#my disaster son has a show

[pupuseriazag]

Watching a video of an animation student in other country made me realize how fucking deficient my university is, por la gran puta...

[fear-is-truth]

loser bf! RODRICK HEFFLEY hc

tags — fem!reader﹒sfw + nsfw﹒headcanons

loser bf!rodrick, who makes a huge show of pda whenever his brother is around. he’ll sling his arm around your shoulder and be like, “yeah, greg. my girlfriend. isn’t she hot?” greg is still fully convinced rodrick’s paying you to be his fake girlfriend, though he has no idea where he’s got the money.

loser bf!rodrick, who lets you sit in on band practice and tries so hard to keep it together, but the second his bandmates start flirting with you, he completely falls apart. his drumming gets so off-tempo that they have to stop and start over.

loser bf!rodrick, who lent you his algebra textbook and completely forgot he’d been doodling your name with his last name all over the margins. when you handed it back, smirking, he looked like he wanted to die.

loser bf!rodrick, whose idea of a date is a night drive to the gas station, where you both load up on slushies and hot dogs. you sit in the parking lot and steal bites off each other’s food (even though you have the same toppings)

loser bf!rodrick, who awkwardly asked his mom to use the “nice-smelling” laundry detergent on his shirts because he knows you like to steal them after having sex and he doesn’t want you thinking he’s gross.

loser bf!rodrick, whose mom acts like you’re already part of the family, offering you snacks and calling you “sweetie” every time you visit. she loves to (unintentionally) embarrassing her eldest son by showing you all of his baby pictures. all the while rodrick hides in the basement.

loser bf!rodrick, whose dad corners you during family dinners and awkwardly tries to sell you on how “rodrick is really a fine young man, despite, uh… some quirks.” you just nod politely while rodrick sits there, sinking into his chair with a beet-red face.

loser bf!rodrick, whose bandmates are constantly making moves on you, asking if you “need anything” during practice or offering to carry your stuff. rodrick will get so pissed that he threatens to kick them out of the band. you think it’s hilarious how defensive he gets.

loser bf!rodrick, who always gives you the front seat in his van, no questions asked. greg has to squish in the back with the instruments, too bad lol.

loser bf!rodrick, who pretends to be terrible at eyeliner just so you’ll do it for him. in return, he paints your nails—or you can also paint his (in exclusively black).

loser bf!rodrick, who acts reluctant whenever you drag him into photobooths at the mall. the two of you end up making the dumbest faces before you lean in and kiss him right on the mouth… with tongue.

loser bf!rodrick, who lets you doodle on his arm with a sharpie, and he refuses to wash them off. they stay there until they fade completely.

loser bf!rodrick, who finally starts wearing deodorant consistently because of you. it’s not even something you asked him to do—he just noticed you sniffing his shirts a little more critically and panicked. now, he’s always freshly applied before seeing you.

loser bf!rodrick, who gets hard every time you kiss him.

loser bf!rodrick, who tries his best to keep his room somewhat presentable whenever you come over. he knows it’s still a fucking disaster by normal standards, but for rodrick, clearing a path to the bed is a grand romantic gesture.

loser bf!rodrick, who’s obsessed so with seeing your hickeys on him. he never bothers to hide them—in fact, he wears them like badges.

loser bf!rodrick, who almost accidentally used the wrong side of the condom when you had sex for the first time.

loser bf!rodrick, who absolutely melts when you tug on his hair during sex. he didn’t even realise he had a thing for it until the first time you did it. now, he practically begs for it without using words, tilting his head back and grinning like a total idiot whenever your fingers get close.

loser bf!rodrick, who keeps every random thing you’ve ever given him — notes you’ve passed to him in class, concert tickets, even candy wrappers.

loser bf!rodrick, who hates being bossed around but will do anything you ask, especially if it involves you kissing his cheek or ruffling his hair in thanks. he’s so whipped and everyone knows it.

loser bf!rodrick, who brags to greg about how sexy and smart and pretty you are, just to rub it in, but secretly feels like he doesn’t deserve you. he gets this dumb, soft look on his face whenever you’re around, like he still can’t believe you chose him.

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[zreamy]

things i know that i can't have

jake's life was hard enough before he fell for you—balancing uni, football, and being a good christian son. in some cruel twist of fate, sleeping with you has only made things harder—and, according to sunghoon (and scripture), damned him to hell the first time he thought about it.

pairing ✩ jake sim x fem!reader

genres: college au, (established) fwb to lovers, smut, fluff, angst

warnings: minors dni, mild religious exploration and guilt, strained parental relationship.......... deeply unserious and a bit melodramatic at times, jake's pov, jake crashes out every few paragraphs, football player jake (british), jakeyn are so nct dream (young and freaky), surface level gatsby analysis, creative liberties taken w the location of freshwater fish.. author loves jake so jake must suffer, and one peep show quote

word count: 33,666

playlist: ...what are we lizzy mcalpine, all my ghosts lizzy mcalpine, north clairo, 20191009 i like her mac demarco, 10:36 beabadoobee, lover/friend kaytranada and rochelle jordan

fic taglist: @heechwe @yunjardi @fancypeacepersona @skyearby @kimjkejyy @sanriowoozzz @ii-mimii @pochakkeu @xylatox @seung-log @anofi @immelissaaa @mssishipi @somuchdard @yuniesluv @m3wkledreamy @jakesimfromstatefarm

author's note: uhm.. if you have been tagged in this fic fifteen thousand times, i sincerely apologise 😭😭😭 the powers that be have been working against me, but im letting go and letting god 🤞 i had a lot of fun writing this and i hope you love bi disaster jesus lover jake as much as i do......i hope u all enjoy the fic! do let me know ur thoughts (positive only on this one), as always thank u emma for beta reading, miss u so bad :'(

But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into hell. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell. 

— Matthew 5:28-30, English Standard Version. 

There it is, in black and white—red and white, since Sunghoon has a red letter edition. Jake skims the passage again, certain words sticking out this time: lustful intent, adultery, with her. Underlined, italics and bold, like they could be missed. If only. It’s too late now; they’re etched on his retinas, branded on his skin. Lodged deep in his chest, taken root already. It hardly seems fair that a single thought could hold so much weight.

Or, in Jake’s case, many, many thoughts.

Shuddering, he closes the leather bound book softly, a slow exhale ripping out of him as he glances up at his best friend. “You mean I.. can’t even think about fucking her?” he whispers, brows touching in the middle.

A crack of thunder splits the air. Jake flinches. The sound lingers, rumbling over the grey sky. Meant for him. An answer from Heaven—from God Himself. Condemnation, more like. With bated breath, he turns his head slowly, expecting his judgment to be scrawled in the clouds, true divine intervention. But nothing. Just grey. Heavy, oppressive grey.

Sunghoon laughs, a strange little chuckle Jake has never heard before, but knows immediately that he doesn’t like. He adjusts his tie. Shifting the Windsor knot, smoothing the blade—a calculation in his movements that leaves Jake wondering if his friend hasn’t orchestrated this whole situation, weather and all.

“Afraid not, buddy.” Sunghoon’s tone is light, but there’s something solemn about it all—the rain, the smart clothes, this terrible, terrible realisation. 

March’s wind nips at Jake’s cheeks, stinging them red no doubt as rain splashes around his feet, wetting his socks in tiny, cold drops. He shivers but doesn’t leave, watching as a smirk spreads over Sunghoon’s lips. A pit stirs in Jake’s stomach as Sunghoon looks over both shoulders before leaning in. 

His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “But if thinking about it is as bad as doing it, you might as well just go ahead.” 

Jake stares, incredulous, takes a step back as if Sunghoon’s suggestion might smite him where he stands. “Of course, you think that. You lost your virginity behind the worship tent at camp four years ago. Forgive me if I don’t consider you a sound moral compass, Sunghoon.”

“I prayed about it after.” He shrugs. “Clean slate.” 

“Hoon,” Jake cries, exasperated, mortified. “You can’t intentionally sin and think you’ll be absolved because you prayed about it after.” 

“Why not? Isn’t that what forgiveness is for?” 

Glaring, Jake’s jaw works soundlessly. Where to start? At Sunghoon’s audacity or the fact he doesn’t even have a proper answer. Arguing won’t change anything. The whys-or-why-nots of it all are Sunghoon’s cross to bear. Not that he cares enough to. That’s his problem, and his saving grace, if you ask Jake—he makes everything sound so easy, like there isn’t a fuck load of consequence attached.  

A frustrated sigh escapes Jake as he glances down at his watch, rain warping the digits on his Casio. It’s almost eleven. Almost an hour since service started, and they’re still standing at the door. A gust of wind whips through his coat. 

“Just get inside,” Jake mutters, tone sharp, more from the cold than anything else.

Unmoving, Sunghoon frowns, lips pursed in genuine contemplation. Jake might be endeared if he didn’t know any better. 

“Can I ask you something?” Sunghoon’s voice is lighter now, curious, sincere. 

Jake doesn’t have time for this—but it's Sunghoon. So, he pinches his nose, bracing himself for whatever’s coming. “What?”

“Do you think you’re better than me because you lost your virginity in a bed?” 

Taken aback by the question’s absurdity, Jake blinks. Wonders briefly if he misheard. A nervous laugh bubbles out of him, but Sunghoon’s expression morphs into something unreadable—calm, expectant maybe. Genuinely awaiting an answer. Jake tilts his head, considering it before letting out a short and decisive huff. 

“Yes, actually. I do.” 

r/Christianity 

u/footballfan1511 | 2m

How bad is premarital sex, really? (Need quick answers!!!)

I (20M) have been having sex with my friend (20F) for three weeks now. I knew it was wrong, but she’s everything (very hot, totally, completely sexy), so I didn’t care. BUT I just saw this verse (Matthew 5:28-30) and apparently it’s a sin just to THINK about it??? 

The last time we did ‘it’ was this morning before church (sorry), and I was supposed to go over there tonight, but I’ve been freaking out about that verse all day…….. idk what to do but I really like her, so much, and I still want this, with her. Please give me advice .. 

Every Thursday night. Ten p.m. sharp. Almost no exceptions. You call Jake, talking shit for as long as it takes one thing to lead to another. Tonight is an exception—you had friends over, rescheduled for midnight. Jake lies in bed, hair still damp from his post-football training shower, counting each minute as it passes. 23:55. His leg is shaking. 23:56. He sits up straight, jolting as if waking from a nightmare, nerves sharp and restless as his thumbs fly over the keyboard, texting Sunghoon. 

Jake: What about phone sex?

Jake: Like if I don’t think about her while I do it? 

Sunghoon’s groan reaches Jake through the thin walls of their shared flat. Drawn-out and long-suffering. Read receipt. 23:57. Three dots. 

Hoon: I can’t tell you what to think, but if you’re asking me then you probably alr know

Hoon: Also..??? Do you think you can jack your shit on the phone without thinking about her 😭😭😭

Jake snorts despite himself, much too loud for the quiet. Echoing as if even the room disapproves. He closes his eyes, shakes his head. Palm to his cheek. A low smack, half-joking, half-sincere. Guilt snakes around him, a hot, unwelcome coil that won’t ease. Jake gets the sense that the choice ahead — to answer or not to answer — might drastically skew his life one way or another. 

A minute early. 23:59. Your name on his screen. Phone humming in his hold, pulse lashing his throat. On the other end of the line, before he has the chance to weigh his options, you dead the call—making his decision for him. 

Jake’s heart stumbles, clumsy in his chest. He thinks of the verse, sharp and prickly—crown of thorns on heavy head. He has been thinking about it since Saturday morning. Extra training with Team B, avoiding you, six-thirty wake-ups to join Sunghoon at the rink. Ice-cold mornings melting into afternoons. No matter what he tries, it always comes back. Lustful intent, adultery, with her. And despite his best efforts to pray for rapture, Thursday has come, and Jake has lived to see it. 

A minute late. 00:01. Your name on his screen. Hovering thumb. He knows that phone sex and sex-sex aren’t the same thing, Matthew didn’t even have a phone—but if he could’ve, and he could’ve known you, and you wanted him? Jake sighs. He should answer. If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off, and throw it away. The words sink their senile claws into him, holding on for dear, frail life. His phone stills in his palm. 

You don’t call again. You never have. If this phone call is going to happen, it’s up to Jake to make it so. This knowledge and its weight multiply by the second. An itch he doesn’t try to scratch, knowing he won’t be able to reach it. Another agonising nine minutes trudge along. 00:10. His phone buzzes on his chest, and he knows it’s you before he looks. Two texts.

YN: Said you’d stay up for me Yunie :((( 

YN: You don’t think I’m worth the wait?

Reading your messages through the notifications, he’s having a hard time convincing himself not to reply. Not to tell you he waited, that of course, you’re worth it. His guilt loosens, making space for his desire to reassure you—he cannot rule out the possibility that this desire outweighs his guilt. Silence settles in his room, stretched thin and strange around him. He sighs. 

YN: Attachments: 2 images

YN: Wanted to hear your reaction, but you can tell me when you’re up ig.

YN: Night, loser :P 

Butterflies, sudden and bright—teenaged. Foolish. Tucked under the notification, the photos dare him to look. His curiosity clicks it, and the first picture fills the screen, yanking his breath from his lungs. 

Most of your face is cut off, showing only your lips—pouty and glossy and pretty. Pulling at him in a way he’s not quite equipped to name. This would be enough for him, an innocent selfie, you and those pretty eyes, that smile. More than enough—pulse quickening just thinking about it. His gaze lingers on your lips, stuck for a while. Then, unintentionally, his eyes flick lower. Hair fanned over your pillow, breasts peeking out from under black lace. Fuck. A sight he’s seen a million times, but somehow, each time feels like the first. Jake gulps. Holy shit. He ignores the throbbing in his pants, how much tighter they are—he won’t give in. No matter how badly he’s craving it. He’s stronger than that. With his eyes, he traces your lips. Ogles until his screen dims, locking the picture away again.

Picture two. Fuck. You on your stomach, grainy in your webcam. Arched back, black lace panties over your hips. Fuck. The lingerie, the shape of your body.. Seeing you like this, so perfect and all for him—it’s taking every last shred of his self-control not to get in his car and rush over to you. Want, need, tugs at him. A tether he can’t break. His phone locks. 

Enough is enough. He drags his feet all the way back to the shower, oppressive cold water hitting him. Doing absolutely nothing for his revolting need. This isn’t working—not the water, not the attempt at self-control. Not when he’s already hard and aching against his stomach. Soft breasts. Round ass. Wet—his hand moves instinctively, forehead resting on the cool tiles. He closes his eyes, your body clear in the dark. Full lips. Arched back. He’s breathless when he finishes, head bowed as heat coils low in his stomach. The water carries his release away. Nose crinkled as it swirls around the drain, cringing at the sight—guilt, shame curling around him.

Again, he dries off, pulls on clean pyjamas, and drags his feet to bed. On his side, he closes his eyes, your body like a brand behind his eyelids, thoughts filling the quiet in his room. Exhaustion however, is its own kind of mercy, and eventually, pulls him under.

Everything is sharper in the morning, clear in the cool light of the college campus. Bare branches cast shifting shadows over stone paths, breeze stealing the sun’s warmth. The weight of his dreamless sleep clings to him, stalks him through the courtyard on his quest to find Jeno—until he sees you and stops in his tracks. Phone in hand, lip between teeth, standing by the library doors. You aren’t doing anything special, frowning at your screen, but Jake’s heart rate spikes anyway, cheeks heating against the cold. He blinks, taking you in. Hair billowing around you, sunlight caught in its edges. Affection bubbles under his skin, tugs him towards you before he knows it, his arm falling over your shoulder.

You flinch, glancing up, startled. Recognition narrows your wide eyes. “Ugh, let go of me, you asshole,” you say, freeing yourself. 

Surrendering, Jake steps back, hands raised. “Me, asshole?” He points at himself, feigning offence. “What did I do?”

A frustrated laugh. “Are you serious?” Pressing your cute palm to his chest, you shove him. Not hard, but enough to make him lose his balance, rocking a little. “Yes, you, asshole.” 

He doesn’t speak. 

You scoff, blank faced, like you don’t care, like you didn’t just shove him. “I sent you those photos, and you ignored me.” Stoic. Detached. 

Those photos. Even in reference, they work him up. Too vivid—mainly because he took another look when he woke up. He had to turn off his phone to stop, shoving it into the bottom of his backpack. He didn’t feel guilty about it then, but good grief, he feels like shit now. Shame burning his nape, creeping over his shoulders. At least he isn’t thinking about that Bible verse anymore. Lustful intent. With her. He wasn’t thinking about it. He tenses, sighing. 

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” 

“You were.” Your voice is quiet—vulnerability inching through your cool exterior. “At least turn your read receipts off if you’re going to pretend you didn’t see them.” Your arms drop stiffly. 

A hesitant step towards you, gaze searching yours. “Hey.” Soft, whispered almost. “I wasn’t trying to ignore you.”

On-campus commotion scores the quiet between you — overlapping conversation, bike bells ringing — and you inspect him before you speak. “Right. So you saw the photos and came so hard you passed out?”

Jake licks his lips, embarrassed. Wonders briefly if he’s been so transparent about your effect on him, that you’ve quite accurately hit the nail on the head—even in jest. “Something like that.” At this, you scoff, shoving him again—lighter. He chuckles, breathy and relieved. “Sorry,” he says sincerely. “I really am sorry. I loved the photos, seriously. You know I did.” 

Finally, you sigh, a reluctant smile twitching at your lips. “Whatever, asshole,” you say, voice a cute mumble with no real bite.

“How about I make it up to you tonight? Show you my reaction in person?” 

“You’re not even free tonight,” you point out. 

Shit. You’re right—he has a group project to work on. He should do the sensible thing and say no. “For you, I can be,” he says instead. He’ll figure it out. 

“Shut up.” A grin stretches over your lips, and relief washes over him. Finally, a good answer where you’re concerned—until your face tilts into shock. Opening your bag, you bring out a tub. “Don’t overreact, but I made you something,” you tell him, voice lighter as you pull off the lid, pushing foil out of the way. “I know you prefer milk chocolate, but.. it’s White Day, so I just thought—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve done something nice for Jake, this isn’t even the first time you’ve made him something, but it feels different—the way everything to do with you feels different now. He stares into the container for a second, suspecting he’ll wake up in bed if he blinks, so he tries not to. Eyes drying, hurting—nothing changes when he succumbs. 

As far as he knows, you haven’t baked anything since your shared high school Home Economics class. He chose it to soften the blow of his STEM-heavy course load, you chose it because he did—getting all the way to lesson three before switching for Music. Scones were the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. His weren’t perfect, he’ll admit it — softer than he’d have liked — but yours? Yours came out of the oven soggy and burnt all at once. 

And now, here you are, handing him cookies you made. Edible-looking cookies. For White Day. For Jake. How is it White Day already? One whole month since you first made out with him on Jeong Jaehyun’s birthday—one whole month since you took him home and had your way with him. 

He tears his eyes from the cookies to look at you again. You’re smiling, eyes wide, sparkling, and Jake has to remind himself to breathe. “Thank you.” Fondness flares against his ribs, too big to contain. He swallows hard, blinking too fast. “You—” His voice comes out faint, clearing his throat doesn’t help. “You didn’t have to.” 

“I know..” You trail off. “I originally wanted to kill two birds with one stone and bake you a pie, but.. that was a little out of my depth.” 

“A pie?” 

“You know, March Fourteenth.. Three point one-four.. Pi day.” You tilt your head. “I’m surprised you forgot about that, maybe you’re not as much of a nerd as I thought.”

“I’m surprised you know about that.” 

“You’re the one who told me.” Closing the container, you hand it over to him, fingers brushing his for long enough that he loses his train of thought. You’re smiling fondly, completely stealing his attention until, suddenly, a pair of hands clap down on his shoulders, making him flinch. 

“I’ve been looking for you, dude. We need to go,” Jeno says, his grip firm, already steering Jake away.

Your name sounds weird coming from Jeno’s mouth when he greets you. Too bright, too happy. Jake can picture his shit-eating, Samoyed-esque grin, those cute smiling eyes—never so uncharming as they are right now. Not only has Jeno interrupted, he’s towering over Jake like he’s trying to prove a point, like being taller than 180 cm means anything to anyone. And you, tiny smile, soft wave—are you.. shy? 

There’s a pang in his chest he can’t quite name. A protective instinct, maybe. Jealousy? He sighs. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

You nod, eyes warm, fixed on Jake, and it’s enough to anchor him even as Jeno shoves him to class.

The moment Jake slides into his seat, he fishes his phone from his bag, turning it on. A message from you tops his notifications. Come over after class and make it up to me? A smirk curls his lips as he reads it, shaking his head a little as he reacts with a thumbs-up. The heat in his cheeks lingers longer than he’d like, even as his lecturer arrives and hands out the register. 

Why Jake signed up for a residential architecture module, he has no real idea, but he met Jeno in this class, and he’ll take whatever wins he can get. Jeno likes architecture. Loves it—more than anyone else Jake knows. He designs structures in his free time, uses words like façade and fenestration when he catches Jake playing The Sims in class, and has a strong stance on panelised vs volumetric construction. 

Jeno goes to Building Design and Technology to learn, and Jake goes so he can sign his name on the register and get marks for attendance. 

Time slogs on, an endless mass, numbers added to the clock as his leg bounces under the desk. Thoughts of you consume him. After it happened, Jake thought often about that first night you shared—this one-off miracle. Five loaves and two fish. Lazarus resurrected. Never to happen again, but it did. And it has, so many times now that his memories are starting to bleed into each other. Details lost to frequency. Yet that night, those firsts — the softness of your lips on his, the birthmark on your right hip — always come back to him with such clarity, that he is, again, shocked to realise it’s been a month. 

A bigger, more jagged thing haunts him too, cleaves through the sweetness—the way you acted the morning after. He woke up to you walking into your room, wrapped up in a towel and whatever you were typing on your phone. Hair damp, skin dewy. Jake still wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t dreamt the whole thing. You didn’t even glance at him until he cleared his throat.

“Are you hungry? I’m not really in a cooking mood, but I can order something for you. Or we could go to Samantha’s?” you suggested, voice remarkably clear, loud in the Saturday morning quiet. 

Jake blinked, staring like you’d spoken another language—though the idea of a breakfast roll from your favourite spot was tempting. “Yeah. Cool. Sure. Whatever’s easiest.” And as if stumbling over his words wasn’t enough, his voice cracked.

You frowned like he was the one acting weird. “You okay, Jakey?”

A drop of water slipped down your cheek slowly, the way your sweat had last night. He sits up suddenly, tugging the duvet over his chest, oddly vulnerable in this position. “Yeah. Sure..” He hesitated, twisting the fabric around his finger. “Do you maybe.. want to talk?”

“Talk?” You tilted your head, brows furrowed. “About..”

Ungraceful silence trampled over you both as Jake racked his brain for something to say. “It’s just.. Last night, before.. You said you wanted to talk about something,” he said eventually. 

“Hmm..” You sighed, thinking for a while before shrugging. “If it was important, I’ll remember.” 

It was all your idea—to kiss, to invite him upstairs after he walked you home, to.. well. You know. It felt like something, like all those years of quietly pining after you hadn’t been for nothing. A real breakthrough, finally. But there you were, acting like… whatever that was. 

When you got to Samantha’s, you let him pay for your roll and scone, and joked with him as usual while he drove you to your workout class as if you hadn’t been begging him to dick you down five hours prior. All while Jake was still there, stuck in the moment, replaying the feeling of your lips and your soft skin. In his car, parked outside your gym, you leaned over the centre console and kissed him, soft and fleeting. 

“See you, Jakey!” you said, voice bright as you got out of the car and waved goodbye. 

Sometimes, if he thinks hard enough, he can feel those first curious touches again, see the look in your eyes before you leant up to kiss him. And the butterflies in his stomach tangle, vicious flapping that scrapes his insides. Arguably, the worst of it all — the glaring detail he always fixates on — is that you were both completely sober. You didn’t want to feel like shit at Pilates in the morning; he was still recovering from his antics the night before. No distractions, no excuses, just you two.

Jeno calls out an answer, voice tugging Jake back into the present. Heat creeps up his neck as all eyes shift in their direction, and he sinks lower in his seat, hoping his laptop screen is enough to hide behind. He glances at his calendar widget, immediately reminded that he has to finish his part of his group research paper—a task he has to get done before he leaves for his away game tomorrow afternoon. A task he has to get done now if he wants to see you tonight. 

All it takes is a few focused minutes, a couple quick messages to his group, and he’s sharing the finished document before class is over. So when his lecturer finally dismisses everyone, instead of heading to the library to go over the lesson, he finds himself here—on your doorstep, hands in pockets, pulse thudding in his ears. It’s not like he was running or anything, just walking with purpose, that’s all.

Seeing you does nothing for his breathlessness. You’re wearing one of his hoodies — when did you take that? — neckline slightly askew, showing part of your shoulder. It’s a little too big for you, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs and for more than a second, Jake tries not say, aww, out loud. 

A grin stretches over his lips. “Hey, gorgeous.” 

You cross your arms over your chest, squaring your shoulders, eyes cut in a way that screams, I’m mad at you, but not really. It’s a new dynamic that he’s still getting used to: your feigned disinterest, his irresistible charm. Your lips twitch, a short, reluctant laugh slipping out, and you roll your eyes like he’s inconvenienced you.

A split second passes before you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him close. He hugs you tighter than he should, savouring the smell of his detergent on you.

“Can’t stay mad at me for too long, huh?”

“Get off of me,” you mutter, face pressed into his chest, grip on him tightening.

Eventually, you let him in, smiling as he takes off his shoes by the door. He follows you, your footsteps soft and familiar against the carpet. Sweetness lingers in the air, and when you reach the kitchen, his eyes land immediately on the containers stacked on the counter—both crammed full of cookies.

“Wow.” He brings a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “And here I thought you made those just for me.” 

You sigh, barely meeting his gaze as you approach the counter. “You’re so dramatic,” you murmur, the words almost lost under your breath. Opening the container, you tip it towards him. “Ever heard of a test batch?”

Laid out in shades of golden brown and charred black are your several attempts. Some are burnt at the edges, others rock-solid or collapsed into thin, brittle discs. Misshapen, imperfect—each a testament to your determination. His stomach flips, a pang of affection he tries not to wear too openly. 

“I didn’t feel right about wasting them, so Jimin and I are going to be big, brave girls and eat them,” you explain. “This isn’t even all of them; she took some to Aeri’s this morning.” 

“Oh,” Jake says with a slow nod, taking it all in. He takes one from the top—Communion wafer-thin, square. “See, this makes sense.” It crunches between his teeth, too crispy, but not bad. Honestly, he likes it, chewing with a smile as the sweetness hits all the same. 

When he reaches for another, your hand swats his away, fingers firm but not unkind. “I made you twenty perfect cookies and you want to eat these?”

He shrugs, smiling down at you. “What? I’m not allowed to be a big, brave girl too?”

Your expression falters, the teasing edge giving way to something softer, warmer. You look at him for just a beat too long, and then your fingers are brushing the hair from his face. Your smile is a quiet, private curve on your lips. “You’re the biggest, bravest girl I know.” 

Jake isn’t sure why, but the words settle nicely in his chest. 

Before long, you’re standing side by side at the stove watching a pot of ramen simmer quietly, steam curling into the air. In an effort to avoid extra dishes, you snap apart two pairs of disposable chopsticks for the two of you to use—as if you ever have to worry about doing dishes when he’s here. He blames the steam from the pot for the warmth spreading all over him, eating bite after bite of spicy ramen. Gossip Girl plays on your laptop, your eyes glued to the screen as its glow dances over your face. He can’t ignore the fuzziness taking over him as you share your dinner straight from the pot, chopsticks and hands bumping occasionally. 

Jake washes the pot in the sink. Gentle clink of steel on steel, soft murmur of running water, you in the doorway, eyes on him. He is overwhelmed by how domestic, how easy this is—and how desperately he wishes he could stay in this moment forever. 

With his hands dry, he follows you to your room, neck flushing under his collar as he shuts the door. Leaning against it, he watches you sink into the mattress, setting up your laptop. Chuckling, you pat the empty spot on the bed. “I don’t bite, Jakey.” 

Jake knows now, from experience, that you absolutely bite, so your reassurance only concerns him. But still, like the big, brave girl he is, he crosses the room and sits on the bed, leaving a respectful, Jesus-approved distance between you. The newness of this, its fragility, throws him off. Not too long ago, you were fighting men off with a stick. In fact, Jake was half-convinced you’d leave Jaehyun’s party with Na Jaemin. A guy you haven’t said anything about since pre-friends-with-benefitsgate—an observation he finds only mildly relieving. He’s too busy thinking about what it means, if anything, to relax into the fact that you’re with him now. 

If whatever you two are doing can be considered ‘with’ each other. 

Sharing a pot of ramen and watching Gossip Girl is easy enough though. Familiar. The two of you wouldn’t have made it to the middle of season four if he wasn’t enjoying it. Like this, far enough apart for an extra person to sit between you, two whole episodes start and finish with neither of you reaching out to touch the other. Jake would like to think — on his part — it’s only proof of his master level self-control, wanting you so desperately but holding back. Proving to himself, to you that this isn’t just about sex or whatever else for him. That Jake can behave and make rational decisions when it comes to you. 

And maybe, if this was a different Friday, in a different week, or Sunghoon hadn’t shown him that verse, he might have believed that. But Sunghoon had shown him that verse, and Jake is thinking a bit too much about his right hand, and the sinning, the cutting off and throwing away of the whole thing. About Hell and the suffocating weight of one decision—an all-consuming decision, worth his potential damnation.

On your part, he has no clue what the hold up is, seeing as this is the first time you’ve made it through a Gossip Girl blast without starting something, never mind watching a full episode. By now, your hand would normally have found its way into his pants, or your lips to his neck. But there you sit, unmoving, focused as ever, like on your tenth rewatch you still care about whether Blair or Dan gets the internship at W Magazine. 

As if you can read his mind, or the part of it that you occupy, you reach into his underwear and take a hold of his dick. You go through all the familiar motions — twisting your wrist while you stroke it, thumb over his tip when you reach it — and Jake, as always, eats it up, melting like wax in your fist. He is only mildly humiliated by how much you get to him, how quickly he loses his shit when it comes to you, shuddering and whining, hips bucking in a matter of strokes. And then, you stop—hand slipping away like nothing happened, like he’s not hard as a rock in his pants, precum staining his underwear because of you.

Jake — fighting for breath — can only stare at you, watching you ignore him for the show instead. A few minutes pass like this until you sigh, hitting pause with a dramatic motion. “What are you looking at?”

“You.” 

At this, you roll your eyes, but Jake grabs your wrist. Somehow, he’s only now appreciating you in his hoodie. Admiring how it sits on you—sleeves too long, fit too baggy. Historically, Jake’s generally emaciated look hasn’t really lended itself to seeing you, or anyone else, in his clothes, so it’s tripping him out how much he likes it. The way the fabric pools around you, covering your body completely. 

“Ugh,” you mutter, trying and failing to hide a smile. “Quit looking at me like that.” He’s not sure why you insist on playing this game, on why you make it seem like you’re doing him a favour when you want him just as much as he wants you—but he won’t pretend he doesn’t like working for it, like it’s not that much better when you cave. 

“Like what?” he asks, playing along in a soft voice. 

“All horny and.. weird.” 

Jake laughs. “You think I look weird?”

“A little.” You shrug. 

“Shit,” he mutters. “You’re not into that? I thought my off-putting nature was part of my charm.”

This makes you smile, leaning in without closing the gap. Instead, you tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear, your touch making his stomach flip. He can’t take it any longer, being so close and doing nothing about it, so he wraps his fingers around your wrist to hold you there, and closes the gap himself. It’s everything—it’s always everything. The warmth of your lips against his, the way you hold him, like it’s more than just a kiss for you too. 

There’s nothing he likes more than this. 

Biting down on his bottom lip, you pull away a little. “Is this part of your grand plan to make it up to me?” 

Jake hums, dick throbbing in his pants. “Yeah, baby.” He nods, still attached to your mouth. “Been thinking about it all day.”

“It’s working.” 

A breathless laugh—amused, turned on, taken aback. He pulls away, patting his lap and you don’t hesitate to straddle him, sparks between your bodies. Palms on your hips, fingers grazing the soft fabric of your yoga pants. A stir in his chest—heart hammering when he looks at you, breathless. Thank you, God, he thinks, sincerely. I needed this. His gratitude tangles quickly with guilt, uncertainty. Am I doing the right thi—your hand rests on his, snaps him out of it. Eyes soft, lips parted, want written all over your face. So beautiful, and so different from the resting frustrated face you seem to wear whenever he’s around—which he won’t pretend to dislike. 

“Wanted to come over here and see you last night.”

Sheepishly, you twist the cuff of your sleeve between your fingers. A stark change from your usual behaviour, rarely reserved about anything — at least not with him — and so mouthy until he gets his hands on you. “I wish you did,” you mumble, looking away.

“I should’ve, baby, but I’m here now,” he says softly.

Another kiss—deeper, slower. An act of restitution — one of many to come — the way his tongue moves against yours, eager to keep to his word. He reaches for the curve of your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh under your hoodie. The swell of your breast against his palm, cool zipper brushing his knuckles. He tugs on it just enough for you to smile against his lips. 

“Can I take this off?” 

You nod, clearly flustered, worked up already. 

Pulling at the zipper, he savours every inch of skin that comes into view. A shaky inhale seeing your bra—the same one from the pictures, having the exact same effect. Holy shit. Lace under his fingers, touching it as gently as he can manage like it’s sacred, because to him it is. He can’t look away, gaze fixed, reverent. Holy shit. Jake clears his throat, mouth suddenly dry, like he’s seeing you for the first time. The pictures don’t do you justice, not even close. And he loves the pictures. 

You’re watching with lidded eyes, and swollen lips. He cups your cheek. “My pretty girl. So gorgeous,” he says, though it doesn’t seem enough. With two languages to choose from, Jake should have the words. But he doesn’t. Not for this—for you. 

Heat diffuses beneath his hand, coating your cheek as you turn into his touch, hiding your face. Smiling lips pressing a muffled word into his palm. “And?”

“And I’m sorry about last night.” 

You raise an intrigued brow, no longer hiding. “And?” 

“I’m an idiot.” 

A grin, a glorious grin as you nod. “I just wanted you to say it wouldn’t happen again, but this is way better.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “I’m a big idiot, and you’re the smartest girl I know. It’s not going to happen again, I promise.” 

Sudden betrayal in your squinted eyes, clutching your hoodie over your chest, his palm trapped against the cup of your bra—he almost thanks you. Deeply unimpressed, you scoff. “You know other girls?”

Charmed, Jake smiles, freeing his hand. “Don’t worry, baby. None of them make me as nervous as you.” A kiss before you can respond, pulling your chest flush with his. You hum against his lips, whimpering when he rolls his hips into yours. Hands on your back, quickly unclasping your bra. He nips at the spot below your ear, making you shiver. “And none of them get me this hard either.”

“I know,” you say simply, but your breathlessness undercuts your confidence, and steals his patience. 

Taking your hoodie and bra off, he guides you onto your back, settling between your spread thighs like it’s where he belongs. At a loss for words, he squeezes your hip, eyes catching on every part of you. Hard nipples, soft plane of your stomach—nothing about you he doesn’t love. Jake gulps, awestruck, always awestruck. Overwhelmed by the weight of how much he wants this. Wants you. 

“So perfect, baby,” he whispers, finally. “So, so perfect.” 

A smile tugs at your lips, hands coming up to cover your face. “Shut up,” you grumble. 

Huffed laughter slips out of him, endeared. Aching slightly, wondering if you don’t know you’re the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen. He tugs your hands away, holding them in his, lips brushing your knuckles before he leans in and pecks yours.  

Slow, desperate kisses along the curve of your jaw, trailing the length of your neck to your shoulder. He lingers, sucking pretty love bites onto your collarbone, soothing the skin with his tongue after. A shudder, as you pull his hair, whimpering under him. He could stay like this all day, forever if you let him. Lips on your nipple, finally, licking, biting. 

Your moan is instant, pulled from somewhere deep, and he groans at the sound, tongue flicking just to hear it again. “Jake,” you say, breathless. Even better. “Jake, please.”

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he says, nosing between your breasts, the warm skin there heady, dizzying. 

“Want your mouth—can’t wait any longer.”

His dick twitches as he lifts his head. Takes you in—your pouty lips, ruffled hair, sweat beading on your skin. Jake is not going to come in his pants again because of you. No matter how much it feels like he is. That won’t happen. It can’t. He’s an adult man with self-control. He tells himself these things over and over, willing them to be true, even though he knows better.

Jake leans up, pressing a kiss to your lips. He can’t get enough. “I’m not going to make you wait,” he says—a blatant lie. He has every intention to make you wait, at least a little. 

His fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear, slipping beneath, eyes wide when he feels the heat of you. Fuck. You take his middle finger easily, pulling him in, clenching around it, and the choked sob you let out sends a sharp spike of need along his spine. He lets his thumb brush your clit, slow, deliberate. You’re too worked up to focus on kissing now, squirming underneath him, nails digging into his forearm. His lips trail your throat again, more marks, his own breath coming faster, a little unsteady—almost as wrecked as you. 

“I feel like—” You pause, mouth falling open to let out a harsh exhale. “I’ve been waiting for a while, baby, need it.” 

For reasons he doesn’t fully understand, there’s just something about hearing that word. Baby. So rare from you, uttered only at your most vulnerable, that always undoes him. Has him acting at your beck and call without a second thought—so it can’t come as a surprise when he tears your pants off, presses his lips to your core, and groans hungrily, breathing you in. 

There’s a certain reverence to it all, he can’t help it—it just comes naturally with you, a need to please you, worship you. His arms wrap around your thighs, keeping you in place, savouring the soft whine you let out when his nose brushes your clit. 

Fuck. 

He likes this a lot more than kissing. Likes the way you moan and cry out his name, the way you tug his hair, and crush his head between your soft thighs. Loves the way you fall apart on his tongue, and the way you taste. The wet look in your big eyes — chest heaving, breath ripped out of you — after he licks you clean.

The tension lingers, sweet and heavy, pressing in on Jake from all angles when he finally pulls away, leaving a kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back on his heels. He watches you, sinking into the sheets—lashes fluttering, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. Spent and glowing as you look at him. Jake pulls off his shirt, cool air pulling goosebumps along his skin. A deep breath, a few deep breaths. You ask in a quiet voice if you can wear it. He nods, hands moving instinctively, fingers brushing your skin as he helps you put it on.

“Did so good for me, baby. Didn’t you?” he asks, pulling you into his arms, hand stroking your back. 

You lift your head from his chest, a dreamy look in your eyes when you look up at him. “Does that surprise you, Jakey?” 

His breath hitches, heat spreading on his cheeks and neck. He doesn’t have the upper hand with you, not at all. But he does have the option to kiss you instead of answering so he does that. Kissing you until you say, one minute, against his lips, and leave the room.

Soft warmth settles in Jake’s chest as he heads to the kitchen, smiling. All of this, these moments after sex, makes his heart race. Makes him want to get on his hands and knees and beg you to love him back—though he would settle for like. This routine, this quiet afterwards might honestly be his favourite part of it all. The two of you, inhabiting this tiny world you’ve carved out together—big enough for you and him only. The flat to yourselves. Your head on his chest. You even asked to wear his shirt! These moments when the thought of being your boyfriend doesn’t seem so out of reach. When he feels like he is your boyfriend. 

He can’t stop smiling. 

At the sink, he washes his hands before pouring you a glass of water, and when you step out of the bathroom, he’s already there, leaning against the wall. He melts at the sight of you—barefoot and sleepy-eyed, a smile on your face. His favourite sight in the whole world. He can’t believe his blessings, that you would want him — even if only for sex — and each day he spends with you makes it harder for him not to test how far he can push it. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says, handing you the glass. “You feeling okay?” 

You hum in response, thanking him. Your fingers slip around his, warm and delicate, and he has to remind himself to breathe as you lead him back to your room. Jake’s eyes are glued to you, addicted to the way you fill out his shirt. It’s senseless—how a piece of his own clothing, something so familiar, suddenly looks brand new just because you’re the one wearing it. Looks better. Nipples nudging the soft cotton, hips curving out into the hem, ass hanging out of it. He lies down on the bed, watching you, each movement entrancing him. His heart stills in his chest when you tie your hair back, shirt riding up enough to show off the lace of your underwear. It’s too much. It’s perfect. He clasps his hands in his lap, trying and failing to cover the effect you have on him. 

You get into bed, body molding to his like a second skin. Head on his chest, ear pressed over his heart—hearing it thud, no doubt. Jake wraps his arm around you, fingers splaying over your back, holding you close. He exhales slowly, wondering how much longer he can lay here like this, with you, before he overstays his welcome. He’s made good on his promise, done what you invited him here to do, and it’s not late enough that you’d object to him leaving at this time. Your breath is a steady lull on his skin. Asleep, probably. But then—your hand trails on his stomach, fingers resting on his waistband, and he can’t help feeling a bit bad. 

He knows better than to think anyone could make you do something you didn’t want to do—but has no idea if that includes him, too. Novelty long gone. Your curiosity sufficiently sated, while he kills himself trying to pretend he’s fine being just a friend to you again. This is hardly a perfect arrangement, but Jake feels nice sometimes, worthy and handsome, knowing you want him too—even if it’s only sex. It’s really good sex. 

As if you can hear his brain thinking his arousal away, you reach into his underwear. All of his blood rushes south, your soft palm wrapping around him. His mouth opens, then shuts. He wants you, he always will, and it’s all he can do to pray that won’t cost him this friendship—or you. 

Jake clears his throat, shakes his head. “You don’t have to.”

“I know, Jakey. I want to.”

He kisses the top of your head with a soft, contented sigh, fingers curling around the back of your shirt. Eyelids fluttering shut. It’s good, more than—leagues better than when he does it himself. Perfect. A shiver runs through him when you kiss his stomach, leaving a mark on the ticklish skin. He wants to look, really wants to, but he doesn’t want to come yet. Your lips brush his belly button and the hair underneath. A mumble of his name into his skin that he hears, feels, but can’t address.

“Jake,” you say again, leaning off of him. 

He hums, eyes snapping open when you whisper in his ear, “Do you want to stay over?” 

A nod. “Yeah, baby. I’ll stay over.” The words spill out of him with no consideration for the long day he has ahead. 

You pull his earlobe between your lips, nipping gently, a jolt down his spine. “Good boy.”

The praise makes him throb in your hand. Fuck, he thinks. Absolutely none of these words are in the Bible. 

Jake wakes up in an empty bed, your door ajar. It’s only eight — too early to rush — and he stretches out his arms, twisting against the mattress. Fifteen lonely minutes go by without you, and so he gets up, dragging his feet through the apartment.  

You’re in the kitchen, speaking in a hushed voice to Jimin—who seems to forget about the whole whispering thing for long enough that her voice rings through the hall when she says, “You need to get a grip before you get hurt!”

Sensing him, you whip your head towards the doorway, spotting Jake where he stands. Jimin wears a too-tight smile as he approaches. “Nervous about the game?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Great! Listen, I have to run, but good luck out there!” she says, patting his shoulder before leaving the room in a cloud of jasmine. 

Chewing your lip, you follow her out with your eyes, blinking when the door clicks shut behind her. Jake shifts his weight between his feet, tensing his abs on instinct when your gaze trails over him. You don’t comment, but you linger before looking away. For a second, something unreadable passes over your face—gone as soon as you speak. “Do you want something to eat?” you ask, smiling, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “We need to do a food shop, but I can make you some..” You trail off, pulling the fridge open. “Greek yoghurt with blueberries.”

“Is everything alright?” 

You nod, not meeting his gaze. “Jimin just thinks I’m stretching myself a bit thin.” You huff a small laugh, trying to downplay it, but your shoulders stay tense. Pulling out the punnet, you frown at it. “Greek yoghurt on its own?” you suggest, throwing the blueberries into the bin. 

Jake shakes his head, a small, appreciative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I need to go soon, I still haven’t packed.” He fiddles with the drawstring on his pants, eyes lingering on you. Still so beautiful with a crease between your brows—he wants to reach out, smooth it over with his thumb. “Are you going to be alright by yourself?” It’s a bit of a useless question, he knows what you’re going to say. Knows you would tell him you were fine even if your arm was hanging off. You know it too, if the arch of your brow is anything to go by. 

A chuckle. “Don’t worry about it, Superstar—you have a game to play.” 

Jake hesitates, wondering if he should argue or just accept it. You’ll be fine. You always are. But something about leaving feels harder this time. Feels wrong. “You’re more important to me than a college football game.” 

In theory, it’s true. 

In practice, he’s not going to skip his game, not unless you ask him to—which you won’t. His football career is running on a clock that will only tick for two more terms after the summer. In his email, a timetable awaits, outlining all of his games for his last season. It’s provisional, for now, but bears weight regardless. He can’t afford to miss a game right now, but he’s a little shaken by the feeling that he can’t afford to leave you either.

You smile, a barely there curve of your lips as you close the fridge. Taking his hand in yours, you give it a squeeze, a steady reassurance. “Honestly, Jake. I’ll be alright. And if I’m not, I’ll still be here when you get back. So go.”

For someone so desperate to get rid of him, you’re having a hard time parting with his hoodie. He doesn’t want it back, but he needs something to wear to the car. It’s only fair, he showed up in only his t-shirt after all—his t-shirt that you’re still wearing and seem reluctant to return. You pull it close to your body like it’s yours now. 

“It’s two degrees out,” he reminds you. “Do you want me shirtless in that?” 

A sick and twisted silence passes, long enough to convince Jake you’re actually going to say yes. He watches your gaze flick downwards, want for him so clear that his dick twitches. Dragging your fingernail over the dip in his abs, your touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake. 

He’s thankful for the discipline he’s developed in the new year—consistently following Sunghoon to the gym, eating unseasoned chicken breast and three eggs at breakfast because Sunghoon does, because Sunghoon is.. a lot. Wide shoulders, solid frame. Built like God put him on Earth to look good shirtless, and Jake—well. He eats the chicken. He lifts the weights. He does his best.

“No, not really,” you say, frowning as you shove the hoodie into his arms. 

Jake smiles, glad you didn’t take too long to come around. He puts it on, zipping it slowly. Eyes on you the whole time, and when his abs disappear beneath the fabric, you sigh. His lips twitch, pleased.

At your front door, he hugs you—contemplates never letting go. The scent of coconut drifts up from your hair, and it tugs at something deep in his chest. His fingers tighten, pressing into your waist. He frowns. He shouldn’t miss you—not this much, not for one night. A night where, realistically, he wouldn’t see you even if he stayed home. But no amount of logic or reason is enough to make him feel better.

“I wish you were coming with me,” he says, mumbling into your collarbone. 

You lean back a little, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. For a second, a desperate, fleeting second, he thinks that maybe you’ll say, fuck it, and come along, that you might see the appeal of sneaking around a four-star hotel with him. He can picture it already—matching fluffy robes, doing your skincare routine together at the end of the night, sharing a twin bed while Jay Park snores in the other one. 

Instead, you look up at him with a smile that turns his knees to mush. “Not my fault you suck at planning, Jakey.”

He groans, tips his head back, feigning exhaustion. “Right, because everything is my fault, and I’m the villain in your story. I get it.” 

You roll your eyes. “Get out of my apartment,” you say, but your grip doesn’t ease.

Jake exhales a laugh, but he doesn’t move either. Just stands there, holding you, memorising this like he’s shipping off to war—your hands on his skin, your vanilla scent under his nose. “Without a kiss?” His voice comes out quiet, hopeful—half teasing, half not. He’s stalling, trying to buy another second. Maybe two. 

You push at his chest a little. “Out, Jake.” But you’re smiling and he feels your fingers tighten just a fraction before they let go. 

Jake only smiles, his arms locked around you. He dips his head, pressing a kiss to your temple, and his voice is soft when he says, “I’ll text you when we get there.”

A sigh slips out of you, feigning annoyance, but the brush of your fingers down his arm gives you away. “Yeah, yeah. See you later.” 

He grins. “You’ll miss me.” 

A beat passes before you speak, just long enough for Jake’s smile to falter as he watches you. You pout, hand on his cheek, thumb moving tenderly over his skin. “No,” you say, shaking your head. “But you’ll miss me.” 

“I already do.” He’s not lying. 

Jake doesn’t kiss you before he leaves, which is okay. He tells himself it’s okay. But regrets it the whole drive home, drumming his fingers against the wheel as if he can tap the thought away. He regrets it while he stuffs his kit and toiletries into a duffle bag. And he regrets it on the bus, staring out at the passing motorway, the new Beabadoobee album blaring in his headphones. He’s so consumed by his regret that he doesn’t even have it in him to pretend he’s annoyed when Jay falls asleep with his head on his shoulder. 

Not for lack of trying, Jake doesn’t sleep, and as it turns out, the protein bar he found in his backpack earlier is not enough sustenance for a three-hour journey. The bus rumbles on, road stretching out endlessly through the windscreen when he takes a look. He sighs, cracking his knuckles and willing himself to stop thinking about you. This doesn’t work either, and he’s typing out a text to you before he realises. 

Jake: I hope you’re feeling better ❤���

Jake: I’ll see you soon, okay?

You reply with a picture of yourself in bed—glasses on, a book in your lap, lips curved into a soft, easy smile that makes something in his chest tighten. He stares for too long, caught up in the details. Gentle slope of your nose, loose strands of hair framing your face, dark love bites peeking out from under the collar of your shirt. His stomach flips, a giddy laugh slipping out. He wishes he could do something, turn the bus around, and go see that pretty face in person.

YN: All good, Jakey !!! Just needed to shower apparently.. 

Jake: My gorgeous girl :)

Jake: You did smell kinda weird when I hugged you 

YN: ???

YN: Don’t even joke lad. 

Jake snaps a quick selfie—grinning, a little flushed, hair messy from having his hood up. In the corner, Jay is dead asleep, mouth agape, face smushed into Jake’s shoulder. He laughs quietly, sending the picture, heat flooding his cheeks when you react with heart eyes.

YN: Such a pretty boy ☹️

YN: Jay obviously

Jake: Obviously.

It’s just past two when they start filing off the bus, the sharp coastal wind biting at Jake’s cheeks. He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching against the cold. The hotel in front of them is huge—way nicer than anything they actually need. But still, it’s nice, knowing that the football budget is going to something tangible, that they enjoy. A small comfort. The younger boys he sees like brothers will be looked after when he’s gone, and that thought warms him despite the cold. Towering windows glint in the afternoon sun, the kind of place with sleek, startlingly shiny floors and crystal chandeliers that don’t make sense for a one-night stay. But he’ll take this any day over the dingy motels he remembers from first year, stained towels and plywood mattresses. 

At the front desk, Jay stands in line next to Jake with his eyes shut, as if three hours asleep on the bus weren’t enough. Jake knows better than to say anything though — after three years on the same team — he understands that Jay isn’t tired. He’s following a ritual. The Rilakkuma band-aid on his wrist is proof of that. And in case that isn’t enough, Jay doesn’t touch the key card either. He claims the bed furthest from the door, sits on the edge of the mattress, and blasts Mama, You’ve Been On My Mind—the Joan Baez and Bob Dylan live version, not the Bob Dylan studio outtake. And he listens to it twice before saying a word to Jake. Of course, because they had a single brief conversation before that first away game three years ago, their post-check-in discussions are forever based around two subjects: food, and you.

Jake: We’re here :) 

YN: Has Jay asked about me yet?

Jake: One more stream

YN: Ah, almost settled then, I see

Jake laughs at this, a small exhale from his nose as he watches you type. 

YN: If you stayed home, would he just.. not play? 

Jake: Never considered that but I’ll ask later

Jake: Kick-off at 5:30 btw

YN: Good luck 🥳🥳🥳

He reacts to the message with a heart and tosses his phone aside, pressing the heel of his hand to his empty stomach. It’s a lot, Jay’s routine, but Jake isn’t in a position to judge him too harshly. Ever since high school, he eats a bowl of brown rice, grilled chicken and vegetables before away games, like it’s a charm against failure. Because it is. Because the first time he did, he played the best game of his life, and now the thought of eating anything else makes his stomach coil. It might seem silly to believe that a bowl of rice could change the outcome of a game, but Jake has seen it first-hand and isn’t willing to risk it again.

Jay is humming, oblivious, bobbing his head slightly, and Jake can’t help the smile on his face as he watches. Music spills from his headphones—Dylan’s voice a scratch against the air, Baez’s softer, sweeter. It’s almost grating, a taste he’s yet to acquire. They don’t talk much outside of football, not really, but there’s a closeness anyway. Built from hours of drills, sharing meals after training, and rooms for away games, retreats. A sudden rush of dread hits Jake, remembering that after next year — after graduation — the two will likely never share a room again. Even more hauntingly, they may never share the pitch again. Jake shakes his head. The plight of the student athlete, he supposes.

A happy sigh comes from Jay as he takes his headphones off, standing up. He stretches his arms out over his head, turning to Jake, grinning. “Hey, buddy.” 

Jake would never admit this to him — or anyone — but he has a lot of respect for Jay. He takes training seriously, giving his all even during warm-up games, he’s got killer technique, and is (unfortunately) really nice. If Jake couldn’t make captain, he’s glad it went to Jay.

“I was talking to your girlfriend the other day.” The grin doesn’t fall from Jay’s face when he speaks, wagging his brows.

The G-word makes Jake roll his eyes—even though he likes hearing it, praying that God is listening and taking notes.

“She cornered me in the library to ask if I knew how to make a pie.”

“That sounds like her,” Jake says, smiling too.

His cheeks burn thinking about what you said yesterday—about how you’d wanted to bake him a pie. The memory jolts him. He digs through his bag without thinking, quickly finding the tinfoil abomination he made sure not to leave the house without. Jay catches it easily in his left hand when he tosses it over, eyeing it suspiciously before unwrapping it. 

“She ended up making cookies, but I guess you knew that.”

He blinks at them like they might explode. “Wait, she made these for you?” Jay tilts his head, impressed. “You might not be as hopeless as I thought.”

Giddiness overwhelms Jake as he nods. It’s weird, a bit ridiculous even, how a batch of cookies can feel like a championship win—better. He likes it though, and doesn’t try to fight his smile.

His stomach rumbles into the silence. “Do you want to come get food?” He always extends an invitation to Jay. 

“I’m good, man.”

And Jay never accepts. 

This meal is a sacred one. As soon as Coach announces the hotel, Jake pulls up Uber Eats and Google Maps on his desktop to meticulously survey the surrounding area. And if his work reaps unfavourable results, he’ll call the hotel to enquire about the microwave arrangements. And if that doesn’t work out, he calls the convenience shops nearby to ask them. 

He knows how he must seem, but before the first away game of this season, he brought his rice bowl in tupperware, had to eat it cold, and sprained his ankle on the pitch. So to say he was delighted when he found it on the menu of a local place would be an understatement—an independent Mexican restaurant with a 4.7 star rating only twenty-minutes away on foot. Perfect. His Promised Land. He applauded the monitor when he saw it.

Tres Mesas—a quaint restaurant, with three tables and a TV in the corner playing the news on mute, but damn if that wasn’t the best bowl of brown rice, grilled chicken, and pico de gallo he’s eaten in his life. The rice was fluffy, the grilled chicken tender, smoky. Even the pico de gallo was incredible—he only ordered it because he hadn’t looked at the vegetables yet, and panicked when the waitress sighed. Luckily, it’s the one component of the meal he’s willing to play fast and loose with. He can’t actually remember which vegetables he ate that first day, just that he enjoyed them. 

When he finishes eating, he gets up from his table with half a mind to go to the kitchen and ask for a photo with the chef. He settles for going to the cash machine across the road and taking out a tenner for the tip jar by the till. On the walk back to the hotel, he texts his dad a photo of the bowl, looking at it lovingly as he sings its praises via text. 

Jake: Kick-off is at 17:30 💪 will let you know how we get on, love you

On the way to the other school, again, Jay rests his head on Jake’s shoulder—whether he’s awake or not is anyone’s guess. But when Jake’s phone vibrates in his pocket, he retrieves it with as little motion as possible, just in case. 

Dad: I’m glad you enjoyed your meal. Was it hot? 😂.

Dad: You do not need luck, son. You are always wonderful. Love you. 

Jake: It was hot, dad 😭😭😭 of course, it was 

Jake: Way too soon…………..

Warm-ups go by in a blink, a blur of sweat and jump squats until Jake finds himself standing in the tunnel with everyone else. Muscles humming, heart racing. He shakes out his limbs and prays to God for a miracle. 

At church, when someone gives a testimony, they say, “God is good,” and the rest of the congregation responds in unison, “All the time.” Then, that person says, “All the time,” and in unison, the congregation says, “God is good.”

Jake doesn’t know why he finds it so grating, but week after week, he sits in his seat suppressing an eye roll while muttering the responses along with everyone else. However, when the ref blows the whistle to call full-time — scoreboard reading: HOME 0, AWAY 4 — ‘God is good’ sits on the tip of his tongue. He covers his mouth with his collar, pressing his lips together so it doesn’t slip out. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Kim Sunoo comes running up and jumps on his back, looping his arms around Jake’s neck, and he nearly topples over. The rest of the team come rushing towards them, loud and triumphant. Jay reaches them first, his eyes gleaming with pride as he ruffles Jake’s hair. Adrenaline courses through him, dulling the ache in his legs. 

And as they start to leave the pitch, heading for the locker room, he kisses his hand, points to the sky, and mouths, thank you.

People are often surprised to hear Jake admit that the best part of winning a game isn’t the roaring crowd, his coach’s praise, or even personal satisfaction. No, the best part of winning a game is laughing at the dinner table with his teammates after, and washing down a tomahawk steak — mushrooms and potatoes on the side — with a glass of champagne. And all on the university’s dollar at that. 

Winning the first away game of the spring semester was more than enough cause for celebration, and Jake — full-bellied and alcohol glazed — has been keeping an eye on his drinks all night. He glances at his empty glass, pleased with his restraint. Someone had to keep a level head, and it wasn’t going to be Jay. O Captain! Our Captain!—for whom the only thing between tipsy and shit-faced is a whiff of vodka. Maybe less. 

Turns out, Jake was worried about the wrong guy. 

Nishimura Riki, 186 cm of arms and legs, dawdles over, red in the face (and ears and neck) and stumbling. With each step, his well-consumed IPA sloshes dangerously in his glass, splashing the back of his hand when he comes to an abrupt halt. “Sunoo, move,” He starts. “Need to talk to Jake.” His voice is slow and syrupy, at least an octave higher than normal. 

Their youngest — their scrawny Goliath — only turned eighteen a few months ago, and (quite bravely) attended his first three months of college parties completely sober until then. He’s still figuring out his limits, and Jake can’t help but be endeared by this large child—if not a little alarmed. 

“Knock yourself out, kid,” Sunoo says, amused, as he stands up. He sticks around for long enough to make sure Riki doesn’t fall over trying to sit, and takes his empty seat at the other end of the table. 

This conversation he came stumbling over for is a request — delivered in a harsh whisper, hand over his mouth — to sit beside each other at the next meal. Jake flinches, too startled to respond, when Jay stands abruptly from his chair. “Get up, Riki. I’ll swap with you.” 

Childlike delight floods Riki’s flushed face, looking up at his captain like manna from the sky, and wrapping his gangly arms around him when they cross paths. Jake shares a look with Jay as he sits in front of him—equal parts amusement and concern. 

“Do you think I could finish that off for you?” Jay asks, gesturing to what’s left in Riki’s glass. 

He nods quickly, extending it. “Of course, I’ll just get ano—” 

“No!” Jake all but yells, cutting him off. “I mean, Coach is limiting us to three drinks tonight, so, no more.” A lie he deems more than necessary, a lie he wishes someone had already told.  

Riki grins, leaning in. “That’s my sixth.” A laugh, and then another bubbles out of him as he sinks into his seat, shoulders racking. This disclosure seems as surprising to Jay as it is to Jake—not at all. He is extremely lucky that his teammates like him so much. Settled, finally settled, Riki shifts, letting his bony knees dig into Jake’s thigh. “Did you see my tackle? What did you think? Am I getting better?” 

Jake nods sincerely, Riki’s been working hard — eager to prove himself so Coach won’t regret signing a first-year — and it’s paying off. “It was clean, buddy. You did great,” he says, meaning it. And Riki doesn’t try to hide his boxy grin. 

On his other side is Jungwon—head tipped back over his chair, knocked out after one mojito. Jake takes a photo, sends it to you. Lil bro can’t hang. You reply right away: AWWWWW cutie 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 how much did he drink lmao.

Jake: Mojito 

Jake: Singular

YN: 😭😭😭

Jake can’t suppress his smile, taking a selfie at a high angle and sending it to you. What about me am I cutie ?

YN: Yes, very cutie !!! You look so handsome 🤒

YN: So blushy, baby, are you also very drunk? 

Cutie. So handsome. Baby. Jake is as giddy as he is confused. All that in the span of two consecutive text messages—he can’t believe his luck, struggling to tamp down his sudden desire to buy a lottery ticket. You might even tell him you miss him if he plays his cards right. 

Jake: Sweet girl 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

Jake: Not drunk just a few glasses of champagne hehehehe

YN: So you’re drunk 😭😭😭

Jake: You can’t see but I’m rolling my eyes

YN: I believe you, Jakey 😐 put the phone down and celebrate w your friends, okay? 

YN: We can talk when you get back to your room !!!

What an exciting suggestion—talking in his room. With you. Jake stares down at his phone, in awe. Wow, he thinks. So clever. He almost wants to get up and start bragging about you like a proud parent. Oh. That is not an image he likes.  

Jake: Whatare you gonna do if I keep texting? Leave me on read?  

Yes, apparently—you read the message as soon as it sends and don’t reply. Don’t even start typing. Thirty minutes pass by before they leave the restaurant. Jungwon on Jake’s back. Riki on Jay’s. 

He was never very good at cards.

Finally in bed, light-headed and smiley after three glasses of champagne, Jake pulls up your contact and calls you. He waits, staring up at the ceiling, tapping his fingers against his phone case. The room hums softly around him. After a few rings, you answer, and he smiles at the sound of your voice. “Hey, Superstar! Congrats!” 

“Thanks, gorgeous,” he says, eyes fluttering shut. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Jimin and I are going to pres at Yizhuo’s and then the club. I actually think we’re leaving soon, but it should be good—Yizhuo hasn’t come out since Valentine’s.”

The mention of Valentine’s makes Jake’s breath hitch, fingers tightening around his phone as the memory comes rushing back—relentless. He hasn’t been out since then either, now that he thinks about it. That night. The dance floor. Your breath fanning his neck when you asked him to kiss you. 

Jake froze, caught off guard. “What?” 

“Don’t be a kid about it, Jakey,” you said in his ear. “If you don’t kiss me, Jaehyun will.” 

The thought of Jaehyun kissing you, again, while Jake was stuck at zero kisses in ten years, made him sick. Historically, he had always been unlucky when it came to you—countless games of spin the bottle spent kissing the person to your left, watching as you kissed his friends. Yet there you were, asking him to kiss you and he was hesitating. Stupid, really. Ridiculous. 

He cleared his throat, heart pounding. He’d read too many romance novels, seen too many films, to believe that you two could kiss once and it wouldn’t change everything—but he liked you, and he suspected he always had. So he asked, “You really want me to kiss you?” 

“Please,” you said, voice small, vulnerable, as if you were giving him a piece of yourself and begging him not to break it. 

Through the phone, your voice hits his ear, bringing him back. “Did you fall asleep?” You don’t sound anything like you did last month.

“No, no, I was just thinking,” he says faintly, a distracted beat passing as something crosses his mind. “Hey, what was that about with Jimin earlier?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, and he's certain that’s the end of it. “She just thinks I’m going to get hurt when you go off, and use all your new experience on someone else.” You laugh, and he can’t tell if you’re amused by the notion of getting hurt, or there being someone else. 

Jake wasn’t expecting you to tell him anything, never mind that. The thought that you, or Jimin — or anyone — could think there was someone else. That there could be someone else, hollows his chest, grinds an ugly gear in his brain. But it clears up a lot about this morning, she wasn’t being weird, she was.. warning you? His thoughts race, a million and one questions rattling in his head. 

“Are you?” Is the one he asks, not fully equipped for any of the answers you might give. 

A long quiet beat passes. “Are you?”

This feels like an opening, an opportunity for him to set some things straight. How could there ever be anyone else? To confess, maybe. You’re it for me, you’ve always been it for me. He can’t bring himself to—it doesn’t feel right to say over the phone. “If something was seriously wrong, you would tell me, right?” he says instead. At your silence, he continues. “The world won’t end if you open up to me, you know. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Of course. You’re my best friend,” you say belatedly. 

“Yeah,” he says, ignoring the ache in his chest. “Always.”

You don’t reply right away, a minute passing before you clear your throat. “I have to go, okay? But I’ll text you.”

Jake nods even though you can’t see. “Have fun tonight.” 

“Thank you, Jakey.” You hang up.

His phone vibrates with a text from you. Fit check 🤧. You’re wearing a lace tank top and a little black skirt. I’ll have a drink for you since you’re staying in! He stares at the photo—flutter in chest, heat on cheeks. His screen locks, and his reflection grins back at him, clear-eyed, flushed. Happy. Unlocking his phone, the photo stares back at him—you, so beautiful, and so far away. His thumb brushes the screen absentmindedly. Gosh, he misses you. 

Jake: You look so perfect……wish I was there 🤒

Jake: Look after yourself, cutie 

YN: Haha thanks me tooooo 

YN: Yes sir ����

He types out that he misses you but thinks better of it, clearing the message and leaving a heart-react on your response. 

“Was that your girl on the phone?” Jay asks, closing the bathroom door behind him. 

Smiling, Jake turns the phrase over in his head. My girl. Butterflies erupt just thinking about it. Another silent prayer. “It was.”

Jay only nods, taking his charger from his bag and plugging it into the wall by his bed. He takes a long sip of water from his bottle and sighs, relieved, Jake thinks. For a long time, Jay looks at him from the other end of the room, saying nothing. 

Until. “You’re a good guy, Jake,” he says, his tone a bit too serious for Jake’s liking. “And it’s fine that you like her, it’s good that you like her, but how much longer are you going to keep that to yourself?” he asks, looking at Jake like he actually wants an answer. 

Sighing, Jake pinches the bridge of his nose. “I get that you think you’re helping, but just—maybe stay out of it.”

Jay blinks, his brows twitching together for the briefest second before smoothing out. Jake hadn’t meant for it to come out so sharply. Silence stretches out over them, long and heavy, and before he can take it back, Jay exhales slowly, looking away. 

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. It’s just—” A pause. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, like he’s saying something that will cost him to admit. “Look, I’ve tried sleeping my way from friend to boyfriend, and it doesn’t work. At some point, you’re going to have to show her you care about more than just sex, and I hope, for your sake, as your friend, that you do it before it’s too late.” 

Jake stiffens, every muscle in his body tensing up. Heat spreads from his ears down the back of his neck, sharp and unforgiving. His first instinct is to argue, to say something to get on Jay’s nerves, but he relents—there’s no point in arguing over something they both know is true. 

He clears his throat, sighs deeply. “Thank you, Jay, for your unsolicited advice,” Jake says, turning around and screwing his eyes shut, willing for sleep to pull him under. 

It doesn’t. 

Jay shuffles around the room for a bit before flicking off the light. Jake wonders if he should say something, but he knows there’s no need. Grudges don’t belong in their friendship—it shows on the pitch when something’s off. So they get everything off their chests, yell at each other if they have to, and move on like it never happened. 

And yet, he feels bad for meeting Jay’s vulnerability with sarcasm. He goes over the things he could say, again and again, until he hears snoring over his shoulder.

With a sigh, Jake rolls onto his back and rubs a hand over his face. He sends a text to Sunghoon—a question he already knows the answer to: Do you think I’m fucking things up w YN? It’s only after hitting send and putting his phone under his pillow, that sleep finally overtakes him.

In the morning, he stirs before waking up, dragged from sleep by rustling fabric and soft, persistent thuds. A moment later, something light smacks him in the face, jolting him from his slumber. He squints into the morning light, a blurry shape above him. A pillow. To the face, again. When Jake’s eyes finally focus on Jay, he has the faintest idea that he’s being rewarded for something. He’s standing there, looking down at him, all tan skin and toned stomach, arms flexing as he swings the pillow again. It’s annoying, really, how effortlessly put-together he looks, and Jake forces himself to look away, covering his face with his hands. 

“Morning, princess!” 

Jake groans. “What, Jay? What is it?” he asks, sufficiently disturbed.

“They wouldn’t let me bring a plate for you, so you need to get up before breakfast is done,” Jay says, aiming another hit at Jake’s chest. 

Still trying to get his bearings, Jake slaps at the pillow and pulls the blanket over his head. Jay isn’t having it. He smacks him with what Jake suspects is all of his might. At this point, it’s hard for Jake to stay touched by the fact that Jay had wanted to fix him a plate. 

“Fine, fine!” Jake’s voice isn’t quite working yet, the words coming out in a low rumble as he sits up. “I’m going.”

“How’d you sleep?” Jay asks, hugging the pillow to his chest. 

Jake shrugs. “Pretty good. You?”

“Same.” 

Jake inspects Jay, searching for a sign that last night is still hanging over him too. But he looks.. fine—bed already made, bag packed, hair still damp from the shower. Jake knows Jay well enough to tell when something’s wrong, and there isn’t even a trace of tension on his face. No irritation, nothing at all—he’s over it. It should be a relief, but instead, it makes Jake’s heart sink.

“I have to tell you something, but you can’t make a big deal about it,” he says, stretching a little as Jay nods. “You have to promise, dude.”

Jay rolls his eyes, but extends his pinky anyway, curling it around Jake’s. “I promise.” 

Jake is struck by how still the room feels, like it’s holding its breath. Why is he doing this? Jay has already moved on, and now, because of Jake and his lack of self-regulation, they’re standing around shirtless in a hotel room, miles away from home, holding hands. It’s all very bizarre, and he is looking forward to stepping down from the top of this mountain-sized molehill he’s made.

He sighs, tired of himself. “You were right, about.. everything. And I’m sorry,” he admits. 

Jay grins, his smile smug, almost feline, in a way that entrances and confuses Jake at once. “About everything?” he asks, amusement in his tone, making Jake wonder whether he’s taking this seriously.

“Come on!” Jake says, incredulous, holding up their locked fingers.

Jay’s smile falters, and he rolls his eyes. “Oh no. I broke my promise,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I suppose you’re going to make a scene now? Tell me, Jake, what are you going to do? Tell me off? Spank me? Amputate?” 

Irritated – flustered, maybe — Jake yanks his finger free, cheeks hot. He pulls on a shirt with a little more force than necessary, not bothering to look at Jay as he does. 

“Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I already knew I was right,” Jay says, and the smile on his face is audible. “I do accept your apology, though.” 

Jake exhales, a tension he hadn’t even noticed unwinding from his shoulders. He steps out into the hall feeling lighter, relieved, so chipper he takes the stairs instead of the lift, practically skipping down them. The air in the stairwell is crisp against his skin, the smell of coffee drifting up as he gets closer and closer to the dining hall. His phone vibrates in his pocket, lighting up with three messages from Sunghoon when he checks it. 

Hoon: You are definitely handling things in a way I wouldn’t even recommend to my worst enemy!

Hoon: But things have a weird way of working out for you so

Hoon: Don’t worry too much 💪

Jake: Thanks?

The morning rush has thinned, and the emptying buffet trays aren’t his favourite sight—congealed scrambled eggs at their edges. He fills his plate anyway, hungry and happy enough to ignore how yellow the eggs are. At the nearest table, he chews absently, crunching crispy bacon, sipping pulpy orange juice, and his mind drifts. Jay’s voice, Sunghoon’s text, the lingering hum of a hundred past conversations—background noise. He pulls out his phone before he even registers the impulse, thumbs flying over the screen. 

Jake: Hey, pretty girl :) how was your night?

YN: It was good! And then Yizhuo threw up all over the smoking area which was.. terrifying 

YN: But I was in bed at 1 a.m. which I’m counting as a positive!

Jake: Sorry about Yizhuo, how’s she feeling? How are you feeling? 

Jake: Damn it’s early, are you okay? 

YN: Okay, 20 questions 🤨 Like shit. Good. On my way! To Pilates.

Still hungry after breakfast, Jake leaves the dining hall to take a shower and pack his bag before they leave. He sleeps for the whole journey, head on top of Jay’s. 

When they step off the bus at uni, Jake waves goodbye to the team and heads straight for his car—he doesn’t go home. The drive is endless, knee bouncing at every red light, grip tight on the wheel. When he reaches your building, an older couple lingers by the entrance, hand in hand, giggling. He slips past them, taking the stairs two at a time. At your door, he stops, hunching over to catch his breath before knocking. 

It takes a while, but Jimin opens the door, her smile falling when she sees him. “Jake, hi,” she says quietly, though it sounds like a question. She doesn’t step aside to let him in. “She’s not home, you just missed her actually. Jaemin picked her up.” 

Just hearing Jaemin’s name is like a stake to the chest. Jake tenses without meaning to, jaw tight. He’s been avoiding the guy like the plague since Jaehyun’s birthday, when he cornered Jake in the kitchen. “Are you two, like, serious, or what?” he asked, voice low even though they were alone.

Throughout ten years of friendship, Jake had been asked that question more times than he could count. Throughout four years of pining, it was one of two questions that made him want to throw himself into oncoming traffic. He didn’t need to follow Jaemin’s eyeline or hear another word to know exactly what he meant. Who he meant—you, of course. In the living room, laughing with the birthday boy, Jake’s jacket slung over your shoulders as you waited for him to bring you a can of Sprite. 

Jake only shrugged, the red cup of water in his left hand crunching a little under his tightening grip. “We’re friends.” 

“So I’m allowed to ask her out?”

That was the second question that got under Jake’s skin—not just because it was reductive, but because it wasn’t his decision to make. And yet, there came Jaemin, like every guy before him, asking as if they really think that if Jake had any say in it, you’d be with anyone but him. 

With a sigh, he said, “I’m not her father, Jaemin. It’s up to her.”

Jaemin smiled, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear. “You got a light?”

“No.” He shook his head, shoving his clenched fist into his back pocket, the cool metal of his lighter grazing his right knuckle. “Can’t smoke in here anyway, mate.”

The memory slams into him, full-force, knocks the wind out of him. “He did?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Jimin tilts her head. “Weird.”

His brain stalls, unsure which thought to torture himself with first: that you’re seeing Jaemin, or that you didn’t tell him. As it turns out, the more hurtful thought is of the text you sent him an hour ago while he was asleep on the bus, the reason he’s even here.

YN: Travel safe, Jakey, I can’t wait to see youuuuu <3 

Jimin’s hand reaches for the door. “Goodbye.” 

His lips part, trying to gather his thoughts, to say something before the door clicks shut in his face. Nothing comes to mind, but your voice rings out into the silence. “Who’s at the door?” The sound of it rattles through him, curious, gentle as ever, and the seconds that pass stretch out in front of him, vast and unending. 

Jimin only frowns, her shoulders slumping. She seems more disturbed by the fact that now she’ll have to let him in than the fact that she’s been caught lying. “Oops,” she says simply, leaving the door open as she goes back to her room. 

Sighing, Jake leaves his shoes next to yours and locks the door behind him, his fingers fumbling a little as he twists the key. Smelling food, he goes straight to the kitchen where he finds you. You’re standing by the stove, hair covering your face, lost in the task at hand: trying to tear open a bag of cheese without scissors. You succeed. Before he says a word, you look over at him, and the grin that spreads over your lips makes his stomach swoop, butterflies tumbling around like they’re looking for a point of exit. You’re perfect. There’s something about that smile that brightens everything around you, grounding and dizzying him all at once.

“Hey,” he says, breathless, smiling too. 

You turn off the stove before stepping into his space, arms looping around his waist like you need this as much as he does. “Jakey,” you mumble into his chest.

It’s nice to see you, he can’t overstate that, and he suspects it always will be. Yet, even with you in his arms, he can’t smooth out the crease in his brows, can’t relax into your touch like he wants to—like he’s been thinking about since he left yesterday. The only thing on his mind is whatever the fuck is going on with Jimin, and how to ask you about it. 

“I see you’ve done your food shop,” he says dumbly, looking over your head at the pot on the stove. 

“Uh huh.” You nod, tilting your head back to look at him. “I even got those chocolates you like.”

Jake smiles, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, liking the way you lean into his touch. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You shrug, but the softness of your voice betrays your attempt at nonchalance. “I wanted to make sure you had a reason to come and see me.”

“You’re being really sweet,” he says, frowning. He doesn’t mean to sound suspicious, but for some reason, it’s easier to question you than to believe you might actually want him here. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. Your skin is warm, but not feverish. Normal. Still, he keeps it there. “You feeling okay?” 

You roll your eyes, catching his wrist and pulling his hand away. “Are you okay? You look like Jimin caught you out there praying for pussy.”

It would have been less mortifying if she had. He chuckles, an awkward huff of air that sounds more like a strangled cough than anything close to a laugh. Pressing his fist to his mouth, he clears his throat as if it will somehow clear the feeling in his chest, too. As if summoned simply by Jake thinking about her, Jimin comes into the kitchen, buttoning up her coat. Her eyes skip over him like he’s not there, her smile reserved for you. 

“I have to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” she says, opening her arms. 

You step forward without hesitation, slipping into her embrace like it’s second nature. The hug is warm and sweet, the two of you in your own world while Jake is stuck in its orbit, watching it spin without him. “I’ll miss you,” you say sincerely. “Text me when you get there.”

Jimin ruffles your hair when you pull away, smiling when you protest. “I miss you already.” And with that, she squeezes your wrist affectionately before turning on her heel without so much as a glance in his direction.

At the sound of the front door swinging shut, Jake sighs, glancing at it like he expects her to reappear. To say it was all a big joke, that she was doing a bit, and hug him too—the way she would have done a month ago, before.. 

It’s quiet in the flat—just you and him. He shifts on his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets, watching you watch the pot on the stove. You take off its foggy lid, steam curling out as you sprinkle grated cheddar into it—cheese dakgalbi. His mouth waters. 

Silence persists. Not awkward, not quite comfortable. He has to ask. “Did you ask Jimin to pretend you weren’t home?”

A laugh bubbles out of you, amused by the mere suggestion. You shake your head. “No.”

Jake sniffs, his voice quieter than before. “Is she mad at me or something?” He tries for casual, but he sounds a bit pathetic. 

You give him a look—confused, as if you didn’t see the way she’d ignored him. “Did she tell you I wasn’t home?” 

He nods slowly, saying nothing about the Jaemin-shaped elephant in his proverbial mind-room. Instead, he reaches into the cupboard behind him, the hinge creaking softly as he pulls out a bowl for you. He hands it over without meeting your eyes.

“Aren’t you hungry?” 

There’s too much going on in his head to navigate your line of questioning. “What are you talking about?”

You hold up the dish like the answer to his question is written on its base. “One bowl,” you say—it isn’t, by the way, the answer. He looked.  

“I’m not staying,” he says without meaning to, though now that he’s thinking about it, he likes the idea of going home and being alone with his thoughts. It might even be nice to sit in silence on the couch with Sunghoon if he’s home. 

Putting the bowl down, you take a step back, and scoff. Defensive. Hurt, he thinks. You sigh. “Why are you here then?” 

Your question, your tone, makes him feel a little silly. Silly for cancelling his plans with Jay to come here. Really silly, actually. For thinking you missed him too. For thinking, can’t wait to see you, meant anything more than just something nice to say to a friend who’s been away. 

“Well.. I don’t know.” Jake shrugs. “I just wanted to look at you or something, I guess. Make sure you were alright.”

Your expression softens, a step towards him, eyes — wide, searching — meeting his. “Stay, Jake. Please.”

His breath catches, taken aback by this unprompted offering of vulnerability—asking him to stay because you want him to, not because he asked if he should. He wonders if it could always be like this. If you could be like this with him again. Open. Gentle. Like before. 

“Did you miss me?” Jake asks, greedy for you to open up. To give him more than just a little. “While I was away?”

“It was one night.” 

“So? I missed you,” he admits. 

Your eyes flicker over his face, but you don’t answer. No, you roll your eyes like he’s being ridiculous—it bothers him though he knows it shouldn’t. He approaches you before he can think better of it, hands finding the counter on either side of you, caging you in. You don’t resist or pull away, only tilting your head to meet his gaze. And fuck, you’re right there and so beautiful. Close enough for him to see the way your eyes widen ever-so-slightly. Close enough that his pulse trips over itself.

“Why won’t you tell me you missed me?” he asks. 

You arch a brow. “Why do you want me to tell you if you already know?” 

Jake exhales sharply, tilting his head, pressing his fingertips into the counter like it’ll ground him. “I just—” He pauses. Swallows. Tries again. “Please.”

A hesitation. He feels your hand on his waist, your fingers squeezing. Sees the way your lips part, like you might actually say it. But you don’t. “Why?” you ask instead. 

He blinks, throat working around an answer that won’t come out. And suddenly, he feels stupid. Standing here, begging you to say something he already knows, something that shouldn’t matter so much. His eyes flick to yours, and he tries again, softer this time, whispering, “Please, baby.”

Finally, you break, quietly confessing, “I hate being away from you.” And it’s a million times better.

A startled breath escapes him, soft and disbelieving. His heart stumbles over itself, warmth flooding his chest. He blinks at you, processing, the words replaying in his head, sweeter each time. His fingers twitch against the countertop, resisting the urge to touch you, but you’re looking at the floor, and that won’t do. Gently, he tilts your chin up, your eyes meeting his—all wide and pretty, uncertainty flickering in them. 

He swallows, voice unsteady. “Say it again.”

A slow smile curves your lips, and he sees the flash of realisation in your eyes—you’ve got him, you know you do. “I hate being away from you, Jake,” you repeat, confident now. 

The shape of the words on your lips, how they roll off your tongue, hitting him with so much affection it’s a wonder he doesn’t burst into tears. Those words spoken to him, in your voice, by you. He takes a deep breath. “See? That wasn’t so bad,” he says, trying to tease but his voice is too soft. 

You roll your eyes, but your lips are twitching, fighting a smile. “It was excruciating.” 

Jake hums, brushing his thumb along your jaw, memorising the feel of you, liking the way you gulp. “My poor girl,” he teases, a pout on his lips. “I was about to drop it, you know. One more why, and I’d have let you off the hook.”

And then — before you can fire back some sharp remark — he kisses you. 

He takes his time, desperate — quite frankly — to make up for what he missed yesterday morning. His hands find the small of your back, pulling you close as if he can’t bear being away from you again. Every touch is a relief, his gratitude and adoration poured into the warmth of his lips against yours. A tiny sound, low and wanting, slips from your mouth to his, stirring his chest. When he pulls away, your lips linger, and he almost can’t find in him to break the connection. You chase his kiss, whining a little—so cute it weakens his knees, and he can’t help but smile, liking the flutter in his stomach.

Looking down at you, he exhales shakily, heart pounding. Overwhelming warmth fills him up, crams itself into every single part of him, knowing that this is real. That you’re real, and you’re here, with him. 

“That wasn’t so bad either, huh?” he asks, giggling, his voice almost as light as he feels.

You beam at him before hiding your face in his chest, letting out a giddy laugh as he rubs circles on your back, chin on top of your head. You hate being away from him. The words echo in his head, surreal, sweet.

He’s not convinced he’ll ever stop smiling. 

Until his stomach growls, loud, slicing the quiet. Another laugh from you, the sound vibrating through him — too real to be imagined — as you pinch his waist. “Come on, baby,” you say, eyes sparkling. “Let’s eat.” 

You slip out of his hold, and Jake, helpless to do anything but follow, wraps his arms around your waist at the stove. His chest is pressed to your back, fingers curling into your sides so you don’t leave again. If you mind, you don’t voice it. You sway a little against him, humming the same song he was listening to on the bus. 

Why can’t he stay here, with you, like this, forever?

His bowl warms his lap while you put your glasses on, turning on the TV. Gossip Girl fills the screen, the voices familiar, comforting, fading into the background when you sit, your thigh pressed against his. He wonders if you realise how much of the space in his head you occupy. The flavours are rich, familiar, perfect—he’s never had cheese dakgalbi as good as yours. He sighs happily. Heart skipping a beat when he glances over at you, finding you already looking at him. You hate being away from him. Lips kiss-bitten, lenses foggy from the steam. You give a tender smile. 

Jake bites back a grin, stuffing chicken into his mouth so he doesn’t speak and admit to something crazy—the future in his head, with you. Your child (children if you want them, a dog if you don’t (hopefully a dog even if you do)), and countless nights together like this for the rest of your natural lives. 

Beside him, sane, you give commentary—perfect outfits, Serena’s hair, ugh, why is Chuck here? He nods, too far gone to do anything but copy your homework and change the answers a bit. That dress is beautiful, there’s probably tutorials if you look, why is Chuck here?

After he clears his bowl and what you couldn’t finish from yours, you make a pillow out of his shoulder. Sighing, you get comfortable while he inhales the familiar scent of your shampoo, your hair brushing his cheek. Shifting closer, you press into him, his arm tightening around you. It doesn’t take long for your breath to even out. Jake’s chest swells, overwhelmed by how much he likes this. He presses his lips to the top of your head, the softest kiss of his life, and lets his eyes flutter shut. 

He hates being away from you too.

Jake has rescheduled this dinner with his parents so many times, his mother actually called him. He didn’t answer. Instead, he flinched, threw his phone to the other end of the couch and waited for the ringing to stop. If it weren’t for his dad texting to ask about it, he wouldn’t be standing on the doorstep of his family home doing breathing exercises. 

He takes one last deep breath before putting his key in the lock. Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two, three. Open the door. “I’m home!” he calls out, stepping inside and taking off his shoes. 

Jake’s mother gasps in the kitchen as if she’s surprised, jogging out into the hall. “Jaeyun!” she cries, arms flung around him. “Oh, my boy, it’s so good to see you.” 

He only nods, letting go prematurely, long before she releases him. 

“It’s just a shame you’re harder to reach than the Prodigal Son.”

“Yeah.” Jake gives her a tight smile, a slow nod. “Just got a lot on at the minute with uni. Good to be home though.” 

She’s already heading back to the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. “Dinner’s nearly ready, so you’ve come at the perfect time. You might think about changing?”

With furrowed brows, he looks down at his outfit. Jeans. Jumper. Hardly unpresentable. “I think I’m alright, actually, Mum,” he says, following behind her. 

Seeing his dad stand up from the table tugs Jake’s lips into a boyish grin. “Dad,” he whispers, breathless, pleased, allowing himself to be pulled into a hug, his dad’s unchanged cologne hitting his nose. Floral, warm. Strong arms around him. 

“How are you, son?” he asks, quiet, private, just for them. 

“I’m good, Dad. I’m good.”

The simmer of broth. Oil frying eggs in a pan. The smell of beef strikes him, turning his hunger fierce. His stomach rumbles quietly, unsoothed by his attempts at rubbing it. He asks if his mother needs a hand, and she waves him off, shakes her head, it’s her pleasure to cook for her son. She’s wearing her apron, the same red checkered one she’s had for as long as he remembers, stirring a pot by the stove. She looks so motherly like this. As if she might come over and kiss the top of his head just because. Pat his back and say good job for simply existing. It’s all very maternal of her, like that instinct has finally kicked in, twenty short years postpartum. Maternal in a way that digs a nasty pit in his stomach. The mum-in-a-million, best-mum-ever figure he always thought Big Mum made up to push Mother’s Day cards. 

“Are you seeing anyone?” his dad asks. 

That word choice sticks out to him, it’s almost been a full year of anyones and peoples from his dad and it still warms his heart in a way he’s not sure he’ll ever adjust to. There had been some.. concerns when he was younger and innocently introduced his first school friend, Jaehyun, to his parents as his boyfriend. Concerns that were not entirely baseless, as Jake’s teenage years would soon reveal to him. 

“Any nice girls?” his mother corrects from the kitchen, not looking away from the drawer as she takes cutlery out. “Oh, who was that girl you used to be friends with? What was her name? From school, Jaeyun? Funny girl. Her mother used to teach you, what was she called?” 

Jake mumbles your name, reminds her that the two of you are still friends. He’s not sure why she insists on this song and dance, when both of them know she wouldn’t exactly be happy if he brought you — or anyone — home. He bites the inside of cheek remembering you — age fourteen — sitting at this very table, passing Jake the salt shaker and scrunching up your nose at the mention of church. Church? No, my parents said church is for people who think they’re better than everyone else. Only Jake and his dad found that funny.

She puts cutlery down for all three of them, looking down at him after placing his chopsticks. “The atheist?” she asks, saying the A-word with a certain level of distaste that Jake can’t help find amusing. 

“Yes, mum. The atheist,” he confirms, holding back a laugh at the amused smile his dad — the other atheist — wears.

There’s a look on her face when she hums, as if satisfied he acknowledged your lack of faith out loud. “I mean, you’re a bit young for a relationship, anyway.” 

“I’m twenty,” he points out. 

She raises her brow from over the kitchen island, stopping in her tracks with a steaming pot in hand. “Do you want to get married?” 

Jake shrugs, watching as she puts the pot on the table, letting the smell of short ribs envelop him. “I mean.. not right now, but at some point? Maybe?” The words leave his mouth unthinkingly, seeming wrong as soon as he says them. 

“So why would you be looking for a girlfriend?”

His mouth opens and promptly closes again, unsure of what to say. Jake glances at his dad, but he only takes a sip of his water. He’s not going to argue with her—he never does. 

“Look.” His mother sighs, tucking her hair behind her ears as she takes a seat at the table next to his dad. “A lot of people your age are out drinking and having sex, and I understand that’s how this country is, but that is not how we raised you, Jaeyun—we didn’t bring you here for that. Sex isn’t about your age; it’s about marriage. And until then, you shouldn’t even be thinking about it, never mind having it.”

Mortified, he runs a hand over his face. “I’m not having sex. Jeez, Mum.” It’s a lie that only gets harder to say the more he tells it. He might actually abstain — even from hand stuff — until marriage, if he has this conversation again. 

“Are you drinking?” 

“No, I’m not drinking.” This lie is easier. “I’m an athlete.” Because half of it is true. 

His mother tilts her head, affronted. “Jaeyun, you’re a Christian first.” 

A familiar tension wraps around him, not any easier to manage for how often he feels it around her. “You’re right, Mum. Sorry.” 

She seems pleased enough with this, her eyes lingering on him for a beat before they narrow. “I heard from Sieun’s mum that you weren’t at church this week.” Of course, she heard. She is always hearing things about Jake, and Sieun’s mum always seems to be the one saying them.

“I had a game.” 

“On Sabbath?” 

There is, for Jake, no winning where his mother is concerned. Because, of course, his breaking of the Sabbath is what matters right now. Never mind that he’s playing at a level she used to brag to her friends about. Never mind that he’s doing that, and getting top marks in his classes, and still finding time for family dinner every other week. Never mind that last term he spent two days with an IV drip in his arm from overworking himself and she didn’t text him back when he told her.

Jake’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding as he forces himself to swallow the words burning on his tongue. A glance at his dad, who’s staring down at his empty plate, pretending not to hear. Finally, he clears his throat, setting his glass down with deliberate care, a delicate arm over his wife’s shoulders. “Honey..” He trails off, eyes flicking to his son quickly. “How about we say grace before dinner gets cold?” 

Conflicted relief settles over Jake’s shoulders at this. He knew his dad would step in eventually. He had to. This is the man who sat him down at thirteen and explained consent to him in careful, measured words—again at seventeen before he moved out. The man who passed him a beer on a fishing trip when he was sixteen, told him to sip slowly, to learn the taste so he wouldn’t feel the need to prove anything to anyone later. Who had wrapped him in a hug, kissed the top of his head last year when he said he likes boys too. You’re my only son, Jaeyun. I want you to be happy. He can’t look at his dad, see the hard lines of his face, the silver strands of his hair, without seeing that too.

He nods obediently when his mother tells him to pray, holds hands with his parents, closes his eyes. His dad’s rough hand squeezes his and he smiles. “Dear Lord, thank you for giving us the opportunity to sit around the table tonight as a family. Please bless the food we’re about to eat, and the hands that made it. In your name’s sake we pray, amen.”

With that, they eat ugeoji galbitang—Jake’s favourite. He likes it too much to let anything, even his mother (who makes it best), ruin it for him. Luckily, his dad steers the conversation, shares his wins at work, compliments Jake’s highlight tape from the game over the weekend, talks about the trash movie he’s got lined up for them to watch tonight. 

Tonight. Together. As a family. Jake always spends the night after dinner, no exceptions. But he’s certain that if he spends any longer than he needs to in this house, he’ll die. He needs to come up with something, an excuse, a lie, something suddenly remembered. A commitment heavy enough that he must leave at once to attend to it. He thinks about Sunghoon, about you—but Jake’s mother is a blood is thicker than water kind of woman, and in her eyes, the only things thicker than blood are God and school. 

He clears his throat, takes a sip of water, keeps a hold on his glass even when he puts it down. “That sounds great, Dad—I mean Operation Christmas Drop sounds truly awful, but I have a paper due tonight and it’s saved on a USB so I’ll have to go home to submit it.” 

His mother continues to eat, unbothered. It’s hard to watch his dad’s smile falter, but he nods, understanding. “Another time, then.” 

Dinner continues, marked mostly by the clatter of cutlery—chopsticks on side plate, spoon on bowl. There are a lot of negative things Jake could say about his mother, but she’s the only woman in the world who could call him an embarrassment for quitting violin at fifteen, then console him with her cooking. Even the simplest sides — her fried eggs and white rice — move Jake beyond words.

He clears the table when they finish eating, his parents packing up the leftovers while speaking quietly to one another as Jake washes the dishes. He strains his ears over the running water, but it’s no use, only catching murmured honeys and nos. Coming home is a bit like being caught in a loop sometimes, like he’s checking off boxes on a list: 

1. Mum warns Jake about premarital sex

2. Jake lies and says he’s not having it

3. Dad sits in silence, pretending he didn’t buy Jake condoms when he went off to college

4. Substitute sex for some other mostly harmless vice 

5. Rinse and repeat. 

This absurd script they’re following, these roles they all fall into, time and time again. He can’t be the only one exhausted by this. 

Jake dries his hands with the dish towel hanging from the oven door and scratches at the back of his neck. “I’d really better go,” he says. “Thanks again for dinner, Mum.” 

He doesn’t hang around for her response, taking the stairs two at a time until he gets to his room. Slipping on his jacket, he looks around at the walls again. Certificates, postcards. Barer now since he took some of his favourite posters with him when he moved. Still, his Dune poster, brought home from a midnight showing, hangs above his bed. He’d stayed at Jaehyun’s house that night—his mother would never let him out so late with friends. As much as he loves it — the outline of Timothée Chalamet, Paul, tall and trim in his stillsuit — he left it behind. A quiet reminder of his small rebellion. 

Leaving always feels so final, like he has to memorise the details of his childhood room even though he’ll be back in two weeks. A sighs, more than ready to leave, but stops short, seeing the photo booth strip under his light switch. You and him, frozen in the pink frames of a four-cut photo, sixteen forever. In the last shot, your arm is around his shoulders, lips pressed to his cheek. Back then, he didn’t think he liked you—not the way he does now. But his skin had burned where you kissed him, and he hadn’t washed his face that night, afraid to lose the trace of your clear lip gloss. 

After four years, the memory sends a swarm of butterflies through his stomach, his fingers reaching up to brush his left cheek. He takes the photo, slipping it into his jacket pocket before joining his parents at the door. 

“I just want you to make good decisions,” his mother says, hugging him. Her perfume is floral, familiar. He breathes it in, holding on just a second longer than normal.

“I’m trying.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” his dad says, already putting on his shoes.

Jake’s chest tightens. He gulps, nodding, waves at his mother. Her eyes burn holes into his back as he follows his dad out. March’s breeze whips his jacket, lunchboxed leftovers warm his palms. They walk in silence to Jake’s car. 

“Are you happy, Jaeyun?” His dad’s voice is soft, careful. “None of this matters if you aren’t.” His calloused fingers rub at the back of Jake’s neck—a comfort. “Not your grades, not football, not church.. It’s no use working so hard if you’re not happy.”

Jake nods. “I am usually,” he admits. 

A grin. Crinkled eyes. “That’s all I ask of you.”

“Are you happy, Dad?”

His dad’s face softens, shoulders relaxing. “With you as my son?” A chuckle slips out of him. “How could I not be happy?” He pulls Jake into a tight hug, his arms strong and steady. Jake squeezes back, fingers gripping his dad’s shirt.

“I love you,” Jake says, the words muffled against his dad’s shoulder. 

His dad holds him even tighter. “I love you, son.”

They pull apart slowly, reluctant. A shared exhale. Breeze biting, still. 

“Drive safe, okay?” 

Jake nods, unlocking the car. “I will.”

His dad smiles again, giving him a nod before heading back to the house. The porch light is off when Jake starts his car. 

Thirty silent minutes pass by in a blur, unregistered until he’s taking off his seatbelt outside his building. Backpack on, leftovers in hand, he goes inside, dragging his feet up the stairs to the eighth floor. He doesn’t even have to slow his pace or catch his breath at the door to his flat—at least the gym is paying off. 

Sunghoon isn’t home. Monday night. Evening practice. Jake leaves the food on the kitchen counter to cool down and goes to his room. His bed, neatly made, fresh sheets, looks tempting, but he has other plans for the night. He gets changed and sits on the couch, waiting for Sunghoon.

For the next hour, his phone goes off regularly, but none of the notifications are from you so he doesn’t care. It only dawns on Jake that he can simply text you when he wants to see your name in his phone.

Jake: Can I come over? 

YN: I thought you had family dinner tn?

YN: Oh. I’m not at home but you can call me!!! My signal is a bit shit on the train rn but you can always call me, Jake

Jake: It’s okay, usual shit w my mum lol

Jake: Idk why I always think things will be different when I go there and always get surprised when they’re not

YN: I’m sorry she gives you such a hard time, baby

YN: I know you don’t feel like it but you’re doing such a good job. You’re juggling shit I don’t even want to imagine and you still make time for football and all your uni stuff and to make everyone in your life feel special. I promise you’re not fucking anything up at all.

YN: You don’t have to keep going over there, you know.. I get you like seeing your dad but surely you two can hang out alone? Another fishing trip, maybe? I know you had a really good time in the summer

The summer—the fishing trip, the beer, the hug. He smiles. 

Jake: Yeah, maybe

When he hits send, a key turns in the lock. Sunghoon—whistling to himself after practice. It’s nice one of them had a good Monday, that’s half of the people in the flat. Much better than thirty seconds ago, when a hundred percent of people in the flat were having a terrible day. His footsteps pad down the hall and he freezes in the doorway, brows raising in surprise. A beat. “Hey, buddy. I didn’t know you’d be back tonight.”

Jake clears his throat, but the roughness of his voice persists. “Left early.”

Sunghoon hums, nodding once before he leaves, coming back in a t-shirt and sweatpants, two beers in hand as he sits on the couch. He hands one to Jake, pulls the tab on his own, and takes a long, slow sip. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Jake shakes his head. “I put some ugeoji galbitang in the fridge for you. I don’t know if you saw.”

“Nice, man, thanks.” 

These are the last words from either of them for hours. Even when one of them gets up to use the toilet, or Sunghoon goes to get more beer. It’s not until two a.m. that they speak again. 

“Are you alright if I turn in? I need to be up soon.” Sunghoon yawns, arms stretched out in front of him. 

Jake nods, yawning too. “Yeah, of course. I should get some sleep anyway.” 

Sunghoon lingers, his hand curling and uncurling on the edge of the couch. “You sure?” he asks, only standing when Jake nods again. 

Jake collects the cans, flicking the lamp off on the way out. He turns towards the kitchen but stops in his tracks, looking over his shoulder. Sunghoon’s heading to the bathroom, hand on the doorknob when Jake says, “Thank you.” For being my best friend. For doing nothing with me for hours, he doesn’t say. 

Yet Sunghoon seems to understand. He always does. In three steps, he reaches Jake, a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “You’re my best friend,” he says, matter-of-factly, and leaves Jake in the hall, locking the bathroom door behind him. 

When Sunghoon is done, Jake goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth. He steps into the shower, appreciating the heat of the water on his skin, how he reddens under it. Washes his face, his hair. Stands aimlessly under the spray until he starts worrying about the planet. He feels a bit better after this. Moisturises in his room, puts Vaseline on his lips, gets into bed. 

He’s lying on his side, staring at the wall. He pats around the mattress for his phone, finding it and calling you without thinking. It rings out, because, of course, you can always call me, Jake, does not mean: call me at three in the morning. 

He looks at his screen for so long it locks. Too dark to see his reflection on it. Thankfully. He opens your text thread, drafting a message. Called by mistake HAHAHAHAHA dw! Delete. Sorry for calling so late, maybe we could hang out when you’re up? Coff—there’s a knock at his door and he locks his phone, tucking it under his pillow like a child. 

“What is it?” he calls out. 

The door clicks open behind him, closes softly. Your voice. “Hey, Jakey.” 

He sits up immediately, your name falling out of his mouth like a question. You’re standing there in your pyjamas, angelic, everything he’s ever wanted, blued by the moon shining through his window.  And if he wasn’t so upset, so convinced he’s making this all up, he would scold you for coming over at this time in only a vest and shorts. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move too abruptly, so as not to disrupt the dreamscape. Slowly, carefully, he lifts the end of his duvet, a silent invitation. You step towards him, crawling into his arms, soft skin warm on his, a kiss to his chest. 

This is.. real? 

You are real?

Turning on his lamp, he pushes your hair from your face, studying you. Soft bow of your lips, gentle slope of your nose, flutter of your lashes when you blink. Lamplight cuts sharp orange angles over your cheekbone, carving you out of the dark. He kisses you, a fleeting press of his lips to yours. To check. 

You are real, and breathtaking, always so breathtaking, and here, with him.

“How did you..?” He trails off, unsure what to ask—get here? Know I needed this? 

“Hoon called and came to pick me up,” you say, answering both of his questions at once.

This is.. overwhelming. Beyond. That Sunghoon would think to call you, go so far as to pick you up at this hour. That you would get out of bed for this—for him. That there are people in his life, bound only to him by choice, who care this much. Jake swallows around the lump in his throat, eyes stinging with hot tears, desperate to spill. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, cupping his cheek in your palm. “I’m so sorry, baby.” 

Baby. Your baby. He has half a mind to tell you he loves you, but he’s touched, not insane, so he bites his tongue. Hides his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Oh, Yunie,” you say, stroking his back, your touch a grounding force. “I wish there was something I could do.”

He kisses the spot where your neck and shoulder meet. Lifts his head. Smiles as the first tear slips from his cheek onto yours. “You’re here.” 

Jake kisses your lips—soft, fleeting, hardly more than a peck. It’s not enough. Another kiss, longer, lingering, your warmth undoing him. Wrapping you in his arms, he tucks you close to his chest, clinging onto you like a lifeline. I love you. Over and over, he thinks it. Prayers on a rosary. So loud in his head he’s not convinced you can’t hear him. His eyes flutter shut, and with your steady breath on his skin, he lets himself fall asleep. 

Jake wakes up first, grinning at the sight of you curled against him, your face squished into his chest. His arms tighten instinctively, as if to keep you there, as if you might slip away. He watches you, still as he can, taking in the quiet, the warmth, you. As if sensing his gaze, you open your eyes, sleep-heavied blinks as you look up at him. You shift in his hold, turning your head enough to see his alarm clock. 08:46. A groan leaves your lips, and you bury your face back into his chest. 

He kisses the top of your head, mumbling against it. “Morning, baby.” 

Your groan doesn’t stop, drawn-out, dejected, rumbling against his skin until you tip your head back. “Come shower with me.” Your voice is thick with sleep, the words said as if you think it might be the only solution for your suffering. 

And it would be rude of him not to at least help you find out.

Jake has definitely had more productive showers, but he’s never had a better one than this. Skin on skin. Lips on lips, and neck, and chest. Slippery hands all over each other. Wet heat overwhelming him—press of bodies, rush of water. Trembling breath, racing heart. Your fingers around his wrist, guiding his hand between your thighs. 

By the time you’re clean, and moisturised, there’s only twenty minutes until your class starts. Pulling a pair of his sweatpants over your hips, you make a joke, laughing to yourself as you blame Jake for what you started. He’s a terrible influence, using his masculine wiles to seduce, corrupt, and make you late. 

He snorts, shaking his head. “So I’m a pervert in this fantasy of yours?” 

“I think you like it, Jakey,” you say, walking towards him, arms looping around his neck, fingers in his hair, chuckling. “Making a harlot out of an honest woman.”

Jake pinches your waist, liking the way it makes you jolt and squeal—trying to focus on that instead of the sharpness of the word harlot against his ears. He almost shudders, jarred by its dissonance. Sounding more like a word that might share a page with some of the other words that have disturbed him recently. Words he’s done a good job of pushing to the back of his mind—words he’s putting in a lot of effort to keep there. He sniffs, leaning down to kiss you. It was a joke, Jake. You were joking. It was a Christmas joke.

“Alright, Virgin Mary,” he mumbles against your lips, pulling away before you accuse him of further debasing. “Let’s go.” 

He drives you home so you can get your stuff, and you make a beeline for your room when you arrive. He doesn’t follow. Instead, he takes a deep breath and knocks on Jimin’s door. 

She groans when she sees him, head falling back. “What?” she huffs, voice thick with irritation. 

“Can we talk?” he shifts on his feet. “Please?” 

Jimin’s answer takes a while. She eyes him with her arms crossed over her chest. He can’t help looking over his shoulder, at your closed door, wondering how long you’ll take to change and pack your bag. With a sigh, Jimin steps aside, and he takes a cautious step in, making a point to stay near the door as he closes it—unsure how welcome he really is. 

“What did I do to you?” he asks hesitantly, watching as she sits on the end of her unmade bed. 

“You didn’t do anything to me.” Jimin shrugs, continuing when Jake opens his mouth to speak. “But I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust the ‘innocent’ guy best friend who pounces at the first chance he gets.”

“Pounces?” he repeats, like it’s his first time hearing the word. “I’m not an animal, Jimin. There was no pouncing. If anything, she pounced on me.”

“So she’s an animal, is that what you’re saying?” 

Jake sighs, seeing there’s no way to win here. “Sure,” he says dryly. “She’s a tiger. Happy?” 

This doesn’t amuse Jimin. “What do you want with her?” 

He shrugs like he hasn’t given it much thought. “I want whatever she wants. If she wants to hook up, we’ll hook up. If she doesn’t, we won’t.” 

“You like her.” It’s not a question, but an accusation that softens her voice, raises her brows. 

Jake chews his lip, and that’s enough. Jimin’s jaw drops. “Oh, my God. I was worried you were going to hurt her, and this whole time I should’ve been worried about her hurting you.” She shakes her head, a laugh of disbelief coming out. “Good luck.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. 

Until it involved him, Jake hadn’t heard much about your sex life since first year. Thankfully. Kim Mingyu — Hot Mingyu, as you and Jimin still call him — is the last name he remembers. Older, massive, lived up to his moniker. He was always talking about the gym or his tech start-up, and eventually, he ended things because he didn’t believe Jake was just your friend. Jake suspects that the memory of Hot Mingyu will stick with him forever, because it was the first time it ever occurred to him that he didn’t want to be just friends with you. 

Jimin apologises, opening her arms and approaching him. She says that she should’ve known. Quiet, sympathetic, Jake thinks, hating it. But the door swings open, hitting his back before she can hug him. You poke your head into the room with a smile, oblivious. “Ready to go?” 

Back in the car, you try to peer pressure Jake into speeding, and he appeases you, doing thirty-two miles per hour in a thirty zone. Giving up with a huff, you turn your body away from him, knees against the passenger door. He’s too busy thinking about what Jimin said to comment—what the fuck does good luck mean?

And he’s so busy trying to figure that out, he doesn’t even realise you’re still wearing his sweatpants until you get out of the car. “Thanks for the lift, Jakey.”

Jakey smiles. Jakey waves. Jakey watches you leave. Jakey sits in his car for an hour before going home. 

He finds Sunghoon—home from practice, and eating an early lunch by the kitchen window. Standing, like he always does when he eats alone. “Hey, buddy,” he says, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “Feeling better?” 

Without a second thought — or a first one — Jake charges towards him, tackling him more than he hugs him. “Thank you.” 

Sunghoon goes stiff, completely tense in Jake’s hold. A shrug, slow and unnatural. “Don’t mention it,” he says, voice strained. A single, awkward pat of Jake’s back. “Could you please let go of me now? For a minute?” 

Apologising, Jake quickly releases him, feeling bad for the ambush. “I’m going to thank you again for last night, and I need you to accept it this time. You didn’t have to do that for me, but you did it anyway.”

Sunghoon turns, amused, leaning against the wall and taking a spoonful of yoghurt to the mouth. “I’m waiting.”

“Thank you, Sunghoon. Really.”

“You’re welcome, Jake,” he says, monotone, but his eyes are soft and he’s smiling. “And if you’re going to the library today, can we go together? I’m slacking, man—I need to lock in. Quickly.”

Jake chuckles at his deflection, but nods and says, “Of course.” 

They have different approaches to studying — Sunghoon puts his headphones on, and hyper-fixates on his task for as many consecutive hours as he can; Jake swears by Pomodoro, twenty-five minutes on, five minutes off — but they work alongside each other quite effectively. Jake squints at AutoCAD. Sunghoon scrolls through physio clinic listings. Jake texts his dad, asking if they can go fishing soon. Sunghoon continues to look for summer placements. Parallel play. 

His Pomodoro timer goes off silently, a notification in the corner of his laptop screen, and he lets out a relieved breath—he has high hopes not to study anything architecture related after this term, in a perfect world, he’ll never have to so much as look at a building again. When he checks his phone, his dad has replied, suggesting that they go next weekend, and he’s still typing when Jake opens their thread.

Dad: And if you want, you can bring that ‘friend’ of yours. It would be nice to see her again. 

Dad: The atheist. 😆.

Jake: Yeah, dad, that sounds good haha. I’m sure she’d love to! I’ll ask

Sunghoon takes off his headphones, thick brows furrowed as he looks over at Jake. “Training starts, like, now, no?”

The time is bright and reproachful on Jake’s screen. 19:55. Five minutes to get to Coach’s office on the other end of the building. A jolt of panic launches him out of his seat, shoving his laptop and notebooks hurriedly into his bag while Sunghoon watches, yawning.

“Can I come?” 

The question catches him so off guard, his hand freezes over the zipper of his backpack. “What? To training?” Jake asks, cocking his head. “I mean, probably. We have analysis before we start so I’m not sure about that, but you can definitely watch us on the pitch if you want.” 

A sigh of relief, as he stands. Firm hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Thank God, bro—can’t be fucked walking home.”

They’re the last to arrive, but thankfully Coach isn’t there yet. None of the guys question Sunghoon’s presence, they’re actually more pleased to see him than they are their own teammate. He leads Sunghoon to the end of the room, instructing him not to draw attention to himself—he gives a thumbs-up, whispering, got it, when the door clicks open. 

The first thing Coach says is, “Who the fuck is this guy?”

Why he thought his gargantuan best friend could be inconspicuous anywhere, never mind standing right behind him, is anyone’s guess. Sunghoon, for some reason, says nothing. Jake clears his throat. “He’s—uh—he’s my flatmate, Coach.”

Coach sighs, rubs his face with his hand. “Whatever. Don’t speak unless I speak to you. Understand?” 

“Sir, yes, sir.” Sunghoon gives a firm nod, raising a hand in salute. 

Another sigh from Coach, wrinkles in his forehead showing as he mutters something to himself. “We have a lot to cover, so let’s not waste more time.” He pulls up the match video on his laptop—always calling them the highlights, but criticises them aggressively. “Yang, what have I told you about hogging the ball?” 

Jungwon’s smile is audible. “That I’ve improved a lot, and you’ve never seen a better sportsman than me.” This answer wins him a death glare. “Fine, I hogged the ball a little, but we won!” 

This seems to amuse Coach, who laughs and looks around the room. “A little, the boy says.” The video starts—a minute long clip of Jungwon with the ball at his feet, neglecting multiple opportunities to pass. No cuts. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t bench you.” 

“I’m not seeing the big deal here. We literally won.” 

“You didn’t win this weekend because you have a selfish striker,” Coach says coldly. “You won because the other team was incompetent. And if you keep playing like that, you’ll cost us the season.” 

Jungwon isn’t smiling anymore.

Analysis goes on like always. Backhanded praise; thinly-veiled insults; Coach is pleased with his decision to appoint Jay Captain—words that no longer form a lump in Jake’s throat. In fact, he even pats Jay on the back, smiling sincerely when he looks over. 

Jake: Post-match went well 💪

Dad: Of course, son. You played brilliantly! So proud. 😆. 

Training flies by in a blur of five-a-side games and recreations of some of the poorer plays from Saturday’s game, Coach giving real-time corrections with varying degrees of rudeness. And before he knows it, the final whistle blows, dismissing them. Jake jogs off the pitch, legs heavy with exertion, mind buzzing with the rush of playing. His shirt is damp with sweat, sticking uncomfortably to his stomach, but he can’t look away from his reflection in the locker room mirrors. Cheeks and neck flushed, glowing. He looks good. Feels good—too good to just stand there staring at himself. So, he takes his shirt off, and without much thought sends you a photo. 

YN: Day 537727272724733 without dick: I came just from seeing this picture

Jake: Has it been that long? 

YN: I can’t count how many times I squirted while looking at that

YN: Fr though come over rn. Need that bad.

Jake: Are you objectifying me?

YN: Is it working . 

Jake: Yes. But I need to drop off Riki and Hoon then shower so……..

Jake: Wait up for me?

YN: Fine. 

The drive to Riki’s place has never been so long, and Sunghoon sleeps the whole way. Growing impatient, Jake almost starts driving off before his teammate is even all the way out of the car. Every light is green on the way home, no traffic at all—a blessing, Jake thinks. He takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, and leaves the flat in a hurry, sprinting down the stairs to get back to his car. 

He buckles his belt with shaking hands, a text lighting his phone screen. Checking it immediately, he sees that Sunoo sent a Reddit link to the team group chat: like palmer’s not one of the best players in the league rn. Curious, he clicks it, the app’s familiar logo colouring his screen orange, and before Sunoo’s video has the chance to load, something else catches his attention—the number 54 sitting on his notification tab. His heart sinks to his stomach, he knows exactly what’s waiting for him under there. But he clicks it anyway, rereads the post he made only two weeks ago now. And looks straight at the comments, knowing what they’ll say before he sees them. 

It is a sin, brother. And there is a demon inside of you that wants you to keep committing this sin. You need to repent and flee from fornication at once. This sin is extremely demonic, it took me away from Christ completely, and I was on my way to h*ll. 

The Holy Spirit is working in you. Thank God for giving you a conscience and do not go through with it no matter what. 

You want advice? Turn to 1 Corinthians 7:2 and Hebrews 13:4. The Bible is very clear that the only acceptable time for sex is after marriage. 

Honestly bro, just marry her lmao 

I lost my job, my girlfriend left me, and I got hit by a car after indulging in fornication. It is not worth it, my brother, take heed. I will pray for you. 

Jake’s brain buffers, the words blurring together as he scrolls, searching for a different answer. Someone, anyone in the comments telling him it’s okay, that he will be okay, and he’s not going to hell for simply wanting to have sex. 

Nothing. 

A humourless laugh comes out of him, an exhausted huff. He rests his heavy head on the steering wheel—he can’t be bothered anymore. This isn’t just sex for him. There’s a future here—he’s not sure what it is, or how he’ll get there. But surely, surely, something good, something worthwhile is at the end of this. And isn’t that worth something? Wouldn’t God want him to enjoy himself? 

Jake takes a deep breath, white-knuckle grip on the wheel, and says a prayer. “Dear Lord, thank you for all you’ve done for me—but I’m not waiting any longer. I’m really going to do this, Jesus. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” 

Jake pauses, peeking around the car with one of his eyes to check for hellfire—the coast is clear. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Amen.” 

It’s the most cautious drive of his life, checking every mirror and blindspot thrice, hands sitting firmly at ten and two—kissing twenty miles per hour the whole way. Parked outside, he climbs over the centre console to use the passenger door because it opens out onto the pavement, and no way one of those cars that’s going around striking down the sexually immoral is going to spawn there. He uses the stairs instead of the lift, and makes it to your flat in one piece. 

He doesn’t even have a chance to knock before you pull the door open, telling him he took so long as you take him by the hand and tug him over the threshold. “My fault, baby,” he says, apologetic. Jake bites his lip, eyes trailing over you. Fallen strap of your tank top, nipples pressing through thin fabric, shorts riding up. Good God. He gulps, dick stirring in his pants as you drag him to the living room.

Sinking into the couch, he looks up at you, eyeing him like you want to eat him alive—he’d let you, he wants you to. He pulls you into his lap, kissing you. A moan tugged out of his chest when you grind down on him. At this, you pull away, chest heaving. Lips swollen, wet. He can’t help but reach out and touch them, tracing your mouth with his thumb, pressing down on your plush bottom lip, before pushing it past your teeth. Fuck. Your eyes meet his, hazy, unfocused as you suck on his thumb, letting your tongue graze the tip. Holding his wrist, you stroke it and take his finger all the way to the knuckle, looking at him the same way you do when you’re kneeling between his spread thighs.

You tug at his shirt, mumbling around his finger. “Why are you still wearing this?” 

“Waiting for you to take it off of me, baby.” 

An imperceptible hitch of your breath before you reach for the hem, tugging it over his head. You bite your lip, admiring him and his cheeks burn scarlet under your gaze. “Can’t believe you look like this.” Warm hands on his skin, fingers trailing his abs and the fading love bites you’d left behind. “Such a lucky girl,” you whisper, awestruck as you kiss him urgently. 

Emboldened, eager for more praise — and frankly, extremely turned on — he stands, grip firm on your ass when he does. 

“Holy shit,” you utter, pulling away, eyes blown and unguarded. “Have you always been this strong?” 

This acknowledgement of his efforts makes his entire body flush, hot and bothered from head to toe. As he shrugs sheepishly, he can’t help wishing he could be more nonchalant when it comes to you. Wishing he could just nod, say yeah—even though you both know the strength and the muscle definition are new. Jake’s stomach flutters when you smile, leaning back into him, kissing and mumbling against his lips that he’s so hot. 

In your room, the two of you collapse onto the bed, attached at the hips and mouth. He begins to understand some of those freaks in the subreddit, how this — how you — could easily knock him off-kilter and take over his life. You grab his wrist, tugging his hand towards the spot between your legs, and killing his train of thought in the process.

Nothing else registers except your soft cotton shorts, drenched against his fingers and stuck to you. “Holy fuck,” he mumbles. 

“Do something about it.”

Nodding, he pulls the fabric off of you, moves it to the side. Sucking a breath through his teeth, he stares straight ahead. Shocked, turned on by how wet you are, and his fingers slip around so much he has to focus to keep them on your clit. It’s worth it, more than, for the way you whine, rutting your hips on his hand. Groaning, he lets his finger slip into you, adjusting his pants when you moan, his thumb working your clit in circles. Another finger slips inside, so easy, so slick and so warm, your walls clenching around him. The sound alone makes him dizzy. “So fucking wet,” he says, pressing deeper, fingers curling, watching your mouth fall open. “You’re killing me, baby.” 

Completely under your spell, he can’t look away from the spot where his fingers disappear into you. “My pretty girl.” He hums, licking his lips. “So pretty all over.” Jake’s dick actually hurts looking at you, straining against his pants, darkening the fabric with precum. Adding a third finger, he presses harder on your clit, groaning when your back arches off the bed. “You like it, huh? Feels good?” 

You only moan in response, clutching the sheets in your fists as you shake against them. It doesn’t take long for you to gasp, letting out a cry of his name as your body gives in, release spilling out around his fingers all while he stares in awe, open-mouthed. The soft curves of your body, flushed and shuddering and perfect. 

Panting, you look up at him with sparkling eyes and tug lightly at your waistband. He guides your hips up gently, pulling your shorts down and leaving them at the end of the bed. “Your turn,” you breathe out. Jake stands up from the bed to take his sweats and underwear off without a second thought. Your gaze traces his body, tongue wetting your lips, eyes caught on his dick as it smacks his stomach. “Need a minute.” 

“Course, baby.” He needs a minute too, hardly able to tear his eyes off the cum painting your pretty pussy white. As gently as he can, he runs his fingers through it, bringing them to his lips and humming around them. Oh, my God. “Tastes so good.”

A lazy smile curves your lips and you nudge his chest with your foot, leaning up on your elbows. “Twelve days. It’s been twelve days, Jake.” 

Confused, he tears his eyes from between your legs, looking up at you instead. Sweat-slicked skin glowing in the dim lamplight. No one has ever looked so beautiful, he’s certain. “Of what?” he asks, stroking himself absentmindedly. 

Your eyes follow the movement of his wrist, chewing on your bottom lip for a beat before your gaze flicks up to meet his. “Earlier, I said some stupid number and you asked if it’s been that long.” 

“Twelve days,” Jake repeats, hardly believing it. Hardly believing the fact that you’re laid out in front of him, glowing, gorgeous, and he’s still waiting—for what, he’s not sure. “Whoa,” he mutters, leaning over you, his hand on your cheek. “Twelve?” 

You nod, pouting. “Twelve,” you repeat, holding onto his wrist, kissing his palm. “Don’t make me wait any longer.” 

“Condom, baby.” He pulls away, but your grip on him tightens. 

“Don’t need it.” 

Jake raises a brow. Sceptical. Horny. “Are you sure?” 

“Certain. But I’ve never..” You trail off, clearing your throat. 

He knows what you mean, and his stomach flips over. “Same,” he admits. “Where should I..?”

“Inside. Please.” 

His eyes widen, searching yours, staring. You nod again, saying, please. 

Leaning down, he kisses your cheek. “Missed this, baby. Missed you,” he admits. He feels you shudder under him, a shaky breath fanning his skin when he nudges your clit with his tip. Lifting his head, he looks down at your face, taking you in. Lidded eyes blinking heavily, fluttering lashes, sweat beading along your hairline. “Still can’t believe it—how lucky I am, getting to see you like this.”

“Never wanted anyone this much.” 

His breath ceases, butterflies tumbling in his stomach. “Me neither.” The words feel bigger than they should, heavy as they settle between you. A beat passes slowly, his heart shifting in his chest. He leans in, pressing his lips to yours and hoping this kiss is enough to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud. 

“Please, Jake,” you say, mumbling against his lips.  

So hot and so soft and so wet. Holy fuck. He sinks his teeth into his lip, freezing. It’s his tip, literally just his tip, but it’s enough to leave him lightheaded. He wonders if he’ll even last long enough to get to the part where he’s all the way in. “Won’t last long like this,” he says out loud, his own voice seeming distant.

You’re looking up at him with wet eyes, shaking—breath harsh, shallow. “Good,” you whisper. “We can go again, however you want it.” 

Again, he thinks, looking forward to it. As if he’s not already losing his mind. 

“Need more,” you breathe. “More, baby. Please.” 

Rocking his hips forward, slow as he can, he holds his breath at the feeling of you opening up around him, inch by precious inch. It’s incredible he went so long without this. Twelve whole days. Unfathomable now—impossible, surely. Both of you whine as he bottoms out, a ragged sigh coming out of him, his head falling. Relieved. Wound up. He opens his eyes and regrets it immediately—you, mouth agape, eyes screwed shut. Holy shit. “You okay, baby?” he manages. 

A smile spreads over your lips, a content breath slipping out of you. “Perfect, Jakey. Always forget..” You trail off, shaking your head, struggling to get the words out. “Forget how big you are.” 

His entire body flushes, set alight. “You always take it so good, though. Such a good girl, yeah? Fit me just right.” He knows how it sounds, but he means it. Truly. It’s never felt like this. He didn’t even know it could feel like this — so perfect, so right — until you. The rightness of it all is so intense he almost comes then and there, biting his lip so hard he tastes copper on his tongue.

The clench of you around him is raw and startling, forcing stars behind his eyelids with each blink. There’s a brief, stunned silence when Jake finally pulls his hips back, like neither of you quite believe it. There’s nothing between you like this, no clear distinction between your body and his. Your hands skim his back, delicately tracing the column of his spine with your nails, careful, venerating, plump lips apart as your eyes meet.

Before he knows it, he’s thrusting all the way back in, one smooth, desperate stroke. A half-gasp, half-sob cry of his name comes out of you, unravelling him entirely as your legs wrap around his hips. Breath staggered, shallow, he tries to keep his cool, letting his mouth find your neck—trailing the distance from top to bottom. Four kisses long. 

Not bothering to suppress his own moans and whimpers, he sets a steady rhythm, relieved that you seem to be enjoying this as much as him, mewling and clawing at his skin. Trembling, gasping, you — cut and pasted from his dreams — pull him in and the need to spend forever like this consumes him. With another cry of his name, you tense around him, head tipping back into the pillows as your orgasm hits. And he’s right there with you, skin burning from the inside out as he falls apart, gasping your name when he comes, filling you up. 

He doesn’t move right away — he’s not sure if he can — staying on top of you while you card your fingers through his hair, panting. As his heartbeat steadies, he leans up on his palms. You look at him, all soft and sleepy and perfect, still catching your breath. 

“Hi,” you whisper, smiling. 

“Hey, baby.” 

Neither of you seem to be in any rush to move, so he rolls you onto your sides, all tangled up and face to face. You press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before curling into his chest, your skin damp and hot. Bowing his head, Jake offers a silent prayer—not seeking forgiveness, but giving thanks. 

A week goes by as usual—football, uni, seeing you. No pestilence or famine. No mark of the beast branded on his chest. Two suspiciously placed pimples on his forehead that have not sprouted into horns. No vehicular retribution. So far, no smiting.

The spring sun sets slowly, pinkening Jake’s wall through the cracks in his blinds. He has the apartment to himself while Sunghoon’s at training, so he’s making the most of his alone time. Head on pillow, phone in hand, switching through apps every few minutes as it nears time for him to leave. It’s a dangerous game, his favourite perhaps — doomscrolling time in bed — one that typically ends with him missing his plans, or staying up into all hours of the night watching Cole Palmer edits, and eighty-seven part Tiktok storytimes.

Tonight’s plan — every Wednesday night’s plan — is Bible study at church. And it’s not like he doesn’t want to go, honestly, he’s looking forward to it. It’s just that Chelsea played Arsenal yesterday, and won, so the edits are extra good, hot off the press and populating his for you page. Jesus would understand, surely. Would do the same, probably. As it stands, he’s watched this one edit of Palmer’s last-minute goal four times, and finds himself reciting, City’s boy is Chelsea’s man, with the commentator as your name pops up on his screen. A phone call. 

“Jakey, hey,” you say, voice so sweet his lips curl up. “Can I see you? In like, an hour, maybe?”

“Are you alright?” 

You hum in response. “Just want to see you.”

Something about the words, their softness, sincerity, knocks the wind out of him. He clears his throat, pulling the phone from his ear to check the time. 18:30. His stomach flutters, his heart racing, suddenly struck by your absence as if he hadn’t realised he was alone. A voice he’s gotten good at tuning out reminds him that he already missed church this week because he slept in, so he should at least go to study tonight. 

“I have Bible study in an hour, and it’s on until like half eight, but I’m free after that.” 

“Ugh,” you groan, and you sound so genuinely perturbed by this news that he has to fight a smile. “Jimin and I are having the girls over at nine.” 

“Thirty minutes is plenty,” he points out.

You sigh. “I don’t mean sex, Jake. I just.. want to spend time with you,” you say softly, “I’m kind of missing the friends part of this whole thing.” 

Jake shifts against his pillow, a pit in his stomach. He frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, yeah, I’m sorry. Of course.” The words come out quickly, tripping over his tongue. “I’m all yours tomorrow, I have nothing on,” he says, only slightly lying—he has football training in the evening. 

“I’m not free until Sunday..” You trail off. “What if I come to your Bible study? Can I do that?” 

A slow moment passes while he considers this. You? Come to Bible study? “But you’re.. an atheist.” 

“So what? If your church friends are as hot as you, I’d like to see for myself.” 

“They aren’t, but I’m happy you said that.” This is.. only slightly untrue. If you ask Jake, his church friends are hotter than him. In a silent prayer, he wishes ill on Mark Lee and Hamada Asahi. Nothing major, of course, just enough that they can’t make it tonight—an itchy throat, runny nose. Anaphylactic shock, maybe. 

“Do I have to dress up or anything?”

He shakes his head even though you can’t see. “You can wear whatever you want, it’s casual. Do you need a ride?”

“A ride home, maybe?” you say, sounding unsure. “I’m out right now.”

“What are you doing?”

You hesitate, stumbling over your words to say, “I’m—uh—I’m looking at records with Heeseung.” 

This information makes Jake’s stomach tense—just a little. Lee Heeseung. Tall. Older. Freakishly handsome. Sits at the friends-you’ve-kissed table with Jake. And Jaehyun. And Yizhuo. An—have any of your friends gone unkissed? Sigh. He feels significantly unspecial. 

“Oh..” he offers, trailing off, unsure what to make of that. “Find anything cool?” 

“Like you won’t believe!” The excitement in your voice is not lost to the phone, in fact, it’s so clear he can picture you rocking on your feet as you speak. He grins at the thought, distracted enough not to worry about when Heeseung graduated from drunken makeout to sober hangout. “Okay, I have to go, but I’ll see you in an hour!” 

Jake laughs on an exhale. “See you in an hour.”

With the end of the call, his Palmer edit starts again, and Jake falls back into the for you page like nothing happened. Edit after edit, each more creative than the last slip by at the swipe of a thumb, but now he’s starting to think that maybe he should wash his hair before he sees you, and you know, put on a suit, or something. In a casual way. Hair washed. Suit on hanger. It only takes four tries to settle on the perfect hoodie and baggy jeans, and with a spritz of his good cologne, he leaves the flat. 

It’s colder out than he’d like, the March chill nipping at him as he sits on the church steps, worsened he’s sure by his lack of a jacket. He prays you had the foresight to wear a jacket. If you didn’t—well, there’s not much he can do if you didn’t. Why didn’t he bring one for you? Jake sighs, breath clouding in front of him like smoke. Logically, he knows he’d be better off waiting in his car or inside, but he’s glued to the spot. What if you get lost? What if you miss the massive, traditional cathedral with the steeple and the steps? Or his car in the parking lot? What if you somehow miss all of those things located at the address he sent you? 

Bible study starts in ten minutes, but time stops when he sees you. Wearing a jacket, zipped all the way up to your chin. He exhales, relieved, a part of him unravelling. Before he realises, he’s jogging over, pulling you into a hug. He can’t resist breathing you in — all soft vanilla and coconut — glad to see you. Your arms loop around his neck, hands — ice cold — on his skin, making him shiver. You pull back, just a touch, and press your lips to his cheek in a soft kiss. Jake stiffens, his breath catching as the warmth of your lips lingers on his skin. 

As you walk ahead towards the church, he can’t stop focusing on the spot where your lips brushed his skin, resisting the urge to reach up and touch it. You’ve been talking, he realises, and he hasn’t heard a word—a distant hum until he catches the question in your voice.

“What did you say?” he asks, eyes flicking up towards you as you turn to face him on the steps. 

You’re a whole head taller like this, gaze trailing over every inch of his face. “Are you alright? You look a little sick.” 

Jake forces a smile, nodding. “All good,” he says, trying to convince himself more than you. 

He moves ahead, deliberately putting space between you, avoiding any chance for you to press further. His stomach flutters when you take his hand, the touch small, soft, but he smiles nonetheless as you give it a gentle squeeze. The foyer is empty when you arrive, but the murmur of voices from the Parish hall reaches his ears, grounding him. 

Jake holds the door open, gesturing for you to go in first as he follows behind you, taking stock of the room. No Asahi (thank gosh), but Mark is here, beaming, talking to—is that Park Jihoon? Back from college? Today? (What the fuck???) Sunghoon, at least, is a grounding sight, a sigh of relief slipping out of Jake when he sees him—sitting with.. Kim Chaewon? Of ‘Park Sunghoon, you’re dead to me,’ fame. Incredible. Somehow, your being here is the least surprising part of this whole affair. 

Sunghoon grins when he sees Jake, but he jumps from his seat seeing you, and jogs across the room to say hi. Much to Chaewon’s displeasure, he throws his arms around you, and Jake sees her eye twitch. With his hands on your shoulders, Sunghoon looks at you like it’s been years, genuine delight on his face. “I hope you feel blessed tonight, really.” 

Jake eyes his friend, trying to suss him out, but he can’t discern the source of his elation, which makes him wary. If he knows his friend—Sunghoon’s happiness is coming at Jake’s expense. 

“May God bless you, Jake.”

He can’t help rolling his eyes. “Thank you, Mr Chaewon.” 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Sunghoon says wearily, shaking his head. 

Jake’s brows touch his hairline, hardly believing his ears. He leans in, asking quietly. “You’re not sleeping with her?” 

“Okay, yeah, it’s exactly what it looks like.” Sunghoon scratches the back of his neck, excusing himself before going back to his seat and leaning toward Chaewon, whispering something in her ear that makes her smile. 

Quiet lingers in Sunghoon’s absence, just long enough for Mark to come over, elated, as he daps him up. “Hey, man! Good to see you,” he says, grinning. He means it. It really is good — for Mark — to see Jake. And to think, Jake had been praying for this guy’s demise just an hour ago. Guilty, embarrassed, he echoes Mark’s sentiment, smiling at this ray of sunshine man in front of him. 

“I’m Mark,” he says, extending a hand for you to shake. He repeats your name when you say it, nodding, that warm smile on his sweet face. “Thank you for coming, I’m so glad you made it,” stupid, charming Mark continues, still holding onto your hand. 

You lean up to Jake’s ear when Mark leaves, whispering. “I thought you said your church friends were a bunch of ugly, incel freaks.”

He snorts, eyes on his shoes. “They are.” 

“Mark definitely isn’t.” 

“He’s abstaining,” Jake blurts out, looking around to make sure no one’s close enough to overhear. “Which is fine,” he adds, trying to play it off. His gaze catches on Jihoon and his new college biceps, and in a panic, he stumbles over his words trying to deter you from him too. “And Jihoon.. well..” Jake’s voice falters. A pause. “He’s in love with Mark.”

“How convenient.” You roll your eyes, sitting down in the empty seat behind you. “Who’s Jihoon?”

Jake shakes his head, checking his phone as he sits. “Nobody.” 

Hoon: You brought her to Bible study bro?

Jake: She wanted to come

Hoon: You picked a good night, I’m excited to get into tonight’s study! 

Hoon: Godspeed, brother. Amen. 

He sighs, shaking his head as he tucks his phone into his pocket. Beside him, you shift a little, your knee bumping his. 

Mark clears his throat, pulling Jake’s attention back to the circle. “Is there anyone who wants to say a prayer to get us started?” he asks, looking around the room. 

From the other side of the circle, Sunghoon’s hand shoots up, and Jake has to stop himself from sighing in relief. Some of the other more.. enthusiastic members of the church pray for a while, but Sunghoon has a certain way of getting to the point. Bowing his head, he clasps his hands neatly in his lap. “Dear, Lord. Thank you for bringing us here safely this evening,” he starts, voice steady and sincere. “Please bless the study we’re about to take part in and help us to understand. Thank you for touching Jake’s heart and allowing him to bring a friend, may she be filled by your word.” He pauses, clearing his throat. 

At this, Jake steals a glance up, eyes flicking to Sunghoon, only to see him staring already, a wide grin on his face. What the Hell? Jake’s stomach twists as he looks away, focuses on his hands in his lap, the white-knuckled grip he has on his pant legs. 

“In your name’s sake we pray, amen.”

A resounding amen follows, and when Jake looks at you, you’re shooting Sunghoon a thumbs up like he just delivered the prayer of the century—not a terrifying snippet of what the night might entail if he has anything to do with it. In his seat, Sunghoon crosses one leg over the other with a smirk, winking at Jake.

Who needs enemies with a best friend like this?

“Uh, thank you for that, Sunghoon,” Mark says, taking a seat. “Jake, can I ask you to open 1 Corinthians 6:18, and read it out for us?” 

“Of course.” 

Jake ignores Sunghoon’s eyes on him as he pulls out his phone, searching for the verse in his Bible app. 1 Corinthians. Perfect. He’s at ease, trying to remember its exact wording, something about how love is patient and kind. Sunghoon was right, with a study topic like this — light, inoffensive — tonight is a good night to have brought you along. Who knows? Maybe divine intervention will have you confessing your undying love for him before the night’s over. 

He sits up straighter in his seat when he finds it, smiling. “Reading from the New International Version, 1 Corinthians 6.18: Flee from sexual immorality—” Wait. What? Jake stops short, his stomach dropping. He skims the rest of the verse and offers a silent prayer, suggesting to Jesus that now is a perfect time for His second coming—you know, if He’s planning on it. Amen. There’s a choked-off snicker from the other side of the circle. Sunghoon.

“Uh—sorry. Going on.” Jake clears his throat, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of his neck. “All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body.” 

Before he has a chance to lock his phone or launch himself out the window, Jihoon starts speaking. “I think it goes without saying that this is not a space for judgment. Everyone’s journey is their journey and no one here is without sin.” 

“Exactly, Hoon,” Mark says, nodding. “So now that I’ve scared you all into abstinence, is there anyone who wants to talk about what they think that verse might mean?” 

Silence. Everyone glances at each other, waiting for someone else to speak. No one does. 

Mark exhales, slumping in his seat. “Really? Nothing? Great. Well—uh.” He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes flicking to the ceiling as if God might come down and help him out. Maybe even rapture him. That could be cool, and Jake could maybe be raptured next. “Look, I didn’t pick this topic to scare anyone. I mean, I don’t even pick the topics—there’s a whole timetable, and, well.. some of your parents are freaking out about you.” His mouth twists like he shouldn’t have said that. “Anyway—that’s not the point. What I mean is..” 

He straightens up, trying again. “If you don’t want to wait, that’s your choice. I’m not here to judge anybody—it wouldn’t be fair. And honestly? I think there are ways to have sex that can honour your body, you know? Staying safe, using protection, getting tested. Being clear about consent, setting boundaries, being open with your partner.” 

Mark’s words hang in the air, oddly light, completely unexpected—quieting the uncertainty in Jake’s head for the first time in weeks. Sex as an act of honour to the body. Not negative, nor neutral, but.. positive. That this idea could exist at all, never mind be voiced in church of all places, seems so absurd that he looks around the circle to see if anyone else is as surprised as him—but they aren’t. 

“It’s about making choices that protect you — emotionally and physically — while respecting whoever you’re with.” Into the silence that follows, Mark clasps his hands together. “How about we wrap things up here, and go home early, huh?” More silence. “Great. Okay. Does anyone have any prayer requests? Anything they want to thank God for?” 

It takes a while, but mentions of sudden illness and new jobs go in one of Jake’s ears and out the other as Mark prepares to say the closing prayer, and Jake hardly realises everyone’s standing up and moving their seats until you nudge him. 

“You okay?” 

Clearing his throat, Jake nods, stacking your chair on top of his and adding them to pile in the corner of the room. He introduces you as his friend to a seemingly unending carousel of the nosey people he grew up around. Of course, you already know Sunghoon, and Chaewon is extremely pleasant when she realises you’re not vying for his attention. 

In his car, you tell Jake about the records you found—loads of folk stuff, first-press hip-hop LPs from the mid-’90s, obscure bootlegs people had brought in going for dirt cheap. You didn’t get anything, but it was a great trip. Heeseung got this insane home-pressing of songs by Laufey and the Black Eyed Peas for the girl he’s seeing. When Jake parks the car, you show him the picture you took of the jacket—a poorly Photoshopped monstrosity of the Monkey Business cover with Laufey’s face over all the members. 

“We’ll have to go together when you have time.” You shake your head, laughing. “Oh, and thanks for letting me crash—it can’t have been easy having the Whore of Babylon sitting next to you, but I had fun tonight. It was funny.”

“Funny?” Jake repeats. 

“Yeah.” You shrug. “I don’t know, it just seemed like Mark was trying to be nice about the whole.. premarital sex is damning thing.” 

The thought doesn’t even make him cringe. No pit in his stomach. Steady heartbeat. Is he.. cured? 

Jake hums. “He was, wasn’t he?” A mumble, spoken more to himself. 

“Don’t you find that phrase sort of funny? Premarital sex—as opposed to the pure and moral matrimonial sex.” You laugh, head falling back against the headrest. “I’m not trying to be rude about it or anything, I just find it amusing.”

Shaking his head, Jake smiles. “No, I know.” A beat. “I think I do too.” He means it. 

You reach for your seatbelt, pressing the button and taking it off. Jake does the same, hesitating before reaching for the door handle. “Are you free next weekend?” he asks, chewing on his lip.

“Yeah, how come?” 

“I’m going fishing with my dad, and he was wondering if you’d want to join us.” 

“Your dad was wondering, but..” You trail off, looking out over his shoulder, like you’re checking for pedestrians or anyone else who might behold your Jake-related vulnerability. “Do you want me there?” 

“You know I do.” 

Turning your body to face him, you lean against the door. “Mm.” A sage nod. “But I want you to tell me.” 

“You mean a lot to me, so it would mean a lot if you came with us.” Jake takes your hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I really want you there.” 

At this, your gaze falls to your linked hands, fingers intertwined in your lap. Holding his breath, he waits for your response, half-expecting you to brush him off, roll your eyes. Traffic flows outside, heavy, Jake thinks, for this time on a Wednesday evening. More quiet—too many clumsy beats passing to count. 

Finally, your eyes find his, a smile on your lips, voice soft under the hum of cars passing in the street. “You mean a lot to me too.”

The lake house—his dad’s childhood home. Unchanged. Perfect. Dark wood floors that bear the scuffs of time—some from Jake’s own football boots as a child, others older, carved by lives before his. Faint scent of saltwater and old books with cracked spines. Frozen in time, but not untouched. 

Three months have passed already since Christmas, the last time he and his parents were here. No gifts, no tree, just shit films and quality time. But the lake house always strikes him anew. The fleeting nature of this solid structure, this sanctuary where his father had been a boy. Eight-year-old handprints immortalised in the patio concrete, height marked on the living room doorway. The boy in the photos that Jake will never meet, though looks exactly like—his broad-nosed, full-lipped father.

Your voice is sudden over his shoulder. “Whoa.” Jake almost flinches despite its softness. He can’t believe you’re here. 

“Yeah,” he utters, finally looking at you. 

Jake has never dared to imagine you here, worried it wouldn’t ever live up to the real thing. And he was right. His heart stutters like a skipped stone. In your winter coat, chin hiding under your fluffy scarf, hair frizzed on the left side from where you’d slept against it in the car. The spread of the trees, vastness of the lake peeking through them, all framed by the open door behind you like something from a postcard.

Jake carries your bags upstairs, and you follow, getting a tour. The master bedroom is the last stop—queen-sized bed, en-suite bathroom, a space meant for two. You’ll be sharing it for the night—news that would mortify his mother if she found out. A thought that, only in theory, delights Jake. 

In the kitchen, you prep ingredients for dinner while discussing Gatsby—his dad’s favourite. Materialism. Affluence. The American Dream. The excitement is mutual. You, eager to pick his brain. His dad, grateful for an audience more responsive than his students. Jake listens in silence, peeling carrots—heart warmed by the ease with which you converse. Comfortable, unmarred by years apart. 

“Gatsby could’ve had anything he wanted in the world—but he never got to have Daisy,” his dad says, checking the fridge. 

You hum in response, a soft sound of disagreement. “He had Daisy in some ways, I suppose,” you offer, sounding hopeful, seeking approval, Jake thinks.

“I think that might be more tragic than if he’d never had her at all.” 

In the corner of his eye, Jake sees you tilting your head, brows furrowed. His dad laughs, not mean-spirited, no, an endeared sound he remembers from childhood—too scared to get back on his bike after his first fall; first wobbly tooth wrenched from his mouth by his own hand. 

“A taste doesn’t make a meal, sweetheart—it just leaves you hungry,” he says after a moment. 

In the same split second that Jake looks up at you, your eyes flick over to his. He can’t be hungry forever, surely not, that would just be cruel. His stomach curls in on itself at the thought. For a single, fully indulgent second, he lets himself believe that you might be hungry for him too. 

“Jesus, kid,” his dad says suddenly, gripping Jake’s wrist and dragging him towards the sink. “You’re bleeding.” 

Surprised, Jake blinks down at his hand, vivid red spilling from his index finger down the drain—carrot still half-peeled and bloodied.

“Fuck, Jaeyun,” his dad goes on. “That could’ve been really nasty. Are you alright?”

Jake only nods, distantly hearing his dad tell you where to find the first aid kit. Your footsteps disappear upstairs. Quickly, the stinging behind his eyelids turns into a pathetic flow of tears, his shoulders wracking as his dad wraps an arm around him. A kiss to the top of his head. “You’re alright, kid. Everything’s going to be alright.”

He doesn’t want to be hungry anymore. 

All thanks to Jake’s little episode, the two of you are banished from the kitchen, and decide to take a walk. His feet lead you toward the dock, and you light up—jogging ahead, eager to reach the water. Standing at the edge, swaying, wind whipping your hair around your head. Leaning forward, you point out a green shed in the distance. A smile in your voice. “East Egg,” you say happily. 

Jake remembers enough from the film to at least understand this reference, smiling too. “Alright, Mr Gatsby.” He wraps a protective arm around your waist, pulling you back. “That’s enough, baby, you’ll fall in.” 

You laugh, turning in his hold. He’s hooked on your lips, their shape, how they part to form your words. “I do say, Old Sport.” You start. “You’re looking rather flushed.” 

Air flees from his lungs, stolen. You — his Daisy — wrapped up in his arms, palms flat on his chest. Everything he wants, but can’t have. Tragic maybe. But wasn’t Gatsby brave, at least, to want in spite of what was feasible? Isn’t Jake? He shakes his head slightly, clearing the thought—you are not Daisy, nor is he Gatsby. There need not be tragedy here. 

For a second too long, your gaze lingers on his lips—you’re waiting for a kiss that you won’t initiate. Everything about this moment feels primed for it. Alone on the water, the steady crash of lake against rock, virtually no space between you. But he’s stuck. Unmoving. The wind stings his ears. You shiver, teeth chattering before you press your lips together. Jake can feel the window shutting, but still, he does nothing. 

Clearing your throat, you blink up at him. “Let’s head back, Jakey. We’ll freeze to death out here.” 

Jake opens his mouth. Falters. Then, softer than he means to, he asks, “Will you kiss me?” The words startle him, borrowed from you and that night—almost two months ago now. 

You nod, smiling. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just the curl of your fingers around his jacket, the tipping of your chin. The steady, certain, press of your lips on his. Relief crashes into him, unfurling the tension in his chest. Warmth, soft and overwhelming all at once, sinking into his skin.

By the time you get back from the dock, dinner is almost ready—late lunch, really. Budae jjigae curling through the air, filling the house completely. The three of you eat together at the table, conversation weaving in and out between bites. Jake eats like it’s his first meal in ages, tearing into the steaming jjigae like it might disappear.

Full to the point of fatigue, he washes the dishes and sinks into the couch, head resting against the cushions, limbs loose and heavy with contentment. He twists the cuff of your sleeve between his fingers when you cuddle into his side, nursing a glass of water. In the armchair, as always, is his dad, book open in his lap, though he’s hardly reading. You keep pulling him into conversation, peppering him with questions about lecturing you must have been holding onto for years. 

Eventually, the wind settles, and armed with fishing rods, and bait his dad picked up on the drive over, the three of you make your way back to the dock. Empty-handed, you run off ahead, giddy laughter, and a called out, come on, over your shoulder.

“She hasn’t changed a bit,” his dad says fondly, gaze lingering on Jake. “You haven’t either.”

He gives him a curious look. “Is that a good thing?” 

A shrug, warmth in his dad’s eyes. “I think so.”

On the dock, Jake kneels by the tackle box, patient as ever as he shows you how to hook the bait, and hold the rod steady. His voice is quiet, calm, guiding your hands with his own until you get the hang of it. Following his instructions, you take it quickly, your cast smooth—a smile in his dad’s voice when he tells Jake you’re a natural. Pride swells in his chest as if the compliment was for him. Your line tugs almost immediately, breath catching in your throat as Jake scrambles over to you, an incredulous laugh from over his shoulder. 

“You’ve got one!” he calls out, more excited than you are. “Reel it in, you have to reel it in!” 

You fumble a little bit, but get it when you calm down. A flash of silver breaks the surface, water scattering in drops. Jake grins from ear to ear, like you’ve made the biggest catch of the season. Or at least caught something slightly more inspiring than a fifteen centimetre ssogari. 

His dad chuckles, clapping you on the back. “Wow, sweetheart. Great job!” he says, nodding affectionately. 

With some help, you hold up your catch, shaking with excitement — fear, maybe — while Jake snaps a photo, capturing the moment and sharing it with Sunghoon. 

Jake: Baby’s first catch 😭😭😭😭😭

Hoon: So cute, no way !!! Where’s yours? 

Hoon: Bring me next time I miss your hot dad :( 

Jake furrows his brows, locks his phone without replying, and turns back to you. 

“Are we going to cook it?” you ask, curiosity piqued. 

“Uh, no.” He shakes his head, laughing softly. “We just look at them for a bit and then put them back.”

It’s a busy day in the water apparently, for you and Jake’s dad at least. Jake, for all his enthusiasm, catches nothing—the fish did not choose him this weekend. Eventually, as the sun starts to dip, you all pack up, leaving the water behind in exchange for something warmer. 

In the garden, the night settles over you, thick with cold as the fire pit does what it can to fight off the chill. Flames flicker, snapping into the quiet, soundtracking your laughter and stories, the smell of smoke curling around you. In the seat beside Jake, your arms are wrapped around his, your head resting on his shoulder. His dad across the fire, its glow catching in the lines of his face, softening them and showing off his fond smile. 

Eventually, Jake’s dad rises, brushing off his hands with a yawn. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of Jake’s head, and one to yours. A quiet goodnight, familiar, unhurried. In the doorway, he pauses, pointing a finger at his son. “Make sure the fire’s all the way out before you go to bed, okay?” 

Nodding, Jake wishes him a goodnight again. Through the glass door, his dad moves through the kitchen, checking the sockets before flicking the light off, and disappearing down the hall. Resting his head on top of yours, he exhales. “You want another drink?” 

“No, thank you.” You lift your half-full can, cider sloshing noisily. “I’m good, baby.” 

Jake gets up, stretching his arms and legs before heading into the house, enveloped by the quiet of the kitchen. Pulling open the fridge, harsh light spills across the tiles as he reaches for a beer. Cold beads of condensation slip against his fingers, a relief as he lifts it, presses it to his cheeks to quell the heat blooming there. Baby. He giggles. Will he ever get used to that? 

Opening his can, he sits back down and kisses your temple. A sip of beer warms his insides, he looks at you and smiles. “Did you have fun today?”

You nod eagerly, then seem to think better of it. Tilting your head. Pursing your lips. “I’m a little disappointed though.” 

“Oh, yeah?” He arches his brow, leaning back in his seat. “How so?” 

Your lips twitch. “It’s stupid but I guess I had it in my head that you were like—I don’t know, actually good at fishing, or something. But wow, Jakey.. You suck.” 

“Ever heard of beginner’s luck?” he says, rolling his eyes, too endeared by you and the grin on your lips to bite back. “You’re lucky I like you too much to take that personally.” 

A suggestive lift of your brow, a smug smile. “Oh, so you like me, huh?” 

Briefly, Jake entertains the thought of telling you — finally fucking telling you — that he like-likes you. It seems simple enough, only three words. Four technically if he says ‘like-like’ out loud the way a child might. He watches you, searching—do you already know? And if you don’t, and he tells you, will anything change? 

Firelight flickers over your face. Jake shrugs. “Yeah, quite a lot, actually.”

Chuckling, you bring your cider to your lips and take a long, slow sip. Over the edge of the illustrated can, you eye him. Gaze steady. Unnerving. Like you’re in on something he’s not. 

You shrug. 

Reaching out, his fingers curl around your wrist, gently lowering the can. His lips find yours, soft, insistent. Pineapple and raspberry, artificial and sweet, from your tongue onto his. He hums against your mouth, a quiet, come here, before pulling you in, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him easily, arms draped over his shoulders. The kiss deepens, slow at first, then desperate as heat pools in his stomach. 

Hands mapping skin through your layers, fingertips pressing, still curious, eager after so long. Your chests rise and fall in sync when you pull away, trembling breath clouding together in the cool air. Blinking down at him, an expression he can’t read takes over your face. “You really like me?” you whisper. Your question clarifies the look on your face—expectant, waiting for an answer he’s scared to give. 

As he sees it, there are only two ways for this to go—worst case: you laugh, cackle, call him insane for thinking he has a chance with you; best case: his confession doesn’t repulse you. Clearing his throat, he tries to calm the storm in his chest. “I do,” he says after too long, startling himself with his volume. 

You don’t take off running for the hills, which he can only assume is a good thing. Instead, you smile. Cradling his face in your hands and kissing him. Then, movement. Slow shift of your hips back and forth against his—maddening. Press of chest to chest, hushed moans shared between you. A kind of tender desire that turns the cold night sweltering. 

After too long, dazed and sleepy — fire extinguished — the two of you giggle, hand in hand, all the way upstairs. Brushing your teeth together in the en-suite, letting peppermint kisses turn warm and lazy as you pull Jake into the shower with you. 

He pinkens in the heat, warm water slipping over your bodies in rivulets. Skin sliding over skin, pressed together. Steam curls, fogging the glass. Hands on your cheeks, holding your face to his—lips locked. Slow, lazy, taking his time. Trying his best to make the morning last forever like this. Kissing. Smiling. Your fingers card through his hair, tugging the wet strands, pulling groans from his mouth into yours. 

Breathless, he pulls away, tucking his head against your neck. His arms fall around your waist, keeping you close. Noses along the sensitive skin there, inhaling your shower gel—syrupy sweet, so painfully you. He presses his lips together to keep from saying something stupid. Your touch is delicate, tender, on the back of his head, fingers curling around the overgrown locks at the nape of his neck. 

It’s unfair to be going home so soon, the shortest trip of his life. Behind closed eyes, Jake can’t help picturing weeks here in the summer with you. Long days spent swimming in the lake. Short nights spent cuddling despite the heat. Sunscreen on hot skin. Aloe vera on burns. Tan lines and salt air. Summer. He’d be your boyfriend by then, right? 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper.

He kisses your damp skin. “Just say the word and I’ll bring you back, baby.” His voice is low, muffled into the base of your neck. “In the summer, maybe? We can stay for ages if you want.” 

Saying it out loud, this partial voicing of his thoughts for you to hear, summer feels much bigger than just a word, a season. Much bigger than anything he can imagine. An almost confession. A promise to you. To himself. He clears his throat, feeling exposed. 

Your eyes are wide when he looks at you again, cupping his face in your palm, thumb stroking his cheek. You lean up, pressing your swollen lips to his. “Summer,” you repeat, smiling.

Jake doesn’t sleep, he’s not sure if he could if he tried. He’s laying there, flat on his back, your head warm and sleepy on his chest. His fingers move absently through your hair, slow and repetitive, more for him than for you. Your breathing is steady, relaxing him. A thought comes to mind—the sunrise. He shifts carefully, not wanting to wake you yet as he reaches for his phone. 05:47. Smoothing his palm over your shoulder, he whispers your name. You only hum in response, stirring. 

“Come on,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I want to show you something.” 

“The sun isn’t even up yet,” you grumble into his skin, eyes still shut. 

“That’s the point.” His voice is gentle but insistent. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your temple. “It’ll be worth it, baby.”

You groan, rolling away from him, face in the pillow. “Fine.” And as if in protest of the early morning, you don’t say much else. You do let him help you into your jacket though, smiling as he zips it up and kisses your forehead. 

Hand in hand, the two of you trudge slowly along the trail, footsteps soft in the grass. Saltwater and pine fill the air, seeming stronger in the waning dark. Finally, through the trees, the lake unfolds, a glassy mirror of the brightening sky above, day’s first light stretched thin over the horizon.  

When you reach the rocks, you whisper, “Whoa.” Taking a seat next to Jake, pulling your knees to your chest and leaning into him when he wraps his arm around your shoulders. 

The sky splits open above your heads, dawn unfurling in soft brushstrokes of pink and orange. A dreamlike shimmer in the water—silken ripples of gold rolling towards the shore, crashing against the dock. The hues grow deeper and more vibrant, shifting quickly before his eyes. For years, this sunrise has been his favourite view. But now, with you sitting in it, soft and golden, hair ruffled from sleep and the wind? Fuck—he couldn’t think of anything better if he tried. 

Whispering, he asks, “Worth it?” 

You turn to him, eyes soft, smiling. “Very.” You let a long beat of silence pass before asking. “How many hookups have you brought here, Jakey?” Your voice is soft, a little more than curious. 

Breathless, Jake laughs, suddenly nervous as if there’s a right and a wrong answer. “Hookups aren’t really my thing,” he admits, shaking his head. “So, zero.” 

Your brow lifts, sceptical, but you don’t press. Not immediately, anyway. You even let Jake turn back to the water, following his gaze when he nods towards the horizon, and mumbles, look. You let the colour bloom for so long he thinks you’ve dropped it. 

You haven’t. “Are you lying to me?” you ask quietly. 

“You of all people should know I wouldn’t even kiss someone, never mind hookup with them, if I wasn’t losing my mind over them.” The words slip out before he can stop them, before he can think better of it. If you’re overthinking what he said, you don’t show it. 

He doesn’t have anything more to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. But in his peripheral, you’re still watching him. There’s something in your eyes he can’t decipher. At least not correctly. It reads love. It reads you want him how he wants you, and it’s disarming. 

A while passes before Jake is ready to speak, his voice coming out softer than he means for it to. “What’s up?” 

“It’s—” You cut yourself off, looking around. Amused, hesitant somehow, as you laugh—soft, and content, and nervous, he thinks. “Your dad thinks we’re together, you know,” you tell him eventually. 

Jake puts a lot of effort into keeping his eyes from rolling, knowing exactly what his dad is up to. The prospect of his dad acting as a wingman is both relieving and mortifying. He arches his brow. “Together how?”

You sniff, eyes on his. “He thinks you’re my boyfriend, and I didn’t correct him.” 

For a second, he forgets how to breathe, heart hammering against his ribs. Brain scrambling to catch up with you and what you just said about not correcting him. A thousand questions threaten to spill out at once, but none of them make it past his lips. Why not? Do you want that? Do you want me? It would be easier, he’s sure, to say nothing and kiss you instead. But your eyes are still on his, steady, not giving anything away, and he has to ask, voice low, cautious. “Are you going to correct him?”

“Do I need to?” You sound so calm, so relaxed about it all that Jake’s skin heats under your gaze. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” 

“Then no,” you say, smiling—small but certain, like you’ve made up your mind. Like you made up your mind long before this conversation. Your hand finds his cheek, thumb tracing his jaw. “I’m not going to correct him.” 

And before he can reply, your lips are on his. Soft. Gentle. Everything he wants for the rest of his life.

By the time you make it back — boyfriend and girlfriend, hand in hand — Jake’s dad is sitting on the couch, curled around a cup of coffee and his book. He’s smiling, eyes gleaming as he makes a joke, something about the love bird catching the worm, and Jake is too happy to do anything but grin from ear to ear as you hide your face in his chest. 

Upstairs, you share the shower, eager hands tracing dips and curves innocently until you leave with pruned fingers. Skincare, then moisturiser, then clothes. Stolen kisses whenever he has the chance. Jake’s dad is flipping pancakes at the stove when you get to the kitchen, forbidden bacon crackling beside him. Despite his best efforts, morning slips into afternoon with no regard for what he wants. Breakfast is eaten. Bags are packed. Your lips have been sufficiently kissed. It’s time to leave already. 

The drive is fine, uneventful mostly, until his dad pulls into a rest stop. “Alright, everybody out. Stretch your legs, use the toilet if you need,” he says, cutting the engine. 

You rush out of the car, yelling, one minute, over your shoulder as you run towards the building. Standing by the passenger door, Jake stretches his arms above his head, exhaling long and slow. Over the car’s roof, his dad clears his throat. “I’m sorry I haven’t done more for you—about your mum.” He hesitates, then says, quieter, “I love you, son. We both love you so much. I’m on your side, okay? You’re my only son, Jaeyun.” 

Jake’s arms drop. He feels silly for having them up at all. Overwhelmed, he nods once, sniffing. “I love you, Dad.” 

Smiling, his dad gets back into the car and Jake follows. Hardly a moment passes before he sees you through the windscreen, running back, so beautiful and all his—finally, actually his. Your eyes are sparkling when you open the door. 

“They had these awesome keychains at the gift shop—look, Mr. Sim, it’s an angler!” You thrust the plush fish toward him, grinning like you caught it with your bare hands. 

A chuckle, hand squishing it. Jake’s dad ruffles your hair, a gesture so familiar, so lived in, that Jake can’t shake the feeling that he’s dreaming. The fondness in his dad’s smile is overwhelming. “That’s great, sweetheart. I love it,” he says, voice thick with pride—again, like you caught the fish with your bare hands. 

“It’s yours.”

“Oh, I can’t accept this.”

“Mr. Sim, it’s a keychain that cost me a pound, not real estate.” You hesitate, then add, quieter, “I actually got one for all of us. My father never took me on any kind of trip, so..” 

At the mention of your father, Jake’s jaw tightens. His fist clenches in his lap, memories pressing in—too many nights spent comforting you over the phone, or sneaking out to do it in person. A quiet beat passes, stretched taut and straining at the edges, your words lingering, heavier than you probably meant them to be. Closing his fingers around the keychain, his dad clears his throat before he speaks, firm and sincere. “The three of us can go wherever you want, alright?” 

You don’t say anything, but your nod is enough. And with a small smile at Jake, you hand him a matching angler, fingers brushing his. He can’t resist bringing your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles.

From the driver’s seat, a quiet exhale. “Now’s as good a time as any I suppose.” Jake’s dad reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out two keys. “Got these cut this morning. It’s ours, kid. Use it whenever you like.” 

Jake feels the cool metal against his skin. Turning it over in his hand as his dad presses the second key into your palm. He can’t look away from it, silver catching the light. No big speech, no song and dance—just his dad extending a promise, sharing this part of him with Jake, and with you. The weight of his uncertainty melts away. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he glances at you, lips twitching up. Safe and familiar, solid and long lasting—the lake house. Yours. His. Ours. A future that doesn’t feel quite so far, or so unattainable anymore.  

EPILOGUE

The lake house. Summer, finally. You’re sitting on the countertop while Jake makes breakfast—a view that has quickly become your favourite.

He reaches up into the cabinet, newly formed muscle shifting under tan skin. Shoulders solid and broad, the visual representation of all the strength he’s been using on you—picking you up and tossing you around like it’s nothing. His hair is still messy from bed, longer than ever and curling around his ears. Plaid pyjama pants sitting low, showing off the love bites staining his hips in pretty blooms of red and purple. 

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair. “I know how to scramble an egg,” he says, so long after your comment, you’d forgotten you said anything at all. His voice is low, thick with sleep even though you’ve been up for a while now—he’s definitely playing it up, but you like it too much to complain. 

“I know you do, Jakey. I just—” 

He interrupts you with a kiss, faint peppermint clinging to his lips as he mumbles, “I want to cook for you. Will you let me do that, darling? Please?”

Darling. Your heart does a flip, abrupt and ungraceful. “Fine,” you concede, twirling his hair with your fingers. “But I’m making dinner.”

Jake groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder. “Right, because I’m an idiot sandwich, and you’re Little Miss Gordon Ramsay.” 

“Mm.” You smile. “Exactly.”  

Nodding, he tips his chin up towards yours until your lips brush. “Yes, Chef,” he says, and it makes you laugh too much to keep on kissing him. But he tries anyway, teeth bumping as you share giggles. Eventually, he gives up, pressing his forehead to yours, hand on your waist. “Going to miss having this place to ourselves.”

You can’t even remember the last time you spent so long away from Jimin, and as much as you’re looking forward to seeing her — and Sunghoon — again, you’d be lying if you said you won’t miss being alone too, and the freedom of walking around the house in varying degrees of undress. A soft smile pulls at your lips. “It’s only one weekend, baby—Hoon has his placement to get back to,” you say, a voice of reason even though you feel the same. 

Two weeks. Two whole perfect weeks with Jake—entire days spent out by the lake. Swimming or reading Emily Henry while he tries to fish. Big hands smoothing sunscreen over your back, plump lips pressing kisses to your tan lines. The press of solid muscle on soft flesh, sweat-slicked skin on sweat-slicked skin. 

Jake’s lips curl into a grin, wide, boyish. So handsome—unbelievably so. “A lot can happen in one weekend.” 

Unfortunately, he raises a good point, but you won’t admit that for him to hear. A lot can happen in one weekend—it did. But it wasn’t the time frame, it was the lake. You’ve deduced it has magical properties. An ability to make days slip into each other, to draw large feelings out before you can properly think them through. Yesterday, while Jake tied your bikini back up — deft fingers slick with the sunscreen he’d just rubbed on your back — you told him that you want this, with him, for the rest of your life. The words tumbled out of you, tugged from your brain by the lake. And so, like any mature twenty-year-old girl would, you promptly rolled off of the dock and into the water, refusing to emerge until it hurt to hold your breath. Jake only smiled when you came back up seconds later, pushed your hair from your face and kissed you. Told you that he wanted it too. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, big brown eyes staring deep into yours. 

“My boyfriend.” It’s a word that still makes your stomach flutter, that hasn’t lost its novelty even after three months. 

“Your boyfriend,” Jake repeats, nodding along. “Mm, handsome guy, I’ve heard. He’s super lucky.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, and you can’t help but look away, biting back a smile. “Easily distracted too,” you point out. “He’s burning my breakfast.”

With wide eyes, he glances over his shoulder, a horrified look on his face. “Fuck,” he mutters, turning back to you. He doesn’t move though, only leaning in to kiss you again. His soft lips on yours, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world. 

Admittedly, you’d let him kiss you like this forever if it weren’t for the smell of burnt egg — and burgeoning fire hazard — drifting between you. You pull away, shoving his shoulder with a laugh. “Go, Jake.” 

“They’re already burnt.” He shrugs, unconcerned, as a lopsided grin spreads over his lips. “I’ll eat them.” With that, he returns to the stove, turning off the burner and flipping the charred eggs onto a plate.

Outside, you sit at the wooden table Jake built when you first arrived. You’d made an offhand comment, said it might be nice to have breakfast out on the deck, and he went off in search of scrap wood. He was successful, putting together a neat little table for the two of you to eat at—your initials and his etched into the grain, housed in a wonky love heart that gives you butterflies every time you see it. The sun warms your shoulders through one of his t-shirts, your legs crossed in your seat, and his palm heavy on your knee. You can’t look away from him. You don’t want to. There’s something about Jake, this way. The patch of raw skin on the bridge of his nose, scattered freckles dusting the centre of his face, faint band of pale skin where his sunglasses have been living recently. Jake. Your Jake. Leaning in, you press a kiss to his soft lips—your local heaven. 

© zreamy (2025), all rights reserved. do not repost, translate, or plagiarise my work. do let me know your thoughts !

extra note: happy zreamy blog birth omgggg my first fic nothing to lose came out two years ago today (apr 3 2023) and i can finally say i've written at least one fic for each member 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ thank u sm to everyone for being so lovely, it means a lot !!! all my love, zo xoxo

permanent tag list: @asahicore @ikeublr @loverseon @dreamy-carat @littlefluu @cherrymxxnie @mrloverboy3000 @blooqz @immortalonie @enhastolemyheart @fancypeacepersona @heatrache @kxwinasblog @kimjkejyy @anofi

[someonegoood]

THE CORPORATE EQUATION SERIES ✫ jeon jungkook

[f] & [a] warnings are stated in each chapter itself !!

status; finished! ✫ playlist

my main masterlist! ❀ send me a dm to be in the taglist!

in which you’ve always been the bright, optimistic Head of HR trying to make the workplace a better place, and Jungkook, the grumpy new CEO, makes it painfully clear he has no time for your idealistic notions—until a company crisis forces you both to confront the undeniable tension between you.

tags corporate!au, ceo!jk, headofhr!reader, grumpy x sunshine, slow burn, accidental vulnerability, mutual pining, emotionally unavailable jk, bickering turned bonding :)

❀ chapter one: the new ceo

after Jeon resigned as CEO, meeting his son —the new CEO— was not a good experience. Despite the tension, you notice hints of vulnerability beneath his moody exterior.

drabble #1: paper trails

drabble #2: a taste of normal

❀ chapter two: crossing boundaries

a miscommunication in HR leads to a near-PR disaster when an important client’s demands clash with employee well-being. Jungkook’s rigid solutions exacerbate the problem, and you are forced to step in.

❀ chapter three: a corporate crisis

an unexpected system crash puts sensitive employee and client data at risk. The crisis demands immediate action, forcing Jungkook and you to work together overnight.

drabble #3: good... morning?

❀ chapter four: under pressure

in the aftermath of the crisis, Jungkook becomes more receptive to your ideas, but his growing feelings leave him frustrated and defensive.

drabble #4: dinner words

drabble #5: a quiet gesture

❀ chapter five: the corporate ball

as the office buzzes with gossip about the growing tension between you and Mr. Jeon, jealousy makes its way into the workplace when Minseok starts showing more interest in you.

drabble #6: parents

❀ sweet epilogue: the retreat

the company heads out for a corporate retreat, where tensions run high and personal boundaries blur. During a casual evening event, the HR team inadvertently discovers the secret relationship between you and Jungkook, leading to curious glances, playful teasing, and a lot of unexpected questions.

no translations, modification, and copying allowed.

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake Makes Horrible Life Decisions, and Gotham Suffers for It

So, picture this: you’re Damian Wayne. You’re in Gotham. You’re minding your own business, probably threatening someone, when suddenly—

Tim. Drake. Walks. Through. The. Door.

Which is crazy, because no one has seen him in almost a year. This man disappeared off the face of the earth after claiming their father was still alive (which, now they know he was right, but that doesn't mean he didn't sound insane at the time), and now, out of absolutely nowhere, he waltzes back in like nothing happened.

Which, okay, yay! They got the coordinates and were able to bring Bruce back! That's great! But instead of calling or even warning anyone that he was, in fact, still alive and making very questionable life choices, Tim just shows up at the Manor’s front door looking incredibly smug, dressed in some League-adjacent gear, and—oh yeah—carrying a mostly-conscious, Lazarus-green-glowing, very familiar-looking boy over his shoulder.

Cue everyone just staring.

And then:

"Hey guys," Tim says, completely casual. "This is Danyal. Damian’s clone. Also, my boyfriend. Try to be nice."

And that’s when Damian seriously considers violence.

Because, of course, the League of Assassins—those bastards—decided that when he was no longer fit to be the next Demon’s Head, they’d just cook up a clone. Enter Danyal, who apparently didn't last as long as they had hoped.

But the thing about throwing a perfectly good clone into the Lazarus Pit is that sometimes, instead of reviving someone the normal way, you accidentally create a half-ghost with existential issues and a penchant for property destruction.

Now, there’s a lot more to unpack here. But let’s break it down:

Tim is alive. No one even gets the chance to yell at him for ghosting (ha) them for nearly a year before—

He apparently blew up the league of assassins??? Which is the only acceptable reaction to discovering your feral ex-grandfather made a spare Damian, but still, a little warning would’ve been nice.

Tim kidnapped him. And then—because Tim is Tim—

Proceeded to date him.

Absolutely no one knows how to respond to this.

Jason is laughing his ass off. He thinks this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened. (He also immediately gives Danyal a noogie, because apparently all versions of Damian need to be bullied at least a little.)

Dick is concerned but also so relieved Tim is alive that he doesn’t know whether to hug him or strangle him.

Stephanie, Duke and Cass are just watching this play out like it's the best drama they've ever seen.

Alfred is probably the only one handling this with dignity. (Barely.)

Bruce looks at his returned son, then at the glowing clone, then back at Tim, and just sighs, because, honestly? He’s too tired for this.

Meanwhile, Damian—who has officially hit his limit and is barely recovering from his urge of violence—is just staring. Trying to process the fact that:

He has a clone.

That clone is now his older brother’s boyfriend.

Tim—who he hasn’t seen in a year—showed up out of nowhere, without warning, to drop this information on him like it’s normal.

"You kidnapped my clone." "Rescued," Tim corrects. "You kidnapped him, blew up the League, and then proceeded to date him." "What can I say? I’m efficient."

"I WAS GONE FOR A YEAR." Bruce finally explodes. "A YEAR. I COME BACK, AND NOW TIM HAS A CLONE OF DAMIAN AS HIS—HIS BOYFRIEND?!*"

"We prefer ‘genetic anomaly turned incredibly attractive disaster. Plus, a lot can happen in a year," Tim says, like that helps.

Danyal, barely recovering from the loopiness of the Lazarus Pit and sudden existential crisis, gives a lazy little wave. "Hi."

Now Gotham has two Damians (one ghostly and feral, the other just regular feral), Ra’s al Ghul has no viable heirs, and Bruce? Bruce wishes he were still dead.

Tim, meanwhile, is just happy his boyfriend’s getting some quality bonding time with his genetic source material.

The family cannot handle this.

[wandixx]

Seriously chaotic fashion misadventures

I realized I posted a teaser and never really followed up on it, so here is some more of that

“Hey, Dami?”

Boy hadn’t looked up from the kittens he was bottle feeding but let out a hum indicating he listened.

“I'm thinking about trying out a more girlish style. Do you think it would suit me?”

Well, Damian had no idea but if Dani wished to give it a chance, then, well, the only proper reaction was to offer his aid.

*-*-*

“Father, I require access to your rouge gallery.”

Bruce almost choked on his breakfast when his youngest made this announcement.

Rouge gallery, as his children playfully called it, was vast collection of lipsticks, which he collected to uphold his Brucie persona. Famous playboy with head constantly in the clouds couldn’t not show up with discreet signs of scandal from time to time. And it couldn’t always be the same shade. Or scent when he choose more subtle approach and used one of his more feminine perfumes.

In all honesty, he enjoyed this.

But that’s not the point, point was that Damian wanted to use it and Bruce needed to know what disaster would fall upon him if he agreed.

“Mind telling me why, chum?”

Dick, who visited Manor for a weekend, barely stifled his laughter while Tim stared at his empty coffee mug like it personally betrayed him. Cass just wore her usual knowing and mischievous smile.

Damian shifted in his chair, hands clenching on butter knife. He was nervous and suddenly Bruce dreaded the answer he was about to hear.

“I don’t see how me sharing this information would change anything. It won’t be used to cause harm to anyone but it’s necessary in the extracurricular project I just started.”

“Dami, what project?” Dick asked, voice oozing with genuine curiosity and excitement. He was almost bouncing.

“I don’t want to disclose it.”

“Is this a hero or civilian type of deal?”

Damian didn’t look any of them in the eyes, both hands clenching on his seat as he kept shifting. Bruce narrowed his eyes. Was his youngest… flustered?

“Civilian”

“Alright, great” Dick swung back with single clap, almost tripping his chair over “I think B won’t have anything against you using his rouge gallery, will he?” Man knew his oldest son well enough to recognize his ‘don’t you dare to disagree’ tone. He was confused but there wasn’t any harm so he nodded with affirmative hum.

“Thank you, Father”

Boy practically inhaled rest of his food and rushed outside. Despite all his training and all his efforts, they clearly saw his excitement. Tim pinched himself and returned to staring at his mug.

“Cass, have you seen what I’ve seen or am I overreacting?” Dick asked, barely restraining his enthusiasm. Girl nodded eagerly, shoving more crumbs into her mouth. Young man cheered, throwing his hands up.

“What have I missed?” Tim mumbled, frowning a little.

“BABY BAT HAS A CRUSH!”

Cass nodded again with wide smile.

Oh.

Oh no.

Who were they? What did he know about them? Was Protocol 3r0s started? Did someone run a background check already? What could they do if they somehow hurt Damian? Was this person a risk to their identities? Oh gods, oh no.

He probably will have to do The Talk™.

He always dreaded having The Talk, with any of his kids. He felt The Talk with Damian would be even worse. Understandably so.

“Also sleep in at least three da-”

“Fuck off, dick.”

“Was this insult or-”

His children remained obvious to how much work it meant, cheering and sassing each other like they often did.

*-*-*

Damian did not know how it was possible but he lowered his guard enough to get caught.

"What are you doing?" Brown choked out after they stared at each other for a long moment.

"It does not concern you–"

"You're rummaging through my wardrobe, not many things concern me more and also, that's frickin creepy don't do it to anyone outside of the family"

She did have a point however he was not convinced it would be the correct approach if he shared his plan. Father's wards (even unofficial like Brown) tended to make assumptions and overreact based on these conjectures. Dani wasn't easy to scare off but he didn't want to check if his family would manage. They often did things thought to be impossible.

He tried to get away but the blonde stood fiercely in a door, leaving the window as the only way out. He wasn't this desperate. Yet.

Girl looked more and more angry at his silence. He had to give her some answers.

Now that he actually considered it, she could be a useful asset. She was far better versed in women's fashion and if he phrased it correctly, he wouldn't even need to bribe her. Question was, how should he phrase it?

"I have an acquaintance- I have a friend," he corrected himself "from the animal shelter I volunteer at. She mentioned wanting to try out more 'girlish style' and asked for my opinion. I wanted to see if you had any clothes that would fit her. She is smaller than me so I thought that whatever I take, it wouldn't be missed." 

Brown grinned with an unsettling gleam in her eyes. He suddenly regretted opening his mouth if not coming to this room in the first place. 

"Say no more, I have a plan Demon Child"

[kelbottumbles]

Eddie isn't going to be a fire fighter in El Paso. Forget the fact that he only gave Bobby the bare minimum notice before leaving and doesn't have a referral set up. He's walking away from more than just Buck and the 118 fam, he's walking away from his entire identity outside of being a *Dad*, and that includes being a firefighter. He's giving it all up, everything except Christopher. Partly as a form of self-punishment, and also because he thinks if he can be all-in on that one thing, then it can be enough. He can make it enough, because Christopher is his number one, and he hurt Christopher and needs to make it up to him, and that's all that matters right? Definitely not Eddie's happiness, that is the LAST thing that matters, in a world where Christopher isn't part of his life.

So Eddie gets an easy-to-get job that requires a strong body and few qualifications... construction. Or some similarly blue-collar job that doesn't require a skilled trade license. Maybe there's an accident or emergency at his jobsite that requires him to remember a bit about who he really is. But it won't be enough.

He'll start working on his extreme fixer-upper of a house *that Buck warned him about*. During the process, maybe he'll meet up with an old friend or old bully or someone he used to know. Maybe it's a contractor he's hired to help fix his house up, or maybe someone at his new job. But the point is, this person used to be all toxic masculinity and machismo, just like he was taught to be. But now, he finds out they're gay and have a husband and kids and are HAPPY and he'll ask them what happened? What changed? How did they figure it out? And this person will tell him a touching story of friendship, partnership, and choosing love - and everything they tell Eddie reminds him of Buck. The gears start turning in his head. But he isn't ready yet. Things aren't fixed with Christopher yet. He can't choose Buck until he has resolved things with his son. But maybe he's on the path to knowing what he wants, at this point.

Then - a disaster. Eddie's house is destroyed in a way that allows him to walk away with no lost investment or long term commitment he can't get out of. My guess? An electrical fire, because the house was so run down - and Buck WARNED him it was too run down. Regardless, the house is destroyed but Eddie will recoup his money through insurance, and now doesn't have anything *physically* tying him to El Paso anymore.

He will move in with his parents because he has no other choice. Tensions will RISE, and he will be confronted by (and have the opportunity to confront) his past. There will be an argument with his parents, and Christopher will overhear and step in to defend his dad. He finally gets an idea of what Eddie grew up with, why he is like he is and how different his grandparents were to Eddie than they are to him. This will spur a heart-to-heart between Eddie and Christopher where they FINALLY reconnect.

But this time, Eddie just isn't the *dad* who is strong and doesn't show any weakness. He will be human, vulnerable. Honest. And through Chris, he will get forgiveness, and finally find that he can forgive himself. This could also be where he admits his feelings about being away from Buck to Chris, and Chris urges him to go home to LA. Either they go back together, or Chris asks to finish the school year in Texas first - but promises to actually call and talk to him now, so Eddie won't be missing out on his whole life like he felt like he was before.

Eddie will return to LA whole and healed and ready to go after what he needs to make him happy. He will understand what he needs, and what he doesn't need. And he will know he needs Buck.

And because Eddie never tells anybody anything (and despite all his growth he's still EDDIE) rather than calling first, he will just show up on Buck's doorstep one day unannounced, in a parallel to the door scenes we had in 8x09 and 8x06.

Just watch. It's gonna happen. Especially Eddie's house getting destroyed and him recouping the insurance money. And if it does just remember me and my fellow conspiracy theorist @dana-duchovny told you first ;)

[yunsound]

Chinese Mythology: The Four Dragon Kings

Does anyone remember Ao Guang? Or the other three Dragon Kings? Or did anyone watch Ne Zha 2025?

You may then know of the Four Dragon Kings of Ancient China (四海龙王). 

Historically all four of them are male- some recent adaptations will show one (or more) of them as female just for fun. China, even in ancient times, did not have four seas around it- the four dragon kings each correspond to a body of water in the cardinal directions. 

Ao Guang

The big guy, Ao Guang, the Dragon King of the East, does have a “sea”: the East China Sea. 

A carving of Ne Zha fighting Ao Guang (we all remember how that went, right?)

We know and love Ao Guang since he’s the one who got Ne Zha killed (after both he and his son got their asses beat) and is also the guy who gave Sun Wukong his mythical weapon, the Ruyi Jingu Staff (maybe will make a post on mythological weapons at some point).

His third son, Ao Bing, is famous for getting his tendons plucked out by Ne Zha.

Subtitles: I'll pull your tendons out, see if you can still hurt anyone after this! (sorry for Ne Zha being kind of naked, he's a kid who was just taking a bath)

Ao Guang is the biggest, most powerful Dragon King.

In the Fengshen Yanyi (Investiture of the Gods post here), he’s a big dickhead who forces people to give him offerings or he’ll bring them drought and disaster. He’s very powerful, and is the leader of the Four Dragon Kings.

He’s also the sexy dragon dilf dad in Ne Zha 2. 

I just cannot get over this character design, oh my goodness.

Ao Run

Ao Run, pronounced Ow Rwen (also sometimes called Ao Ji) is the Dragon King of the West. 

He does not have a “sea”: in fact, he rules over the biggest lake in China, Qinghai Lake. It’s big enough that we consider it a sea, I guess. It used to be considered an actual sea (like, connected out to the open ocean) probably because it’s huge, but it was probably never actually a sea. 

Lake Qinghai has shrunk a lot. You can tell in this picture: right now it’s about the size of Trinidad.

See all that dry land? Used to be lake.

It’s very blue, which is why it’s called Qinghai 青海 (blue sea). Qing generally refers to a bright blue-teal shade. 

Ao Run’s son, Ao Lie, is the dragon that is sentenced to death by the Jade Emperor for setting fire to Ao Run’s palace accidentally and destroying a whole bunch of stuff. In the end, Guanyin Pusa spares Ao Lie’s life and sends him on the Journey to the West with Wukong, Tangsen, Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing. You may recall that Tangsen had a big fancy white horse- that’s Ao Lie!

You may notice in this picture everyone else's names are labeled except for the horse. It's kind of sad- he's a little irrelevant.

A huge downgrade, from being a fancy dragon prince to a horse, but you can’t say he didn’t deserve it. 

He's also featured in Fei Ren Zai (a very funny comic/animation series about mythical figures in modern-day also featuring Ne Zha, Wukong and Erlang Shen).

You may remember Ao Run from Ne Zha 2, 2025 as the sexy dragon lady with the killer sky-splitting manicure. 

Sorry, she did things to me when I first saw her appear in her human form.

Ao Shun

Ao Shun, pronounced Ow Shwen, is the Dragon King of the North.

He also does not have a “sea”, like Ao Run. His patron body of water is what’s now known as Lake Baikal (Wikipedia better not fail me, I actually had no idea where the North China Sea was supposed to be). 

Lake Baikal is the deepest lake in the world, it’s right up there in the south part of Siberia. North enough for you?

Back when the Han dynasty was fighting the Xiongnu (the Huns in Disney’s Mulan, basically), they beat the Xiongnu in a battle here. They saw this huge-ass lake, and decided they’d refer to it as the North China Sea. Lake Baikal is larger than Belgium. A little scary, no?

In Ne Zha 2, he was the freaky purple-green guy with blades all over his body. You may remember him fighting Ao Bing in a very exciting battle sequence. I’m not aware of any myths where he’s of any significance. 

A hard pass. Sorry, second uncle. Your big brother and younger sister are much hotter.

Ao Qin

Ao Qin, pronounced Ow Chin (敖钦) is the Dragon King of the South.

The South China Sea of recent geopolitical tension fame is in fact a sea. Other than Ao Guang, he’s the only one with an actual sea. There’s not much to say about Ao Qin, he’s not that relevant.

If you remember him from Ne Zha 2, he’s the big red one who’s dumb as bricks..

The Four Dragon Kings are really not that important aside from Ao Guang and Ao Run. Ao Guang is a key mythological figure- he appears in many myths, and is a semi-major character in Journey to the West.

Ao Run contributes mainly by giving Tangsen a horse in the form of his son. Poor Ao Lie. 

In the 1979 Ne Zha Conquers the Sea, they are all seen briefly scheming with Ao Guang to go Karen-style and ask for the manager (Jade Emperor).

They're all siblings (since they have the same last name, Ao), with Ao Guang being the oldest brother. The order of ages past that is a little harder to figure out- from what I know, their ages are

Ao Guang

Ao Shun

Ao Qin

Ao Run

I actually don't know where Ao Run is in the ranking, I just know Ao Qin is younger than Ao Shun. As such, Ao Run could be either the youngest, the second youngest or the third youngest.

[drmaddict]

The absence of carnal desires, not of love

Summary: When Aemond and (Y/n) are told that they should get married, a world collapses for both of them. Only time reveals that the two have a lot in common... Even if it's just the absence of carnal desires. (ace!Aemond x ace!reader)

Word count: 7.792

Authors note: I thought why not leave something for my fellow aces here? Ace!Aemond and ace!Reader. There is a description of the (not so happy) wedding night, so if you feel uncomfortable with reading about that, feel free to scip that part. The scene starts and ends with this little guy here: 🐲. The scene, where Aegon finds Aemond in the brothel is marked with this one:🐉 Apart from that: enjoy.

"You want me to marry one of those bastards?", Aemond blurted out. His mother stood before him with sympathetic eyes. "Your father has decided it. You're marrying Rhaenyra's daughter." Aemond's jaw ground. "I'm marrying a Strong. We both know it, and so would Father, if he weren't so blind." "Aemond...",she sighed, "You have a duty to fulfil to stabilise what little peace there is at the moment." She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I know you'd rather be married to Helaena, but I've tried everything. He won't be swayed." Aemond's heart raced with anger. He breathed in and out in a controlled manner. He pressed his lips together, letting his anger travel into his heart to freeze it.

"Aemond?", asked (Y/n) in shock? Her mum nodded. "I know it's not ideal, but-" "Not ideal? He hates us!" Rhaenyra sighed. Daemon sat back in his chair, not exactly thrilled. "She's not wrong." "We have our duty to fulfil. A wedding is the best way, to avert a lot of future disaster." (Y/n) sat down next to her stepfather and looked at the tabletop. Resignedly, she exhaled. "What if he refuses?" "My brother himself has decided. He can't refus.", Daemon explained calmly. She buried her face in her hands. Daemon slapped her shoulder encouragingly. "It could be worse." "How could it be worse, please?" He shrugged. "It could have been Aegon... Aemond was the one with the eye patch, wasn't he?" Rhaenyra sighed. "Yes. Aemond wears the eye patch." "Which is another reason to hate us.", (Y/n) explained, flustered. Daemon nodded. "Better to be a prude than a drunk. Trust me." Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. "The gods be with us."

Rhaenyra stat next to her old friend. "How did she take it?", enquired Alicent. "The way you take such news... Quite defiantly.", replied Rhaenyra. "Then she seems to be taking after her mother.", muttered Alicent. Rhaenyra didn't respond, but had to admit that she wasn't entirely wrong. "And Aemond?" Alicent pressed his lips together. "He's not happy... But he's dutiful enough." She nodded. "I'm sorry about what happened then." "I'd like to say he's gotten over it, but I don't think, that will ever happen." They both looked at the candles in front of them. The sept was empty. "When is she coming here?", asked Alicent. Rhaenyra smirked. "As soon as Daemon can squeeze her into a dress that hasn't already lost all its colour. He thought he could convince her better than I could." Alicent gave her head a thoughtful twitch. "Aemond doesn't usually try to stand out. He's not much good with splendour anyway." "Not the worst trait to have." "It is."

"A picture for the gods.", Viserys smiled at his son and granddaughter. Both stood stiffly next to each other. As much distance as the situation allowed between them. "Grandfather.", (Y/n) curtseyed slightly. Viserys smiled at Rhaenyra. "More exemplary than you ever were." She smirked. "Give her two days." Viserys looked at the future couple again. Daemon stood beside him, watching the silent spectacle with amusement. Both seemed to want to jump out of the window. Especially (Y/n), who detested the stiffness of her dress, glared at him with eyes filled with rage. "We're having a party!", announced Viserys. "To the engagement." Aemond showed no emotion. (Y/n) has the feeling of standing next to a stature. "A celebration is good. It gets the blood pumping. Just what those two sculptures need", Daemon grinned. Three very angry eyes fixed on him.

The sun shone relentlessly down on them as they walked through the gardens, urged on by the family, to get to know each other better. But neither of them said anything. He killed her with looks. She stubbornly looked straight ahead. "You're not fooling anyone.", he hissed quitely. "Everyone knows what you are." She felt the familiar rage inside her, but tried to control it. "You know... You're no more Targaryen than I am." she said with the intention to hurt. "How much fire runs through your mother's veins?", she hissed. "Your blood is just as washed out as mine. Your hair won't change that." Aemond made a hasty grab for her throat. Such were the waves of rage coursing through his veins. "Don't you dare compare us again, you bastard.", he hissed before he was torn away by Daemon. He said nothing. He merely raised an eyebrow and wordlessly put his nephew back on track. He brought Aemond back next to them, but barely kept his distance. "On with you two.", he said, nudging them both.

Rhaenyra and Alicent watched the spectacle with worried eyes. "Well that's a good start.", sighed Rhaenyra. Alicent closed his eyes in surrender. "All we can do is pray." "Or bring the two of them closer somehow." "And how do you envisage that?" Rhaenyra sighed. "They must have something in common." Alicent sighed as well. "Aemond is studying, practising fighting or flying out with his dragon. I don't want to know what happens, when Aegon does manage to drag him out of his chamber." Rhaenyra nodded. "Sending them off with the dragon is probably not the best idea with that temperament." "Not if you want them both to come back alive." "Maybe prayer is truly the only thing that will help."

She sat to his right to make sure he could see her without any problems. The meal was good. Memories were shared. Aegon teased Jacaerys. Helaene talked about a spider, that had made it into her collection and Rhaenyra and Alicent practised approximate conversation. Alicent cleared his throat. "Your mother says you speak High Valyrian." (Y/n) nodded. Grateful to be snatched from her silent bubble with Aemond. "I suppose it's passable." "No false modesty. She's almost better than me.", Daemon interjected. The word almost carried the most weight. "Ivestragī īlva ūndegon skorkydoso bōsa ao kostagon nykeēdrosa vestragon bona." (Let us see how long you can still say that.), she said with a teasing grin on her face. "īlon jāhor ūndegon byka zaldrīzes." (We will see little dragon.) Aemond just snorted. That he really called her dragon. "What about you?" Daemon turned to his nephew. "Nyke ȳzaldrīzes ziry olvie sȳrī nyke pendagon." (I speak it very well, I think.) All eyes were on them again. "Your pronunciation is sloppy.", was all she said. "And yours is far too stilted.", he replied grimly. They both took a sip of wine, so as not to have to continue the conversation. Silence returned immediately. Daemon raised his wine goblet. "To my brother. Your marriage market skills are unrivalled." "Daemon.", Rhaenyra warned him calmly. "Even you have to admit that an heir with these two must have to happen by magic. Don't worry about it, youngster. I never touched my first wife either. But do the world a favour and oil your sword more often. It's almost impossible to accumulate as much pressure as you do." The glass in Aemond's hand broke so forcefully that shards ate into his skin. His fist did not open, however. His blood dripped onto the tabletop unflustered. Despite this, Aemond's gaze was blank. Withdrawn into himself, he sat there. Aegon laughed, already half drunk, but the others just looked at Aemond. Except for (Y/n). She stood up, curtsying to her grandfather. "I'd like to say goodbye. The day has been quite eventfull." "Of course, child. But you owe me a trip tobthe dragonpit in the morning in return." She nodded politely and left the room quickly and stiffly. Heirs with that pompous brat. She couldn't imagine letting someone like him get that close to her. When she thought about it, she couldn't imagine enjoying that kind of touch with any man. Not a man who actually existed in any case.

Aemond, meanwhile, was still sitting at the table, looking stubbornly at the table in front of him. He put on his mask and tried to ignore the screams of rage in his head. Tried not to feel the humiliation. Especially in front of his brother. The one who made him do it the first time. Brought him to her. "Can I say goodbye as well, father?", asked Aemond. "But you owe me a trip to the dragonpit in the morning for that.", he replied again. Aemond nodded and tried to ignore the fact that his next meeting with her was already fixed.

Later, he lay in her arms, his hand wrapped in a bandage, his mouth sucking on her breast and letting his head be stroked soothingly. What kind of husband would he be? He had no desire for the normal needs. If he did, it was for purely physical reasons. He only needed one heir. Just one. Then they wouldn't have to see each other anymore. "Shhh.", she purred, brushing a tear from his cheek.

"You cheated!", Aemond was furious. (Y/n) just smiled. "I used the size of my dragon. How can I help it, if Vagahr can't fit through the lip?" Aemond rolled his eyes. "It's marvellous weather. Don't you think?" Viserys interjected. "Yes, father.", Aemond nodded. "A very beautiful sunrise.", (Y/n) replied. "Aemond usually goes training in the morning. Why don't you watch?" Aemond's eye twinkled in amusement. (Y/n) rolled her eyes. "I was hoping to take a look at the library." "You'll have plenty of time for that, once you're living here. You should spend as much time together as possible together for now." (Y/n) sulked, annoyed. "Fine." "Ah." Viserys laughed. "Now I finally see your mother in you."

On the training ground, (Y/n) leaned bored against the railing and looked down at Aemond, who was fighting with Ser Kriston. He was skilful, she had to admit. Elegantly and skilfully, he dodged and attacked. "Niece!", she heard and turned round in surprise at the shouting. As soon as she saw Aegon coming towards her, she heard a stifled cry from the square. Aemond was holding his upper arm with an annoyed look on his face. Ser Kriston held a sword under his throat. "You must not be distracted." Aemond looked angrily at his brother, then got back into position. "Who made you do this boring observation?", her uncle grinned at her. "The king", she replied simply. Aegon was still grinning. "How about I kidnap you tonight?" She raised an eyebrow. "You want to infiltrate this marriage before it even started?" Aegon laughed. "No, no, no. We'll sneak outside. You should know the town you're about to make your home in." She listened up. "And what do you have in mind?" "There's a squire who will... let's say..." "Oil his sword?" Aegon grinned enthusiastically. "Exactly. So there will be guards. No worries. One less evening in his presence, isn't it?" "Very true." "Then be ready."

Aegon dragged the overwhelmed boy through the brothel and (Y/n) reconsidered all the decisions in her life. Especially the one to just follow Aegon.

🐉

"Did I tell you I came here as a lad? It’s a little tame, but a good place as any to get it wet. I know just the tutor for you, my boy." He simply ripped open one of the curtains and exposed the people inside. Aegon grimaced and quickly turned away again. "No. She’s woth three timest he price… Don't worry niece, one only does that to whores, not wives." He walked to the next curtain. "No." And to the next "No here neither. Her name is Sylvi or Selyse, or... I don’t know, something like that." He tore open the last curtain. A slightly older lady was lying on the silk-covered bed and holding a man. He turned round in surprise. Aemond? Aegon began to laugh hysterically. Aemond immediately sat up, knowing the rest of the pack was at his back. The scene didn't seem like the others. It didn't seem harsh or crude or animalistic. It seemed... calm. "Aemond the fierce!", Aegon exclaimed, still laughing. None of the others let an emotion flit across their faces. "You've come so far and yet you still lie with your very first. What a fine, sweet thing." Aegon settled down on the edge of the bed. "Did you fuck her like a hound?" He barked loudly. The lady on the bed, who had now put on a robe, winced slightly. "You see. I did not exaggerate. Such is the madam’s prowess, that even my brother will not sample another. Hard luck for your squire, though. As you can see, she… she’s now very much occipied." He looked at (Y/n). "Perhaps you can be shown how to please your husband in the future, (Y/n)." Aemond's eyes shot to her. Disbelief settled on his face. "You brought her here?", Aemond hissed at his brother. Aegon only continued to laugh.

🐉

Aemond stood up, naked as he was, and left the niche. "Your squire is welcome to her." With that, he grabbed his niece's arm, pulled his clothes to him and dragged her behind him. She was still processing the sight of his naked body when he pushed her into one of the free niches closer to the entrance. He closed the curtains and began to dress frantically. "What are you doing here?" "What are you doing here?", she simply repeated. He breathed in and out deeply. "I have every right to be here. You, on the other hand, have come to a fucking whorehouse completely defenceless! What if someone sees you? What if someone does something to you? Rape you? Kill you?", he reproached her as if she were a small child. She looked past him defiantly. "There were guards with us." She pouted slightly. "Apart from that, you'd be rid of me. That's what you want." Aemond snorted in annoyance. "Now don't be so dramatic"  He pulled his cloak over himself, covering his hair. "Now come on." She didn't react immediately. Still sorting through the images of the evening. "(Y/n) come now!" "You didn't sleep with her.", she realised. Aemond faltered. "What?" She was in a daze. "Well... It didn't seem like the other nooks and crannies... Why did you come here when you didn't-" Aemond simply threw her over his shoulder. "Come now!", he said emphatically and dragged her out of the brothel. On the street, he set her back on her feet and pushed her in front of him. "Obey and I'll answer some of your questions." She allowed herself to be pushed towards the red keep. "Good."

The next morning, they both sat at the table with the rest of the family for their morning meal. Aegon was still hunched over his plate, but laughed with amusement every time he looked at his brother. That one tried to ignore him, but couldn't really suppress the nausea, that had taken hold of him. How much had he seen? How much had he recognised? How much would he humiliate him knowing that he had sucked on her breast like a newborn? "What are you up to today?", asked Rhaenyra (Y/n). She was just swallowing her bite when Aemond answered for her. "I promised to show her round... To answer a few questions." All eyes shot to him. The silence was stifling for the next three seconds before Aegon let out a loud snort. "Don't get too explicit. You'll scare her away." Aemond said nothing, just continued eating the egg and ham in front of him.

Later, they walked quite randomly through the corridors. "I decide which questions I answer.", he stated first to break the silence. She nodded. "Good, so did you sleep with her?" "No." "Then why are you going to her?" "To relax." She faltered. "Why? Isn't your bed comfortable enough?" Aemond wanted to erase the memory from her mind. It was too intimate. Too secret... His biggest secret. "Comfortable... and sometimes... A little lonely.", he pressed out, as if it would cause him pain to admit it. (Y/n) drew her eyebrows together in surprise. "I didn't think, you were someone who would be bothered by that." "I only seek her out occasionally... In stressful times." She nodded acceptingly. "How wrong one can be... But... I mean you go halfway across town, just so you don't sleep alone? She must be... well doing something." Aemond faltered. Yes, she was doing something. Held him. Mothered him since his mother had stopped. "She... She listens to me." (Y/n) furrowed her eyebrows again in irritation. She remembered the brief image of the disturbed meeting. How he had lain there. How she had held him. His face against her chest. "It almost looked like you-" He quickly pressed his hand over her mouth. She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Don't say it.", he interrupted her with a firmness in his voice. Then he quickly turned away and walked down the corridor. "The library is this way. You wanted to see it.

(Y/n) wandered along the rows of books, but didn't see a single one. Too absorbed in the questions, her mind was asking her. Aemond was cold, arrogant and mean. Aemond would not lie down with a woman to suckle her breast. Aemond would... He would humiliate and hurt a woman... Wouldn't he? Aemond Targaryen... A warrior, or a little boy, who had been played too many tricks? She remembered the day, her brothers presented him with the pig. She remembered, how he had run past her and to his mother with tears in his eyes. The way Aegon had humiliated him, seemed to have determined his whole life. Siblings fought, but Aegon had always enjoyed taunting others. It made no sense. This image and the Aemond she knew. The image of discipline and ambition. She sighed and leaned against the shelf. (Y/n) strangely felt no desire, to judge him for it. He went there ‘to relax’. He found peace in it. Perhaps even a safe place. She brushed a strand of brown hair from her forehead. She pushed herself off the shelf and wandered through the rows to find Aemond. She found him at one of the tables, bent over a book, that he didn't really seem to be reading. She sat down next to him, on the side of his good eye. "I don't judge it.", she merely whispered. Aemond looked at her as if he was just waiting for the mockery. "I don't really understand it, but...", she pressed her lips together, thinking. "There are far worse things you could do." Aemond snorted dismissively. "There are also far less humiliating things.", He flipped the book shut. "If you lose even a stray word-" "What would I do that for?" He looked at her. "Aemond, I'll be honest.", she began. He signalled to her that he was listening. "We can't avoid this marriage, so we should get along somehow. All we need is a male heir. Maybe just one child, if that's enough for you. After that, you're free to do what you want, as long as I have my peace." "And you'll keep your mouth shut?" She nodded. He nodded. "How long have you known her?", she asked. Aemond looked at the book. "Since I was thirteen. Aegon paid for it. My first. As you've heard. I didn't want to... We both couldn't stop it." He looked at her thoughtfully. "How is it that you're so open about this?" She shrugged her shoulders. "My mother wanted me to know what to expect. Besides, Daemon never made a hel about the daughters being in the room, when he told my brothers about his youth." Aemond nodded with a sigh. "One child is enough." "Good." "Good."

"What's wrong with you?", (Y/n) asked, bored, when she had been joined by Aemond in one of the rooms to make conversation. "What do you mean?", he returned tensely. (Y/n) just raised an eyebrow. "You look like Vagahr chewed you up once and spat you out again. And if you sit there any stiffer, your back will break." Aemond's jaw ground. "Stress", he simply replied and turned back to his studies. "Why don't you go and see her?" Aemond's gaze shot to her. She just shrugged her shoulders. "It relaxes you. You're definitely not relaxed. It's an easy solution." "No. Not an easy solution. Aegon will be back. This place isn't safe anymore." He tried to ignore the twinge in his chest. He felt like a child having his favourite toy snatched from him, only to watch it burn in front of him. Aegon had seen him. He didn't know, what conclusions his clouded mind had drawn. It kept him awake all night and the only thing, that would help him find peace, was now destroyed forever. He slammed the book shut and was about to get up, but got stuck in the intention and sat back down on the chair. "Aemond?" He took a deep breath. "I don't know how much Aegon has seen. I don't know what stories he's spreading. I can't sleep. I've built up a reputation over the years only to be caught by my drunken brother at the only moment I allowed myself to..." He broke off. "In which you allowed yourself to be... weak?", she asked hesitantly. Aware of the delicate subject. Aemond snorted. His brother had always just fallen to the top. Aemond had to work hard for everything. And now this fool probably knew everything, to ruin him.

"Aegon.", (Y/n) said politely and stood next to him. The garden was beautiful and in full bloom. Aegon, on the other hand, seemed to be avoiding the spirit of life today. He sat leaning against a tree in the garden and gazed glassily into nothingness. "Niece.", he mumbled, making a choking noise for a moment, then collected himself. She put on her most innocent face. The fact that he was probably still drunk enough, not to remember this conversation in its entirety, was definitely an advantage. "How long have you been travelling?" Aegon narrowed his eyes. "Until... Now. I haven't made it to bed yet." "Want some help?" Aegon immediately threw his weight onto one of her shoulders and staggered off. "Can I ask you something?" Aegon just grumbled. "If you have to." She smiled. "The night you took me with you." Aegon grinned stupidly. "I told you not to worry. That's what you do with whores, not wives." She banished the image that flashed in her mind. "Yes, that's what you said... I'm more worried, that your brother might expect more, well... Than I can give." Aegon grinned wider. "Why? Because he was lying with a whore. Always the same one. I don't think you need to worry... He truly is a loyal dog." He laughed. "She seemed... more experienced." "You'd expect that with her expertise and age." (Y/n) tried further. "Sure there was nothing... Strange going on in that nook, I mean?" Aegon laughed again, but then gulped slightly and immediately refrained. "Oh little niece. He was fucking. You can do that too. I just think it's a shame, they were already done. I'd love to see my brother fully human for once. He's such a prude. Well, never mind. Wait a minute.", He leaned to one side, bored, and threw up. Half of it landed on his trousers. "Okay. Go on." (Y/n) grimaced. Daemon had been right. It could have been worse.

She slammed the book down on the table in his study and sat down. "He doesn't know anything.", she said simply. "And you owe me a new dress." Aemond looked up in confusion. "Aegon", she explained, "I found him drunk in the garden this morning. He thinks you fucked a whore and nothing else. So relax and get some sleep. With your dark circles, you'll lose the other eye too." Aemond looked at her, perplexed. "You questioned him?" "I danced around the subject, but your brother tends to have conversations like that with his head through the wall." "What did you ask?", he asked immediately, unsettled. Anger resonated in his voice. "Whether I should be worried that you might have special wishes for me when you value her experience." Aemond leant back in his chair. He exhaled in surrender. "And he knows nothing?" (Y/n) shook his head. "Nothing special, it seems." "That's good.", he stated simply. (Y/n) nodded. "It is." She flipped open her book. "I wasn't joking about the dress, by the way." He let his eye wander over her. "I'm sorry.", he muttered. "Tell that to the maids. It took me three tubs before I felt clean again." "What exactly happened?" "He threw up in the wrong direction." Aemond pressed his lips together and looked at his book again. His stomach felt strangely light at the thought that she had gone through this ordeal for him. He couldn't really place it, but decided it made him too vulnerable and pushed it aside.

"(Y/n) sit down.", said her mum, pointing to the chair next to her. She complied with the request. "What is it?" Rhaenyra smiled gently at her. "So the wedding is coming up.", she began. "Yes... I know." She nodded again. "Good, you remember the conversations we had, regarding the wedding night?" "In great detail." "But if you still have questions-" "Don't worry.", she interrupted her immediately. Rhaenyra seemed to be struggling for words. Something that never actually happened. "Aegon came to me.", she said bluntly. "Aegon?... Argh." She let her back slam against the back of the chair. "Believe me, there were other reasons, why I went to see him." "And what reasons would those be? Did you notice something, when you snuck out that made you feel insecure?", she smirked. "He told you?" Rhaenyra smiled. "Told me. Shouted it at me with laughter. Take your pick." "I'm going to scalp him." Rhaenyra laughed in amusement. "At least everyone knows now that you are truly my daughter." "You giving birth to me wasn't proof enough?"

Aemond came to her table in the library. She looked at him for a moment with a tense mouth. "You look more rested." "One less burden.", he explained simply. She nodded and looked back down at her book. "What's wrong?", he simply asked. "My mother has called me in, because your brother is now worried about my knowledge of the marriage bed., She looked at him venomously. "You owe me far more than a bloody dress." He just nodded and looked back down at his book. He did owe her something.

The dress hung heavily on her. The embroidery and embellishments in red and black stretched across the fabric. Her hair was plaited and pinned up. Necklaces and bracelets were put on her. She allowed herself to be led to the throne room and placed before the king, where Aemond was already standing, dressed in black as usual. His clothes were also more ornate than usual. They took their hands. It was only then that (Y/n) realised that they had never really touched before, apart from the day in the brothel, when he had dragged her with him. They recited their vows. They were celebrated. They danced and drank. And neither of them really knew, what to make of it. (Y/n) because she still wasn't really sure, what to expect from this marriage and Aemond, because he just couldn't shake this strange feeling in his stomach. It was only when they were pushed into his room, that (Y/n) really realised what was about to happen. She felt involuntarily tense. She looked at him uncertainly. However, he went into his room. "I'm paying my debts today.", he said simply. Her brows drew together. :Aemond, I was jesting." But he only reached into a true and pulled out a dress and laid it across the bed. She walked towards it. "Green?" He twitched his eyebrow. "You just said a dress. Nothing else." She smirked devotedly. "All right... It's still pretty." Aemond reached for a small tin on the table next to the bed. "And the other... Gift, if you will." She took the tin and opened it hesitantly. Irritated, she looked inside, then at Aemond. "A fish bladder filled with blood. I'll stage the bed and drain the bladder. You can choose, when you come to me. Or we can do our duty. I'll give you the choice." She looked at the little ball. "You'd really give it up?" He nodded. "It's more duty than anything else.", he confessed. She allowed herself to be surprised, that anyone else felt that way als well. She closed the tin. "What would your plan be... For an heir?" "I'll come round once a week." She nodded and placed the tin on the bed. "Then we shouldn't put it off too long." She reached for the cloak on her shoulders and put it down. As she reached for the lacing at her back, she realised, that her hands were shaking slightly. Aemond removed his jacket and shirt. He was slim but muscular. He had a certain attractiveness. But a hard one. An unyielding one. She had seen him like this before, she reminded herself consciously. She let her dress slide off her and now stood before him in just her undergarment. Aemond simply brushed off his trousers and stood in front of her like in the brothel. His posture said that he didn't mind being seen like this. But his eye betrayed him. "Aren't you going to take the patch off?" Aemond's stature crumbled slightly. "Most people don't like the sight of it." "Only if you want to. You don't have to." He nodded, tidied away the can and dress, then motioned for her to lie down. She adjusted the pillows at her back, when she saw him reach for his eye patch. With a practised grip, he undid the laces and put the piece aside. He turned towards her. She scrutinised him closely. A sapphire shone in the eye socket. She had also seen this in the brothel, but she had been distracted by his nakedness then. "A beautiful stone.", was all she said. Aemond merely sat down on the bed. Relief rippled through his muscles. That it didn't disgust her seemed to mean more to him than he had realised.

🐲

(Y/n) took a deep breath as he lay on top of her. He reached for a small vial and oiled his hand. "What are you doing?" "It makes the whole thing easier. It'll probably still hurt, though." She nodded. "I know." He grabbed himself with his oily hand. Quickly and purposefully, he ran his hand over himself. He didn't look at her. Looked stubbornly at her shoulder. His ears were red. His gaze revealed, how uncomfortable he was. All observations fizzled out of her mind as he pushed her legs further apart and pushed her underdress high enough to expose her most intimate part. He pressed himself against her. She felt him. "Can I?" he asked tensely. She nodded. "Yes." He pushed himself into her. It was literally burning. She felt like she was going to tear up, but she blinked away the tears. Everyone had told her it hurt at first. She gripped the pillow beneath her for support and breathed in and out in a controlled manner until he had sunk himself completely into her. Aemond held still for a moment and waited. "Say when I can mive.", he pressed out. She wiped the tears from her face as unobtrusively as possible and tried to force her body to relax. Aemond's hand slipped between them. His thumb placed itself on her and drew circles. She exhaled in surprise. "Better?", he asked. "A little." He nodded and thrust lightly. It was a surreal experience for both of them. Aemond was uncomfortable with the closeness and yet he felt the strange feeling in his stomach again, when he was able to take away some of her pain. He should start like this next time. He sounded an idiot. He should have thought of that earlier. (Y/n) was torn between pain and the pleasant feeling that Aemond gave her with his thumb. Aemond tried to keep it as short as possible. As soon as he felt the sensation, he let himself fall over the cliff and jerked haphazardly above her. He carefully, but quickly extracted himself and brought himself back next to her.

🐲

(Y/n) was quite glad, that it was over. She merely closed her eyes. "I'm sorry.", Aemond whispered. (Y/n) shook his head. "It had to be." She hoped her suppressed tears didn't show completely. Aemond felt as if his chest was being pierced. He saw himself when he was thirteen. How he had tried with all his might not to let the tears fall. How he hadn't wanted to be touched for weeks afterwards. And now he was doing the same to her. She took a deep breath in and out and then reached for the cloak next to the bed. Aemond understood, got dressed again and opened the door for the maid, who was waiting in front of it with her eyes downcast. The small figure went into the room, pulled the bedding down and up again and disappeared. The proof of the marriage in her hand. Aemond looked at (Y/n). "You can stay here if you want." She considered. "I don't really know, what I want." Aemond put himself to bed. He lifted the covers slightly. "You can leave any time you like." (Y/n) nodded, but first looked to the bowl of water the maid had provided. Aemond nodded understandingly and turned his back to her.

The night was restless for both of them. Aemond was woken by one nightmare after another. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that night before him. (Y/n) just wanted to take a bath and not feel like she did now. She waited forever, before the burning between her legs stopped and she finally fell asleep. She didn't dream.

In the morning they both stood tired in front of their family. (Y/n) said goodbye to her mother, who was flying to Dragonstone, and suppressed the feeling of loneliness, she was experiencing. She would stay here now. Her family would leave. Her mum, her brothers. Even Daemon she would miss somehow. Aegon grinned stupidly at the sight of the tired figures and teased them. (Y/n), who was already at the edge of her strength, simply tripped him and watched him fall into one of the rose beds. The corners of Aemond's mouth twitched slightly. He left for training and (Y/n) just stood in her chambers for quite some time, until she decided to go back to sleep. And she carried out this decision for three days in a row. Aemond did not notice her absence. Apart from the maids, no one was looking for her. So she really did have all the freedom she wanted. Even to simply cease to exist. It wasn't until the fifth day, that there was a knock at her door. To her surprise, Alicent stepped through the door. (Y/n) rose quickly and bowed. "What happened between you and Aemond?", she asked bluntly. (Y/n) faltered. "I don't understand?" Alicent sighed. "I understand that... It's been five days and no one can testify, that you've seen each other again. What happened?" (Y/n) looked at her hands in irritation. "Only what was expected of us." "An heir is expected and one doesn't just show up like that." "Aemond... has a plan", she muttered. Alicent scratched her thumb along her finger. "I know it's not the best experience in the world, but it gets better. You'll get used to it." "That's good to know." Alicent nodded. "This marriage has to work. For the safety of us all." "I'm aware of that." "Then try harder.", she concluded and left the room.

On the seventh day after the wedding, Aemond went to see her. He had stayed away from her the whole time. He could feel the monster inside him moving too much. As if it had been stabbed with a spear. Normally a very proud creature, it now seemed unable to reconcile, what it had experienced with itself. He had been thinking about it. All this time, he had been thinking about how he could make it easier. But now that he was standing in front of her, it all seemed somehow laughable. He had hurt her. He had hurt his wife. He was no better than Aegon.

(Y/n) saw Aemond for the first time in a week. He looked tired. Agitated. Silently, he sat on the bed, but did nothing else. (Y/n) let him take the time to compose himself. "I don't want to hurt you any more.", he confessed. She looked down at her lap. Only now did she realise, how tense her body had been since he had entered the room. She smiled slightly, but her eyes didn't really join in. "I was told it would get better. With time." Aemond nodded. "I can't yet.", he said despite himself. "And what are we going to do now?" "How about a flight?"

"That little lizard is far too sneaky.", Aemond complained. "This little lizard is the fastest dragon in the Seven Kingdoms.", grinned (Y/n). Aemond looked at her dragon. One of Syrrax's boys. Vilar. Aemond stayed with 'little lizard'. Just big enough to carry (Y/n), but unfortunately really the nimblest creature he had ever seen. "That felt good.", she confessed. Aemond nodded. "Nothing better to clear your head." He stroked Vagahr's neck lightly. (Y/n) looked up at the stars. How unimportant they all were. Even a creature like Vagahr. Who could care about a white haired child more or less? She sighed. "Long week?", asked Aemond. She shrugged her shoulders. "I slept through most of it", she admitted. Aemond stood next to her and looked at the moon. "I didn't sleep a wink for that." They spent half the night together in silence.

"It's been four months, Aemond!", his mother made him understand. "I know.", he just said. "Aemond, this is important!" Aemond didn't move. "I'm aware of that." "Then go, find her and do something!" He stood in front of her and looked at her. "I do what I can. But I have other obligations than just having sexual intercourse with my wife." Alicent rolled his eyes. "What your brother has too much of, you lack entirely. The gods are punishing me." Aemond's chest hardened. Wrong again. Not right. Broken. A disappointment. "Is that all?", he asked. Alicent waved him away. He went straight to (y/n). In her room, he found her embroidering something. A rare picture. "You're embroidering?", he asked, irritated. She threw the fabric on the table. "To call it that would be blasphemous. Helaena has this new beetle she likes and I wanted to embroider it on a cushion for her, but it looks more like a crushed beetle." She looked at him. "What is it?" "My mother.", he explained and sat down next to her. He picked up a goblet of wine and took a sip. (Y/n) looked regretfully at the table. "So she came to you, too." He just nodded. She reached for her embroidery again, looked at it begrudgingly and put it away. "Can you bring me some books from the library?", she asked him. He raised an eyebrow. "And the fine lady isn't going herself because?" She pursed her lips in annoyance. "Because your mother told the maesters to keep me here, until I finally have an heir under my heart. They say I'm too stressed and dragon riding... What did they call it?... Dragon riding is withering my womb." Aegon furrowed his eyebrows in irritation. "I couldn't say we aren't doing anything to change that. That would probably only make her more nervous." She stroked the rim of her wine goblet. Maybe they should just get it over with. "We're flying out. Right now." Aemond suddenly decided and stood up. (Y/n) looked at him in astonishment. "Are you sure?" "Very sure.", Aemond said. He folded his arms behind his back, as he so often did. "We are married... The marriage is consummated... No one can dissolve it. How we conduct it is now up to us." He seemed to be thinking out loud more, than actually talking to (Y/n). His head was spinning. "We'll just spend every night in the marriage chambers from now on." He looked directly at her. "If they think we're trying long enough, eventually the question will come up, that it just won't work. Then they'll leave us alone.", he explained. (Y/n) looked at him closely. That fate put together the two of them of all people. When Aemond noticed her gaze, he faltered. "What?" She shook her head. "That's a good plan.", she admitted simply. Aemond nodded. "Come on, then. Vilar will already be restless."

Rhaenyra and Alicent walked through the garden, letting the warm summer air brush against their skin. "I'm thinking of having Aegon organise Daeron's name day feast.",  Raehnyra said. Alicent's eyebrows drew together. "Why that?" "Maybe it'll teach him to take responsibility. After all... this is his expertise... And passion." Alicent rolled his eyes. "If you want to bankrupt the realm so soon after your coronation." Rhaenyra smiled. "Don't worry. He'll get a fixed budget." They walked on in silence. "Aemond and (Y/n) seem to have... well, they really have grown closer." Alicent sighed. "Yes, and yet... Over a year of marriage Rhaenyra. And nothing." She ran her fingers over a flower as she walked past.

"They avoided each other at first. I would have understood then, but now they spend every night together. By the gods, they've become almost inseparable. They study together, fly out and she watches him train." "Maybe it's just not meant to be", Rhaenyra pondered. "But if their bond is so strong... What more could we want for them?" "Heirs.", Alicent replied simply. Rhaenyra could only laugh at her friend's dry delivery. Even Alicent joined in. "Rhaena and Gwayne seem to be in contact at the moment.", Rhaenyra grinned. Alicant raised her eyebrows in surprise.

They both looked intently at the pitch. Cyvasse had become both of their favourite pastime over the last few months. There was something teasing and playful about it. She often caught Aemond grinning during the game. As if for the first time he was a child, who had finally found someone to play with. Their relationship had become more intimate. By now, they both appreciated the bond that had been formed. They could spend whole evenings in silence. Each engrossed in their own book. They could amuse themselves with games. (Y/n) had suggested it. She had played a lot with her brothers until they decided, they were too old for it. Aemond had also been sceptical at first, but now he himself was often the first to move the pieces around the board. It was a strange marriage. It didn't have the physical passion that was required of them. They only exchanged light caresses. Aemond's everyday life was characterised by stress. Stress that he mostly caused himself. Since he no longer attended the silk street, he lacked a fundamental counterbalance to that very stress. He had become increasingly tense. One day (Y/n) had simply started stroking his hair. He had watched her at first, like a hawk, but then he had melted like butter on hot meat. She often held him. Sometimes he buried himself against her breasts. They talked. Hidden in their little save world. They even kissed. Chaste and yet loving. Their marriage worked. It was healthy. It was... happy. The court had stopped asking questions about an heir. Meagor himself hadn't been able to have a child. The world assumed it was the same with them.

Aemond's hand settled on a figurine. He playfully shifted an elephant. (Y/n) took in the new image. "Not bad.", she murmured with a grin. Aemond looked smugly at the board. "Not bad for real." She reached for her dragon and let it eat the elephant. "Not bad for me.", she teased. Aemond pursed his lips. "Touche." "Aegon is to organise Daeron's name day celebration", (Y/n) told him. Aemond looked at her with appraising disbelief. "Your mother wants to bankrupt the realm so quickly?" She smirked. "He's on a fixed budget." Aemond shook his head with a grin. "Well, if she thinks that will stop him." He reshaped his stones. "Has my mother visited you lately?" She shook her head. "The last visit was... Three months ago, I'd say." Aemond nodded in satisfaction. "Do you really think they will leave us alone now?" "I hope so.", she sipped her wine. She struggled to find the next words. "Do you think we're broken?" Aemond didn't show any surprise. He let the question sink in. "Even if we were, we've found each other... Haven't we?" He looked into her violet eyes. She smiled slightly. But quickly became serious again. "And... You really don't want it? You're not giving it up just because of me?" He shook his head. "I just don't like it.", he realised. His fingers ran delicately over the dragon figure carved from onyx in front of him. "And you?" She paused. "I never had a desire for it... I think I could have got used to it... But I don't want it if I don't have to." He nodded. "How fate can play into your hands like that." She laughed lightly. "Hm. A year ago, you were at my throat." He smirked slightly. "Don't pretend, you didn't want to do the same to me." She allowed herself to smirk, then looked down at his hands, still caressing the little dragon. "Have you ever been with her again?", she asked. He immediately shook his head. "I sent her a generous settlement two months after our wedding and a letter, letting her know that I no longer require her services." He looked at his wife's calm face. "Why do you ask? Jealousy?", he smirked teasingly. She smiled sheepishly. "I want to know what would keep you here." "What do you mean?" She shrugged her shoulders. "We're not going to have an heir. Good. But... There would be plenty of dragonlings to care for on Dragonstone. We could go there. Jacaerys will soon succeed to the throne and be trained. Dragonstone would be free." She grinned. "And we both know that Aegon will do everything he can to avoid having to leave the red keep. So he's hardly an option as a Dragonstone heir." "His disappearance would drive three whorehouses into bankruptcy and cause the economy to go awry." She laughed. He smiled as well. They looked at each other. "So? Dragonstone?", she asked. He nodded. "Dragonstone."

[dopeyz]

Red Riot’s Soft Spot

About: pro hero single dad! Eijiro Kirishima X kindergarten teacher!reader.

Genre: fluff

Warnings: none

————————————————————————

Eijiro Kirishima had faced villains, disasters, and the weight of being a pro hero, but nothing was more nerve-wracking than his first parent-teacher conference.

“Daddy, hurry up! I wanna show you my classroom!” his five-year-old son, Haru, tugged on his hand excitedly as they entered the brightly colored kindergarten classroom.

“I’m comin’, bud,” Kirishima chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t worried about Haru—his kid was as energetic and friendly as he was. But meeting the new teacher? That was a different story.

And then he saw you.

You were crouched beside a group of kids, helping them put away toys, a warm smile on your face. But when you turned and locked eyes with him, he felt something in his chest tighten.

Whoa.

Haru ran up to you, beaming. “Miss Y/N! This is my dad!”

You straightened, offering Kirishima a friendly smile as you extended your hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Kirishima. Haru talks about you all the time.”

“Ah, just Kirishima is fine,” he said, shaking your hand—soft, warm, gentle—before pulling back and rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I should apologize if he’s been talkin’ his old man’s ear off.”

You laughed, and Kirishima swore it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. “Not at all. He’s a wonderful kid. You’ve raised him well.”

He felt heat creep up his neck. “Ah, well… I try my best.”

From that day on, Kirishima found himself looking forward to every school drop-off and pick-up just to talk to you, even if it was just for a few moments. It started with small conversations about Haru—his progress, his friendships, his favorite activities—but soon, those talks turned into something more.

“I still can’t believe you’re the Red Riot,” you admitted one afternoon as he lingered a little longer than necessary. “You’re so… down to earth.”

He grinned, rubbing the back of his head. “Gotta be when you’ve got a five-year-old keeping you humble.”

You laughed, eyes sparkling. “Fair enough.”

Days turned into weeks, and the more he got to know you, the harder he fell. You were patient, kind, and had the biggest heart—not just for Haru but for every child in your care.

One evening, as he picked up Haru, he hesitated before speaking. “Hey, uh… I was wonderin’ if maybe you’d wanna grab coffee sometime? Y’know, outside of the classroom?”

Your eyes widened slightly before a soft smile spread across your lips. “Are you asking me on a date, Kirishima?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… yeah. Guess I am.”

You glanced at Haru, who was busy packing up his things, then met Kirishima’s gaze again. “I’d love to.”

And just like that, Red Riot, the unbreakable hero, found himself weak for you.

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Word count: 450

If anyone has any requests please let me know I’m Lwk already running out of ideas :3

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Family addition

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Lando (stepbrother) x reader, let me know if you want a part 2 :)

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

Everything was perfect. I was studying journalism at one of the best universities in the country. I had a close-knit group of friends I could always count on—Friday night dinners, spontaneous road trips, endless inside jokes. And I had Daniel. Tall, soft-spoken, impossibly kind. My boyfriend for nearly two years.

Life had fallen into place in a way that felt safe. Predictable. Good. Until Mom decided to start dating again.

Now, I wasn’t some heartless daughter who didn’t want her mother to be happy. My dad passed away three years ago, and I had made peace with it—some days more than others. But I knew she deserved to smile again, to fall in love if she wanted to.

And then came him.

Adam was nice. Too nice, actually. The kind of guy who laughed at his own bad jokes and remembered my favourite dessert after just one dinner. I couldn’t hate him if I tried. But his son? That was another story entirely.

Lando. Lando freaking Norris.

First time I met him, he sauntered into the house with his messy hair and cocky grin like he owned the place. He tossed his car keys on the counter, gave me a once-over that lingered a little too long, and said, “So you’re the golden child?”

I hated him immediately.

He was infuriating. Loud, arrogant, and far too aware of his own charm. He teased me every chance he got—poking fun at my serious nature, rolling his eyes when I had a book in my hand instead of a beer, and constantly referring to me as princess in that smug tone that made me want to throw something at his head.

“You know, not everyone finds journalism interesting,” he said one afternoon, leaning against the kitchen counter, eating the last piece of the cake I’d specifically labeled as mine. “But I guess someone has to write about the weather.”

“I guess someone has to be a walking cliché of a spoiled boy with a sports car,” I shot back.

He just winked at me. “You noticed the car? I’m flattered.”

Ugh.

It didn’t help that he was… attractive. In a rugged, annoying, irritating way. And worse—he knew it. The tension between us wasn’t just anger, and we both knew it. But acknowledging that would be dangerous. It would mean admitting that part of me noticed the way his eyes sparkled when he was making fun of me. Or the way he smelled like expensive cologne and trouble. Or the way my heart raced when we fought.

No. This was war. Lando Norris was now my stepbrother, and I was determined to keep my perfect life from turning into a complete disaster.

Mom insisted on having a “family dinner” once a week ever since the engagement, which basically meant me gritting my teeth across the table from Lando while he found new and creative ways to drive me insane.

This time, he showed up late. Of course.

“You’re twenty minutes late,” I muttered under my breath as he walked in, dressed like he’d just stepped off a yacht. White shirt, sleeves rolled up, and that same smirk that made me want to scream.

He flopped into the chair next to mine, completely ignoring me. “Got caught up with some friends,” he said casually, grabbing a piece of bread and eating like he hadn’t been raised with basic table manners.

Mom didn’t seem to care. She just looked at him with the same affectionate smile she always wore when he was around, like he was a little lost puppy she’d adopted instead of a grown man who purposely unplugged my laptop last week while I was writing a final essay.

“So,” Adam said, clinking his fork against his glass, “we have some exciting news.”

Oh no.

Mom beamed. “We’re going away for the weekend. Just the two of us. We thought it would be nice to spend a little time together before the wedding.”

“Oh, that’s great,” I said automatically, even though I already knew this was leading somewhere terrible.

David cleared his throat. “Which means the house will be empty.”

“No problem,” I said quickly. “I’ll stay with Daniel.”

“No,” Mom said, shaking her head. “You have a paper to work on and I don’t want you distracted. Lando will be here too, and it’ll be a good chance for you two to bond.”

Bond.

The word echoed in my head like a death sentence.

Lando turned to me with the most obnoxious grin. “You hear that, princess? Looks like we’re roommates this weekend.”

“I’d rather sleep in a tent,” I muttered.

“I can pitch one for you in the backyard,” he offered sweetly. “Or we could just share a room. You know—for the bonding.”

I kicked him under the table. He yelped, then laughed.

Mom and David were too busy to notice, lost in their rose-colored love bubble. And just like that, it was official: I was going to spend an entire weekend alone in a house with the one person on this planet who could make breathing feel like a competition.

I stared at my plate, appetite gone. Lando leaned closer, voice low in my ear.

“This is going to be fun.”

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

Eyes on the mirror - part 2.

Pairing: neighbor!Frankie Morales x f!reader Rating: +18, NSFW Words count: 3814 Summary: Dinner at Frankie's mom's is a disaster, she doesn't like you at all but her son doesn't fail to show you how much he likes you instead. Tags/Warnings: POV second person, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress and heels, she has hair but it's not described, no mention of her skin tone, she doesn't blush, she understands Spanish (but I didn't write sentences in Spanish because I don't know how to do it and I don't want to do it badly when I'm already writing in a language that is not my native), Frankie's mom is pretty conservative, traditionalist and closed-minded and she's mean towards reader, unprotected p in v (do better irl, please), sex in front of a mirror, oral (m receiving), Frankie is a good man ❤︎ and we love that for him. A/N: It's an emotional work, it's smut, but it's smut with feelings and I think I put a lot of myself into it. So I ask you to be especially delicate. This Frankie is the same guy from You look like a fun place to sit and Give me more. Thanks again @aurorawritestoescape and @arcanefox207 for your precious help and advices ❤️ I made a few changes from the first draft, English is not my first language, any mistake is still on me, so if you come across one I’m very sorry. @joelmillerisapunk just 🥹🥹🥹💖 Part 1 ⎮ Frankie Masterlist ⎮ Masterlist

Frankie's mom has the same eyes as her son, brown, big and deep, but there is a sharpness in them that does not belong to Frankie's. 

She has a simple, well-groomed appearance, wearing a white tunic dress that comes down to her knee, her hands are slightly cracked but her manicured nails are painted a pearly pink. 

She is a short, thin woman with the haughty, imperious appearance of someone who doesn’t let anyone step on her toes, a woman ready to bargain, to work hard, to take care of an entire household without anyone's help.

She's a tough lady and you're pretty sure she hates your guts.

 She addresses you rather nicely but you can tell something is wrong.

Her tone of voice sounds mocking and she's constantly whispering things to Frankie in Spanish that you don't hear well but you're pretty sure aren't anything nice.

“So what do you do, dear?” she asks you with a forced smile, sitting at the head of the table as she has arranged you and Frankie facing each other.

“I…um…work in a graphic design studio,” you mutter.

Frankie quickly adds, “She's so good at her job!” 

The way he’s trying to enhance your skills since you arrived moves you, but his mom doesn’t seem impressed.

Mrs Morales is intimidating, staring at you like she’s trying to catch every single flaw you have.

You can't even use your usual sarcasm because she would surely think you were insolent and certainly not right for his son.

“Have you done anything that I might have seen? Any national commercials?” she prods.

“Um, I don't think so, we're a pretty small studio at the moment, we've mostly worked on graphics for local stores and websites for professionals here, you know.” 

“Oh.” She raises her eyebrow. ”I see.”

Trying to compliment her, you say the food is delicious, the best you've ever eaten, and she reserves a cold “thank you”

Then she presses you again, “Can you cook?”

You lower your gaze to your plate and admit, “no, actually, I'm not very good at cooking.” 

“What do you usually eat?” she asks suspiciously. 

"Um...well...I can cook pasta and eggs..." you try to say and she looks at you in shock as if you just said donkeys can fly.

“Mom, please” Frankie tries to calm her down and she hisses at him “she will starve you!”

He hisses in turn “I am not perished! And she’s adorable, she’s smart, kind, funny and beautiful”

You feel Frankie's sorry look comforting you from across the table, he's doing what he can and you are truly grateful, but right now there’s nothing that can make you feel happy to be here.

You don't want to fight with her because you love Frankie and you know he loves his mother, you don't want to lose him because of scowling at her.

You see her giggling and shaking her head and you feel like crying but you don't, you don't want her to add ‘pathetic’ as one of your flaws.

She turns to Frankie and says something like, “How can you be with someone like that?” in Spanish. 

Frankie leans over the table and reprimands her, “Mom, stop it.”

She responds irritated in Spanish, “why? She is no good at cooking, and that job? Tsk, you don't want to marry her, do you?”

Frankie rolls his eyes and hisses, “Mom!”

You understand Spanish just fine but all this whispering is putting a strain on you, you just want her to see how much you care about Frankie and for her to like something about you. 

Even the dress didn't have the effect you had hoped for, she looked down on you even though her son had chosen it.

You brought her flowers and a cake to be nice and she huffed about the flowers because she would have to find a suitable vase to put them in and as for the cake, you bought it, so obviously it’s another proof of your failures in the culinary field.

She waves her hand at Frankie to shush him and turns back to you.

“Do you want anything else, sweetheart?” nodding at the serving dishes in the center of the table with another fake smile. 

Your stomach churns and you respond politely that you are full.

She turns back to Frankie, squinting her eyes, "she won't even eat! how is she going to give me grandchildren?!”

You look at your hands resting on your lap, feeling lousy and tired. 

Frankie must see this clearly because he finally blurts out, “Mom, if you don't stop now, we're leaving! She has done nothing wrong to you to be treated like this”

Mrs. Morales brings a hand to her chest, a shocked grimace is painted on her face. 

 “How dare you address your mother like that! I'm just trying to protect you, she's clearly not good for you!” She no longer even bothers to say it whispering in Spanish so that you wouldn't understand, in fact you think she said it loud and in English precisely so that her disappointment would be clear to you. 

You get up while they are still busy arguing and lock yourself in the bathroom. 

You knew this evening would be a disaster, but you hoped so hard that you were wrong. 

You’re glad Frankie stood up for you but you never wanted him to fight with his mother because of you. 

You hear their angry voices in the distance as they continue to argue and you feel so guilty.

You sit on the floor on the turquoise tiles in Mrs. Morales' bathroom, thinking only about how much you want to get out of here.

After a few minutes you hear a knock on the door. 

 “Honey, open up, it's me” You get up and reluctantly open the door.

“Hey, come here” Frankie says to you as soon as he sees your eyes on to the brink of tears.

He closes the door behind him and takes you in his arms, holding you tightly. 

You hide your face in his chest, letting the soothing warmth of his body envelop you. 

He strokes your back and whispers, “I'm so sorry, you don't deserve any of this.”

“I wanted her to like me so much,” you sob. 

“I know, honey, it's not your fault. She is fixated on things I don't care about. But you don't have to worry, everything will be fine.”

You pull away from him “I don't want you to fight over me”

"She can’t treat you like that, I'm the one who wants to be with you, and I like you the way you are.”

“Yeah, but…it’s still your mum,” you murmur.

“I gave her a little speech, don’t worry, you’ll be fine now,” 

Frankie smiles, leaving a kiss on your forehead and caressing your cheek, wiping away your tears. “Don’t cry.”

“What did you say to her? You didn't threaten her not to visit again, did you?” you ask worriedly. His eyes become a little shy, he’s quiet for a moment and then whispers to you, “no, I didn't tell her that.” 

“What then?” his enigmatic expression that doesn't let anything out intrigues and agitates you. 

He looks straight into your eyes and candidly admits, "I told her that I love you." 

You've felt it in the air for some time but now that you've heard it come out of his mouth, plain and simple, you are stunned. 

“Do you mean it?” You ask in a low shaking voice, looking into his big brown eyes for evidence of his sincerity. 

"I've never been so serious, miss," he smiles at you, expectantly. 

And then you feel you can say it, no matter how scary it is for you, “I love you too.” 

It doesn't seem real to you that you have just made yourself so vulnerable in front of him, your neighbor who until a few months ago was bothering you while now you feel you have a total and deep connection with him, no matter how much you poke and bicker at each other, your heart sings every time you are with him and you feel it loud and clear in your chest as it skips a beat every time Frankie looks at you a certain way, smiling with his eyes, with those little wrinkles around them and that dimple on his cheek that you adore. 

You love the way he mumbles in the morning as soon as he wakes up, the way he stretches under the covers and then again as soon as he gets up, his golden skin under the morning light, his playfully mischievous eyes that settle on you while you're still lying down trying to wake up, the way he always leans down to give you a kiss, whispering, “Good morning, princess.”

You also love how he keeps that silly little cap glued to his head at every opportunity.

You like kissing him and feeling his lips tasting like coffee, you like the way he hugs you as if he wants to shield you with his body and protect you from the world, you like the way his eyes become attentive and receptive when they rest on you and the way he listens to you, remaining silent and caressing your hand as if to invite you to tell him anything that is on your mind. 

You love how loyal he is to his friends, how he takes care of people, you love when he tries to make you breakfast even though he leaves a mess in your kitchen as if a barbarian invasion passed through.

And you love him now, standing in his mother's bathroom, hugging you as if only you existed in the world. 

“I love you,” you repeat and he looks at your face as if he wants to study the map of how much you truly care about him on it.

His hands slide down your back to your butt and he pushes you hard against him without breaking eye contact. 

His eyes are dark, his pupils dilated, he squeezes your butt tightly and then kisses you. 

You know exactly what he wants and you whisper into his mouth as soon as you break away from the passionate, deep kiss in which he engulfed you, “Not here, come on, take me home.”

He turns to the door and locks it still holding you close. 

“Let it go, baby, it’s okay” he replies and winks at you.

Feeling so desired by him is a real relief after feeling stupid and unfitting all night.

He turns you to the large mirror above the sink, leans to your ear and whispers, “Look at yourself.”

His hands move up your back, reach for the zipper of your dress, and begin to pull it down.

You look at him and he rebukes you, “eyes on the mirror, honey. Watch yourself while I do it.”

He slides off your dress breathing on your skin while you keep your eyes fixed on the mirror. 

You remain in your bra and panties. 

He brushes against your skin, rising on your arms only with his fingertips, climbing up your shoulders, your collarbone, the point where your shoulders and your neck meet and up to the column of your neck until he reaches your jaw. He tilts your head a bit and holds your chin to make sure you’re going to watch the entire time.

He holds you so that you can lean against him, and with his other hand he reaches down to your stomach, touching the hem of your panties.

You sigh happily as he slides two fingers under the fabric and caresses your folds, slides down the sides to the bottom and pushes upward. 

You moan softly, “Frankie, please” 

“Don’t be impatient, babe” he reprimands.

He curls your panties between his fingers and starts brushing them over your folds, you whine at the sensation as he tilts your head down a little bit to make sure you’re seeing what he’s doing. However you would not be able to watch anything but his movements. Right, left, right, left Frankie's fingers expertly maneuver the fabric over your pussy.

Your inhibitions are long gone, everything is faded and far away. 

There is only you and Frankie.

He suddenly lets go of your panties and massages you over them, soaking the material in your juices. You’re so wet that it doesn’t take much for his fingers to get wet too. 

Your breath becomes shallow as his hand slithers under the fabric and he begins circling your clit.

You can already feel your legs going weak so you raise your arm and place your hand behind his neck to keep yourself more stable against him. 

“Yeah, just like that honey. You want me to make you feel real good, huh?” Frankie’s voice vibrates against your neck and you mewl a yes feeling your body mold for him. 

Your eyes are fixed on the mirror.

You see your hot and bothered face, your lips parted, your pleading eyes and your body impossibly tense against him. 

It’s all painted there, the amount of desire and hunger that you have for him, a grimace of lust and need spread out on your features. 

“Fuck me,” you babble.

“Yeah? You want my big cock inside, baby? Want me to fill you to the brim?” Frankie’s smirk is wide on his face, you see his eyes focused on you, and his commanding tone sends shivers down your spine as he doesn’t stop rubbing on your clit. 

“Yes” you breathe “please”

Your legs wobble as you try to stand on your feet while he undresses. 

His shirt falls on his mother’s bathroom tiles, he unbuckles his belt and places it on the countertop, he kicks off his boots, unbuttons his jeans and slides them down his legs, stamping on them to get them off his feet.

Through the mirror you see him standing behind you, wearing only his boxers, the muscles of his chest highlighted by the lights, his soft belly just above his boxers that makes your mouth water, the happy trail that goes to hide inside, his strong thighs and the imperious erection that grows between them.

 It's a perfect picture of everything that makes your head spin.

“On your knees, baby, I want to feel your mouth first,” he orders you. 

You immediately kneel, feeling your heart flutter in your chest, the coolness of the tiles on your shins, and his simmering gaze dominating you from above.

You caress his hips, pulling down his boxers, and taking them off, and his cock finally springs free and almost smacks your face towering before your eyes. 

You take him in your hand, feeling that familiar warmth, the softness of his skin, the pulsing of his veins, as he leaks pre cum within an inch of your lips.

As soon as it slips on your tongue you feel a new slick of arousal dripping on your panties.

You lace your gaze with his, your open mouth curved at the edges in a smirk as you let him in, you love doing this to him. 

You usually take in as much as you can while taking care of the rest with your hand but tonight you want to feel it all the way down, so you relax your throat as much as you can and keep sliding it until you feel the tip touch the bottom. 

You have a slight hint of a gag reflex that you manage to quell right away and you keep him there, nestled inside you, pulsing on your tongue as he looks at you raptly and whispers, “God, you're amazing.”

And then you begin to suck him, slowly, enjoying every moan and every involuntary twitch of his hips, cocooning him with your tongue.

You’re fully immersed in the act, intent on giving him all the lustful pleasure you can, licking his tip like a lollipop, swirling your tongue around and collecting his oozing pre cum.

And then you go down again, spreading it on his shaft, mixing it with your saliva, hollowing your cheeks to suck him as deep as you can.

Frankie is whimpering and you know how much he’s close to the edge.

Your hand caresses his base, then you move it to his balls, with every intention of getting him to finish in your mouth and swallow everything he gives you but he grabs your wrist, stopping you.

You let him out with a pop, passing the tip over your lips and smacking it against them twice, wetting them with his pleasure.

You give him a mock pout for stopping you but the truth is you can't wait to feel him split you in two. 

He smiles at you, taking your hand and helping you up, you give him a kiss with your mouth still smeared with him. 

He turns you back towards the mirror and gently orders, “bend over the sink”

He slides your panties down your legs, exposing your drenched pussy, bending down to admire it, “So fucking wet…it’s all for me, baby?”

“Just for you, always,” you turn to look at him and see him leaning behind you as he reaches down and licks your folds, a long deep lick that makes you gasp.

“So good, honey, I would never get tired of this perfect pussy.” His voice vibrates on your skin sending a thrill all over your body.  “It’s the only part of you that I like to see weep for me” 

His rough voice charged with ardor and his words send you into a frenzy.

He comes back to stand behind you and looks at you in the mirror, resting his large hands on your hips, “You are so fucking beautiful like this.”

You feel his cock rub against your folds, and you throb intensely overwhelmed by your craving, you mewl at him and he finally aligns with your entrance and starts to push in. 

You slowly stretch around him, he groans as he slides into you, every inch of his length parting your walls.

His hands still clasp your hips, holding you steady as he gives you a moment to adjust. 

You're full of him and you wouldn't want to be any other way.

Frankie holds you firmly as he sinks into you, slowly at first and then increasing the pace as your moans grow rougher and closer, his balls slamming against your ass in a feverish rush.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing my cock so hard.”

He pulls you toward him, his fingers reaching for your nipples, tweaking and tugging.

You can't help but look in the mirror now and what you see is the most exciting sight you've ever had before your eyes.

Your body is completely surrendered to him, your skin glistening with tiny droplets of sweat, your hair disheveled, your expression ecstatic, Frankie's hands firmly clinging to your hips as the wet, squelching sounds of his cock pounding incessantly in your cunt fill the room along with your moans and Frankie's groans.

And Frankie is literally a dream, his broad figure towering over you, his mouth roaming your neck, his hands enveloping your tits, squeezing them so right. 

He’s completely lost in you, his eyes half-closed, his tongue darting out from time to time soothing your sweaty skin. 

Now you know that you have never experienced such strong feelings in your life. 

You thought so, but you were wrong. 

It’s not the usual cliché of feeling complete with someone else, you are already a whole. 

It’s the fact of knowing that you can share with him, that you do not have to be afraid to be who you are with him. It is the fact that he knows how to understand the workings of your brain and unravel the skein that tangles it. It is the fact that you can feel that there is nothing you cannot face together. It is the fact of feeling seen, perceived for who you really are and held close for it.

It's knowing that wherever you run, Frankie will pick up the crumbs you leave on the road and bring them back to you.

And you had no idea that it could really be like this.

You always thought, it's only 4 months, don't push it when in the meantime he proceeded to tiptoe into your heart without even being noticed and sat there, waiting for both of you to be ready to say the most terrifying words out loud. 

Not "I need you" but "I'm so damn happy you're here", not "you're mine" but "I love holding your hand as I navigate my life.”

Not by owning, but by letting you do your own thing while you look at each other and think, “this is the person I love and I am proud of them.”

You're just out there being the most fragile human sometimes but you're never afraid to break down next to him.

Frankie comes, dripping onto your walls, his orgasm and whimpers shuddering against your body.

He wraps one of his big, strong arms around your hips and holds you up against him.

And you're safe, really safe, being vulnerable in front of a mirror, watching yourself come apart for him, feeling every inch of your body catching fire while Frankie is the match and the water at the same time. 

He holds you tight until you both recover normal breathing, still nestled inside you. 

He pulls out and embraces you, leaving small kisses on the soft skin near your ear, his large hands caressing your back. 

“I love you so much” he whispers once you make eye contact again.

“I love you too, Morales” you smile, tracing his cheek with your fingertips.

You both get dressed and leave the bathroom. 

You walk down the hallway leading to the living area as you wonder how much his mother heard. You cannot even quantify how long you were locked in the bathroom but it was worth every second. 

You find her in the living room, watching TV with the volume on full blast.

Frankie approaches his mother, without saying anything, rests his hand on hers while she has her eyes fixed on the telenovela you watched with your granny. 

“Do you think Javier will finally be able to confess his feelings to Lola?” you ask quietly. 

She turns, just for a moment, and finally gives you a genuine smile.

For the first time you feel that maybe, after all, despite the way you and her son just desecrated her bathroom, all is not lost. 

general tag list: @baronessvonglitter , @milla-frenchy , @almostempty , @harriedandharassed , @thundermartini If you want to be added or removed just let me know, thank you so much for reading!

Archive tag: @pedrostories ♥️

[heartfullofleeches]

The holidays have got to be the mosr harrowing time of the year for Theodore Hart [Professor Yan] because he gets to be with his boys - the sole reason he's still alive after the disaster with his ex-wife, but that also means he doesn't get to see Professor Darling - the person who gave him second hope with (romantic) love as often.

-

"I was able to get through the day knowing we're breathing the same air, but now that we aren't even in the same building... I just....I can't get my head clear..."

Venting his woes to his one of his eldest children full aware of the crunches in their schedules. It's not everyday he has near everyone with his family he's still blessed to share blood with under one roof- They should be his top priority right now. The selfishness in his heart to thinking of anyone else and they might be doing for the holidays.

Or who they're spending them with.

"I'm a terrible father."

"Don't beat yourself up..This time of the year is tough enough on you as is.."

Calloused fingers squeeze around his shoulder. To think the adult man beside him was once that boy with hands soft as his smile shatters Theo.

"You've talked to them outside of work before.. I'm sure they'd be happy to hear from you. Wish them a happy new year. Its a start."

A start. "I've seen my share of those this year.. It's not a terrible idea.. I still don't think this is the type of conversation I should be having with my son, but- I'm glad we did."

"If you think that's inappropriate I wonder what you'll think when your teacher friend shows up in about an hour or so."

The look of sheer panic is as clear on Theodore's face as clear as the beads of sweat trickling down his neck. He didn't.

"Spencer, I would greatly appreciate for you to look me in the eye and promise to me you didn't invite my colleague over for dinner."

"Is that what they are to you?... I personally wouldn't put all those hearts next to the name of some person I work with, but that's just me."

"It's a bold move to give your father a heart attack right before the new year."

[thatsdemko]

with feeling - j.hughes

masterlist

pairing: jack hughes x fem!reader

warnings: fake dating trope + one bedroom trope + jack being an asshole + angst + fluff at the end

a/n: HOCKEY IS BACK EVERYONE!

so maybe it wasn’t so bad to be “tied” down to a man you never actually loved in the first place. that’s a lie, it’s actually far worse.

he’s not a bad person, he’s not a bad kisser, and he’s certainly not bad looking, but his personality is far worse than shit.

his bright smiles and adorable laughter only go so far in a picture to make him seem like he was perfect, except he was so far from it. with his jagged persona and his inability to remain in an actual relationship, jack hughes was a sore spot in your heart. meaning, you knew what you signed up for, he would never actually love you.

and while smiling for his family and holding his hand in the secrecy of his family’s private summer home, there was only so far you were willing to go to prove to Ellen hughes you actually loved her son.

“I’m not sharing a room with you.”

“it doesn’t look like you have much of an option.” he snaps, words cut like a fork scraping a plate, irritation grew in your body. you knew why she did this, she believes you two have far more in common than trying to make each other roll your eyes, but this was too much. you’d rather sleep in a ball in the sand than share a queen size bed with him.

“I wish I had another option.” you mumble for only yourself, however he catches your words and just rolls his eyes continuing to unpack his things.

“you had an option of not coming. now look at the mess we are in.” he gestures his hands to the bed and around the room like a disaster had fallen amongst the four walls. if this was the worst of all things to happen to him, he had a hell of a storm coming for him one day.

you turn your head in his direction, you watch him anxiously tug on the brim of his ball cap before tossing his duffel bag beside the dresser of his clothes. his body collapses against the mattress making the frame squeak under his weight, “can this week be over already?”

“it’s only beginning.” you whisper hearing the echoes of laughter and music begin to make their way up the stairs, the music grows louder and Trevor’s voice bounces off the walls. you can already feel the impending headache.

here goes nothing.

—

“jack tells me you met at the bars in jersey?” Quinn takes his first dig, the two of you sit in the lounge chairs watching the other boys swim around the lake and toss around a ball that you two had no interest in.

“yeah and he wouldn’t leave me alone.” you stifle out a chuckle because out of your whole story full of lies, that was the only bit of truth. he’d followed you around like a gnat always in your face and never leaving your sight, and that’s when things began to fly south.

“he has a tendency to be very clingy when he’s drunk.”

“you don’t say.” you tilt your sunglasses down to the edge of your nose looking over at the eldest hughes who barked out a laugh in response.

turning your head in the direction of the sun, your eyes automatically fall onto the three boys in the lake: Trevor, Alex, and jack. you can’t help but let your heart melt like butter at the sight of his tanned shoulders, and muscular arms, it makes your heart jump like a kid playing hopscotch with a smile on their face.

you watch him make his way across the sand, tossing the ball in his hands he tosses it over to Quinn before slipping his wet body against yours and taking a seat on your lap. show time starts now, pretending to be in love in 3,2,1…

“saw you watching me.”

“actually I was looking at Alex.” you point your index finger over to the brunette who quickly presses a kiss to your cheek, “I knew my dimples had an affect on you.”

you can’t help the laughter that rumbles out of your body, if it wasn’t for jack hughes tying you down, you’d be all over that dimpled smile and curly black hair. but alas, the long dirty brown hair and rosy sun kissed cheeks was yours.

“I have a very adorable smile too.” jack argues flashing you a cheeky grin before getting up off your lap and taking the lounge chair beside you. you can’t help rolling your eyes, despite how your heart certainly agrees when he flashes you another wide smile before turning back to his two friends.

“you have the worlds biggest ego that’s what you have.”

“she has a point.” Quinn nudges his way into the conversation earning his brother to glare at him. it’s no secret, jack grew up with people petting his ego and feeding into his greatness, and once you didn’t confined to the rest of the worlds views, that’s when he began to notice how different you were. it automatically drew him to you, and he loved that you didn’t care that he was the worlds best hockey player, you just hated him for him.

“don’t let her win she always does.”

“I’ve actually never won an argument with you, so please yeah I would love this win.” your additional comment earns jack to roll his eyes, and just like usual this is how the banter is. you edge each other on with lies and jokes to see who will crack first, this was truly the foundation of your fake relationship. it started out with a lie and a joke. now look at you two.

he licks his bottom lip, you can see the wheels in his brain are spinning faster than a hamster wheel. he’s trying to find anything to get even, but nothing comes. he just relaxes against the back of the chair and closes his eyes, “enjoy your win.”

“oh I will, this is just the beginning of your torture.”

like it wasn’t enough torture to see you in a skimpy bikini and have to use all of his self control to not inappropriately touch you, and like it wasn’t enough torture that he has to share a bed with you.

yeah, he’s definitely had enough torture on day one.

—

“you want to split an ice cream cone with me?” you turn to Luke, looking up at him, he’s nothing alike to the two of his brothers. he’s got soft curls and an absolute killer personality.

“only if we get sprinkles?”

“now you have taste.” you nudge your shoulder into his bicep. you stand along side luke at the counter while he orders for you both, jack stands a couple feet away with Trevor, the two still deciding, but you can feel his eyes on you.

“what’d you get?” jack swoops in, his arm wraps around your waist and pulls you closer to him. the man behind the counter gives you both a knowing look that he had taken the hint, but it wasn’t him that jack was trying to make a message to.

“I’m sharing a cone with Luke.”

a frown forms against his lips as he lets go of your waist, “I thought we would share?”

you offer him your best apologetic look, “Luke and I like the same ice cream, you can share with Trevor.”

“I’m not sharing with Trevor.” he pouts watching luke hand you the ice cream cone. you swipe your tongue around the sweet cream swallowing the sprinkled deliciousness, “you want a kiss instead?” you offer, licking the sweetness that’s left on your lips before jack takes his thumb and swipes the corner of your mouth.

“you know,” he leans closer to your ear just for you to hear, “I don’t like sharing. especially you.”

“it’s just ice cream.” you tell him giving him a rather pointed look that earns him to back off. you know his words had zero meaning behind them. and even if they did, you still would roll your eyes, but if they were true, you’d actually kiss him to prove him you love him. instead, you stick with just pinching his side to receive a grunt from his lips.

skipping out the store doors, you and luke find an empty table to dig your spoons into the cold soft serve ice cream, “do you think he’s really mad about this?” Luke asks, mouth full of the sweet flavor, you swear by the look in his eyes it’s like he’s never had a taste of sugar in his life.

you shake your head in response, digging your spoon into the sprinkled goodness and listen to the bell of the store door chime. Trevor and jack join you both, they sit opposite to you two and it’s pure uncomfortable silence.

“should we buy turcs something?” your offer is innocent, nothing but a pure suggestion for the boy who didn’t join you four in the adventure. but there’s a look in jacks eyes that wishes you would just stop. he wishes you didn’t show an interest in anyone else.

“he doesn’t really like ice cream.” Trevor pipes in with a shrug of his shoulders, you can tell he’s trying to ease the mood, “but I’ll leave him a bite of my ice cream.”

“you’re a good guy, Trev.” you smile up at him, his dirty blond hair curls over top his forehead just above his eyebrows. your dashing smile earns him a little blush that quickly pales away when jack shoots him a look.

“I’m full the rest is yours.” you say to Luke and drop your spoon onto the brown napkin. the glares and intense stares from the man across the table was enough to ruin your appetite. what was with him? not even a month ago jack was calling you buddy behind closed doors, now in front of his family and closest friends, he chose to be an asshole? he truly is one man that’s hard to fake date.

—

“good night.”

he softly closes the door on his mother. she’s whisper rambling on about protection, and other embarrassing things, that you can slightly make out, but jack just closes the door. he says it’s better to stop her before she changes her mind and makes you sleep on the couch.

“so what was with you tonight?” you bite the bullet. there wasn’t a question in your mind you didn’t want answered, and after the ice cream show down you stood your distance from him. even when he rested his hand on your thigh, you made it obvious you weren’t in the mood.

he’s taking his shirt off when you look up from your phone. the white shirt is thrown over his head and soon right on to the floor among many other items of clothing, “nothing was with me.”

“please,” you bark out a sarcastic laugh. you sit upright in the bed, he paces the floor unpacking his clothes and preparing for the next morning, “you don’t like sharing me? what’s that all about?”

“I see the way you flirt with my friends.” he says so in a matter of fact tone, like it’s not news to him how you interact with everyone, “I know you want to fuck Alex.”

rolling your eyes, you toss a pillow in his direction, it hits the side of his head making him turn in your direction, “you are ridiculous, jack! I’m with you—“

“not really! this isn’t even real. you don’t like me like you like Alex.”

his shoulders slump, he crawls into bed, he curls his body close to yours, “you don’t actually like me. you’re just with me because you have to be.”

an unconscious scoff leaves you lips, “jack, I wouldn’t be spending a week with your family if I actually hated you.”

his ears perk to that, head snapping upward to meet your eyes, “what do you mean?” he asks. the words so faint against his lips he’s sure you didn’t hear him.

“I mean I like you, but man you’re the worst date ever.”

he springs upward, mouth slightly agape, “I—I was only ever being rude because I thought you hated me?”

you’re shaking your head at him. he’s unbelievable, and to think that was all his true personality, his next move proved differently. especially when it landed soft against your lips, then stronger with each passing second.

“I actually like you too, with strong feeling by the way.” he whispers these words in between breaths and gasps that escape both of your lips.

“we should stop here before your mom hears us.” you push his face away gently, “but that’s good to know you’re not actually an asshole.”

he barks out a laugh collapsing beside you, “it was hard to be an asshole to you, but now that that’s out of the way can I take you on a proper date?”

“absolutely.”

[moonmeg]

Permanent

Micah's body was warm. Robyn allowed himself to sink into the warmth, enclosed in the slightly muscular arms of his boyfriend, a steady breathing faintly moving the chest underneath his head up and down again. His smell, reminiscent of that a forest has after a small summer storm, lingered in Robyn's nostrils. There was a soft comfort to it. A feeling of home and safety. Robyn tightened his arms around Micah's waist and buried his face in the crook of his neck. He slipped his leg underneath Micah's, entangling it like a vine. It was like he did everything he could to hold onto Micah. As if he'd dissappear the moment Robyn would let loose.

"I'm sorry.", he mumbled.

Micah curled some strands of Robyn's brown locks around his fingers a little lazily. It had gotten a bit longer. He wasn't sure if it was intentionally being grown out or if Robyn's situation simply kept delaying cutting it. He let his fingers brush along his scalp through the dense hair.

"What for?"

Robyn tilted his head out of the crook of Micah's neck. Quietly he replied: "Walzing in here unannounced, crying about things I can't change like a bastard and then keeping you from important school work."

"Nonsense.", Micah smiled, "I'd pick ye over school work any and everyday."

He placed his other hand on Robyn's back, carefully tracing the fold running down the middle of it up and down.

Robyn stayed silent for a little.

"I feel so terrible.", he admitted. He reinforced the tightness of his embrace.

"Please don't.", Micah urged in his soft voice he always used when Robyn was vulnerable around him. He allowed his lips to hover over Robyn's temples as he continued: "I don't mind this. I love ye and ye need this comfort now, so that's what I'll do."

"That's exactly it!", Robyn prepped himself up on his arm and met Micah's wide, stunned eyes. Lissa and Snowball peeked up from Micah's side where they were curled up comfortably and calmly - suddenly disturbed in their peace.

"You always do so much for me. You're always there for me. You've always been. You always find the right words to say, you always tell me these things that make my heart wrench. Things like that I'm amazing and strong and beautiful and smart and good-hearted. That I'm more than what I define myself by. That I'm not a mess. That I'm lovable in any way or form. You're such a good boyfriend and I sometimes feel like I don't deserve this.", Robyn's voice started cracking towards the end. He was on the verge of crying, but he didn't want to be. Not in front of Micah. Not now. Not again. He wasn't embarrassed to show his emotions before Micah but this was one of those times where he desperately didn't want to cry. He fought it with all of his might, he tried to ease the hurt in his throat and to stop the tears from even forming in his eyes. Having cried once in Micah's presence today was enough.

Micah's brows furrowed and his face expressed a peculiar mix of confusion and concern. And yet, he didn't raise his voice at Robyn but kept it in a softer, calmer tone with an underlying seriousness.

"Why in Titan's name would ye think that?!"

"Because I AM a mess! Compared to you I don't give you these many words of affirmation. I barely tell you all the great things you are. They're constantly in my mind and I love you so damn much but I always forget or for some stupid reasons struggle telling you. You're the sweetest, loveliest and most wonderful person ever. You're the type of boyfriend people dream of and wish for. Heck, I'm sure my mother is hoping she'll get you as son-in-law someday. You're perfect. Everything about you is perfect. You deserve a boyfriend who makes you feel loved the way you make me feel loved. And I feel like I'm messing it all up. Like I'm a disaster of a boyfriend. And I'm so sorry about that, Micah."

And that was it. The point where he lost control over the tears in his eyes and the sobs in his throat. He couldn't hold either back anymore. He's said too much for his own good. Wanting to hide the sight of his face from his boyfriend, he buried his face in his palms and curled up on the free space on Micah's right.

Micah's heart broke once he heard the views Robyn has on himself and the quiet sobs that Robyn still tried to hide.

When Micah met Robyn, back when the dark blonde hair had not yet yielded to the saturated brown and his bright smile gave way to a chipped tooth, he was confident. Never in an arrogant manner, but Robyn knew he was a gifted witch and had the potential to be among the greatest and strongest witches of Bonesborough, if not the entire Boiling Isles, and it gave Robyn a healthy ego. Rather than just bragging about his talent, he wanted to share his knowledge and understanding of magic with others. Including Micah most of all. While Robyn had confidence in his magic and abilities, Micah was always more reserved with his own powers. He wasn't the prodigy that was Robyn but he never actually had a reason to doubt himself or hold back. He was an excellent witch in his own rights. He needed longer to learn a spell but his execution, once he did, was flawless.

They both weren't like that anymore.

Micah had grown a confidence in himself that included but didn't boil down to his magical abilities. He knew who he was as a person.

Robyn, however, apparently based his confidence almost exclusively on being the talented kid. The prodigy. The potential of what he could be. Micah had noticed that with the loss of his magic, Robyn's confidence and his idea of his own worth staggered immensely. Robyn saw himself the way vain people like Leroi Novell and companions saw him: a "half-a-witch", who through appearance fit in but was an outcast now as he was powerless. And it upset Micah horribly.

"Robyn.", Micah placed his curled-up fingers underneath Robyn's chin and turned Robyn's face, "Hey, look at me. Please."

Robyn only complied reluctantly. He felt like a burden, like a nuisance that has come to test Micah's patience once again. He felt like ever since he lost his magic, he's been abusing Micah's kindness, selfishly coming to steal words of comfort and affirmation out of him. And he felt like ever since they started their romance it had only gotten worse. Looking into Micah's eyes usually had a calming effect. Now, it only caused his lips to quiver again as he felt the guilt wash over him. He was a horrible boyfriend.

Micah's lips quickly brushed against his. He allowed it. He allowed himself to close his eyes and have at least one second of joy and carefreeness, even if he thought he wasn't that deserving of it. When he slowly opened his eyes again, he was met with the soft frown of pity on Micah's pale, freckled face.

"Ye are not a disaster boyfriend. Nor have ye ever left me feeling unloved. Have ye forgotten all the times ye stood up for me?"

He was so kind. He was always so damn kind. Why was he still around? Why didn't he just finally give up on Robyn? Why won't he just give up? Robyn didn't understand it. It made no sense to him that someone so perfect like Micah would settle for someone so broken and flawed like him.

"You mean when we were kids?", he furrowed his brows, "That's ages ago."

Before starting his taunting and bullying on Robyn two years ago, Leroi Novell had picked an insecure little Micah as his target. Not only did he and his yes-boys make fun of Micah's process on learning a spell but they also decided to make fun of his accent. While 17 year old Micah couldn't care less about what left Novell's mouth regarding his magic or accent, 7 year old Micah was more vulnerable. He had his sisters to support him but they couldn't do all too much, since they were some classes above Micah. Robyn constantly came to Micah's aid and put Novell in his place. He never feared the consequences his actions may have. Defending Micah was Robyn's priority - and he'd still do that if push ever came to shove. It wasn't necessary anymore, though. Micah took care of it himself and has been doing so since they're thirteen. Robyn didn't understand what importance his actions ten years ago have now.

"And yet it meant the world to me. You are my hero, do ye know that?", Micah cupped the brunet's face in his palms and smiled adoringly.

"I'm no hero."

"To me ye are."

Those were words Micah always longed to say but never got the chance to. Having finally done so now made him smile wider.

Robyn, in response, stared at Micah with doe-like eyes. He's had his mother tell him about heroes that bravely fought against evil and had their efforts greatly celebrated many times in his boyhood and in childish ideas always hoped to be a hero someday too, rescuing a princess from monsters without fear. Once he reached an age consisting of two digits, that idea vanished by the year. Now he slowly realized he unconsciously did rescue a princess from monsters without fear. Only in a less epic way, without armor and swords and that his princess, was a prince all along. He sniffled and ran his lower arm along his nose, drying his face from the involuntary tears that had run down his cheeks.

Micah made sure Robyn kept facing him and continued: "Robyn, ye're right. I deserve a boyfriend who loves me unconditionally, who's always there when I need him and who makes me feel loved and appreciated. And guess what? That boyfriend is right here in front of me.

I don't need to hear words of affirmation everyday. Aye, it's my way of showin' my affection to ye but ye have yer own way of showin'."

Robyn scoffed.

"And what would that be?"

"Ye show yer affection through physical touch and spendin' as much time as ye can wi' me. And I wouldna have it any other way. I could spend the rest of my life here next to ye. Just holdin' ya."

Micah closed his arms around Robyn's back tightly. He remained like this for a little, simply enjoying the physical closeness.

He felt Robyn's hand hesitantly sneaking along his chest, inching closer to his side. Robyn returned the tight embrace. He clenched the fabric of Micah's shirt in his hands. There almost was a desperation behind it. It was like Robyn enjoyed the thought of being held by Micah for eternity too, and the clenching was a way to beg the Titan or whoever pulls the strings of fate for it to happen.

"Ye also show yer affection anytime ye give me something. All these notes and crafts on the wall, any carving ye made, Lissa - my own palisman! -, anything ye ever gave me... it let's me know ye love me even wi'out ye sayin' it.", Micah pressed a kiss to Robyn's forehead while continuing his tight embrace.

"So you don't think I'm a mess and a disaster of a boyfriend?"

"Nuh-uh."

"And you don't wanna break up with me?"

Micah snorted.

"I'm sorry, but that's the most ridiculous thing I've heard in a while. I love ye, Robyn Clawthorne. More than words of any language could ever describe. Ye are my every dream, and if I were to meet 11 year old me, who just came to acceptance he's into boys, and he asked me who my boyfriend will be one day, I'd say 'the most dreamy, kind, fun, and bonnie boy ever. Wi' soft, fluffy brown locks, breathtakin' teal eyes and the most kissable lips. Most importantly though, he makes me so very happy.'. Ye know what little Micah would reply then?"

"No, what would he say?", Robyn asked quietly. He felt his cheeks warming up over the shower of compliments he just received. Did Micah seriously see all that in him? Did he really make Micah that happy?

"He'd say: 'That's everything and more than I could ever ask for. Never let him go.'. And I never will. So, no, ye're not gettin' rid of me that easily, leannan.", he playfully nuzzled his face into Robyn's hair.

Robyn smiled at that last word. "Leannan". He'd heard it in the Bower household before but never really knew what it meant. He figured it was a term of endearment but he couldn't say what it meant exactly. A few months into their romance Micah had asked if Robyn's fine with being called that, which was also the moment Robyn revealed he had no idea what it meant. At the end of day it simply meant "Dear" or "Darling". And he loved it. For some reason it felt more intimate. It had more weight than it's English counterparts. He hoped Micah will never cease to exchange "Robyn" for "Leannan".

Robyn prepped himself up again. He stared at Micah. He was beyond enamoured with everything about him. Micah said he didn't expect words of affirmation from him but Robyn felt it was long overdue.

"Micah.", he smiled and brushed a strand of hair out of Micah's face. His fingertip tracing the pale skin so featherlightly.

"Mh?"

Robyn whispered the words.

"I love you."

He pressed a kiss on Micah's left cheek.

"I love you."

He repeated louder and kissed Micah's right cheek.

"I love you so very much."

He met Micah's lips this time. Micah combed his fingers through Robyn's hair. When he reached the back of his head, he pulled Robyn's face even closer, deepening the kiss. Robyn softly pulled away after a while. A smile tugged at his lips.

"I'll try to say those words more often. Promised."

Micah gave a chuckle in response. He said he doesn't necessarily need to hear those words to know Robyn loves him but he would lie if he said it didn't feel nice to hear them uttered in Robyn's voice. He brushed the big loose strand of hair out of Robyn's face. It mixed perfectly with the rest of the brown mane and allowed an uninterrupted gaze into Robyn's piercing teal eyes.

"I love-"

"Shht!", Robyn quickly pressed his finger on Micah's lips and forced him to stop his declaration, "You say that enough already."

Robyn looked at Micah sternly. The little smile still tugged at the corners of his mouth. It only grew when he realized Micah was opening his mouth to get his teeth on Robyn's finger and bit it. Robyn exclaimed Micah's name in a scolding tone while pulling his hand away and laughing.

"Well, too bad.", Micah grinned.

Robyn's laughing intensified when he felt Micah's hands gripping his waist and he noticed his weight shifting more towards him. Robyn quickly found himself turned on his back with Micah right above him. Chunks of red curls framed his face as he smirked down on the laughing brunet.

" 'Cause I will keep sayin' "I love ye" and there's nothin' ye can do about it."

"Nothing?", Robyn was finally able to calm his laugh.

"Nothin' at all.", Micah leaned his face closer to Robyn's. He let his lips hover over Robyn's for a little before Robyn cupped his face and pulled it down to close that tiny gap. Over the months kissing Micah had become something he perceived as natural, a given sort of. They had lost their nervous before kisses and the fluttering in his stomach was less intense by now but... not completely gone. There was still this sensation whenever he kissed Micah that his insides felt mushy and upside down. He still felt like the moment their lips met, he loses all weight, gravity vanishes and he's soaring higher and higher the longer they kiss.

Robyn wrapped his arms around Micah's neck, silently begging Micah to not let go. He slowly began realizing...

He's been doubting whether or not he belongs on the Boiling Isles for a while now. But the answer was: yes, he belonged here in the setting sun's light. He belonged here in the safety of Micah's room. He belonged here with Micah's lips around his own, Micah's hands cupping his face, tracing his side, his arm, his thigh. He belonged here loving Micah more and more with every passing second. As witch, as human, as a hybrid of both...

He belonged here with Micah.

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[penguin--nipples]

truly nothing has affected me the way that reading the wicked years this past week is affecting me I have a million disorganized thoughts and I'm only partway through son of a witch:

Glinda and Elphaba's relationship is so much more fleshed out in the books than it is in the musical - the yearning and the pining and Elphaba showing up at the cloister of St glinda over and over again

Elphaba has two soulmates and that affects me deeply what do you mean someone who feels like they could never be loved has two soulmates

Why the fuck did Gregory include a line about Fiyero shitting his guts out right before dying?? Did the guy at the bar poison him?? Did the guy at the bar purposefully show him the bears being killed/hurt and then poison him?

Elphaba and her son both being bisexual disasters is actually my favorite thing

Elphaba and Fiyeros deaths both occur somewhat 'offscreen' and there is no evidence of their bodies

BOQ in the book is such a loveable character I despised him in the musical

Glinda is absolutely bat shit but also some kind of intuitive genius, the way she sees Fiyero after a decade and immediately deduces he's fucking somebody and minutes later says something along the lines of "send my love to elphie". And the way she interacts with Liir for the first time is also absolutely insane, but she also instinctively knows by the end of her conversation with him that he is Elphaba's son

Why is Nanny immortal? And how did Chistery learn to talk so well with her as the only human around?

As much as I hated watching Liir get bullied I loved the chapters at kiamo ko with sarima/her sisters and Nanny randomly showing up to terrorize the group, nothing like a found family of mostly women

I understand the queer reading of Elphaba's character obviously, but I don't understand why people think she is intersex. The book literally states "Only after a second and third rub was it clear that the child was indeed feminine. Perhaps in labor some bit of organic effluvia had become caught and quickly dried in the cloven place." - I always read this more as an acknowledgement of what Sarima explains later on as hot and cold anger and Elphaba having both. I feel like this is more of a trans allegory or that Elphaba has elements of being male and female (2 Spirit?)/a dissolution of gender, than her being intersex. and yet this rumour persists among discussion posts and boards, making it feel like a real life propaganda trail for the book since I've seen it said in the context of "woahhh the book is so much freakier than the movie omg". Although I guess it could be androgen insensitivity syndrome as well

What the FUCK is Yackle? She is described as the opposite of a guardian angel but idk what that means

Did gelphie fuck or not I'm so confused, they "spent a night together" and I see people saying they canonically had sex and maybe it's the nature of the book enjoying switching perspectives every time something interesting happened but I feel like they didn't? Or it's something I haven't read yet?

I feel like Liir becomes an audience surrogate when he goes into Southstairs guided by Shell - this is genuinely how it felt reading the books sometimes, he saw Shell be sketchy multiple times before putting it together like 'wait are you having sex with them???' which is basically me every time Gregory implied a sex scene subtly, making me not super sure if it happened or not