my god."

"What?" His hands rake through the sides, the very recently fucked up sides, like he's a New York greaser. "Nahhh."

His tone, earnest even while he's actively looking in the mirror, almost has you believing him. But then he turns his head and you see the side where your scissors dug too far into his hair, a fucking chunk gone, and reality sets in. 

“It’s concave.”

"Yeah, you could spelunk down here. I love it."

"It, you're not taking this seriously." You scoff, chewing the inside of your cheek, trying not to absolutely freak out. Is glue a stupid idea? A clip-on bang? “How do you feel about wigs?”

"Mm," he hums, mussing up the front of his hair, "I prefer lace fronts, but I feel like a hat wig would match my Fennelsona better—”

“Your what?” He'd given it thought?

He checks himself out from the side, catching your eye in the reflection. “Honestly, I could go shorter. Should we go shorter?"

His fingers pry the scissors open, round-tip craft ones that are beginning to rust because he never fully dries them after washing, just closes and lets the water eat the blade.

"Stop it."

You reach for the scissors, more gentle and less defensive than you would’ve been if you weren’t two and a half years into your relationship with him. He turns around, and in one swift movement, grabs his front curl, one of your favorites (because you do have favorites), and snips far too close to the root.

“Wh—! Oh, my god.”

“The feeling of the hair cutting, it’s like chopping celery, but if celery was as thin as hair. See?”

"That doesn't even make sense." You're starting to drown. The urge to exert complete control. The inability to do so.

The unmistakable sound of scissors snapping. Another curl.

It falls to the floor, keeping its "C". It's the very one you wrap around your finger when he's out of the shower. Is it crazy to tape it inside your definitely-non-existent scrapbook of him? 

“It's just hair,” he says, with hair so short it defies gravity.

“It's your hair.”

You can’t keep the look of mild disgust off your face. He resembles a barbie doll in the hands of a six year old. You think he'd take that as a compliment if you said so.

“I'm glad you cut it. My hair, I mean.” Like there was anything else that could mean. “You wanna cut more?”

He snips the scissors at you, waving them a touch too loose for your liking. 

“I’m so okay.” You're really, really not. And the understanding that you're really really not makes it even worse. Why are you so sensitive? Why is indifference so unattainable?

Adrian turns back around to the mirror, crouches lower to meet you where you are, and with that sick, perverted, kind, achingly thoughtful glint in his eyes, and a soft wet kiss to your temple, he guides your hands to chop off another curl before you can even think.

"No fuckin' biggie."

You pinch the outer leg of your jeans. If he says it's no biggie, then maybe it is. Maybe you have to trust him.

"No biggie."