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withlovemark · 1 month ago

Text

“IRREPLACEABLE”

pairing: enemy! hyuck x ex bff! reader | genre:rom-com | words:29k+

synopsis -> lee haechan, theatre major, absolutely hated your guts. you felt the same exact way. the only girl in this whole university that hasn’t fallen for the most popular fuckboy’s charms. which is why it sucks that you have both landed the main roles in the theater’s upcoming play, romeo and juliet. what was that saying about love and hate being a thin line?

warnings -> i lost count of how many times i used the word hate and all it’s synonyms, pet name unlocked: princess, so much arguing, both of them have major communication issues!, so many side characters i hope you know all of them, too many musical references +18, crude humor, language, mentions of: parties, alcohol, reader gets drugged, drunk calling, so much smut i kinda got carried away! thigh riding, slight exhibitionism, very rough sex, hyuck is a dom bottom who lovesss boobies, dry-humping, use of whore and slut, choking, slapping, oral (m+f), fingering, car sex, dirty dirty dirty talk!

an -> the fourth installment of the loverboy series is yours! i’m gonna be honest, i’ve never gotten through romeo and juliet without falling asleep. i did force myself to watch the movie just for this though! and i took a nap in the middle lol. disclaimer! i know nothing about the theater world, i just like musicals! important things to note: 1) haechan is the most popular fuckboy - everyone loves him, he’s charming and funny and he’s not afraid to hurt anyone’s feelings if he needs to 2) all three couples jaemin x angel; jeno x bunny; and mark x kitten are all happily together! have fun reading! - with love, c.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath, the words bitter on your tongue. behind you, the hallway erupts with cheers, laughter, congratulations, celebration of their dream roles. you should be one of them. be as elated, as ecstatic, jump around and cheer for landing the role of one of the two protagonists.

but all you could focus on was the name above yours.

your stomach twists, fists clench at your sides. the letters blur for a second and you blink rapidly, as if reading it again will somehow make it go away. you don’t have to turn around to feel him – that distinct, arrogant presence that always makes your skin crawl. the air arounds you tightens, turns electric, suffocating as he steps up beside you, your shoulders instinctively stiffening like your body was preparing for war.

haechan doesn’t say a word first, just reading the cast list you’ve been cursing at for the past fifteen seconds.

romeo - lee, donghyuck

juliet - yln, yfn

tybalt - kim, sunwoo / mercutio - dejun, xiao / benvolio - choi, yeonjun / friar laurence - choi, jongho / count paris - choi, soobin / montague - seo, changbin / capulet - jung, wooyoung / gloria capulet - huh, yunjin / juliet’s nurse - yi zhou, ning /balthasar - yoon, sanha

then he scoffs, “what the hell?,” he hissed venomously, before ripping the sheet off the bulletin board, crinkling the edge between his fingers like it personally offended him.

“hey–!,” you snap, breaking from your stunned silence, spinning on your heel to follow him as he storms across the hall like a live grenade looking for somewhere to detonate.

“mr. doyoung!,” his voice cracks through the hallway like a thunderclap, “this has got to be a mistake!”

there it is. that infuriating, entitled tone, like the spoiled, arrogant bastard he’s always been. always louder. always assuming the world should rearrange itself around him. you roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but for the first time in a long time, you actually agree.

“yeah, there’s no way, in hell, you can make me act opposite of him,” you bite out, folding your arms tightly across your chest as you come to a halt beside him. your voice is sharp, clipped, every word aimed to kill as the two of you glare at each other like two predators forced into a cage.

his eyes glint with the same smug cruelty he’s weaponized against you, “then drop the part,” he sneers, that damned smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, “save us all the agony.”

you scoff, “if anyone’s dropping out, it should be you.” you step closer, close enough to feel the anger radiating off of him. your noses are inches apart, breaths sharp, shallow, matching like clashing rhythms.

his eyes narrow, “not in a million years, princess,” he spits. the nickname laced with the kind of condescension that makes your blood boil — the same nickname he gave you when you first met in freshman year of high school. it used to hold playfulness until junior year when he used it to spite you, calling you a spoiled, whiny brat in front of all your classmates.

“i. hate. you.” you hiss, slow and deliberate, as if saying it any softer wouldn’t do your fury justice.

“not as much as i. hate. you,” he fires back instantly as if he’s been waiting to say it.

and you know you both mean it. every syllable.

the silence between you is razor-sharp, about to break into something neither of you will be able to take back until mr. doyoung finally claps his hands together, far too enthusiastically.

“ahhh, exactly the kind of fire i’d expect from my two star crossed lovers,” he beams, though there’s a flicker of panic behind his eyes for the future of his play, “so much...raw emotion, i’m sure you’ll channel it beautifully!,” he smiles that bunny-like smile. you both turn to glare at him.

mr. doyoung’s smile falters, “orrr maybe i’ll add a few extra rehearsals. just in case.”

you want to scream. you want to throw the script in his face. you want the ground to open up and swallow him whole. transport him somewhere far away from you where you would never have to see him again. instead, you glare at him and know this is going to be war.

ཐིཋྀ the first week of rehearsals

the rehearsal room smells like dust and desperation. the air is heavy, slow, stale and every time the fan completes it’s rotation, it just blow more disappointment into your face.

but none of it compares to the static crackling between you and him.

“i’m not doing that,” you snap, backing away from haechan like his presence is physically repulsive, “if he touches me like that again, i swear to god, i’m walking out.” there’s something about the way haechan put his hand on your waist, not even hard, not even long, that makes your whole body go tight, defensive.

“jesus christ,” haechan groans, dramatically running a hand through his already disheveled hair as he paces like a caged animal, like the floor can somehow absorb his frustration, “it’s called blocking and i’m supposed to stand there. it’s the scene. what are you? an amateur.”

the both of you hate each other but you both knew you were far from amateurs. especially in the theatre world. you were always part of the main ensemble, so was he. it’s almost ironic how you never saw it coming…that one day you would land a role opposite his.

you glare daggers, “it’s called basic respect for personal space, not an invitation to grope me,” you shoot back, matching his volume now, hands on your hips, “and you didn’t follow the mark. you were supposed to take one step forward, not three and a half and a hand on my waist.”

“that’s literally where romeo touches juliet. in the script,” he grits out, teeth clenching, “ever heard of it?,” his eyes flash, jaw tight.

“i’ve read it,” you snap, voice rising in heat, “i just don’t think shakespeare imagined romeo groping juliet like a frat boy.”

“groping?,” he repeats, incredulous, “you’re delusional. talk about overreacting, as if i would ever want to grope you.”

you glare, “at least i can act.” it’s petty. it’s low. but it lands. you see the spark behind his eyes flare into flame.

he barks out a laugh that’s so disbelieving it echoes, “that’s rich coming from you. every time i look at you, you look dead, let me remind you juliet is still alive in this scene.”

“maybe because looking at you makes me want to jump off the balcony and actually end it myself!,” you yell, voice going an octave higher with every word.

you hate him so much. hate the way you act when he’s around. you’re not usually like this. you’re calm, sweet, a walking ray of sunshine. but when he’s around. it’s all a mess.

“okay, ENOUGH!”

mr. doyoung’s voice cuts through the room like a whip, his usual patience obliterated, stepping between the two of you like a human peace treaty, “you are juliet,” he says to you, “-and you are romeo,” he turns to haechan, “i don’t plan on changing any of the cast so if you two don’t find a way to sell the illusion that you’re in love, this entire show is going to be a very expensive dumpster fire.”

neither of you speak. too busy glaring at each other, like eye contact alone might ignite spontaneous combustion. mr. doyoung sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “let’s just…try the balcony scene again. from the top. no improvising. no suicide jokes. just the lines. please. for the love of theater.”

you both reluctantly take your marks, haechan looks up at you, a few feet above the stage, perched on a rickety prop balcony that feels two screws away from collapsing, wobbling under your feet.

he takes his place below, casting a look up at you that’s less romantic longing and more barely restrained murder. then he begins, voice flat, eyes dead, “but, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? it is the east, and juliet is the sun.”

you blink slowly, unimpressed, “really?,” you call down, loud enough to make mr. doyoung’s eye twitch. “that’s your romeo? he sounds like he’s reading from the terms and conditions page,” you insult.

“i’m projecting,” he says defensively, like the word justifies everything.

“you’re projecting boredom,” you deadpan, “romeo’s in love, not filing a complaint with customer service”

“oh, i’m sorry,” he stays stepping forward with mock enthusiasm, “it’s hard to sound passionate when i’m looking at someone who constantly has a resting bitch face.”

“you’re such a dick!,” you snap from the balcony.

“and you’re nothing but a spoiled brat!”

you both shout over each other. mr. doyoung lets out an almost feral scream and hurls his clipboard across the stage. it hits a chair and ricochets loudly, silencing the room. the rest of the cast sharing multiple side-eyes.

“end of rehearsals!,” he bellows, voice cracking with pure, unfiltered despair. you don’t need to be told twice. you turn on your heel and storm off the left side of the stage without looking back. you don’t need to. you can feel him heading the other way, like magnets forced apart.

and yet, even as you leave the room, you can still feel him…under your skin, buzzing through your veins.

ཐིཋྀ the second week of rehearsals

mr. doyoung looks like he’s aged ten years over the week. his clipboard is cracked down the spine, his coffee has gone cold, and his voice has taken on the strained edge of a man dangling off the brink of a nervous breakdown — there has been absolutely no progress when it comes to his leading actors.

he watches, again, as the scene falls apart. you stand center stage, shoulders stiff, delivering your lines like someone reading a grocery list and haechan was delivering his like a stand-up comedian doing shakespeare for drunks.

“you know what?,” mr. doyoung finally snaps, his voice cracking under the strain of suppressed rage, “i’m done. i’m tired of the two of you wasting everyone’s time.” you and haechan glance at each other with deadpan synchronicity and immediately roll your eyes in perfect unison. the only thing you can do in sync.

“i’m not going to waste one more minute pretending this is salvageable until you two get your shit together,” he pulls a key from his pocket, walks toward the back rehearsal room and without warning, yanks the door open, “get in.”

you hesitate. so does haechan. but mr. doyoung’s eyes blaze with the quiet fury of a man who has nothing left to lose. before either of you can protest, he herds you both into the cramped rehearsal room, walls lined with mismatched props and discarded costumes. he slams the door shut behind you, the sound of the lock clicking echoing through the space like a death sentence.

“you’re going to spend the next hour locked in this room. read the lines, build chemistry. i don’t care how you do it but make sure it works or i swear to god i will cast freshmen in the lead roles and let the whole show burn,” he instructs from the other side, his footsteps retreating down the hall.

mr. doyoung knew the two of you too well, both too proud, too consumed by your own egos and the thrill of performing. you didn’t just want to act, you wanted to outshine, to dominate every scene. all it needed was a little push, to finally get you where he wants.

“great,” you mutter, crossing your arms as you lean against the wall, “trapped in a room with you, it’s just like high school all over again.”

haechan stares at you like he’s seconds away from choosing violence, “believe me princess, i’d rather be stuck in a room filled with plague-infested rats than be here with you.”

“let’s just get this over with so we can get out of here,” you roll your eyes as you both grab your scripts. tension hanging like a thundercloud.

“deny thy father and refuse thy name–,” you start.

“maybe try not sounding like you’re ai,” haechan cuts in, already annoyed, tone drenched in mockery.

your eyes narrow, “this is ridiculous,” you mutter, slapping the script onto a table, “he really thinks chemistry can be forced?”

haechan scoffs, “it’s not chemistry that’s the problem. it’s you.”

you spin toward him, a furrow on your features, “right, because the way you butcher romantic lines make the audience swoon.”

“i’m sorry, have you ever heard yourself say ‘oh romeo, oh romeo’ without sounding like you’re a fucking gps?”

your voice rises, “god, you’re not even trying to act like you’re in love with me!,”

“maybe because the idea makes me want to rip out my own eyeballs,” he snarls, stepping closer.

“you are the most arrogant!,” you take a step closer, voice rising, veins protruding, “most infuriating–”

you don’t see it coming.

one second you’re shouting at each other, chest heaving, veins on fire and the next, his hands are tangled in your hair, mouth crushing yours like a threat – the kiss is messy. too much teeth. zero warning. absolute chaos.

you shove him off, lips bruised and tingling, breath ragged, eyes blown out, “are you fucking insane?!”

haechan looks like a deer caught in headlights, eyes flickering with something wild, shock and hunger all at once, but before he can register what he just did, you grab his shirt and pull him down into another kiss – twice as hard, all tongue and fury and years of pent-up hatred combusting between your teeth.

it’s not romantic. it’s war.

he stumbles back into the worn chair and you follow, climbing into his lap and straddling his thigh like you’re still trying to win. your skirt rides up as your knees settle on either side of his leg. hot, wet core pressing against the thick line of muscle beneath you, haechan’s own gym shorts bunching up on his thigh and for the first time, you’re both quiet. just the obscene sound of mouths and breath and friction echoing throughout the room.

your hips rock forward, slow at first, then harder. a needy, broken sound slips past your lips, making his cock twitch in his shorts.

“god,” he breathes into your jaw, “i would’ve done this years ago if i knew it’d finally shut you up,” his lips trail down your jaw, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses.

“you’re such a cocky piece of shit,” you hiss, panting against his mouth, hips still rocking into his thigh.

“and you’re still a brat,” he growls, gripping your waist like he might lose his mind otherwise, “but fuck–keep doing that.”

“i hate you,” you growl against his lips as you continue to ride his thigh anyway. like the words would justify any of this.

“you’re grinding on me like you don’t,” he says smugly.

“shut up.”

“make me.”

you do. you pull his hair and kiss him again, tongue in his mouth – filthy, hot, tangled. the pressure builds fast, molten and sharp. your tits brush his chest, perky nipples peeking through the thin fabric of your white shirt, his hands hot and demanding on your ass. he whines into your mouth and it’s almost enough to make you lose yourself entirely. you pick up rhythm, shameless and hungry, the movement hitting that perfect, aching spot.

haechan loathes how hot you look right now. on top of him, leaving a wet trail all over his leg, tits bouncing to the rhythm you’ve set. and he hates how his body is betraying him even more. absolutely despises the way all his blood is surging straight to his cock.

your nails dig into his shoulders, clutching him like an anchor as your rhythm stutters, speeding up then slowing down as pleasure starts to overtake logic.

“fuck,” you pant, lips brushing his, breath hot and ragged, “i’m gonna–”

“keep going,” he groans, voice whiny and hoarse, almost broken, “don’t stop, just—fuck—,” both of you lost in the heat and pleasure taking over.

his fingers dig into your hips with bruising intensity, like he’s holding on to the last thread of control. his eyes clamp shut, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his breath stutters, shallow, ragged, desperate. he’s completely still for half a second…then a full-body shiver runs through him.

you feel it. the tension. the collapse. the sudden hitch in his breath against your neck. the way he curses under it, low and broken, “shit.”

you freeze, then pull back just far enough to see his face. his eyes are blown wide, pupils drowning in dark, cheeks flushed with something that looks a lot like shame.

“did you just—” you whisper, half breathless, half cruel, hips slowing into a lazy roll meant only to taunt. you’re grinning now, wicked and disbelieving.

“shut up,” he mutters against your skin, but his voice is wrecked. gone. the edge of humiliation bleeding through.

your eyes drag over the heat in his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the way he refuses to meet your gaze and a laugh slips out, breathy, stunned, “oh my god. you did.”

he glares at you, face still flushed, every muscle taut like he’s deciding whether to deny it or destroy you for saying it. his pride was fraying, splintering – and then his hands fists in your hair, yanks your mouth back to his, eyes darker now, sharp with something feral as he regains his voice “i didn’t tell you, you could stop,” he growls, voice a low snarl against your lips.

then he takes over — in a blink, haechan’s hands clamp down on your hips, commanding your every grind, gripping like he’s trying not to completely lose it again. his mouth latches on that exposed skin above your breast, hot and unrelenting, teeth scraping, tongue following like he wants to mark you. wants you to hate yourself at the reminder of his lips on your skin.

his thigh flexes beneath you, on purpose this time, pushing up against you with just enough force to make you gasp, completely wiping away that smug he despises.

he hates you. god, he hates you. hates how every little thing you do sets off something in him, a chain reaction he can’t control. every movement, every breathy sound wrecking him in ways he’ll never admit.

“fuck, haechan,” you whine, shutting your eyes in pleasure, forehead pressed to his, “don’t stop.”

his breath catches, you’ve never said his name like that before, so raw, so needy, so desperate. it short-circuits something in him.

“wasn’t planning on it,” he mutters, voice low. he rolls your hips faster and faster, practically bouncing you on his thigh. the chair below you creaks but you barely hear it over your own wrecked breathing.

“you’re such a fucking slut, princess, hating me and getting off on my thigh like this,” he smirks, completely taking over the situation now. the words shouldn’t turn you on more. but they do. your body responds before your brain can catch up, lighting up like a match thrown onto gasoline. you can’t stop. you don’t stop. your fingers claw into his shoulders for balance as you grind down harder, breathy whines slipping in between your heavy breathing, entire body on fire, like every nerve has been rewired to respond to him and only him.

“go on princess,” he taunts, voice low, filthy, infuriating, “use me. i’ll let you,” he mocks like you should be grateful. like this is a gift. like he isn’t the one who came untouched in his shorts.

you hate it. you love it. you hate him.

“say it,” you pant, lips grazing his, breathless and daring.

his eyes are on fire, “say what?”

“that you hate me.”

his mouth curls into that cocky, devastating grin that you want to slap and kiss at the same time. “i hate you so fucking much,” he groans against your lips, swallowing the noise you make like he’s starving for it.

then his hand dives under your skirt, fingers rough and urgent, dragging your panties to the side. you don’t stop moving, continuing to ride his thigh, chasing that high. the press of skin against skin pushes you over the edge. you cry out, not caring if there was a chance mr. doyoung was listening in. the room’s spinning, heat rising like a fever. the tension in your stomach ready to explode.

“god,” you choke, voice cracking, “i’m gonna come on your fucking leg.”

his eyes darken, hands gripping tighter as he bites your earlobe with just enough force to run shivers down your spine, “do it,” he hisses, words like sin against your ear, “paint it.”

then his thumb finds your clit, circling harsh, precise circles. and it’s over. your whole body tenses, hips grinding down, breath catching, head tossed back, lips parted in a soft, stunned moan as pleasure rolls through you like a slow explosion. it seizes you from the inside out, heat blooming behind your eyes, your limbs trembling where you straddle him.

haechan swears under his breath, jaw tight, eyes darkening and locked on you like he’s watching something unholy and holy all at once. you slump against his chest, breathless, spent, your hands still clutching the collar of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. he doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you there, heartbeat loud and frantic under your palm. his thigh still twitching from the aftermath.

eventually, you pull back enough to look at him. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is swollen. there’s a stunned, reverent look in his eyes that he tries, and fails, to cover with a smirk like he’s not sure what the hell just happened. and you’re sure you look the exact same way.

“well,” you breathe, blinking slowly, “that was…”

“method acting” he says, but his voice is hoarse, “completely professional, shakespeare would be proud.”

you let out a stunned laugh and shove his shoulder, “i still hate you.”

“and i, you” his mouth curves into that smug smile that you swore was glued onto his face.

“this isn’t happening again.” you say it sharp, sure.

“wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” he smirks, cocky and vexing.

ཐིཋྀ the third week of rehearsals

the rehearsal space feels different now. it shouldn’t. the floor is the same scuffed black, taped up with the same blocking marks you argued over last time. mr. doyoung is still barking notes from behind his clipboard, a coffee in one hand and a red pen in the other.

everything is the same. except you. except him.

the space between you used to be poison. now it’s something else. it crackles with something hotter, wilder, like dry air before a thunderstorm. charged and dangerous.

neither of you dares to speak of it. admit it.

you haven’t touched since that rehearsal, not so much as a brush of fingers. you haven’t spoken about what happened but your body hasn’t forgotten. neither has his. every glance feels like it could combust on contact. every time your eyes meet across the room, you feel the memory of his mouth. the way he kissed you mid-scream, like anger was just a mask for hunger. the way your hips rocked against his hard thigh. the way you both hated it, and how much worse it was that you enjoyed it, too.

you’re not proud of it. you try to ignore it. try to act normal. professional. just two enemies pretending to be in love. no big deal. you’re adults. adults can handle unresolved sexual tension and violent mutual resentment…right?

“y/n and haechan,” mr. doyoung’s voice cuts through the static in your head. your eyes snap up, heart thudding against your ribs. you grit your teeth.

the “and” makes your skin crawl. you hate how he says it. your name first. then his. like a pair. a duo. like you belong together.

“let’s run the balcony scene again,” mr. doyoung continues, “and this time, try not to fight.”

you let out a slow, measured breath and glance down at your crumpled script. the words blur for a second before snapping back into focus. you know them already. every line, every pause, every look juliet gives romeo – you practiced it all week.

what you don’t know is how to stand next to haechan without remembering what he sounds like with his breath ragged and your name tangled on his tongue. you almost want to start a fight, just to get out of doing this scene.

your pulse stutters before you even lift your head, because you can feel him. the weight of his stare from across the black box stage. for once, he doesn’t open with some smug quip or insult. he just gives a nod. subtle. almost respectful. almost.

you arch a brow, eyes narrowed, finally looking his way. he doesn’t smile. doesn’t smirk. just murmurs under his breath as he steps into place, “don’t look at me like that,” he says under his breath, “i’m trying not to hate you for five minutes.”

“gee, thanks,” you mutter, stepping into position.

you move to the edge of the mock balcony, script still clutched like a shield. but the words feel heavier now. the scene begins. your voice is steady because it has to. because this is theatre.

“o romeo, o romeo…”

you read the lines. and somehow, a true miracle, you don’t argue. not once. he doesn’t interrupt. you don’t roll your eyes. there are no snarky remarks or insults coming from you or him. the tension is still there but it’s different. sharper. controlled. like both of you have locked it in a cage between your ribs and are desperately pretending it isn’t rattling to get out.

when the scene ends, there’s a pause.

then mr. doyoung claps his hands together, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in shock, “holy hell, that was almost convincing! what the hell did you two do, blood sacrifice? therapy? drugs?”

your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

how do you tell your theater director that the only reason you and your sworn enemy can tolerate each other on stage is because you both got so angry you rode his thigh until you both came?

you can’t — neither of you answers. you just look at each other, both of your cheeks pink, heartbeat in your ears. you swallow hard as haechan clears his throat awkwardly before hopping off the platform.

but that strange, dangerous something hangs in the air. the same something you both refuse to acknowledge — you feel it every time he walks behind you and your back stiffens instinctively. you feel it when his shoulder brushes yours just a little too closely and you pretend not to notice. you look at his mouth a second too long when speaks. he looks at your legs when you pace the stage and quickly looks away.

neither of you says anything. you’re fine. it’s just a normal rehearsal. nothing happened. nothing is happening.

except it is.

and it becomes extremely evident when you’re packing up and someone from the ensemble cracks the wrong joke at the wrong time. you bend to shove your script into your bag and that’s when it happens.

“hey, princess,” someone snorts. you’ve hated that nickname since high school but hearing it from someone else makes your entire body go rigid, “you should really wear something under that skirt besides that black underwear, especially when you’re on that balcony.”

the entire room doesn’t go silent, no one else seems to be paying attention. but your blood roars too loud in your ears. slowly you turn, eyes narrowed at one of your castmates, sunwoo.

you were ready to fire back, eyes already in flames, mouth locked and loaded with a kill shot but before you can open your mouth, haechan’s already moving.

he steps in front of you like it’s instinct. shoulders squared. voice cool, but laced with venom, “say that again,” he says.

sunwoo blinks, caught off guard. haechan was always the first to rag on you, the first to poke until you snapped. he wasn’t supposed to be the one stepping in.

“relax, romeo,” the boy scoffs, “it was a joke–”

“no, go ahead,” haechan interrupts, his voice icy and his smile even colder, “say it louder. maybe you’ll get downgraded to the role of annoying extra who gets their teeth kicked in.”

the threat is quiet. clean. almost polite. but it lands like a fist. sunwoo stares for a second too long, then backs off with a bitter chuckle, “whatever you say, romeo,” he retreats towards the exit.

you’re left staring at haechan, confusion flickering all over your features, “what the hell was that?,” you demand.

he shrugs like it was nothing, like it was completely normal to threaten someone on your behalf, “no one gets to talk to you like that.”

your brows furrow, more confused than ever, “you talk to me like that.”

“exactly,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes, “that’s my job.”

there’s a pause. your heartbeat kicks up. you hate him. you want him. you hate that you want him. and he’s looking at you like he knows every thought you’re having—and is thinking the exact same thing.

you scoff and shove past him, muttering, “asshole.”

his voice follows behind you, low and maddening and far too close, “don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

you whip your head over your shoulder, cheeks burning, “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

the dressing room hallway is dim and too quiet now, everyone else has already left. you stop just short of the bathroom door, hearing his footsteps closing the space behind like a slow hung. you don’t look at him. you can’t. not when your skin is already betraying you with how hot it feels.

you shove the door open. he’s right behind you.

it shuts behind you with a sharp click. neither of you speaks. not for a beat. not for two. then you both move at the same time. instinct, gravity, need. whatever the hell it is.

it’s not a kiss. not right away. it’s a clash of bodies, of mouths, of breaths and need and denial imploding all at once. your back slams into the wall, his hand protectively behind your head as yours curls around his neck. you’re both too close and not close enough. teeth graze lips. fingers tangled in fabric.

“you’re so fucking annoying,” you whisper, jaw clenched, forehead pressed to his.

“yeah?,” he breathes, voice rough. his grip tightens on your waist, grinding you against the hard line of him through his jeans, “well, you’re cute and it’s pissing me off.”

“tell me you hate me,” you snarl, like saying it might make this feel less like surrender.

“i do,” he growled, voice thick with fury and something worse, something hungrier. his fingers were already sliding beneath your skirt, knuckles brushing your thigh and your body can’t help but react, arching into his touch, “so much, i can’t think straight” he spits, right before he tore your panties clean in half with a sound that echoes in the tiny room.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?!,” you shoved at his chest, just enough to prove you could. just enough to pretend you didn’t want this. enough to pretend your pride was still intact. like the heat slicking between your legs didn’t mean a damn thing. he was so goddamn hot. so infuriatingly, sinfully hot.

“you’re such a fucking whore,” he snapped, eyes burning into yours, “you knew we were rehearsing the balcony scene and you only wore this underneath,” he holds up the torn fabric like evidence, his smirk pure sin, “you did this for me, didn’t you, princess? wanted my attention that badly, huh?” his voice dripped venom, but his pupils were blown wide, starved.

“you wish,” you shot back, lifting your chin, daring him.

he chuckles, low and lethal, before lifting the torn fabric to his nose and breathing you in like he needed to live.

“you’re sick in the head.”

“and you smell so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, voice dark with need. then, without hesitation, he tucks your panties in his pocket and sinks to his knees like he was praying at an altar, his mouth finding you fast and filthy.

“fuck-” your head tipped back as your fingers clawed for purchase on the edge of the sink next to you, the other tangled tight in his hair, anchoring yourself to the madness he dragged you into.

he groaned into you like he was starved, tongue moving with filthy precision, like he’d mapped you out in a dream and now he was just following directions. you tried to keep quiet, tried to bite your lip, swallow your noises, not wanting to give him any gratification, but when he sucked on your clit like he wanted to ruin you, a sob tore from your throat.

“couldn’t stop thinking about your moans,” he rasps between licks, voice wrecked.

“shut the fuck up,” your hips bucked against his mouth before you could stop yourself.

he laughs into your cunt, the vibration sending lightning up your spine as he licked into you harder, tongue fucking in and out of your entrance. you tug his hair so hard he groans again and you hated how much that sound made you clench.

this is insane. this is toxic. this is absolutely the best head of your life.

“i’m gonna, fuck, if you don’t stop, i’m gonna come,” your panting now, legs shaking. the only thing holding you upright is his grip on your hips.

“good,” he growled, dragging you down further onto his tongue, “fall apart for me, princess.”

the nickname sounded hotter, echoing in your mind, pushing you to your limit as your legs trembled, thighs clamping around his head and then you’re unraveling – moaning, shaking, coming hard on his tongue.

he moaned into your slick, like your orgasm was his reward. like he was addicted to it. your nails scraped down the porcelain sink, the high-pitched whimper that left your throat is so humiliating, so raw, it almost didn’t sound like you.

when you finally loosened your grip on his hair, he pulled back with a wet, obscene sound, mouth glistening.

“still hate me?” he asked, licking your taste off his lips.

you're trembling, panting, mind spinning and completely undone,“more than ever.”

“good,” he said, standing to his full height. his hand curled around your jaw, thumb pressing hard against your bottom lip until it parted, “then you won’t mind if i choke you with my cock.”

you didn’t answer, but your lips stayed open. and that was all the consent he needed. with one hand, he undid his belt, the clink of metal sharp in the silence.

“on your knees,” he ordered, voice dark, deadly. you roll your eyes before you can stop yourself and the defiance crawls under his skin like static. you were so fucking irritating so he grabbed a fistful of your hair and made you, forcing you down until you were kneeling in front of him on the grimy bathroom floor.

face mere inches away from his cock – thick and heavy in his hand, already leaking for you.

“you’re gonna pretend you don’t want this too?” he asked, stroking himself slowly, deliberately, right in front of your mouth.

you hated him. you hated how beautiful his cock was. you hated how your mouth watered.

“fuck you,” you whispered.

“you wish,” he sneered, “now open that pretty, lying mouth, princess,” he slapped his cock lightly against your lips. and you hated how fast you obeyed.

he slid in with a deep groan, slow at first, savoring the heat of your tongue, the way your lips closed tight around him like you were starved for it. his fingers twisted in your hair, guiding your pace, slow, then faster, then rougher, like he was punishing you for every fight you’d ever started.

“look at you,” he snarled, hips snapping forward, “on your knees sucking my cock like it’s all you’ve ever fucking wanted.”

you moaned around him, which only made him twitch harder. he started fucking into your throat with a filthy rhythm, panting, groaning, praising and cursing under his breath.

“take it. come on, princess,” he growled, pushing in impossibly deeper, it felt like you were swallowing him, “-that’s it, fuuuck, just like that.””

your eyes watered, mascara smeared, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth as you gagged and gasped around him. your hands clutched his thighs, not sure anymore if you were pushing him away or pulling him deeper. he looked down at you with a snarl twisted into something almost reverent.

“you’re a fucking dream,” he growled, “wrecked, ruined, all mine to destroy.”

you wanted to slap him. you wanted to make him come so hard he saw stars — so you sucked harder.

his grip tightened in your hair, knuckles white, cock throbbing against your tongue as your head bobbed faster and faster, taking him deeper each time. your jaw ached, throat burned, eyes ruined, spit smeared your chin but you couldn’t stop. not when he was unraveling like that above you. not when his control, his cocky, unbearable composure, was finally cracking.

“fuuuck, y/n,” he groaned, hips stuttering, “y-you’re so fucking good,” he praises, letting out a guttural noise, halfway between a growl and a whimper, and you realized with vicious satisfaction that he was close. desperate. needy. whining like his life depended on it.

you looked up, tongue swirling, and the second your teary, ruined eyes met his, he broke.

“shit, f-fuck,” he slammed deep one last time, cock pulsing against the back of your throat as he came, hard and hot, filling your mouth like he’d been holding it back for days. his whole body shuddered. he cursed again, holding you there, breath ragged, chest heaving like he’d just climbed out of hell.

you swallowed every drop without breaking eye contact. then slowly, so slowly, pulled off him with a slick pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like it was nothing. his eyes were still half-wild when he looked at you, dilated, glassy, like he wasn’t fully back in his body yet.

and yours? flat. cool. detached. or at least trying to be. trying to pick up the pride you let fall. trying to regain the control you easily handed over to him.

you stood, straightened your skirt, ignored the way your knees trembled a little and the way your legs threatened to give out. across from you, he tucked himself back into his pants in silence, hands shaking just slightly as he buckled his belt, your ruined panties peeking from his back pocket.

for a beat, the bathroom was silent, except for your shared breaths and the buzzing of fluorescent lights. then, like flipping a switch, you caught your reflection, instantly reminded of who you were, where you were, who you were with and what you just did. you hate him even more.

you patted your hair back into place, calmly pulling yourself back together and fixing your flushed lips and smeared mascara.

“no one finds out about this,” you said, tone flat, dismissive, like he hadn’t just unraveled inside your mouth.

“please,” he scoffed, lip curling, “i’d rather die than have people know i let your mouth anywhere near my cock.”

your gaze sharpened, but you didn’t flinch, “good,” you muttered, already moving toward the door, head high, ignoring how the air kissed your bare core with every step.

“wait,” his voice halts your movement, before you turn towards him, eyes already sharp, ready to cut.

“what now?,” you snap back. he didn’t answer at first, just shrugged off his jacket. takes three swift steps and he was in front of you, tying it low around your waist with the kind of ease that made your breath hitched.

“your ass bounces with every step, princess,” he said, lips brushing your ear.

you opened your mouth to respond but then he reached into his back pocket, pulled out your torn panties, and with a cocky smirk, stuffed them into his bag, “and this way, we’re even.”

for once, you had no words. you just pushed the door open and walked out. no thanks, no glances back, no trace of the filthy thing you’d just done. you moved through the hallway like your throat hadn’t just been fucked raw. like your pussy wasn’t still throbbing.

and a few seconds later, he followed, jaw tight, eyes dark, body calm, as if nothing had happened. as if he wasn’t still tasting you on the tip of his tongue. as if he wasn’t replaying the sound of your moans in his head.

as if the both of you hadn’t tasted your sworn enemy… and liked it.

ཐིཋྀ the fourth week of rehearsals

the script lay forgotten between you, crumpled in his sheets, its margins scribbled with notes and crossed-out lines. you’d barely made it halfway through act ii before the space on his mattress started feeling too tight. too hot.

you were supposed to be practicing. you were supposed to be fixing what you both ruined in week one. all the wasted rehearsals you spent glaring each other down, aiming snarky remarks instead of script lines.

instead, you were staring at the curve of his throat as he leaned back on his elbows, lips parted, legs spread just wide enough to make you clench. to make you remember how his leg felt between your thighs. and he was staring at you with that same dazed and cocky look. the one full of invitation, almost challenging you to do something about it. the one that says i know you want me too.

“focus,” you snapped, even though your voice sounded thin and you’re not sure whether the word is directed towards him or yourself, your hold tightened around the script like it could stop your traitorous hand from reaching out and doing something that’ll completely crush your ego.

“i am focused,” he murmured, dragging his gaze down over your bare legs, over your thighs, and resting, boldly, in the space between them. you could feel it, the phantom heat of his stare on your skin.

you snapped your fingers, “eyes up here, romeo,” you crossed your arms, “we promised mr. doyoung we’d take this seriously.”

haechan raised a brow, amused, “we’ve been taking it seriously for two weeks, look at us, i literally let you in my room just to rehearse.”

you narrow your eyes at him, “you say that like being in here is a reward.”

he smirks, “c’mon princess, let’s not lie, a million girls would kill to be in your spot right now,” a cocky grin on his face. you wanted to wipe it off. slap it away. kiss it away. you’re not too sure at this point.

“what? sitting on these bed sheets that you haven’t changed in weeks? the smell of axe body spray attacking their nostrils?,” you roll your eyes.

“i change those every week and i don’t even use axe, you must be smelling yourself,” he rolls his eyes.

“please, if i reeked of desperation and cheap cologne, i’d be you,” you shoot back, chin lifted, proud of the way his smirk faltered for half a second. you’ll never admit the way you secretly enjoy the smell of his cologne, the way it intoxicates you like a potion pulling you under a spell.

he sits up a little straighter, elbows propped on his knees now, eyes glinting with an infuriating mix of challenge and amusement. “desperation?,” he echoes, voice low, “princess, if anyone here’s desperate, it’s you. you’ve been eye-fucking me since you got here.”

your breath catches, partly from the audacity, partly because he’s not entirely wrong. but you recover fast, “please,” you scoff, “you’re the one looking at me like i’m your last meal.”

haechan laughs, head tilted back. he taps his fingers against his knee, a thoughtful little rhythm that drives you insane before leaning in again, “okay, fine. you wanna be serious? let’s be serious.”

you raise a brow, “that’d be a first for you.”

“let’s fuck.”

your brain blanks. for a second, it doesn’t even register, “what?!”

“lets just do it. get it out of our systems,” he says casually, like what he suggested wasn’t completely, absolutely, batshit crazy. “all this tension? it’s messing with rehearsals. so let’s just…,” he gestures vaguely between you, “rip the bandaid off. hate-fuck it out.”

you blink, trying to process his words. this had to be a joke. a dare. a trap, “you’re suggesting we sleep together for the sake of the theater department.”

“i’m suggesting we do everyone a favor and stop letting whatever this is,” he gestures again, less vaguely this time, at the very obvious, very mutual heat between you, “sabotage our performances. one time. no repeats. no weirdness.”

“oh there’ll be weirdness,” you mutter, folding your arms, your heart pounding in your throat.

“not if we’re adults about it,” he grins. that infuriating, boyish, charming grin, “can you be an adult, princess?”

you laugh, incredulous, “you? be an adult?, you still giggle when someone says ‘enter from the rear’ in stage directions.”

“okay, first of all, i see you laughing too,” he points a finger at you, that same stupid smirk still glued to his face, “second of all, im serious. we fuck and then we go back to being bitter enemies who can’t stand the sight of each other. clean slate.”

you stare at him, heart thudding, thoughts spiraling. it’s a terrible idea. the worst idea he’s ever had. but what’s even worse is the fact that you’re actually considering it.

“and what if you realize im the best fuck you’ve ever had and start following me around like a lovesick puppy?,” you quip a brow, a teasing smile on your face.

he barks out a laugh, cocky and careless, “never gonna happen, princess,” he says, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his body radiating, “you’re not that good.”

you raise a brow, “that’s rich coming from someone who came untouched.” his expression darkens instantly, smirk faltering, the memory clearly still a bruise to his pride. you take this time to garner control and with no warning, you lunged — kissing him hard, desperate, sharp, messy. your teeth caught on his lip. you kiss him like he’s your last cigarette, like he’s something you have to burn through just to breathe.

he responds immediately, groaning into your mouth, hands flying to your waist, pulling you onto his lap, like he needed to leave fingerprints there.

you straddle him, fumbling with his shirt, dragging it up and over his head and shoving him backward until his back hits the bed with a grunt, “still think this is a good idea?,” you breathe, throwing your shirt over your head, leaving you in a lacy brown bra that makes his cock twitch in his shorts.

he props himself on his elbows, gaze dark and fixed on you as you strip, “no,” he says, eyes raking over your body like a challenge, “i think it’s the best idea i’ve ever had.”

your signature skirt rides up as you grind down against his hard bulge, enough to make him hiss.

“i still hate you,” you murmur, needing to remind yourself every single time.

“good,” he growls, thumbs digging into your waist, “say it again when i’m inside you.”

his voice grates in your ear. so smug. so loud. you slap him before you can think. not too hard, just enough to make his jaw twitch. he stares at you, stunned for half a second and then he smirks again, “god, you’re such a fucking brat.”

you slap him again, slower this time, deliberately, and he groans like everything about this turns him on. “you like that?,” you whisper, grinding harder now, testing him. he doesn’t answer, he refuses to give you any words of satisfaction.

instead his hand slide up your back, unhooking your bra with a practiced flick, the cool air hitting your hardened nipples before his large hands cupped around them, squeezing, mouth immediately latching on one nipple. he’s been wanting to see your tits since you were locked in that tiny room. and now that he has, he sucked like he was in complete bliss, eyes shut, wet and eager, tongue messily painting your breasts. you gasp, hands coming up to grip his hair, pulling him closer as your hips continue its slow grind against his hard, clothed cock.

“fuck,” you moan, every nerve lighting up. you’re soaking through your panties, whole body vibrating. you bounce harder, using him to reach your high as he continues worshipping your breasts with his lips, trails of his saliva littering your chest. his large hands make their way to your ass, cupping and squeezing but not controlling. not yet.

he lets you hump him harder and harder, trying to control the breathy whimpers slipping from him as he busies himself in between your breasts. your breathing was getting heavier, legs starting to give out, the friction was hitting your clit so perfectly and before you knew it, your orgasm washes over you, unexpected and all-consuming.

“look at you,” he murmurs, that damn smirk back again, breath hot against your ear, “already fucked out and we haven’t even started.” before you could reply, before you could argue, he flips you in a blur, pinning you to the mattress. his eyes are dark now, dangerous.

he yanks your skirt and underwear off in one go, leaving you completely bare for him. you looked so small in between his sheets and it drives him madly insane, “i’m only gonna say this once,” he says, eyes raking over your naked body, voice rough, “but fuck, you’re hot,” he compliments, almost.

you sit up, yanking his shorts down, large cock bouncing free from the last barrier between you, “you’re okay to look at,” you smirk. he rolls his eyes and slaps your hands away before you could reach out for him as he fumbles in his nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom, tearing the foil open with his teeth and rolling it on with ease.

he lines himself in your entrance, teasing his tip, that same devilish smirk plastered on his lips.

“admit you want me,” he grunts, hovering over you, a hand placed calculatedly on your neck, enough to choke you but not enough to completely block off your airways.

“no,” you hiss. he pushes in hard. no warning. no mercy. your back arches with a gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, mouth open in a soundless moan, his hand wrapping tighter around your neck, making your eyes roll back. he’s so so thick, you can feel him all around your walls, stretching you open inch by inch. he feels so good. too good.

“hate you,” you manage to whisper in between your breathy moans, even as your legs wrap around his waist.

“yeah?,” he pants, thrusting into you hard enough to make the headboard knock the wall, “say it louder,” he orders, finally releasing the hold he had on your neck and redirecting it to your breast, large hand squeezing tightly around the supple flesh.

“i hate you,” you moan and then you’re kissing him again, biting his bottom lip, swallowing the grunts he gives you. he sets a brutal pace, every thrust punctuated by the sound of skin on skin, by the filthy words he mutters against your neck. you push him in closer, wanting more, needing more.

“you’re so fucking needy,” he pants, voice tight, desperate.

“shut up,” you growl.

“make me,” he snaps back. so you slap him again and his face twitches, a deep, devilish chuckle slipping past his lips before he pulls out, flipping you over like you weighed nothing and pulling you up on your hands and knees before thrusting into you from behind, your face buried in his pillow.

he fucks you harder. the new angle hitting that spot over and over again you swore you could feel him in your stomach.

it was chaos. it was violence in the shape of pleasure.

“fuck,” you cry, “you’re so deep, so-,” his hand lands a slap on your ass, sharp and hot, the noise echoing throughout the room, making you bite down into the sheets.

“how do you like it?,” he grunts, landing another slap, hot and red, leaving tingles all over your skin. you were sure there were bruises in the shape of his fingertips forming all over you. you’re a mess of moans and incoherent words, each thrust wrecking your thoughts, your dignity, your hate.

you should be fighting him but all you can do is beg for more, “please, please, please, haechan, d-don’t stop,” and your cries do nothing but fuel him. the room continues to echo with the slap of skin and filthy words with your name in his voice and his cock in your pussy like he was trying to break you. you lose track of how many times you say i hate you. how many times he says it back. it becomes a chant. a rhythm. a promise.

you ride that line between loathing and lust until your vision whites out, orgasm hitting you like a punch in the gut, “haechan, fuck, i’m coming!,” you scream and he grabs your hair, pulling you back against him.

“go ahead princess,” he growls, “come all over my cock.” you shatter, gasping for air, jaw hanging open, shaking, as your eyes rolled back in complete pleasure, body going limp in his arms.

haechan doesn’t stop, hellbent on proving that he could last longer than you think. he shoves a pillow under you, continuing his relentless thrusts.

“fuuuck, how are you getting tighter?,” he grits out, “your pussy fucking loves me,” he groans, each hard thrust bringing him closer to that high.

you could cry from the overstimulation, “h-haechan–t-too much,” you stutter, gripping his thigh, tears forming in the corner of your eyes.

“you can take it, princess,” he says, voice low and dark. “i know you can. be a good girl and take it,” he grunts, still pushing into you with a force that rolls the tears down your cheeks.

eventually, the pain turns into pleasure again. blurring the line until you’re moving with him, lost in the pace, the heat, the hate. he chases his own high until his rhythm started shattering into jerky, desperate thrusts, “c’mon, princess, give me one more,” he grunts and all your body could do was follow his voice, immediately tightening around him and sending you to your third orgasm of the night.

he finally gives in with a low, wrecked groan of your name, burying his face in your neck as he shudders through it, hips slowing, grounding down into you until there’s nothing left but heat and sweat and the tremble in his arms as he holds himself over you.

when he pulls out, there’s a slick, lewd sound that makes your already flushed skin go warmer, the pillow beneath you, soaking. then he collapses beside you with a sigh, one arm slung over his eyes like the weight of everything that just happened is finally catching up to him.

silence swells between you. sticky and loud and way too fucking real.

your chest is still rising and falling fast, heartbeat trying to find its regular rhythm as you try to fight off the sleep that was wanting to overtake. you were so tired, so fucked out you almost gave in but your hate was still stronger and somehow your voice cuts through the thick silence, “we’re definitely not doing that again.”

he pauses, “...right.”

you roll onto your side, head propped on your hand, glaring at him like you can set him on fire with just your eyes, “that wasn’t hesitation.” you don’t ask him. you tell him.

he peeks at you from under his arm and shrugs, unbothered, “it was dramatic timing. theater major, remember?”

you groan, flopping back on the bed, rubbing your hands over your face, “god, i really fucking hate you.”

he grins, teeth sharp and full of bite, “yeah, well your pussy doesnt.” you grab the nearest thing, his shirt, and toss it straight to his face and he lets it sit there for a moment before peeling it off with an exaggerated sigh.

“asshole,” you mutter, already reaching for your clothes. ignoring the way your body was burning, a reminder of his touch, as you start dressing like you’re gearing up for a fight, like each item is a piece of armor you’re slapping on.

he watches you dress, that grin never really leaving his face but his eyes are softer than they should be. quieter. and he doesn’t say a word as you reassemble yourself.

within minutes, you’re both back in your roles, fully clothed and composed. like the last hour never happened. like he hadn’t just made you scream his name. like you hadn’t clawed his thighs so hard there’ll probably be marks tomorrow. like he hadn’t left bruises in the shape of his lips all over your skin. like the tear stains you were sporting wasn’t evident.

you pick up your script off the edge of the bed. it’s bent now, pages wrinkled. a souvenir from the chaos you two just unleashed. neither of you acknowledge it.

“start from your cue,” you say flatly.

he leans back against the headboard, flipping lazily through the script like nothing about this is new, like his cock wasn’t just inside you, “with love’s light wings did i o’erperch these walls…”

you roll your eyes, glaring “try saying it like you don’t want to fuck me.”

“i dont want to fuck you,” he deadpans, then glances at you with a smirk, “again.”

you shoot him a look so cold it could kill. he delivers it properly this time, and you move through the scene with professional precision except for the way your voices crack at the edges, how the eye contact lingers a beat too long.

the air between you is no less charged. if anything, it’s worse now. every line feels like a double entendre. every accidental brush of fingers feels like it might ignite something again.

you finish the scene without a word about what happened. no apologies. no acknowledgments. no we shouldn’t have done that.

then you shove the script into your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and walk to the door. “you’re leaving without a goodbye?” he calls out, that cocky lilt back in his voice.

you pause. not enough to turn. just enough to make him think you might. then you say, “we’re not friends, haechan. we don’t joke around. we rehearse. that’s it.”

and you leave. down the hall, around the corner, out the front door, your pulse still racing, his scent still clinging to your skin like it’s branding you. your body aching with the memory of his mouth, his hands, his body.

back in his room, haechan stares at the closed door. the tension in the air still hasn’t left. he sighs, eyes trailing back to the script. he lets it drop from his hand, the pages flopping limply to the floor. then he throws himself back against the mattress like he’s trying to forget the way you felt. the way you sounded.

his body still buzzes. his mind’s a goddamn storm. he drags a hand through his hair and covers his eyes with his arm again, “what the fuck did I just do?”

he’d told himself this was about getting you out of his system. that one fuck would fix it. but now? now you’re under his skin in a way he doesn’t know how to undo. every nerve remembers you. every inch of him aches for you. and every second since you walked out that door feels empty.

he groans to the ceiling, voice thick with frustration and something he won’t name. “well,” he mutters, sarcasm soaked in something bitter, “that worked great.”

ཐིཋྀ the fifth week of rehearsals

it’s been a week since the night that didn’t mean anything. you’d both agreed. no repeats. one time. clean slate. but the slate wasn’t clean. it was cracked and humming with everything you weren’t supposed to feel.

you’re on stage now, under the harsh fluorescents of the theater department’s rehearsal room, with your script in one hand and your heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

the scene is simple. romeo flirts. juliet flirts back. they kiss. easy. you’ve done kissing scenes a thousand times in other productions. but now? now your body remembers the exact weight of him. how he sounds when he groans. how he says your name like a sin he’s proud of committing.

mr. doyoung looks up, “let’s take it from romeo’s line, build the moment, don’t rush it.”

haechan nods, exhales, and steps into character, “have not saint lips, and holy palmers too?” his eyes are on you and it's not romeo’s gaze. it’s haechan’s. intense. knowing. annoyingly smug. feeding his line like nothing happened between you.

he leans in, perfectly in character as you follow through, finding juliet’s voice with ease, “ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”

“o, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, gran thou, lest faith turn to despair,” he continues, both of you smoothly moving through the stage, dancing around each other’s bodies.

“saints do not move, though grant for prayer’s sake,” you deliver the line perfectly, professionally.

“then move not, while my prayer’s effect i take,” he murmurs, inching the space closer and closer, twirling you around in his arms, and finally kissing you like his life depended on it . like he couldn’t wait a single second for this moment. completely capturing romeo’s yearning spirit.

and it’s evident as day that your body remembers everything from that night.

the kiss goes on a beat too long and for a second you almost forget you were in the middle of a scene until he’s in character again, “thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”

“then have my lips the sin they have took,” you respond immediately. his eyes flicker to yours and you see it. he remembers too. every second of it.

“sin from my lips? o trespass sweetly urged!,” he continues, leaning in once again, following the script perfectly, “give me my sin again,” he says, placing a sweet kiss on your lips. all too different from the kisses you’ve shared before.

“you kiss by th’ book,” you end the scene as his lips travel down your neck, igniting that heat in your stomach. mr. doyoung was taking his sweet time yelling out cut. you can feel haechan’s smirk against your neck and it’s taking everything in you to not end the scene yourself.

mr. doyoung rises from his chair, clapping slowly, and finally yelling out the one word you needed to breathe. you both jump back immediately like touching each other burned.

“there it is,” he says, “my romeo and juliet,” he dramatically wipes a fake tear from his eyes, “absolutely beautiful. from the top!,” he says excitedly and all you could do was follow his directions. pretending every single touch isn’t affecting you way more than you would ever admit.

you’re not losing this battle. not letting him know that the one time one fuck proposal didn’t work. and haechan, sure as hell, isn't backing down either.

♕

THE BIGGEST, MOST ANTICIPATED PARTY OF THE YEAR: HALLOWEEN NIGHT @ THE DREAM FRATERNITY

haechan scans the room, it was their busiest party of the year. the most chaotic, most fun, most prepared party he and the boys ever have to plan. and now the dream house is packed with costumes, glitter, smoke, chaos. he’s dressed as some version of a vampire, sexy but not too much, his funny, charming side taking over.

he spots mark and kitten across the room, near the couch, in their spiderman and black cat costumes, trying, and failing, to do the spiderman kiss. there was jaemin and angel groping each other on the dance floor wearing matching hermione and ron costumes and in the corner in the back near the kitchen was jeno and bunny caught in a heated makeout session with their ash and pikachu costumes on. and yes, jeno is pikachu.

and then you walked in. he knew you would be here. it was the only dream party you attended because everyone attends it. it was either this or spending the night alone, watching scary movies by yourself.

you were dressed in a lacy red devil’s costume leaving no room for imagination. he shouldn’t even be looking at you. but he is. and his eyes zero in on the faint marks that were blooming on the exposed skin of your breasts. you didn’t even care that people saw them. but he knew you would have if people knew that those marks came from his lips.

he feels his pants tighten in his jeans. he really needed to get a good fuck. maybe it’ll stop you from plaguing his mind.

“can’t believe i’m part of the singles fuck boy club,” renjun says, snapping him out of the trance you trapped him in.

haechan smirks, “take it as a win,” he takes a sip from his drink, “more ladies for us,” he winks, just as jisung and chenle walked up to them.

“so, who do you have your eyes on tonight?,” chenle asks, a smirk on his lips.

haechan chuckles, looking around, his eyes glossing over your figure for a second before they land on the girl he’s been trying to get with since the first party of this year, “ryujin,” he smirks. ryujin – dance major, one of the university’s best.

“how about you, my little protege?,” haechan asks, turning his attention to jisung, the rest of the boys awaiting his answer.

jisung smirks, already knowing the answer, “wonyoung.”

renjun’s jaw drops, “jisung, she might be a freshman but she’s completely out of your league.”

jisung just chuckles, haechan chuckling with him, “hey, don’t doubt my boy,” he says before patting jisung in the back, “just remember everything mark and i taught you,” he winks before jisung took a shot and disappeared into the crowd.

“his head is getting bigger, you know,” renjun rolls his eyes.

“that’s fine, let him have his fun,” chenle says, “now let’s go find you a girl so you’re not so grumpy all the time,” he drags renjun out of there, leaving haechan to fend for himself, a smirk still playing on his lips. and he can’t help it. his eyes dart back to your figure.

across the room, he sees you laughing, too close, too bright, with some guy he doesn’t recognize. the guy’s in some lazy pirate costume, leaning in like he knows you. like he’s already been invited in and something in his stomach turns. something about you looking that comfortable makes him want to throw the nearest pumpkin straight at his head.

he remembers a time when he was privileged enough to hear your laugh. to make you laugh. to laugh together until your ribs were sore.

he absolutely hates it — the way that memory has been popping up in his head like a haunted time loop. he thought he got rid of it, buried it somewhere deep, he wouldn’t have been able to find it. but just a couple weeks with you and all his work for the last five years go down the drain.

he forces himself to look away, making his way over to ryujin, dressed up as bella from twilight. oh, this was going to be too easy.

“hey pretty, you looking for me?,” he interrupts the conversation she was having with another guy, smoothly and all so charming, the way he usually is.

ryujin lets out a giggle, “hmm, i could’ve sworn i was talking to another vampire,” she says, voice sultry and deep with desire.

“none of those vampires can compare to me,” he winks playfully, cocky as ever. and that was all it took before ryujin was pulling him down for a kiss.

he lets his mouth move against hers, hot and fast, but completely hollow. she tastes like candy, vodka and sticky lip gloss, her hands gripping at his arms like she owns him. his mouth is probably smeared with red now, and she moans like it means something.

but to him, it means absolutely nothing.

there’s no fire. no heat. no pulse-racing thrill behind it. no push and pull. no sharp banter humming beneath the surface. he was making out with a girl he’s been trying to get with since the first party of this year and all he could think about was how different it was from kissing you.

god, you were so fucking irritating.

he opens his eyes in the middle of the kiss, and to his unfortunate luck, he makes direct eye contact with you. across the room, half hidden in shadows and flashing lights, your gaze is locked on him but there’s no challenge there. no eye-roll. no smirk. nothing that makes you, you. just eerie blankness, almost like you were looking through him.

something’s wrong.

he pulls back abruptly, ryujin still chasing his lips with a frustrated sound. “give me a second,” he mutters before completely leaving her standing there on her own. an angry scoff follows him as he pushes through the crowd, all of his attention zeroed in on you.

he walks across the room, watching your every move. you’re swaying a little. not like you’re dancing. like your balance is off, disconnected from gravity, from control. the look in your eyes is unresponsive and you’re blinking so incredibly slow. and the pirate is still right next to you, standing way too close.

his hand lands on your waist. then he presses a kiss on the side of your neck and haechan moves through the crowd like a storm, pushing everyone out of his way.

he grips the guy’s shirt and yanks him back, stepping between you and him like a wall of fire. he grabs your wrist, grounding you, voice low but unshakeable, “we’re leaving.”

you blink up at him like you’re seeing the sun for the first time, “donghyuck?,” you smile softly, too sweetly, and it takes everything in him to not kill the guy who did this to you.

“did you drink something?,” he asks, firm but gentle. you nod slowly, lips parted like you’re stuck in a delayed reaction. he brings the cup to his nose – fruity, sticky-sweet but there’s something else. something chemical. and then he sees it, the powdery film at the bottom, confirming his prediction.

his stomach drops. rage coils in his gut. he grabs the drink, tossing the liquid in the nearest plant and fists a hand in the guy’s shirt before shoving him backward, “touch her again and i’ll break your fucking face,” he seethes. the guy stumbles back, arms raised like he’s innocent.

mark notices the commotion before anyone else does, quickly stepping in, kitten by his side with wide, concerned eyes, “dude, what’s happening?,” he speaks low and in control.

“he drugged her,” he growls into his ear. mark’s eyes widen, sharp and alert “i’ll handle him. you take care of her,” he says.

haechan’s attention was back on you in an instant. your balance is off, feet shifting clumsily, eyes blinking slow and unfocused, pupils dilated.

he crouches slightly so he’s at eye level, “hey, come with me, okay?,” he says softly. you lift your head to look at him, your lips parting into a dreamy, dazed smile. you manage to nod once before your body gives out, knees buckling, weight tipping forward. haechan catches you before you can even fall. you land into him like you were meant to be there, cheeks pressed to his chest, body in his arms.

you giggle softly, the sound barely audible over the music. it’s airy. almost innocent. it breaks his heart in two.

“warm,” you mumble into his shirt. “you’re so warm, hyuck.”

his heart squeezes painfully, trying to push away that all too familiar feeling of his nickname on your tongue. the nickname you gave him. the way it sounds so soft as if somewhere in the haze and fog in your brain, some part of you knows you’re safe with him.

without a word, he lifts you into his arms bridal style. your arms immediately wrap around his neck, hands clinging like he’s your lifeline.

“up we go,” he says softly, carrying you through the house, ignoring every curious stare, every muttered comment.

you nuzzle closer, relaxing into his body like it’s familiar, lips brushing his jaw, and he nearly stumbles, “you smell so good…why do you smell so good…?”

he hides his smirk. you told him he smelled like axe just a week ago. “because i shower, dumbass,” he mutters. the insult wasn’t needed but hey, he can’t help it.

in his room, he kicks the door shut with his foot, setting you gently on the bed.

but you don’t let go.

your hands are still on him, clutching his shoulders, his shirt, anything. you whine when he tries to pull back, “nooo, hyuck, don’t go,” you pout like a child.

your breath fans against his neck, lips brushing so close to his skin that he shivers, “need you…” you whisper, almost too faint to catch. it guts him. he carefully pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek and your eyes flutter open, slow and unfocused, but locked on him.

and then you lean in. soft. uncertain. your lips part slightly, tilting toward his like muscle memory.

and his heart lurches. he wants it, god, does he want it. but not like this. not when you’re not fully you. not when you won’t remember. not when it would feel like taking. so he stops you.

he leans back, gently pressing his fingers to your lips, “hey,” he says quietly, “not right now.”

you blink, confused. hurt flickers across your face, “but i want—”

“i know,” he whispers, brushing your hair out of your face with heartbreaking tenderness. “but you’re not… you’re not okay right now. you’re not thinking clearly and you’re gonna hate me even more if i let you do this.”

you stare at him for a long moment, your expression folding into something soft, something fractured. your voice comes out barely audible, “you always ruin everything.”

he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, crouching down to your eye level again, “yeah,” he murmurs, “i’m really good at that.”

you’re trembling now, whether from the drug or emotion he can’t tell. he reaches for the edge of his hoodie draped over his desk chair. then he coaxes you out of your costume.

you let him take care of you.

he slips the oversized hoodie over your head in an instant. it swallows you whole, falling to mid-thigh, sleeves engulfing your hands, covering more than your costume ever did. then he grabs a pair of his clean sweatpants and helps you step into them, rolling the waistband until they don’t fall off.

“there,” he murmurs, tugging the hood up over your head, “much better,” and seeing you in his clothes makes his heart skip a beat.

you blink up at him, dazed and warm, “smells like you.”

he chuckles softly, “well, that’s cause it’s mine, princess” he says, the nickname landing so gently he’s almost glad you won't remember this. he guides you back on the bed, his hands warm and careful on your shoulders, like he’s afraid you’ll break. you lay down like a sleepy cat, limbs loose, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

he crouches in front of you, steady and patient, watching you with an unreadable expression. the room is dim, hushed, wrapped in the kind of silence that comes right after chaos.

then you say it. quiet. barely there. like a secret.

“i didn’t want to hate you.”

his breath catches. he wanted to ask so why do you?

he’s never figured out. why things between you turned so bitter. why you suddenly started twisting a knife behind his back. and why he grabbed that knife and pointed it at you. but he know it’s wrong to get information out of you in this state. not when your eyes are glassy, your words a half-conscious confession spilling out like a secret you didn’t mean to say. you’re too far gone to argue. too soft to lie.

you’re still looking at him, but your eyelids are heavier now. the words just fall from your lips, unguarded. honest in a way you never let yourself be sober, “you made it so easy sometimes though” you murmur, the corners of your mouth tilting in something that’s not quite a smile, not quite pain, “being loud. being cocky. saying shit you didn’t mean just to piss me off…”

his heart is thudding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. there’s so much he wants to say. apologies, defenses, explanations. but before he can say anything, your body shifts, sinks into the pillow, limbs going limp as your breath evens out and your eyes flutter shut.

you’re asleep. just like that.

haechan stays kneeling beside the bed, frozen in place. his gaze traces the soft furrow of your brow, the way your lips part slightly as you breathe. he wonders if you’ll remember any of this tomorrow. if you’ll pretend it never happened. if you’ll regret letting your walls down for even a second.

“i didn’t want to hate you either,” he whispers, voice barely audible over your breathing.

there’s a pause. a longer silence.

“i don’t even know why i hate you,” he admits, softer still. but you’re already gone.

and yet, he stays beside you a little longer, resting his head on the edge of the mattress, eyes never leaving yours, like if he just watches long enough, maybe he’ll figure out where it all went wrong.

♕

the morning light filters through the curtains. everything is quiet. too quiet.

you stir slowly, the ache in your head blooming behind your eyes like a storm cloud. your limbs are heavy, your mouth dry and your body is wrapped around a warmth that doesn’t belong to your bed.

it takes a second for the fog in your mind to lift, but when it does, your heart skips.

you’re not in your room. you’re in his. and he’s right there – lying beside you, one arm flung over his eyes, hair tousled, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths of someone who stayed up way too late.

you freeze. every part of you tenses as your gaze darts down to your body — hoodie and sweatpants, both way too big, wrapped around you. you exhale in quiet, stunned relief, but your heart is still pounding, “what the hell?” you whisper, rubbing your temples.

at the sound of your voice, he stirs, groaning, blinking against the light like it personally offended him then his eyes land on you.

“you’re up,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep. he stretches lazily like he doesn’t feel the full weight of your stare on him. “you okay?”

you blink, “why am i here?”

“you were drugged,” he says plainly. no softening. no sugar-coating. “some guy slipped something in your drink.”

the room tilts. you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to recollect memories from last night. the fear of what could’ve happened gnaws at your insides.

“i got you out before anything happened,” he adds quietly, “you were… not yourself. clingy. slurring. said i smelled nice, for some reason,” there’s a light, teasing tone in his voice.

you shoot him a glare, despite the pounding in your head, “you do not smell nice.”

he grins faintly, because of course, even now, all you could do was insult him, and it was all he needed to know that you were safe and back to normal, “okay, sure.”

silence stretches between you as you sit up slowly, piecing together flickers of last night. the music, the lights, that sickly sweet drink. the guy in the pirate costume. then — the warmth. the voice you’d know even half-conscious. you glance down at the hoodie you’re drowning in. his scent is faint but still there.

“you changed me?,” you ask, eyes wide.

he nods, propping himself up on one elbow, “you were half-passed out. you needed to sleep it off. i didn’t look, i swear. i just helped.”

you believe him. strangely, you do, “thank you.”

he raises an eyebrow like he wasn’t expecting that.

“you’re welcome,” he says, softer now, “just… be more careful next time, okay?”

you look away, the words settling heavy between you, “i didn’t think…”

“exactly,” he cuts in, voice gentle but tired, “you didn’t. that’s how shit like that happens.” his tone isn’t cruel. he’s not scolding you. he’s just…tired. and worried. and probably more scared last night than he’d ever admit.

you nod once. that’s all you can manage. you don’t want to admit how safe you felt. how it was his arms you clung to. how your body trusted him even when your brain was compromised.

but none of that changes anything.

you clear your throat, “well, thanks. but… that doesn’t mean anything is different between us.”

the faintest flicker crosses his face, unreadable, before it’s gone.

“didn’t say it did,” he says simply. then, “you hungry?”

you blink, “what?”

“i make a decent hangover ramen,” he says, already swinging his legs out of bed, “and i’ll even throw in some kimchi, if you promise not to puke on my carpet.”

you roll your eyes, “you’re such a dumbass.”

he shoots you a crooked smile. “yeah, but not as dumb as you, princess.”

you don’t respond. you just sit there in his bed, swimming in his clothes and your own confusion, watching him move through his room like this was the most normal morning in the world. you slip your shoes back on without a word, still wearing his hoodie and sweats. your costume’s somewhere in a pile on his desk chair, but there’s no way in hell you’re putting that back on. not after last night.

you follow haechan into the kitchen, as he hums some stupid melody, reaching for the pan and boiling the water. you stand awkwardly in the doorway, arms crossed over your chest like it’ll hide how massive his hoodie is on you.

he glances up, “you gonna sit down?”

you shake your head, “i just…i should go.”

he doesn’t fight you on it. just nods, quietly preparing the packs of instant noodles.

you turn to leave but stop short. three of the dream boys are coming down the stairs. they freeze in the hallway when they see you. so do you. the room goes dead silent and you look like a deer caught in headlights. his hoodie feels ten times heavier now, your legs bare in his sweatpants, and your hair a mess from sleep. you look like everything they think happened.

renjun raises a brow, “morning…”

jisung coughs loudly, trying to hide his grin.

chenle looks at haechan, who appears behind you a second later, “really?” he mouths, and haechan shoots him a deadly glare, the kind that says shut up without a single word.

but it’s too late. they all recognize you. of course they do. you’re not just any girl. you’re the girl — the one who’s made haechan stomp through the front door ranting and raving more times than any of them can count. the one whose name used to spark an automatic groan from someone in the room. the one who once made haechan so mad he slammed a door clean off its hinge, then spent two hours denying it had anything to do with you – you’re a household legend. a walking migraine. the ongoing war he never seemed to win but kept returning to like clockwork.

so to see you, standing in their house, in his clothes, the morning after the biggest party of the year is definitely strange. you look like you spent the night tangled up in something intimate. something that doesn’t match the version of events they’ve heard a hundred times over.

the air goes stiff with curiosity and thinly veiled amusement. you straighten your back, refusing to flinch, “nothing happened.”

“sure,” jisung says, not even trying to hide the smirk.

“seriously,” you snap, “i got drugged and he just…helped me.”

renjun tilts his head, worry flashing over all of their features “you good?”

you pause, then nod, “yeah. i’m good.”

haechan steps beside you, voice casual but firm. “she’s telling the truth.”

his words shock you. you were half expecting him to stay quiet.

then you feel the shift in the room like a breeze that slips through a cracked window. they move on, the scent of the ramen calling out to them like moths drawn to the light. you continue your path toward the front door, haechan follows, footsteps soft behind you like a shadow that doesn’t want to overstep.

you reach for the door then pause, glancing over your shoulder, “thanks,” you say again, quieter this time, it slips out like a confession.

his eyes meet yours, steady and unreadable “anytime.”

and somehow, you know he means it. not in the casual way people toss that word around — you see it in the way his posture doesn’t shift, in the way he doesn’t look away, in the quiet steel under his tone. you knew that if it happened again, god forbid, it would be him again. coming to your rescue. without hesitation. without conditions.

something in your chest cracks. not from last night, not from the near-miss or the weight of fear. but from a memory. a time in the past, years ago, that you shoved deep into the vault of things too painful to touch.

♕

as soon as the front door clicks shut behind you, silence settles over the house for a beat. then it erupts.

jisung is the first to crack, “bro,” he looks up at haechan, gaping, as they all sat in the kitchen, “what happened to i hate her so much i’d rather die than be caught with her?’”

renjun chokes on his coffee, suppressing his amusement, “no, no, i think it was more like, if i ever even breathe the same air as her willingly, just kill me,” he says, mocking his friend.

chenle snorts, a playful smirk on his lips, “do we kill you now or later?”

haechan doesn’t even bother trying to defend himself. he just drops his head back with a groan and laughs, loud and shameless, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls, “you guys are so annoying.”

“not as annoying as the fact that she left wearing your clothes,” chenle says, waggling his eyebrows, “your hoodie, dude. the hoodie. the one you said no one’s allowed to borrow because it’s your emotional support layer.’”

“she needed clothes,” haechan says, rolling his eyes and grabbing bowls from the cabinet, like none of it was a big deal. like you didn’t just crack down all the years of hate with one simple call of his name.

“what, i was supposed to let her wander the streets in a lingerie looking like she escaped from a halloween thirst trap?”

renjun squints at him, mock-serious, “you’re in love.”

this elicits a groan from jisung, “oh god, not another one…the other three literally makes me want to vomit.”

haechan rolls his eyes, “i’m not in love.”

“sure,” chenle and renjun say in unison, like a damn choir.

“okay, first of all,” haechan says, gritting his teeth, holding up a finger, “i don’t even like her.”

“uh-huh,” chenle says, “that’s why you stayed up all night babysitting her and making sure she didn’t die.”

“oh my god, did you tuck her in?,” renjun asks.

“i didn’t tuck her in! she just…passed out, and i put a pillow under her head like a civilized human being!,” he reasons out, “plus it’s our party, she’s our responsibility,” he says seriously.

that silences them for half a second. just long enough for his words to land, “yeah, okay,” jisung says squinting, “but you could’ve just called one of her friends to bring her home, not spend the party of the year taking care of her…i mean ryujin was right there!”

haechan slams the ramen bowls down on the counter, harder than necessary, but not quite angry. just exasperated. like he’s been circling this same conversation in his own head since sunrise.

“fine. okay. whatever. you guys win,” he mutters.

there’s a pause, then jisung leans forward, eyes wide with mock innocence, voice pure mischief, “so you do like her?”

“i loathe her,” haechan says with a perfectly straight face, “can’t stand her. makes my blood boil. hate her so much i—”

“—gave her your bed, made her ramen she didn’t even eat, and threatened chenle with your eyes,” renjun finishes without missing a beat, sipping his coffee like he’s watching the best drama of the year unfold in real time.

chenle throws in a lazy, “don’t forget the hoodie,” for good measure.

haechan snorts, “you guys suck.”

they dissolve into laughter around him, loud and chaotic and full of affection. and haechan doesn’t stop them. because deep down, he knows they’re not wrong.

something is changing. cracking open. he felt it when he heard you say his name, all light and smiles like it was genuinely directed at him. he felt it when he saw you asleep in his bed, curled into his hoodie like it was the only safe place in the world. he felt it when your voice cracked saying thank you.

and now that feeling is lodged somewhere between his ribs, sharp and impossible to ignore. but he’s not ready to name it. not yet. so he grins, serves the ramen, and lets the teasing continue, pretending it’s just another morning with his idiot friends.

ཐིཋྀ the sixth week of rehearsals

rehearsals resume like nothing happened. like there wasn’t a near assault. like you didn’t sleep in his bed. like he didn’t stay up all night watching you breathe just to make sure you were okay — but of course, something has changed.

you still bicker. constantly. relentlessly. but it’s not as sharp now. not as mean. it’s irritation tinged with something unspoken. something softer.

mr. doyoung claps his hands, excited and ready. his vision of romeo and juliet when he casted you both slowly coming to life, “okay, let’s do the balcony scene!” the same scene you two could never get through before.

you climb up the makeshift balcony without any further instructions, the rickety platform still wobbling under your feet like it did during the first week. haechan stands below, glancing up just as you grip the railing and start juliet’s lines again, voice laced with practiced longing, “o romeo, o romeo, wherefore art thou–”

before you could finish your line. a crack echoes throughout the stage. it happens fast. the board beneath you splits, you were falling through, a flash of panic in your eyes as you unsuccessfully tried to grip on to whatever you could find.

haechan lunges forward, catching you mid fall with a grunt as your body collapses into his. you hit the ground hard, him first then you crashing into his chest with a force that knocks the air out of your breaths. chaos erupts. voices shouting. mr. doyoung yelling for someone to call the campus’ nurse. a cast member swearing in the background. but haechan doesn’t hear any of it. all he sees is you. your face twisting in pain as you try to sit up, only to wince and clutch your ankle.

“don’t move,” he says quickly, arms tightening around you, “just, stay still.”

“i’m fine,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

“you’re not fine, you idiot,” his voice cracks at the edges. more panic than anger. he shifts carefully, helping you sit upright before reaching down to gently examine your ankle. you hiss when he touches it. he flinches like it hurts him.

“swollen,” he mutters, “probably a sprain,” he says seriously. the kind of serious you’ve never seen him before.

“oh my god, relax, i’m not dying,” you say, managing a breathless laugh.

he glares at you, “you fell off a stage ten feet high. that’s not nothing.”

“yeah. and you saved me. again,” your eyes narrow playfully, “what are you…my guardian angel now?”

“more like your full-time babysitter,” he snaps, but his voice is too soft to land.

“you care too much,” you tease.

“and you scare me too much,” he says, barely louder than a whisper but your heart still races and you’re not too sure if it’s the adrenaline or if it’s him — the crew surrounds you, someone finally arrives with ice and a first-aid kit. mr. doyoung is talking a mile a minute about liability and structural integrity and someone offers to help carry you to the nurse’s office but you wave them off.

“i’ve got him,” you say, jerking your chin toward haechan who still hasn’t taken his hands off you. he doesn’t even argue. just helps you to your feet, arm around your waist, guiding you slowly off the stage as you limp beside him.

no one says it. not you. not him. not any of the wide-eyed castmates watching the two of you walk away like something’s finally cracked open. but they all feel it. something has changed.

♕

the clinic smells like antiseptic and lemon cleaner. you sit stiffly on the padded bed, ankle propped up with a wrapped ice pack, waiting for the nurse —haechan’s right beside you, knee bouncing restlessly like he can’t stand seeing you in pain, “you need anything?,” he asks, voice gentler than it has any right to be, “water? painkillers? i can steal some candy from the front desk if that helps.”

you glance at him, lips parting, then closing. because that tone. that face. that tenderness you never asked for. it reminds you of before. the haechan who sat side by side with you, eating convenience store snacks, watching clouds drift by, sharing a wired earphone like you had all the time in the world. the haechan who walked you home without ever saying why. who pretended he didn’t like mamma mia! but knew every lyric by heart. the haechan who was loud and stupid and kind and yours. before everything fell apart.

the nurse finally walks in and checks your ankle. haechan stays seated in the plastic chair next to you, leg still bouncing as you listen to her instructions. when she finally leaves with a parting, “just rest it for a few days,” silence rushes in to fill the space.

you exhale slowly, “can you stop bouncing your leg? you heard her, it’s a minor sprain, i’ll live.” you can’t help but roll your eyes. he was being too dramatic. too caring.

“you scared the hell out of me,” he blurts, like the words have been clawing their way up his throat all afternoon.

you look at him, surprised by his bluntness, “i’m fine, haechan.”

“you weren’t fine when the stage gave out under you,” he snaps.

your mouth opens. closes. he keeps stealing the words right out of you. then he shifts, shoulders straighter, spine tighter.

“you said something last week,” he says, voice low, barely above a whisper “when you were half-asleep.”

his fingers tighten in his lap. the campus’ clinic is probably the wrong place for this conversation, but it’s been gnawing at him ever since you walked out of the dream house. and now it’s too big to hold in.

“you said you didn’t want to hate me,” you go incredibly still. so still it’s like your whole body locks up. the air in the room changes. you keep staring at the floor like the white tiles might split open and swallow you whole. of course you remember. curse your memory for never ever letting you forget anything, even when you beg it to. even drugged and half-conscious, everything from that night came back to you throughout moments in the week. like you’d be taking a shower and you’d remember the way you fell into his arms and called out his name or when you were eating lunch and the memory of you reaching out to him, trying to kiss him, hits the back of your head, making you cringe.

“so?,” you forced a breath through your nose. it comes out sharper than you mean it to but you don’t deny it.

“so i want to know,” he swallows, his voice is softer now, “why did you start?”

the silence that follows is thick. suffocating. haechan swears the wall inched closer with every second you don’t answer.

“i’ve been trying to figure it out for years,” he says, voice fraying, “what i did. why you started treating me like i was nothing. why you iced me out like i didn’t matter. like i never did.”

you lift your gaze, slow and deliberate and it hits him. not like a punch, but like a car crash. like every part of him is thrown forward, lungs emptied, heart shattered. there’s a grief in your expression he’s never seen before. not even on stage. this is real. too real.

and he waits. like he always used to. back when the two of you were something – not dating, not together, but something solid. something warm. something unshakeable. the kind of friends who stayed behind after rehearsal just to talk. the kind of friends who knew each other’s favorite snacks, who shared playlists and secrets and inside jokes no one else understood. the kind of friends that felt like home.

“don't you remember?” you finally ask, voice quiet, flat, tired.

haechan frowns, “remember what?”

you laugh bitterly, “of course you don’t.” a pause. a breath. a blade. “it wasn’t your name they were writing on the bathroom stalls.”

he sits up, straighter, alarmed, “what?”

“the closet. junior year of high school. you remember that?”

“of course i do,” he says immediately, “we were locked in there for what? half an hour?”

“forty-three minutes,” you reply, sharp as glass. and suddenly the memory slams into both of you — the closet during the winter play production of beauty and the beast. an accidental lock-in during prop duty, the two of you stuck in the cramped space. too much closeness. too many unspoken things. breath catching in your throat.

nothing happened – but by morning, it didn’t matter.

“you told everyone we hooked up,” you say flatly, “that night in the prop closet. you let them believe it.”

haechan’s whole face shifts, like someone just knocked the air out of his lungs, “y/n, i never said anything, i didn’t even–,”

“you didn’t correct anyone,” you cut him off, the memory still holding as much pain as it did before, “and then the rumors started, people were whispering about me in the hallways. calling me easy. and you just smiled and laughed and acted like it was funny,” your voice cracks and you hate that it does.

“what?,” his voice rises, he looks horrified. shaken. like the floor dropped out beneath him, “no, i didn’t know–”

you turn to him now, eyes blazing, every buried wound rising to the surface, “you let me take the fall. you let them slut-shame me into the ground and when i needed you to shut it down, you disappeared.”

he stares at you like something is shattering behind his eyes. he remembered that moment so differently.

“i thought you hated me because we almost kissed,” he says slowly, as if saying it aloud unearths something, “because i leaned in and i thought i ruined it by misreading everything. so when you started ignoring me, i thought i deserved it.”

you stare at him. your whole chest aches.

“i didn’t know they were calling you names,” he says, “if i had known, i would’ve–,”

“you were laughing with your stupid friends in the hallway,” you snap, tears burning behind your eyes, “smirking when someone made a joke. you didn’t care.”

“i did care!,” he fires back, voice breaking, “i was freaking out! i liked you! okay?,” the confession lingers in the air like smoke and all you could do was stare at him, eyes wide.

“—i liked you. and i didn’t know what to do with it and when people started assuming we were a thing, i….i liked it,” he breathes out.

you blink at him. silent. stunned. speechless.

“i was selfish,” he admits, quieter now, shame flooding his expression, “i got caught up in the idea of you and me and i didn’t realize you were paying the price.”

your expression cracks, disbelief twisting with heartbreak, “but you stopped talking to me,” you whisper, “i thought maybe you just saw me the same way that everyone else did.”

his head shakes desperately, over and over, “no. never.”

the silence afterwards is brutal, wrapping around the two of you like barbed wire. “i didn’t know how to fix it,” he breaks helplessly, each word torn straight from the center of his chest, “you looked at me like i was poison. like just being near you made everything worse. so i stopped trying. i didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

he paused, his voice going quieter, tighter, “you hated me so easily. or at least…that’s what i thought. after a while i convinced myself that maybe that’s what you always wanted and it hurt so i decided to hate you back.”

your jaw clenches. you look away, not because you don’t want to see him but because you can’t. because if you do, you might fall apart completely. haechan leans in. voice shaking. his hand tremble slightly where they rest on the edge of the bed, “but i never stopped thinking about you,” he says like he’s been dying to say it, “not once. and if i could go back, if i could take it all back, i would,” his voice cracks, “i don’t care if we’re supposed to be bitter enemies, if that’s the story everyone loves to believe now. i never wanted to lose you,” his hand twitches in his lap, “and i’m sorry y/n, i am so, so fucking sorry,” he finishes softly, voice filled with raw honesty.

you don’t say anything but your silence isn’t angry now. and the tears slip, silent and slow, dripping down your cheeks like memories you can’t scrub away. those were the words you’ve been aching to hear for years. he brings a hand up your face, slowly, carefully, tentatively like you might flinch. but you don’t. his fingertips graze your skin, carefully brushing away the tear that’s already fallen, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek like it’s sacred.

“please,” he whispers, “let me fix it. let me try. we don’t have to be anything big. just…let me be your friend again. i’ll do anything,” his voice breaks at the end and this time it’s desperation.

you say nothing for a long moment. instead, you look at him, really look. and it’s strange. the way grief can sit beside adoration. the way familiarity can hurt as much as it comforts. because you see the boy who made you laugh until your ribs hurt. the boy who stole your last gummy bear and shared his hoodie. the boy who would watch all your favorite movies with you. the boy who memorized all your favorite songs just so you could sing them together. but you also see the boy who stood by and let the world tear you apart. the boy you’ve spent the last five years resenting.

you see all of him. and for a moment, it makes it hard to breathe.

“i felt so alone,” you say at last, your voice so quiet, “you were my best friend and then overnight, it was like i didn’t exist to you. and every time i looked at you, i just kept thinking, why wasn’t i worth defending?”

he makes a pained sound, like the question cuts deeper than anything else. like he couldn’t forgive his own self for the hurt he put you through.

“i kept waiting,” you go on, quieter now, “for you to say something. to explain. to pull me aside and say hey, i didn’t mean for it to go like that. i didn't mean for it to hurt you. but you never did.”

haechan nods, small and slow, his shoulders hunched in shame. he doesn’t argue. doesn’t defend. he just takes every word like he knows he deserves it. another silence passes but this one feels different. lighter, maybe…sadder, definitely.

his gaze flickers to the pillow behind you as if looking at you now is too much. like if he sees the tears on your cheeks, he might start crying himself and never stop. you wipe at your face with the back of your sleeve, sniffling through a shaky breath “i don't know if i can be your friend again…not like before,” you say honestly and you see how the words break him. his chest rises too fast. his mouth parts like he wants to beg. he nods again, visibly swallowing, like he’s choking on all the apologies he can’t say fast enough.

“but,” you add softly, “i think i’m tired of hating you, too.”

his eyes meet yours, something flickering in them. fragile. hope.

“i think…,” you whisper, “maybe i want to know who you are now,” you add and he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years. like your words cracked a dam and let him come up for air for the first time in forever.

and then you say the words that make something shift in the air, make the angels sing all around him. “we could try,” you murmur, “not going back but maybe starting over?”

his lips part. body stills, afraid he had just imagined it, “you mean it?,” he whispers, voice trembling.

you nod once, slow, soft, “one chance, hyuck. don’t waste it.”

and the sound of his old nickname, your nickname for him, cracks something wide open in his chest. a broken, stunned smile pulls at his lips, trembles with disbelief. like just hearing it makes him feel alive again.

he nods, eyes wet, heart in his hands, “i won’t,” he says, “i swear, i won’t.”

ཐིཋྀ the seventh week of rehearsals

it starts quietly. no grand announcement. no dramatic reconciliation that leaves the audience gasping. just…a shift. a subtle recalibration in the air.

you walk into rehearsal, script tucked under your arm. you aren’t bracing yourself like you usually do. there’s no adrenaline-fueled armor laced tight around your spine. you just simply walk in, the same way you would if haechan wasn’t there.

and when you spot him across the room, lounging in one of the chairs, thumb lazily scrolling through his phone, something inside you clicks into a different gear. you don’t look through him like he’s invisible. you don’t burn holes into him with your glare. you just look and then…you nod. barely anything. but he sees it. his thumb stills. his head lifts. he meets your gaze. there’s no tension in his shoulders, no spark of challenge in his eyes. and then he nods back. just as slight. just as careful.

to the untrained eye, nothing monumental has happened. but to the handful of castmates who have witnessed your years-long cold war with the icy stares, the sarcastic jabs, the tension so thick it warped the air – it’s seismic. everyone curious as to what happened in the nurse’s clinic.

a pause ripples through the room. like someone's holding their breath. and then…he smiles. not the cocky, smug grin he used to toss your way like a dare. not the smirk that usually meant he was about to say something that would make you want to throw your script at his head. no. this one is soft, small, a little uneven. the kind of smile you give a stray cat you’re hoping won’t run away.

you feel the tug of something low in your stomach, not butterflies, not quite. just movement, a flicker. and your lips twitch into an answering curve. not a full smile. but not nothing.

one of your castmates, also one of your best friends, yujin, jolts so hard she drops her script with a thud that echoes louder than it should. no one helps to pick it up, everyone too busy watching the apocalypse unfold in real time. you pretend not to notice the stares. instead, you slide into your usual seat and flip open your script like it’s just another regular day, not the first page of something new. you don’t look at him again. not right away. but you can feel him. the way you always could.

mr. doyoung claps his hands twice, too enthusiastically, as if to break the spell or maybe because even he feels the tension lifting, “alright! today’s rehearsal…the wedding scene!” he announces, his smile extra bright, eyes darting between you and haechan.

you don’t flinch. you don’t groan or make a joke at haechan’s expense like you might’ve a week ago. you just flip to the page. from beside you, yujin leans in slightly, whispering out of the corner of her mouth, “are you two… friends now?” her voice is half hopeful, half afraid the answer might implode the timeline.

you keep your eyes on the script, “maybe” you murmur back, shrugging, voice calm, “but we’re not enemies anymore.”

she stares at you for a second like she’s trying to decode an alien language, then exhales sharply and mutters, “holy shit, i need a drink.”

across the room, haechan shifted forward in his seat now, elbows on his knees, script open, highlighter cap in his mouth. you glance up once, and he’s already looking at you. his mouth quirks. not a smirk. not a dare. just that same soft expression. your fingers tighten slightly around your script before the two of you take your spots on stage.

the rehearsal is going surprisingly smooth. almost like someone replaced the decades-old scripts of your dynamic with a gentler rewrite. one where your lines don’t burn with anger when you speak them, where eye contact doesn’t feel like a threat. you’re standing across from haechan in the middle of the stage, your fingers laced loosely in front of you, your posture careful but relaxed.

“romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both,” jongho says, fully immersed in his friar laurence voice, hands folded solemnly like he’s performing an actual ceremony. you glance at haechan as he steps toward you. he leans in and brushes a kiss to your lips, soft, almost reverent, and you do your best to ignore the tiny spark that settles in your chest and fizzles straight to your toes.

“as much to him, else is his thanks too much,” you say with quiet warmth, smiling through the line. you kiss him again, this one just a touch longer, just a breath closer than necessary.

he pulls back slightly, meeting your eyes, “ah, juliet, if the measure of thy joy be heaped like mine and that thy skill be more. to blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath. this neighbor air and…,” he trails off.

there’s a beat of silence. his eyes flick to the side. nothing comes. you raise an eyebrow, “o romeo, are you lagging?”

a ripple of laughter breaks out across the room. haechan narrows his eyes at you, but he’s grinning, the corners of his mouth twitching, “no my juliet, i’m connecting to the server.”

“oh, sorry, i forgot this version of romeo runs on the internet.” the laughter grows. even mr. doyoung chuckles softly from behind his script.

haechan places a hand dramatically on his chest, staggering back a step, “you wound me, juliet.”

you place a hand on your hip, “you forgot your line in the middle of our wedding. i think i’m the one who should be wounded.”

he opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get a word out, sanha, who’s been watching this unfold with wide eyes, throws in a “i knew it was too good to be true.”

the laughter dies down. there’s a shift, a pause, one of those delicate moments that could tilt either way. everyone glances between the two of you, waiting to see if the air will thicken with old tension again.

but then haechan shrugs, smile still soft, “can’t friends banter?”

the room stills. the word hovers between you like a fragile thing, spoken so casually but carrying so much more weight than anyone expected.

friend wasn’t exactly the word people would describe your relationship to be.

your heart skips, not in a dramatic way, just a quiet flutter, like it’s catching up to something your brain already knew. you look at him and he’s already looking at you. there’s something behind his eyes, a private little spark, a shared joke, like the two of you are in on something no else quite understands.

you smile, slow and real, “exactly,” you say, “friends banter.”

everyone goes quiet again, not with tension but surprise. you can practically hear the mental recalibration of the room. yujin’s mouth is slightly open, xiaojun has an eyebrow raise, jongho is looking back and forth in between you, wondering how he got himself stuck in the middle of all this.

mr. doyoung clears his throat and claps his hands once, “alright, let’s run it again. from romeo’s line.”

haechan pick up his script, quickly reading it over, still grinning. as you take your mark beside him, his shoulder brushes yours, barely noticeable but deliberate. neither of you move away.

♕

the next day, after rehearsal ends and the cast slowly filters out, you find yourself lingering in the black box again, volunteering to put away the chairs. it’s quiet, dimly lit, the echoes of the day still in the air in half-muttered lines, scattered laughter, a crumpled water bottle forgotten in the wings. you’re sitting on the edge of the stage, kicking your heels lightly against the wood. then you hear footsteps, unhurried, familiar. haechan joins you a beat later, collapsing beside you with a dramatic groan.

“remind me why we volunteered for this, again?,” he sighs, eyes closed, head tilted toward the ceiling.

you smirk, “well, i volunteered for this because i haven’t helped out since week one. you just…showed up.”

he cracks one eye open and turns his head toward you, grinning, “right. my hero complex. forgot.”

you nudge him with your shoulder, and for a second it feels like nothing ever changed between you. like the years of eye-rolls and cold shoulders never happened. like you’re just you and he’s just him, and all the old memories you both tried to forget have started quietly knocking again.

“so,” you say playfully, “you do realize you completely blacked out on your monologue yesterday, right?”

he groans again, louder this time, slumping so far sideways he’s almost sliding off the stage, “don’t remind me, i saw my life flash before my eyes, mr. doyoung’s disappointment in 4k.”

you turn toward him, grinning, “my favorite part was when you just stood there, blinking like you got hit with a windows error.”

haechan throws a hand over his eyes, “i was reconnecting!, you caught me mid-update.”

you burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the walls. it makes him look at you again, and not in the usual teasing way. he watches the way your face lights up, the way your shoulders shake with it, and something in his chest aches – warm and familiar.

“i’ll admit,” you say between giggles, “that line delivery of mine? ‘o romeo, are you lagging?’ oscar-worthy.”

“you’re insufferable,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling too.

you both go quiet for a moment, the air between you charged in a way it didn’t used to be — or maybe always was, back before either of you knew what to call it.

“did you see jongho’s face?,” you ask, biting back a grin.

he grins, eyes lighting up, “he looked like he was witnessing a miracle. like we were gonna shake hands and start a foundation for world peace.”

“yujin nearly dropped her phone” you snort, “i think she thought she was hallucinating.”

he chuckles, nudging you slightly, “we should’ve milked it, gone on tour with our peace treaty, sold merch, team haechan and team y/n shirts.”

you roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself, “we’d have sold out shows every night.”

he looks at you for a beat longer than necessary, “you know… it’s weird.”

you glance over, “what is?”

“this,” he says quietly, “us. talking like this again, it feels…,” he pauses, searching for the word, “familiar.”

you don’t say anything right away, because you feel it too. that quiet pull. that ache. the thing that never fully went away. you both know it. you were each other’s person. before the hate took over, before the jabs. before either of you figured out that pushing someone away is sometimes easier than letting them in.

“yeah,” you say softly, “it does.”

then he shifts slightly, glancing sideways, “so…friends banter, huh?”

you raise a brow, “you said it.”

“and you didn’t disagree,” he says softer now. there’s no teasing in his voice, just curiosity.

you nod, “nope, i didn’t.”

he smiles. not that smug, sharp smile you used to hate. this one’s crooked, earnest. and you smile back, the same kind of smile, the kind you don't have to guard. the smile you give to a friend. but something in the way you look at each other says maybe not just that forever. maybe just that for now.

he bumps his shoulder into yours, “so, friend…you buying me lunch tomorrow?”

you scoff, “you forgot your lines. i should be the one charging you.”

he grins, that glint sneaking back into his eyes, “fine, princess. lunch tomorrow. cafeteria. my treat.”

the nickname is gentler now, filled with a sort of affection that makes your heart skip a beat. you tilt your head, pretending to consider, “as long as you don’t freeze mid-sentence again.”

he leans just slightly closer, his voice barely above a murmur, “only if you promise to tease me about it again.”

you pretend to roll your eyes, but you’re smiling…big now. unrestrained. the kind that feels like sunlight in your chest. you think about everything that’s happened. the years of arguing. the pushing and pulling. the kisses that weren’t on the script. the ones that came after, the magnetic pull of him. the electric tension you thought would destroy you both. now somehow reshaped into this — a strange, slow return to something lighter. something that still pulses underneath with heat.

you walk out side by side, the distance between you closer than it was yesterday.

♕

the next day, true to his word, haechan meets you outside the cafeteria, two iced choco’s in hand and a stupidly triumphant grin on his face like he just won a prize.

“you drink this, right?,” he says, handing you one without waiting for an answer, “i know it used to be your favorite, i just don’t know if you still like it now,” he rambles, a little nervous.

you take it, brushing your fingers lightly against his, “of course I still like it now,” you say with a smile that you don’t quite realize is soft enough to knock the wind out of him, “thank you.”

“anything for the princess,” he winks as you roll your eyes playfully. you find a corner table by the windows, where the sun spills across the scratched plastic surface and turns your drinks gold. the campus buzzes around you, students passing by with backpacks slung low, the distant hum of conversations and clinking trays.

haechan orders sandwiches for you both, and without asking, skips the pickles on yours. you notice, and you don’t say anything, but the fact that he remembered that makes something in your chest swell and ache at the same time. there’s something undeniably easy about it all. about him. you fall into a rhythm of banter, half jokes, and snide comments wrapped in smiles that linger just a little too long. it’s almost too easy to forget that the two of you hated each other. almost too easy to remember that once, you didn’t.

you’re in the middle of a joke when a voice interrupts the moment — “hey, haechan,” your eyes turn towards the voice. it’s ryujin. and she’s leaning against the edge of the table, hair in a pretty messy bun in that effortless dancer way, water bottle in hand, wearing one of those crop tops that make everyone in the building do a double take. she flashes him a bright smile.

“you didn’t show up to the party last night,” she says, teasing but with a bite that suggests she noticed and cared.

haechan blinks like he wasn’t expecting her, “oh, yeah, i–uh, fell asleep early,” he shifts in his seat, his legs brushing yours under the table. then he glances at you, a quick flicker of a look, like a reflex. it’s so fast. he probably thinks you missed it. but you didn't.

ryujin giggles lightly and touches his shoulder, a fleeting gesture that might have meant nothing to anyone else, “we’re always missing out on each other,” she pouts.

you glance down at your sandwich. you can’t bring yourself to keep watching. your appetite vanishes somewhere between her hand and his smile.

“yeah,” haechan forced out, then clears his throat, trying to find words.

you miss the awkward way he scratches the back of his neck, the polite distance in his voice that doesn’t quite match ryujin’s energy. he’s not flirting back but he’s not shutting it down either.

ryujin’s gaze finally flickers to you, her smile dimming just slightly, “hey.”

you smile, sharp and polite “hey.”

she lingers. just enough to make it weird. then flicks her hair over her shoulder and turns back to him, “you’re mine at the next party, okay?”

haechan lets out a nervous laugh, “cool. yeah.” it comes out a little too fast, like he’s agreeing just to make the moment end. he wishes the ground could just swallow him whole. he doesn’t even know why the mere action of ryujin flirting with him around you is getting him all flustered.

she finally walks away and you don’t say anything at first. you take a sip from your drink just to have something to do with your hands. haechan exhales like he’s just escaped a fire.

you arch an eyebrow, still not looking at him, “you okay?”

he rubs his hands down his thighs, “yeah. that was…awkward.”

“didn’t look awkward from where i was sitting,” you mutter, voice a little sharper than intended.

he turns to you, caught off guard by your tone, “be serious.”

you poke the lettuce in your sandwich, “haven’t you been flirting with her since forever?,” you comment. it wasn’t exactly a secret to the rest of the university that the two had the hots for each other. just like how it wasn’t a secret that the two of you can’t stand each other.

“yeah, well. that was before,” he says without thinking.

“before what?,” you ask, raising a brow, your eyes finally meeting his.

he goes quiet. you wait. he’s already looking at you, his expression unreadable. there’s a long pause, like he’s debating something. then he looks away, his voice low “nothing. never mind.”

you don’t push. but your stomach twists in a way that’s hard to ignore. you weren’t supposed to care. he’s just a friend. that’s what you agreed on.

then he forces out a laugh, soft and a little shaky, he bumps your foot under the table, voice casual, “so” he murmurs, “you’re totally jealous.”

you nearly choke on your sandwich, “am not.”

“you looked at your sandwich like you wanted it dead,” he points out, teasing.

you narrow your eyes at him, but your lips twitch anyway, “you’re officially delirious.”

he grins, that same crooked, trouble-making grin that used to make your blood boil and now just… makes it rush. you roll your eyes and take another sip of your drink, hiding your smile behind the straw. but your cheeks feel warm. and your heart feels stupid.

because yeah, maybe you were jealous. and maybe that means this thing between you, this not-quite-friends, not-quite-something-else, is barreling toward a truth you’re both trying not to name.

♕

the lights flash neon blue and pink over the velvet booths and sticky tables. it was karaoke night with your castmates. the room filled with laughter, everyone sipping cheap drinks, flipping through the karaoke’s binder, music pulsing through the speakers, everyone pretending they’re not stressed about the upcoming show. haechan leans against the booth, one arm resting over the backrest, drink in hand. usually you sit in the booth farthest away from him, but tonight, tonight you’re sitting right next to him, trying not to notice the way his shoulders brush yours every so often. the way it sparks something irritatingly warm in your chest.

“you do know you’re not getting out of singing, right?” you say, a smirk playing on your lips as you leaned over to talk in his ear, loud enough for him to hear over changbin and wooyoung currently performing hamilton.

he raises an eyebrow, ignoring the way your breath sends goosebumps all over his spine, “who said i was trying to?”

“you haven’t signed up once,” you point out.

“maybe i’m waiting,” he says, turning his head so you're closer than before, so close you catch the faint smell of his cologne, the woody powdery scent that makes your brain fuzzy, “for the right song and the right partner,” he glances at you. there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“are you asking me to duet, lee donghyuck?,” you smirk.

“only if you think you can keep up,” he says, a playful smile on his lips.

minutes later you’re both up front, two microphones in hand. you give him a sideways glance as the intro to what is this feeling starts playing. haechan smirks when he sees the lyrics pop up on the screen.

“what is this feeling, so sudden and new?,” he starts. of course he was galinda, milking the drama, throwing in that little hair flip that makes you giggle. you both slip into character. the room blurs. it’s just you and him.

“loathing. unadulterated loathing,” he levels you with an exaggerated glare.

“for your face — your voice — your clothing!,” you match his energy, pacing in time with him like two cats ready to pounce. the song becomes a battleground, but its play fighting. banter wrapped around melody. and you feel like a child again.

“let’s just say we loathe it all!” you end, breathless and giddy.

the room erupts, howling with laughter and applause. but something about the moment slows. the harmony lingers longer than it should. haechan’s eyes meet yours, you don’t look away.

an hour later the bar started to empty out. castmates peel off into groups, calling rides or walking to the subway in clumps. you’re slipping your jacket on when you feel someone fall into step beside you.

“you’re walking home?” haechan asks casually, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

you nod, “it’s not far.”

“i’ll walk with you,” he says, like it’s not even a question. like it’s a given.

the streets are quieter now, only the hum of traffic and the occasional siren echoing down the avenue. the moon reflecting shimmer in puddles, and there’s a leftover thrill buzzing under your skin from the performance, from him.

he kicks at a pebble, glancing over at you, “so… we make a pretty good team.”

you bump your shoulder into his lightly, “don’t let it get to your head.”

“too late, princess” he says with a grin.

you walk in silence for a beat, the good kind, where it doesn’t feel like something needs to be said. then, softly, “we’re pretty good at being friends,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

you feel him glance at you before he answers “yeah,” he says, just as quiet, “we are.”

your fingers don’t touch, but they hang close enough that the space between them feels loud. you look up at him then, and he gives you that crooked, genuine smile that always comes out when he thinks no one’s watching.

“thanks for walking me,” you say when you reach your building.

he nods, “always.” there’s a pause. that kind where you could either wave and walk away or not. then haechan opens his arms slightly, like he’s offering, but not assuming. and you don’t even hesitate. you step into him, arms wrapping around his torso. he’s warm and steady around your shoulders. it’s not rushed. not awkward. it’s one of those hugs that feels like it’s saying a lot more than either of you are willing to put into words just yet.

you breathe him in and for a second, it feels like the rest of the world goes quiet. he pulls back first, but slowly, like he’s not quite ready either. his hands brush your arms before he lets go.

“night, princess,” he says, teasing, voice a little huskier than before.

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, “night, hyuck.”

and even though nothing’s said, and nothing happens, it still feels like something changed. like you both felt it, even if you’re pretending not to.

♕

hyuck: wanna come over and watch mamma mia 2 tonight?

princess: the one that came out when we hated each other?

hyuck: yeah, thought it might be poetic or whatever >.<

you almost laugh out loud when you read it. of all the movies. that one. the one released right in the thick of your worst arguments, during the year neither of you could say a full sentence without wanting to kill each other. the one you couldn’t bring yourself to watch in theater because all you could remember was watching the first one with him.

princess: will there be popcorn?

hyuck: of course

princess: see you later ;)

by the time you arrive at the frat house, it’s quiet. most of the guys are out for the night and the place, for once, feels peaceful. lived-in, but cozy. haechan greets you at the door with popcorn in one hand and remote in the other.

“just you, me and ABBA,” he says, a playful smile on his face as you make your way to his living room.

you smirk, stepping inside, “scared i’ll out-sing you?”

his laugh is automatic, “you wish.”

you settle on the couch, blanket tossed between the two of you. you don’t sit close, not at first. but as the movie plays, as waterloo kicks in and the popcorn dwindles and your feet end up tangled somewhere under the blanket, the space between you shrinks. neither of you mentions it. you both sing along, loud and obnoxious, voices overlapping in messy harmonies, especially during why did it have to be me, elbowing each other like teenagers. there’s a softness in it. a safety. like the memories that used to hurt have dulled around the edges and all that’s left now is warmth. you’re both grinning so hard it hurts. the kind of joy you haven’t let yourself feel around him in years. by angel eyes you’re leaning into him more than you mean to. his shoulder’s warm. you let yourself rest there, just for a second. but the second turns into minutes. and by the time my love, my life begins to play, you’ve gone quiet, breaths slow and even, your head tilted gently against him.

he doesn't dare move.

the movie goes on, but he doesn’t register it anymore. not really. he’s too aware of you, curled up beside him, cheek pressed into his hoodie, peacefully asleep. like you completely trust him again. and that’s when it hits him.

it’s not a surprise. not a sudden realization. just something he’s been trying to ignore finally catching up to him — he never stopped liking you.

not when you fought. not when you ignored each other in the hallways and on stage and in classes. not even when he flirted with other girls, trying to replace the hole you burned through him with something lighter, simpler. but no one ever did. no one even came close. because it’s always been you. under his skin. in his lungs. every song he sang louder just so you’d hear it. every stupid joke he cracked just so you would see him.

and now, god, now it’s stronger than ever. because he’s not just thinking about how right this feels. he’s thinking about you. the way you laughed tonight, unguarded. the way you trusted him enough to fall asleep on him like this. the way you’ve been slowly letting him back in.

but underneath that softness, beneath all the fragile peace you’ve built…is something hungrier. something heavier.

because now he knows the way your lips feel on his, hot and frantic, laced with fury and desperation. the weight of your body tangled with his, all tension and sharp edges and need. he remembers the night you both gave in to it. when everything between you collided and combusted and for a few stolen hours, nothing else existed. the sound you made when he was inside you. the way you clung to him like you hated him for how good it felt.

he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t thought about it since. about you. that night. the taste of your skin. the way he wanted more, even then. the way he still wants more now — he wants to feel you again but not like that. not angry. not bitter. not as a mistake to bury. he wants to feel you without the weight of a grudge between you.

that’s what scares him the most. because you’re just starting to rebuild whatever fragile thread of friendship you’ve stitched together. if he leans in again, if he fucks this up, he’s not sure either of you will come back from it.

so he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just lets you rest against him, eyes fixed on the credits. heart beating loud and traitorous in his chest. he tells himself it’s enough but he knows it won't be for long because he never wanted to be just your friend — not really. not ever. not then. and definitely not now.

ཐིཋྀ the eight week of rehearsals

monday comes again you spot him in rehearsals, sitting in his usual chair. and for the first time, you chose to sit on the chair next to him. you wait for his usual greeting, that charming smirk, the lifted eyebrows, the dumb pun about how you finally couldn’t resist sitting next to the greatest.

but none of it comes.

he doesn’t raise his brows and say something stupid just to make you roll your eyes. he just nods. quiet and distant.

“hi,” you offer as you approach, a smile on your face.

“hey,” he replies, without looking at you. it throws you off. not completely. just enough that your smile falters a little.

but it doesn't stop there. during rehearsals, he’s all business. focused. he doesn’t crack jokes during warmups like he usually does. even when you fumble a line and instinctively glance at him for a reaction, he doesn’t meet your eyes. there are no friendly banters. it’s like someone hit the switch on him over the weekend. and sure, he talks to you. he doesn’t ignore you completely. but it’s colder. measured. like he’s rehearsing something behind every word.

at break, you sit on the edge of the stage like always but he doesn’t join you. he stretches with the boys instead, laughing a little too loudly at something that isn’t even funny.

you feel it — the difference. the detachment. like he’s edited you out of a movie scene where you once had top billing.

you watch from across the room, trying not to let it show that you notice. but you do. you notice everything. the way he keeps his distance. the way his gaze skips over you in group conversation. the way he leaves rehearsal without waiting, mumbling something about being late for a meeting you’re not even sure exists.

you tell yourself it’s fine. you’re friends. it’s just a weird day. maybe he’s tired. maybe something’s going on. maybe he did have a meeting. maybe it’s nothing.

but the thing is — it doesn’t feel like nothing. and it stings. because just last week you were creating new inside jokes, sharing lunch, singing duets, watching movies, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. and just two nights ago, you fell asleep on his shoulder and he let you and for one quiet, perfect evening, it felt like maybe, maybe, you were finding your way back to something real. and now? now he won’t even look at you.

later, you replay the night in your mind, trying to pinpoint what went wrong. the way he sang with a fake swedish accent, making you laugh until your ribs hurt. the way you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. like you were something precious. something fragile. nothing about that night felt off. but now he’s acting like you’re glass that cracked when he wasn’t looking, and he doesn’t know how to pick up the pieces without bleeding.

you want to call him out. ask what the hell you did. demand to know why he’s shutting you out when you were finally figuring out how to be in the same room without burning. but you don’t. you don’t say a word. because maybe you were just being dramatic. or maybe because part of you is scared of the answer.

and part of you, the part that still aches for him even now, kind of wishes you could just go back to hating each other. at least then, he looked at you like he meant it.

♕

it’s been a few days since and things have gotten worse. you can’t put your finger on it exactly. nothing obvious. no big blow up. no fight. just the absence of something that was almost there.

he shows up to every rehearsal, still jokes with the cast, still reads his lines. but with you? he’s quieter. not cold, not cruel. just careful. like he’s watching every word, every glance, weighing them all in his head before he lets them go. like he’s trying to keep something from slipping out. something that used to dance at the edge of his smirks and linger in the way he looked at you, that soft, half-daring thing that felt almost too real.

you hate it. so you do something about it. you text him on a thursday evening in a moment of impulsive hope or maybe desperation.

princess: you doing anything tomorrow night? a few of us are going to the A.M. 127 bar, you should come.

you watch the message go through, then you toss your phone aside like it didn��t cost you anything to send. it takes him an hour to respond.

hyuck: ah wish i could but i’m busy. have to finish a write-up for theater theory and help mark with something

you stare at it, a little too long. looking for cracks in the excuse. for anything that might explain why it sounds like a gentle rejection and not just a scheduling conflict. and when you finally type out a reply, something nonchalant, unaffected, you send it before you can overthink.

princess: all good. good luck :)

you toss your phone again, harder this time, like the weight in your chest might go with it. you won’t be bitter. you can’t be bitter. he doesn’t owe you anything. he doesn’t have to show up just because you asked. you’re friends now. just friends. friends have boundaries. friends don’t need each other to say yes.

but the next night while waiting for your drink with yujin at the loud, dimly lit bar, you make the mistake of scrolling through your phone. the story flashes before you even realize what you’re watching. a living room, lights flickering, people playing a game of beer pong.

and there, clear as day – haechan. leaning against the arm of the couch. grinning. and next to him? ryujin. tucked comfortably into his side like she’s always belonged there. laughing at something he says, head tipped toward him, her hand casually resting on his thigh like she doesn’t even have to think about it.

the clip is only ten seconds long. but it affects you more than it should. you click it again. watch it one more time. and another. and another — his head leans toward hers. he’s smiling. he looks easy with her. like nothing’s complicated. like nothing happened. like he didn’t freeze up around you this week. like he didn’t pull away just when things started to feel… possible.

you swallow around the twist in your chest, reaching out for your drink. you laugh too, like you’re fine, like you didn’t just get sucker punched by a few pixels on a screen. but inside, you feel like an absolute joke — a stupid, drunk punchline to a story you thought had changed.

you take a couple more shots before you were staring at your phone again. the last text between you still lit up on the screen.

“all good. good luck :)”

you hate the way it reads. detached. not real. not at all how you feel. and before you can stop yourself, before you can listen to your own logic, you’re tapping his name in your contacts and pressing call — it rings once. twice. you don't think he’ll answer. but by the third ring, his voice hits your ear, “hello?,” low, familiar, a little too steady. he’s not drunk.

you try to swallow around the words clogging your throat, “hey,” you say and you wince at how thin it comes out, “it’s me.”

a beat of silence. “yeah. i know,” he sounds softer, cautious now.

you almost laugh, “sorry,” you mutter, “i shouldn’t have called. just…ignore this, okay? just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“wait,” he says, sharp enough to stop you from ending the call, “are you okay?”

there he goes again. pretending he cares. you want to lie. say yeah, of course i’m great. but you’re tired. a little drunk. a little heartbroken. you laugh. it sounds bitter, “what do you think?”

another pause. you can hear the voices in the background. the loud music. ryujin’s laugh. the exact same sound from the video. and it scrapes at your ribs.

“you said you were busy,” you say and this time you don’t try to hide the shake in your voice, “you said you had to help mark with something.”

“i did,” he replies, and god, he sounds so calm it makes your chest burn, “plans changed.”

“right,” you whisper, “funny how that happens.”

he’s quiet again and maybe that should be your cue to hang up. to end this before it gets pathetic. but you can’t. not when it feels like he’s been slipping further and further away all week.

“i just didn’t expect to see you with her,” you admit, a little too bare, too honest, too messy, “that’s all.”

he exhales slowly. you can hear voices in the background, someone calling his name. he murmurs something away from the phone, you can’t make it out. when he speaks again, he’s quieter, “it’s not what you think.”

you smile without warmth, “okay,” you say because what else can you say? you were in no position to tell him who he can and can’t hang out with. you were in no position to even get jealous. he doesn’t explain further. he doesn’t need to. you were just his friend.

“you’ve been weird all week,” you say suddenly, “and i’ve been trying not to take it personally, but–,” you cut yourself off.

“but what?,” he asks. you swallow hard, “i don’t know. i guess i thought we were friends again.”

“we are,” he says quickly. too quickly.

“then why are you pushing me away?,” you ask, voice soft and quiet.

another breath from him, a pause that stretches, “i’m not.”

“you are. you stopped looking at me. you stopped cracking jokes,” you blink hard, throat thick, “did i do something wrong? is this some kind of elaborate plan to hurt me the way i hurt you?”

“no.” he says quickly, “it’s not like that.” then the line goes silent. the music behind him fades.

“i’m just,” he finally says, the words slow and clipped, “trying to keep things simple right now.”

you nod even though he can’t see you. even though it didn’t make sense. even though nothing about you and him has ever been simple.

“okay,” you say again, “i’ll let you get back to your party.”

“princess–,” he starts.

but you’re already pulling the phone away, muttering out a hollow “bye,” and ending the call before he can stop you.

you hang up, phone trembling in your hand, heart heavier than before. you didn’t get answers. didn’t get clarity. didn’t get the version of him who sang ABBA at the top of his lungs and leaned into you like you were home. you just got silence. distance. a half-hearted promise that meant nothing.

♕

you don’t remember how many drinks it takes to get you there – that hazy, floating kind of drunk. the kind that makes everything feel like it’s underwater and glowing. you’re not sad, not exactly. just…empty. tired in a way that no one can see.

yujin left a while ago, with a boy she’s been making out with the whole night. she kissed your cheek goodbye, making you promise to uber home. you said of course and waved her off with a smile too big for your face. then you stayed and ordered another drink. and another. let the night blur until it felt like you didn’t exist anymore.

the bartender starts to notice around 2:00 a.m. – you’re sitting slouched over the counter. your lips are slightly smeared and your mascara smudged just enough to make you look fragile. breakable. like someone who doesn’t know where she is or why she’s still here. you don’t notice the bartender hovering until he gently taps the bar in front of you, “hey” he says, voice low, kind, “you alright?”

you glance up, slow and reluctant, eyes glassy, unfocused, trying to read his blurry nametag: johnny. you try to smile at him but your mouth doesn’t quite cooperate, “mm fine, johnny,” you mumble, slurring your words.

he gives you a long look, his voice is still gentle but it sharpens a little at the edges, “that’s not true.”

you shake your head, try to sit up straighter, but the motion tilts the room again. you let out a soft, pathetic-sounding laugh, “okay, maybe not, but i’ll be fine.”

johnny sighs, the kind of sigh that says he’s seen this before. too many times. he pulls out a clean glass of water, slides it in front of you, “drink this.”

you do. drunk enough to drink anything a stranger would give. then he looks at you again, soft but steady, “i’m gonna call someone for you, okay? just to make sure you get home safe.”

you blink, the words registering slower than normal, “no–it’s—dont. please. i’m fine, i can–”

“you’re not fine,” he says gently but firm. you don’t argue again. you’re too tired.

“here,” you mumble, unlocking your phone with clumsy fingers, “pick whoever you want, i don’t care,” you say, giving in. he scrolls through your recent calls, lifts the phone to his ear.

“yo…hey…is this hyuck?,” his voice rings in your ear but you were too out of it to care, “yeah, hi i’m a bartender at A.M. 01:27, i’ve got a girl here, this is her phone, she’s pretty out of it. not in danger or anything just too drunk to leave alone. you were the last person she called, so…,” his voice drifts off in the background as your forehead sinks into your arms, head dropped to the counter, letting the drowsiness take over.

time passes. or maybe it doesn’t. you don’t really know.

then you hear your name. you lift your head slowly, the bar has started to spin again or maybe your brain has. same difference. you squint your eyes open and he is there, standing next to you, hoodie pulled over his hair, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“you okay?,” haechan asks, voice strained. careful.

“define ‘okay,” you mutter, pushing yourself up. you sway a little and his hand is instantly under your elbow, steadying you.

“got it,” he murmurs, sliding an arm around your waist, “let’s go.”

“wow,” you say under your breath, stumbling slightly as he helps you toward the exit, “my hero, coming to my rescue so fast, didn’t know i still mattered.”

“i got a call from a man who doesn’t even know you,” he mutters, jaw tight, “forgive me if i didn’t love that scenario.”

you glance up at him as he opens the passenger door, “jealous?” he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even look at you. just helps you in, buckles the seatbelt with a sigh and shuts the door.

the drive is quiet. not awkward. not exactly. but there’s a weight between you. thick and humming. some ghost made of the things you never said. haechan’s hands grip the wheel tight, knuckles white, eyes locked on the road. the glow from the dash throws soft light across his face, shadows catching in the curve of his jaw, the dip under his cheekbone. you watch him in sideways glances, arms crossed tight to your chest like you’re holding yourself together. the city fades. buildings blur into darkness. music plays low from the stereo, some playlist he forgot to turn off. you don’t say much. neither does he. but slowly, gradually, the fog in your brain starts to clear. your head feels less floaty. your pulse settles. your tongue feels normal in your mouth again. you blink. you breathe.

you’re starting to sober up. enough to feel the cracks again. enough for the ache to come back clearer than before — and when the gps chimes that you’re ten minutes away from your dorm, something inside you finally breaks.

“i hate you.” you whisper, eyes still on the road ahead.

his brow twitches, and he casts you a quick, startled glance, “what?”

you turn your head now, shoulders squaring toward him, the last drops of alcohol giving you courage, or maybe just stripping your fear down to its bare, shaking bones.

“i said, i hate you.”

maybe you say it because it’s real. maybe you wanted to get a reaction out of him. something. anything.

“okay,” he says, soft and resigned. like he’s letting you go without even trying to hold on. like he knew this was coming, “you’re drunk.

“i’m not that drunk,” you snap.

he continues focusing on the road. jaw tight.

“i hate your stupid face,” you go on, voice low but steady, “i hate your stupid little moles,” you take a breath, “i hate when you laugh without me.”

a pause. he wonders if you could hear the way his heart is thudding in his chest.

“i hate how you asked me to be friends again just to ignore me. i hate the way you act like nothing has happened between us.”

you pause. your chest tight. your throat is burning.

“i hate the way you look at me like you want to say something, but you won’t. i hate the way you leave me guessing, doubting, wondering if any of this is real.”

he doesn’t say a word. just silence so loud it echoes. you stare at him, heart pounding. you don’t cry. you just tell the truth, finally.

“i hate the way you make me feel,” you whisper, “i hate the way it’s so easy for me to fall for you.”

the words hang in the air, awful and honest. you feel them leave your mouth and you can’t take it back. he doesn’t pull over right away. but his jaw locks. his throat bobs with a swallow. and then he takes the next left, turns into a side street, dark and quiet, far from the dorms. no one’s around. just the sound of your breath and his. he parks the car and the silence rushes in. it’s deafening. the kind that drowns out everything else. it’s thick with all the things you’ve never said, with every unfinished sentence and swallowed apology.

then he turns toward you, eyes wide and raw, like he’s been trying to hold something in for so long it’s starting to hurt. like your words have cracked something open in him that he can’t put back.

“don’t.” he says, barely a whisper. “don’t say that. not when you don’t mean it.”

but you don’t look away, “i do mean it.”

and for a second, neither of you speak. neither of you move. it’s all there between you. the longing, the ache, the silence that always meant more — and you’ve filled it up. you’ve cracked the quiet open and poured the truth inside it.

now there’s nothing left to hide behind. you see it. the wreckage in him. the war. the part of him that wants to reach for you. and the part of him terrified that if he does, you’ll disappear.

he exhales, slowly and shaky, like he’s trying to steady himself on the edge of something steep, “i didn’t think you felt it,” he murmurs, voice rough like it’s been scraped raw from the inside, “i kept telling myself you wouldn’t. that you couldn’t.”

you stay quiet, letting him unravel. he laughs then, a broken little sound, hollow and helpless, “i told myself if i just kept my distance, if i just waited long enough… whatever i was feeling would die out. that i’d get over it. that i won’t ruin our friendship again.”

he doesn’t look at you when he says it. he looks straight ahead, like the truth will hurt less if he doesn’t have to see your face when he says it out loud.

“but it didn’t,” he whispered, “it just got worse.”

the confession spills out now, uncontained. he can’t stop it, and he doesn’t try to anymore.

“you were everywhere. in my phone, in my stupid dreams, in every fucking song. and i hated that i couldn’t shake you,” he turns to look at you then, finally. his eyes are glassy, dark and tired. no walls left.

“i tried to be your friend,” he says desperately, “i tried so fucking hard. but every time you smiled at me, it felt like i was falling, every time you laughed, i wanted more and every time i felt you next to me, it’s like i couldn’t control myself.”

your breath hitches, but he doesn’t stop.

“i don’t want to be your friend.”

he looks at you. eyes quickly darting down your lips.

“im in love with you.” he lets the words settle in the air and then he adds, “and i want you in a way that friends shouldn’t. i always have.”

the words fall between you like a match dropped on gasoline. hot and sudden and irreversible.

“i’m tired of pretending this doesn’t wreck me,” he adds, voice low, “that you don’t wreck me.”

you don’t move. you just look at him. and in his eyes, you see it all. the quiet desperation, the resentment at himself for still loving you, the hope he keeps trying to kill. the truth sits heavy in your chest, rising fast, threatening to drown you. but you don't back away from it now. you don’t want to. because you know that you wreck him the same way he wrecks you.

you don’t remember moving. just the heat in your chest, the ache behind your ribs, the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears. one second, you’re sitting there, breath shallow, heart torn wide open. the next, your hand is on his jaw, guiding his face toward yours and his mouth is crashing into yours. the rawness in the way he kissed you like he was trying to erase every second of space that has ever existed between you.

it’s not soft. it’s not tentative. it’s months of denial, weeks of tension and years of everything left unsaid, finally snapping all at once. and he kisses you like he’s drowning in it. his hands tangle in your hair, bringing you impossibly closer, “fuck, you’re a dream,” he manages to say in between kisses.

you kiss him harder to prove that you weren’t. that you were here and real and his for the taking. his hands are on your thighs, pushing your dress up roughly, bunching the fabric around your waist like he can’t get it out of the way fast enough. you scramble into his lap, straddling him in the driver's seat, your knees bracketing his hips, your breath already coming in fast.

he groans against your mouth, hot and frantic and trembling slightly. you break the kiss to breathe, but it’s useless, he leans in again, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath ragged.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “just once. say it, and i will.”

your soaked panties brush against the bulge in his jeans and he groans, deep and guttural. you shake your head, lips brushing his “don't tell me you’re gonna go soft on me just because we’re in love now.”

he pulls back slightly, stunned, like he can’t believe what he just heard, “we?”

you give him a soft, unguarded smile, “yes, hyuck. i’m in love with you too.”

that’s all it takes. the look in his eyes changes — burning hotter. darker. his mouth is on your throat, kissing a trail down to your collarbone, hands everywhere, under your dress, against your skin, gripping your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish. the space is cramped, bodies tangled, breath fogging up the windows, but you don’t care about anything except the way his hands feel on your bare skin, the way he groans when your fingers thread into his hair and pull just a little, the way his hips arch up into yours like he’s come undone.

“you think love means soft?” he rasps, voice shredded, “you think i don’t still want to fuck you like i’ve been starving?”

his hands slide up under your dress, dragging your panties down to your thighs. he leans you back, your spine meeting the steering wheel. it’s a little awkward, a little painful, but it vanishes the moment his fingers slip between your folds.

“god, look at you,” he pants against your mouth, dragging two fingers through your folds. “you’re fucking soaked for me, princess”

you moan when he presses in, one finger at first, rough and fast, no buildup, the feel of his cool rings against your cunt making you jerk in his lap, head thrown back against the roof, thighs already quaking.

“not soft,” he growls into your skin, “not even close.”

“shut up and—fuck—fuck me already,” you moan, hips chasing the rhythm of his finger.

“no,” he snaps, a smirk on his lips, “not until i make you come on my fingers,” he groans, and then he starts really working you open. inserting another digit, angling it just right, fucking into you like he knows exactly where to go, exactly how to ruin you. his palm grinds against your clit in tight, mean circles, and it’s so much, so fast, your knees buckle on either side of him, moans of his name filling the night air, and he has to hold you down with one arm wrapped around your waist.

“you can take it, right?” he hisses, fucking you faster, “don’t tell me you’re gonna break on me now.”

“i won’t,” you whine, “i won’t, hyuck, d-don’t stop,” you beg. his cock twitching in his pants at the mere sound of his name on your lips — all needy and desperate and his. he curls his fingers harder, presses deeper, and the filthy sounds of your wetness fill the car like music to his ears. your dress is hitched around your hips, tits threatening to spill out of the neckline, and you’re so far gone you’re grinding down on his hand like you need it to survive.

“you look so fucking pretty like this,” he growls, thumb swiping across your clit like he’s trying to rip the orgasm out of you, “fucking yourself on my hand, begging for it.”

you gasp, legs trembling, feeling yourself start to come apart. and he’s obsessed with how you clench around him, how your moans go sharp and high and desperate.

“that’s it princess,” he pants, watching you with hooded eyes as you get lost in the pleasure, “let go for me.” you do. you come hard, panting, shaking in his lap as his fingers keep coaxing you through it, soaking his palm as you cry out against his shoulder, nails digging into his biceps.

he doesn’t stop right away. only after your legs go limp, after you push his hand away, after you twitch around him too much to handle another second. then, only then does he pulls his fingers out, slick and glistening, and brings them to his mouth, “tastes like fucking heaven,” he groans, licking them clean like it’s nothing.

“now ride me and take what’s yours, princess,” he grunts in your ear. you’re still panting, legs shaking, but your hands move on instinct, unzipping his jeans, pulling him out. he grabs his wallet, pulling out a small foil wrapper, ripping it open with his teeth and rolling it on with practiced urgency.

the second he’s ready, he drags the blunt head of his cock through your folds, slowly. sending goosebumps throughout your body. you can’t take another second of teasing. you grab the base of his cock, making him grunt in response. then you align him in your entrance and finally sink down, both of you breaking at the feeling.

“ahh, fuck,” he hisses, forehead thudding back against the seat. his hands grip your thighs so tight it borders on bruising, “you’re so fucking tight.”

you don’t give him time to catch his breath. you rise up and drop down again, harder this time. again. and again. the rhythm fast, desperate, almost punishing. the windows fog instantly. your dress is hitched up to your hips, sweat slick on your skin, your shared moans echoing through the small space as you bounce in his lap, riding him hard and reckless, the console digging into your spine with every movement.

“god, you feel so fucking good,” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair. he yanks your neckline lower, finally letting your tits bounce out of your dress and his mouth is on them in an instant licking, biting, sucking like he wants to mark you up just so everyone knows you’re his.

“i never fucking stopped wanting you,” he growls against your sensitive nipple, “couldn’t sleep. couldn’t think. and now, fuck, you’re mine. you hear me?”

you grind harder, drunk on it now, his voice, the feel of him buried deep inside you, stretching you open, ruining you in the best way, “yes,” you moan, head tipped back, “yours hyuck, a-all yours.”

the car rocks. the wheel presses against your back. your thighs burn, vision blurring. his hands slide to your ass, fingers digging in to your thighs as he holds you up before fucking up into you with a speed that steals all the air from your lungs, each thrust ruining you as your legs shake in his grip and you practically scream.

“come for me,” he pants heavily, sweat dripping down his temple, “come on my cock, princess, come and let me feel it.”

you can’t do anything else but respond to him, tightening around him, crying out as your second orgasm hits you like a freight train. he follows right after, hips jerking, his hold on you loosens and you sink completely into his cock, a whiny moan escaping his lips as he empties into the condom, eyes squeezed shut, completely undone.

everything goes still. your breathing. his hands. the spinning inside your chest. you collapse against him, dress still bunched at your waist, tits on his chest, your forehead pressed to his neck, both of you wrecked and panting and clinging to each other.

haechan strokes your spine absently, soft and gentle, “you okay?” he murmurs, voice raw and hoarse, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder. you nod into him. neither of you moves. then he says it, soft and tentative, “come home with me tonight,” he whispers, not ready for the night to end.

♕

his room smells like his cologne and laundry detergent and he’s kissing you again, slower this time, more like he’s savoring it. like he has all night. because he does. he lays you down on his bed, undresses you piece by piece, there’s none of that urgent need from earlier. just worship. mouth littering kisses all over your skin. hands skating over your hips like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you like this.

you feel him all over again like it’s the first time. body moving together like it’s a dance you’ve always known. you let yourself fall under him. let yourself whimper when his hand slips between your thighs, let yourself pull him in close and kiss him breathless until the two of you reach that addicting high that you can’t seem to get enough of.

and later, when he’s spooning you under the sheets, arms tight around your waist and his mouth pressed to your shoulder, he mumbles, “you know i’m crazy about you, right?”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut, “yeah, i know.”

when morning comes — you wake up alone. the warmth on the other side of the bed is gone, the sheets cooling. for a second, the room feels too quiet. your heart stutters, mind already racing with the outcome that he left.

you sit up, breath caught in your throat, but before you could wallow in the pity, the door creaks open, and there he is — tray in hand, hair still messy, sweatpants barely hanging on, wearing the exact kind of cocky grin that would usually drive you insane, except you’re too relieved to feel anything but full.

“breakfast for my one and only princess,” he says, voice obnoxiously proud. you blink at him, and it must be written all over your face, because his grin falters a little.

“hey,” he says, voice softening, as he places the tray carefully on the foot of the bed, taking a seat next to you, “you okay?”

you pull the covers up around you, shrug a little, “i just didn’t like waking up without you,” you admit, soft and quiet, almost afraid to be this honest, “i thought you left.”

a flicker of guilt passes behind his eyes, a tiny “oh,” slipping from his lips. the moment is soft, vulnerable, for two people who always dance around the other. you laugh a little under your breath, trying to shake it off, “stupid, i know, i mean, it’s you. you made it pretty clear you’re into me.”

“princess,” he says gently, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his side, “it’s not stupid, i should’ve left a note or something.”

“what? ‘gone to make eggs, don’t spiral’?,” you say, realizing how dumb it sounded.

“exactly,” he deadpans, and you both laugh.

he brushes a strand of your hair away, more careful now, “we should probably work on being better at communicating, huh?”

“yeah,” you nod, forehead bumping his, “would’ve saved us, like… years of misery.”

he groans, dramatic this time, “don’t remind me, i was so annoying.”

“you’re still annoying,” you say sweetly, and he bites your shoulder in retaliation, making you squeal.

but when the laughter fades, his voice stays low, that quiet sincerity returning “i’m not gonna disappear, okay?”

you nod, “okay.”

“and i love you,” he says, gentler this time, no hesitation. just pure, stupid, real love.

your smile softens, “i love you too,” you say, leaning over to kiss him, not caring about morning breath or bedhead or the toast that’s probably getting cold.

he pulls away, breathless, a grin evident on his face, “the breakfast is gonna have to wait now,” he whispers in your ear.

you raise an eyebrow, “why?”

he leans in, voice low and warm in your ear, “because i’m hard again,” and you burst out laughing, “you’re insane.”

“insanely into my girlfriend,” he smirks, already kissing along your jaw. and you let him. because you’re his and he’s yours and it’s finally, finally, simple.

ཐིཋྀ tech week

it’s disgusting. absolutely, positively disgusting. at least, that’s the general consensus among the rest of the cast. just last month, people couldn’t stand being around the two of you because of how often you fought. every rehearsal a battleground, every interaction laced with venom.

but now? you’ve entered your full blown, pda-plagued, heart-eyes, can’t-stop-touching-each-other in-love era.

now, it’s kisses behind curtains, giggling into each other’s mouths between lighting cues, forehead touches during water breaks, fingers constantly linked even while you’re being given notes. and they don’t know what’s worse.

yeonjun throws a prop sword down dramatically, “i miss when you two hated each other, at least we had peace.”

“you’re just mad no one kisses you in between takes,” haechan fires back, smug, arm slung over your shoulder while you’re giggling into his hoodie.

someone on the crew threatens to hang a “no pda backstage,” sign after catching the two of you in a heated make out session.

but the real problem? the two of you are unstoppable.

even your arguments, and yes, you still argue, don’t last more than five minutes. you’ll bicker about stage directions or costume adjustments or whether haechan needs to dramatically fall to his knees when romeo sees juliet “dead,” and five minutes later he’ll be kissing you against a dressing room door whispering, “you’re hot when you're mad” against your lips.

and while the cast is absolutely suffering through your honeymoon phase – mr. doyoung is thriving. he walked into every rehearsal of this week with stars in his eyes, clapping wildly as you and haechan nail your death scene again. so in sync. so devastating. so tender you can feel every raw emotion behind the lines.

because now when haechan calls you “juliet,” it comes out breathless. now when you say, “my only love sprung from my only hate,” your voice cracks for real.

“do you SEE this chemistry?!,” mr. doyoung once cried, pointing dramatically at the stage, “this! this is art! this is why i casted you two!.” he might have even teared up once during the balcony scene. no one’s confirmed it but no one’s denying it either.

you and haechan just grin like idiots through it all. and when rehearsals wrap for the night, he always kisses you soft and slow and says, “can’t wait to do it all again tomorrow.”

you roll your eyes, pretend it’s annoying, but you never pull away.

ཐིཋྀ opening night

the energy backstage is electric, nerves buzzing like static in the air, costumes perfectly pressed, everyone running through the lines they already know by heart. the theater is full. the lights are hot. mr. doyoung is pacing with a clipboard and thinly veiled tears in his eyes, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

and you’re doing your opening night ritual – little handwritten letters, folded neatly, handed to each castmate and crew member like clockwork. it’s your thing. everyone knows it. something encouraging, something kind, something just sentimental enough to make people emotional right before they have to go on stage.

you hand one to ningning, who clutches it to her chest and says dramatically, “i’m framing this.” soobin reads his and calls you a menace for making him tear up right before the show. yujin hugs you tightly, muttering something about how she’s so happy she gets to do this with her best friend too.

haechan watches from a distance as you make your rounds. he’s trying to play it cool, arms crossed, leaning against a wall in his stupidly perfect costume, lips pressed together in a barely there smirk. but underneath he’s a little tense. not that he’d ever admit it — it’s been years since he got one of your letters. not since high school. but now, with you officially his girlfriend and practically glowing as you move through the cast, he cant help but wonder, did you write him one?

he doesn’t ask. he doesn’t want to look needy. but his eyes follow you everywhere. and finally, you approach him, holding a single remaining envelope.

you stop in front of him, one brow raised, playing innocent, “oh, looks like i have one more.”

he stares at you, slow and suspicious, “you’re unbelievable.” you just grin, sliding the note into his hand. he opens it. the handwriting is unmistakably yours – familiar and clean, like a secret only he gets to keep:

what do we say when we say juliet? romeo!

every moment with you is like a scene in a movie. going through my head now is the climax. the words i practiced thousands of times as if they were scripted – you are the protagonist of my life. i want to keep you forever. no one can fill your place…you’re irreplaceable.

p.s. you look so hot as romeo, i, too would have left my family just to feel your lips.

p.p.s romeo take me somewhere we can be alone? ;)

for a second, he forgets how to breathe. love coils tightly in his chest, but so does something hotter, something heady and electric. his eyes flick to the last line, and then to you. you’re already walking away, over your shoulder, you toss him a wink. and he nearly chokes on air.

“why would you add that last part?” he hisses, catching up, voice low and wrecked. his eyes are blown wide, desperate, like you’ve lit a fuse inside him, “i just want to fuck you so bad you won’t be able to walk on stage.”

you burst out laughing, smacking his chest, “focus, romeo,” you press a kiss to his cheek and he groans like he’s being tortured, yet his mouth curves upwards into a smile anyway.

and somehow, he makes it through the show — when the lights go up and the crowd goes quiet, you step into juliet’s shoes like you were born to wear them. haechan’s romeo is every bit as dramatic and devastating and alive as he should be. the balcony scene is breathtaking. the fights are insane. the kiss before he dies draws a gasp from the crowd. by the time the final scene ends, with you sobbing over him, your voice cracking on your last words, there’s a pause…then thunderous applause, the crowd roared, standing ovation, flowers tossed on stage, some people are crying. mr. doyoung is definitely part of some people.

but as soon as the curtain closes. haechan is dragging you by the hand through the backstage chaos, ignoring the cheers, the calls, the cast photo attempts.

his grip is firm, focused and needy. you barely have time to ask where you’re going before he yanks open the door to the rehearsal room in the back and pulls you in. the door slams shut. it’s just the two of you. again. in the same, tiny, dusty room where everything shifted.

and his mouth is already on yours, “i can’t believe you wrote that in the letter,” he groans into your mouth, lifting you like it’s muscle memory, “you’re evil. you knew what you were doing.”

you gasp between kisses, clinging to his shoulder, “i don’t know what you mean,” you say innocently.

he rolls his eyes, “i’ve been hard since act i,” he kisses you like he’s starved, like the show was one long tease, every kiss on stage edging him on, every touch of juliet’s hand killing him and now he finally gets to be rewarded.

he spins and sets you down, not on the chair, not on the table — on his thigh. you blink and he grins, cocky and hungry and impossibly hot in the dim light, “you never rode this one,” he murmurs, low and sinful, hands sliding up your thighs under the skirts of juliet’s gown, “thought we’d fix that.”

the breath catches in your throat. his thigh is solid beneath you, strong and flexing, already pressed perfectly against where you need him the most. the second you move, just a little, the pressure makes your whole body jolt. and he feels it.

“fuck,” he hisses, watching you closely, an amused smirk on his lips, hands gripping your hip, “you are so into this.”

you glare at him, but your hips twitch forward again anyway. the friction is delicious. the fabric of your panties drag just right. his thigh tenses beneath you on purpose.

“you gonna come for me like this, princess?,” he whispers, lips brushing your jaw, “gonna mess up your pretty little costume riding my thigh like a desperate girl?,” you gasp, gripping his shoulders for balance, body rocking on instinct now, chasing that pressure, that heat, that release.

“f-feels so good hyuckie,” you moan as he watches, transfixed, pupils blown out, jaw tight, chest rising with every shaky breath you take.

“i could watch you forever,” he groans, “no one else ever gets to see you like this, you know that, right?”

you nod helplessly. completely lost in the pressure that was building in your stomach. and when you finally come, sudden and hot and hard, he groans at the way your whole body tenses, how your thighs shake, how your lips part in a silent moan right against his mouth, your eyes shut.

you collapse against him, but he’s not done, “think you can take me now?”, he asks, voice thick with lust, already untying the back of your costume. you look up at him, dazed, hair a mess, breath shallow and nod like there’s nothing else in the world.

he kisses you again, already sliding the skirt up your hips, making you his all over again.

𓏲 the end.

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

bonus: hyuck x princess coded -> video one, video two, video three, video four

an: HAPPY DONGHYUCK DAY! 🧸🌻 this is one of my gifts for you all today (you’re still getting a birthday blurb, wink wink) i really wanted to finish this in time for haechan day and i can’t believe i actually did. but holy shit guys! we’re halfway done with this series i did not expect to get this far if im being completely honest. thank you all so much for all the love, you don’t know how happy and excited you all make me. i hope you loved haechan and princess too! i think this couple was the most fun to write and i also think they finally beat jaemin x angel as my favorite confession scene so far hehe (don’t tell jaemin!)… as always, thank you for reading! <3

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littlegrapejuice · 2 months ago

Text

Grid Mum 4 | MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: The calm before the storm- and the storm - that was the Miami Grand Prix.

Author's Note: idk what happened but inspo was just gone???? Like the miami gp was just not it and i wasn't motivated at all to write it, esp when i was getting ideas for the next parts given that imola was already happening😭 hope you still enjoy this part, even tho it was made w half love lol

F1 MASTERLIST🏎 | Previous Part | Next Part

You needed a break. Max needed a break.

You both debated going away for a week before the Miami Grand Prix was to happen, but then you decided otherwise. You and Max would simply stay home in Monaco, not putting one foot outside until you would have to leave for the US.

The plan was simple: sleep, eat, drink, watch stupid TV shows, and repeat that every day.

But then, the plan changed when your phone started blowing up.

You and Max had been back for a couple days already, having updated the rookies about your whereabouts and wishing them a good rest before the next race. However, it seemed that they eventually took it as their cue to invade your couple time and transform it into family time.

The first text was from Ollie, wondering if you wanted to have lunch with him after he had finished biking with Carlos.

The second was from Liam, asking if you were free to play some video games.

The third from Kimi, needing a reminder on how to use a maths formula because he couldn’t read his own handwriting.

The fourth from Gabriel, sending you a recipe that you could try together.

The fifth from Isack, just wanting to visit you.

And the sixth from Jack, offering you to join him on a shopping trip.

You were about to reply to all of them, until Max stole your phone and started typing.

“You better be nice to them!” You warned Max, trying to read what he was writing.

“I always am”, he claimed while hiding the screen away from you. “Please, don’t contact my girlfriend anymore during our break. You’ll see her next week in Miami”, Max read out loud as he typed the words. “And I signed my name, obviously.”

“Obviously”, you repeated as you rolled your eyes. “I would enjoy seeing them, though. You know that?”

“I know, yeah.” Max handed you your phone back, leaning back on the couch as he glanced at you. “But focus on me for the next few days, please?”

It was hard to refuse his request when he was looking at you with such love in his eyes, his voice soft and almost pleading. You had to admit that spending some peaceful and romantic time with Max sounded perfect right now – exactly what you needed after the triple header.

And Max was right, you could always wait until Miami to see the rookies.

But it seemed like they couldn’t wait until then.

After texting each other in a groupchat you weren’t a part of, they agreed to give you a couple days of rest alone. Then, some of them decided that they missed you a bit too much. So that’s why one evening, you ended up with a facetime from Ollie and Gabriel.

“Hello!” Ollie said as soon as he saw your face on his screen. He turned his phone to the side for a second, showing Gabriel who waved at you. “I hope I’m not bothering you by calling, but we have a slight issue.”

“Hi, you’re not bothering at all. Everything alright?” You noticed that Ollie and Gabriel were outside, and wondered if they were having a problem in the streets of Monaco.

“You can’t be mad,” Ollie warned.

“Why would I be?” Straightening up on the couch, you were almost getting worried.

“We wanted to surprise you with dinner”, Gabriel explained as he re-entered the frame, “but we got lost.”

“Lost? Wait, we’ll circle back to the dinner thing after. But what do you mean you’re lost?”

“Well…” Ollie scratched the back of his neck, seemingly nervous. “I asked Liam for your address, and he didn’t really give it. Like–”

“He just gave us directions from Ollie’s place, but I think we took a wrong turn somewhere.”

“How do you even get lost in Monaco?” Max, who had just appeared behind you, asked. He had his arms crossed, and raised an eyebrow at the rookies.

“Give them a break, Max.” You then focused back on Ollie and Gabriel. “He’s not wrong, though. Kinda hard to get lost in such a small city.”

“Not our proudest moment for sure”, Gabriel admitted.

A silence then settled for a few seconds, as you debated over your next course of actions. While you were thinking, the rookies were already expecting you to tell them to go home and forget about their surprise dinner. But you thought about how sweet it was of them, and decided to welcome them to your home after you exchanged a glance of confirmation with Max.

“Tell you what: Gabriel, I’ll text you my address and you look it up. Ollie, you stay on the phone with me and I’ll guide you if necessary. Does that sound good?”

“Yes, thank you so much!” Ollie’s smile was bright and wide on your screen. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“I’ll set the table, then”. Max sighed and then left from where he had been standing behind you, walking to the kitchen.

For the next ten minutes or so, you stayed on facetime with Ollie. You could hear Gabriel guiding him through the streets of Monaco, occasionally confirming to him that it was the right way. Then, the two rookies eventually arrived in front of your building and you hung up before ringing them in.

It seemed that they hadn’t been lying about their so-called surprise dinner, as you noticed that they both had their hands full with bags when they entered. You helped them settle everything down on the counter, putting out the food as they listed what they had brought.

“Okay, so I made mini pizzas. Like loads of them with different garnitures, we just gotta cook them. I also brought muffins – Liam recommended a place where he bought some when he was here.”

“Thank you so much, Ollie.” You smiled at him, before handing the pizzas to Max for him to put them in the oven.

“And I brought feijoada, which my mum helped me make. It’s a specialty from back home,” Gabriel explained.

“Okay, wow. This all sounds great, thank you boys.” You didn’t think your smile could get bigger, but it did. “Go sit down if you want, Max and I will finish preparing everything.”

“You’re sure?” Gabriel asked. “We can help.”

“Yeah, we definitely can!” Ollie agreed with a passionate nod.

“It’s fine, don't worry. Just go and watch some TV,” Max told them as he motioned to the living-room. “We’ll take care of the rest, thanks for the food.”

“No problem”, Ollie said before he and Gabriel went to sit on the couch.

The rookies observed the room, trying to look for every little detail that would help them know more about you and Max. They obviously noticed the rather out-of-place simulator, which was a harsh contrast to the carefully decorated shelf next to it. They saw that there were a lot of pictures of you and Max throughout the years, amongst which a few seemed to have been taken during race weekends.

After they had analysed almost every picture depicting yours and Max’s love story, they decided to follow Max’s instructions and turned on the TV to find something to watch while waiting for the food to heat. Meanwhile, you and Max were still in the kitchen.

“So much for a bit of peace before Miami,” Max mumbled into your shoulder as he hugged you from behind.

“I know, I’m sorry. But how could I have refused when they just wanted to get dinner with us?”

“It’s okay,” Max assured you. “They’re lucky they didn’t try to pull this move last week because you were all mine.”

“I’m always yours, though. You know that,” you reminded him as you turned around to face him.

“Except when I have to share you with the kids”, Max said. His arms were around your waist, which helped him pull you closer to him.

“Even then, I’m still yours.” Your tone was soft and loving, almost making Max fall all over again for you. You gave him a kiss during which you felt him smile against your lips, before you escaped his hold. “Gonna check on the food, wait.”

Max leaned back against the counter as he observed you making your way around the kitchen, opening the oven and carefully looking at the food as if it would tell you itself that it was ready. You confirmed to Max that it was indeed good to go, and you both brought the food to the table.

“What are you kids watching?” Max asked as he stood behind the couch where Ollie and Gabriel were sitting.

“Still channel-hopping,” Gabriel replied. “We’ll just turn off the TV anyways if we’re eating.”

“Wait, no. Check the sports channel first,” you requested.

The Brazilian driver did as he was told, suddenly aware of how focused you were on the TV as you were waiting to see what was on. A couple seconds later, burnt orange filled the screen as the sound of applause could be heard.

“Okay, that seems like a good one.” You quickly sat down next to Ollie, waiting to see more info about what was happening. “Food is ready, by the way. So we can eat after they finally show who the hell is playing.”

Fortunately for you, and unfortunately for the drivers, there was a tennis match ongoing. As soon as you were aware of the current score and watched a couple points, you reluctantly got up from the couch and made your way to the table – your eyes weren’t leaving the TV and Max knew he now had to explain your attitude to the rookies.

“We’re done for, guys.” Max sighed, as he shook his head with a smile on his face. “She won’t pay attention to us if there’s tennis.”

“That’s a lie!” You denied. “I’ll talk to you during changeovers”, you told them with an innocent smile.

“Do you like those players?” Ollie wondered. “I never knew you followed tennis.”

“Because I have to pretend to like the padel you all seem to enjoy so much.” You tried to be dramatic, but there was honestly a part of truth. Padel wasn’t as entertaining as tennis to you, and you were definitely complaining everytime Max wanted to talk to you about it. “Tennis is superior, and you need to realise it.”

“You’re very passionate about it”, Gabriel pointed out.

“Trust me, she is. I remember when Sinner was in Abu Dhabi last year, she begged me to arrange a meeting between them.” Max was teasing you, never planning on letting you live this down.

“Because you were literally hiding the fact that you had met him!” You reminded him. “I had to hear about it from Oscar, who casually mentions my favourite player is in the same paddock as me.”

“Oh, I met him too!” Ollie added. “He’s such a nice guy, really cool too!”

“And that’s why he’s my back-up plan if Max ever leaves me. Those two would be as well if they weren’t happily taken,” you said as you pointed to the TV where Ruud and Fritz were playing.

“Once again, I am not planning on ever leaving you because you are happily taken too”

“You better not,” Gabriel warned. “We’ll take her side anyway.”

“True”, Ollie agreed with a confident nod.

You laughed at the support the rookies were showing you, knowing that you would win custody against Max. Not that you would ever have to fight him for it, because Max would soon make sure that you were tied to him for life.

Although it had become kind of a late dinner due to Ollie and Gabriel getting lost, the four of you still enjoyed the food while the tennis match was playing in the background. You thanked the rookies for taking the time to cook, complimenting their skills that easily surpassed Max’s – he tried to accuse you of lying, but you both knew that Max was a good cook only if you were not far away from him and the dish was simple enough.

If anyone were to observe the scene that was taking place, they could only be able to guess that you were a real family. You and Max might be seen as very young parents, probably victims of teen pregnancy, but the love and care that you were giving the rookies would be extremely obvious to everyone around you.

You thought that you would only be talking about racing with three drivers sitting at the table, but you realised that you had more in common as you all shared bits and pieces of information about your respective lives. The rookies told you about their girlfriends with wide smiles, and Gabriel promised to introduce you to his in Miami. You told them about the first time you went on Max’s jet, still unable to properly register how normal it was for him.

The atmosphere was warm and light-hearted just like when Jack and Liam had been here, but this was still a unique moment. A moment that would only belong to you, Max, Ollie, and Gabriel.

…..

It was quite late when you were done with dinner. You were munching on the last muffin – the three men having silently agreed on leaving it for you – as you noticed the time.

“We won’t have any right to complain about the new timezone if we don’t make any effort to rest before having to adjust to it”, you pointed out.

“I’m comfortable here, though. But I hate that you’re right”, Ollie sighed as he reluctantly got up.

“You’ll come to realise that she’s always right”, Max joked.

“I already realised that you are always on her side”, Gabriel said.

“Because it’s either I’m right or he’s wrong”, you explained. Seeing the gears turning in Ollie’s and Gabriel’s heads was hilarious as they tried to understand your words. “Do you want us to walk you back? Monaco’s pretty safe but I wouldn’t want you to get lost, again.”

“We should be fine”, Ollie assured.

“I’ll walk you back, don’t worry. That’ll be the post-meal physical activity”, Max said as he stretched his arms.

“I’m coming too, then. Nothing like a good late-night walk.” You were ready to put on your shoes like the drivers, until Max stopped you.

“You can stay here,” Max told you. “Finish watching your little match and tell me all about it when I’m back, okay? I’ll bring them home safely.”

You nodded, before kissing Max on the cheek and hugging the rookies goodbye. They thanked you for the hundredth time to have welcomed them into your home, and wished you a good night. You would next see them in Miami for the upcoming race weekend, hoping that this one would be good to them.

When the drivers left, you immediately went back to watching tennis as told by your boyfriend while he led Ollie and Gabriel in the streets of Monaco.

“Sorry if it annoyed you that we came tonight,” Gabriel eventually said. “We just wanted to spend time with you and her.”

“Mostly her,” Ollie added with a teasing tone. “But yeah, I know we were supposed to wait until Miami.”

“Which we absolutely didn’t”, Gabriel concluded.

“I would have refused if I didn’t want you there,” Max told them. “I know I was all grumpy about it last week, but tonight was actually nice. And it makes her happy as well to see you, so I won’t go against that. Plus, the food was great so thanks for that because we were actually ordering way too much take out recently.”

“Next time, we’ll call before we go out and not while we’re in the middle of going to yours.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Max put his arms around Gabriel’s shoulders. “Or I’ll tell Fernando to drop you, I don’t know.”

“You do know you don’t sound really threatening right now?” Ollie pointed out.

“Because I’m not trying to be,” Max admitted.

This was the type of conversation Max enjoyed having with the rookies: pretending to be a bit mad with their overwhelming presence when he was actually soft around them, almost showing them more love than you did. But Ollie and Gabriel knew that Max was being genuine. They had eventually heard a bit more from Liam and Jack’s dinner, which confirmed that it was just Max’s personality.

It highlighted how well you and Max worked together: you were the extroverted one and he was more introverted, but deep down you were both the same. Max was more subtle: he didn’t use his words as much as you did, rather showing things through actions that could sometimes go unnoticed. You loved loudly and proudly, while he did it more quietly in ways that felt just as meaningful.

And this was how it went with the rookies, which was something they wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

…..

If anyone asked you how you would describe Miami this year, you would answer that it was… eventful.

And not necessarily in a good way.

It had started somehow fine.

Although flashy and packed with celebrities, the atmosphere was one of your favourites. Sure, you didn’t think that three races in the US were needed; but they knew how to bring out good vibes.

Friday had gone particularly well; you were especially happy for Max and Isack, but even more for Kimi. After a good FP1 session, Kimi had become the youngest pole sitter in the history of Formula 1 during the Sprint Qualifying. Barely four hundredths were putting him in front of Oscar, and you could only hope that Kimi wouldn’t trample down the grid to get his first F1 podium.

“I’m so so proud of you Kimi”, you had told him once he was done with his interviews. “That’s a huge achievement, congrats!”

“Thank you!” Kimi was beaming with happiness, over the moon due to his performance. “I don’t know if I can keep the lead tomorrow, but I’ll try my best to at least stay within points.”

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” you encouraged him.

“Also, small request: can you tell your boyfriend to let me get a podium?” Kimi was mostly joking, but he knew he would be under threat from Max who was starting right behind the two McLaren.

“I could try, but no promises.” You chuckled at Kimi’s words, knowing that Max would do everything in his power to get above his starting position and you couldn’t do anything against it.

For once in your life, you were clearly going to be supporting someone other than Max. Kimi definitely deserved his sprint pole, and he was also absolutely deserving of a win one day. Maybe it wouldn’t happen in his rookie year, but points had been a constant result for him and a podium was therefore at least possible before the end of the season.

Still, you would obviously be rooting for your boyfriend too and that’s what you did on the next day during the sprint race. But then, everything went downhill: Red Bull messed up Max's pit stop, which led him to an unsafe release as he slightly collided with Kimi who was in the pit lane to box as well.

You couldn’t help but wince as the TV showed the replay of the incident, and you hoped that it wasn’t going to put either of them at a disadvantage given that Kimi hadn’t had the opportunity to actually change his tyres. Even if it hadn’t been Max’s fault, he would still get penalised from his team’s mistake and that would eventually lead to the less than glorious result that was P17.

Safe to say, Miami wasn’t treating your boyfriend nor the rookies well for now. The groan you let out when you saw Max’s name dropping to the last place was filled with annoyance at Red Bull, as you cursed them in your head. Due to the safety car that had been triggered by Alonso crashing a couple laps before the end, the gaps had been so close between everyone that Max didn’t have a chance of at least staying in points.

The weekend hadn’t really started as a lucky one for Max. But fortunately, he proved to everyone that he was still at the top of his game when he put his car on pole later in the afternoon during qualifying. The margins were really close between Max and the cars behind – barely a few hundreds of a second separating each driver. Kimi would eventually get another chance at a podium, starting P3 on the grid, while the rest of the rookies were scattered once again outside of points.

You wanted to be hopeful, wishing for your boyfriend and grid kids to have a good race. Max would get a second opportunity at winning something in Miami this weekend, and Gabriel would be ever so close to finally scoring points as he had reached his first Q2 of the season.

You wanted everyone to do well, you really did.

…..

However, things didn’t go as you wished and you were now clearly unwell after the race – it almost made you think that you were actually cursing the drivers with your hopes and support.

Max going from pole position to right outside the podium was something – the McLaren were in a whole other league this weekend, but four out of the six rookies DNFing was worse. You didn’t think a race this year would be as traumatising as Melbourne, and yet here you were in Miami.

Thankfully, everyone was physically fine. It was the mentally part that you couldn’t be sure about, though. It was really a sharp contrast from the joy the drivers had all felt earlier during the Lego cars race that had replaced the traditional drivers’ parade. They had all been so happy, having fun like little kids opening their presents on Christmas day.

And now, it almost seemed like they had spent a day experiencing the horrors of Ferrari with how down they all were.

“I wish we were legal so you could take us out drinking”, Ollie told you with a sigh. “We need to drown our sorrows in alcohol.”

“Even if you were, we’re not getting drunk to forget the race. Usually we get drunk to celebrate the race,” you clarified.

“Then we get drunk to celebrate my P6?” Kimi suggested.

“Shouldn’t you be working on your homework instead?” Liam teased. “It’s almost past your bedtime, and you wanna be drinking.”

The other rookies snickered at Liam’s words, while Kimi frowned.

“Says the guy who didn’t even finish the race…” Kimi mumbled, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Okay, that’s it. No race talk anymore”, you warned. You weren’t about to hear any more comments about the race results, knowing that they could still hurt some of the drivers even when disguised as a joke. “We’re not going out to drink. I think we all need a good night of sleep, so I suggest you get back to your hotel rooms and rest. Is that okay with everyone?”

“Yes, mum.”

Despite their voices being filled with sarcasm, you couldn’t help the smile that appeared on your face. You would never dare consider yourself their actual parent, but being their grid mum always left a warm feeling in your chest whenever you remembered that they actually enjoyed your presence.

After agreeing to get some sleep – and also realising that they definitely had early flights the next day, the rookies reluctantly left you alone. Bidding them goodbye, you didn’t hesitate to give a longer hug to the ones who’d had unlucky races. You could feel the way they were holding you a bit tighter than the others, not really wanting to let go of the comfort you were providing them.

Now alone, you decided to find Max. He had told you earlier after the race how he wanted to spend a bit of time on his own, which you didn’t mind. It only took him one second to answer your call, and the loud background noise that could be heard made you think that he wasn’t on his own anymore.

“So much for alone time?” You rhetorically asked with a scoff.

“Well, Lando and George were quite persuasive. Wanna join us? I could really use some moral support after this difficult weekend.” Max’s tone could only indicate that he was exaggerating, as a dramatic sigh left his mouth.

“You’re asking so nicely, how could I say no? Text me your location and I’ll be there when I can,” you told Max. Looking down at your outfit, you figured it could survive a longer night than planned.

Max was over the moon when he saw you walk up to him – the alcohol in his blood definitely made him happier – and you were immediately engulfed into a hug when you were within his reach. Chuckling at his attitude, you then didn’t hesitate to kiss back when Max’s lips were suddenly on yours.

“No PDA tonight, please.” Lando’s voice interrupted your kiss with Max. Putting an arm around your shoulders, Lando tried to pull you away from your needy boyfriend. “You, my friend, are going to be drinking the night away with us. The party can finally start now that we have the better Verstappen here!”

“She’s not a Verstappen yet, Lando.”

“Yet?” You repeated with a smirk. “You plan on marrying me one day, then?”

“Of course, I’d be dumb not to.”

If you and Max were having this conversation just the two of you in a quiet place, maybe it would’ve been romantic. But the loud music combined with Max being more than tipsy, as well as Lando third-wheeling, just made the moment funny to you.

“Glad we’ve cleared up the obvious,” Lando said in reference to you and Max being married in the future. “Now, it’s time to have fun!”

Finally pulling you away from Max, Lando led you towards the bar where George already was.

One shot turned into two, then three. Soon enough, you weren’t really counting anymore and were simply enjoying the night. You danced with Lando – terrible dancer when sober and even worse when drunk, then with George – you had to admit he had some moves, before finding yourself in Max’s arms once again.

You were definitely having the most fun ever. It was always chaotic to party with drivers, but you didn’t care about how loud the music was or how drunk you were getting when the atmosphere was just the right one.

And maybe you would regret it the next morning, especially when your head would be throbbing in pain, but for now you weren’t thinking about the consequences.

Except that one consequence would eventually be a dozen texts from the rookies who had seen you partying – courtesy of Lando who had posted pictures – after you had told them to go to sleep early.

So much for resting

Hope the hungover was worth lying to your KIDS – Gabi

“Good night of sleep” she said🙄 – Liam

Can’t believe that “WE are not going out drinking” was actually just meant for us – Kimi

That’s like next level betrayal💔💔

We might forgive, but we won’t forget – Ollie

Unbelievable… – Isack

The fact that I was legally allowed to come with you – Jack

..........

Taglist: @umm-i-love-u @callsign-mirage @freyathehuntress @elieanana @suns3treading @fastandcurious16 @l3thal-l0lita

Thank you sm for reading🫶🏻🫶🏻 hope you liked this chap!!

Next one should be out before monaco, and it'll be a v short part focused on jack after he got sacked by alpine (I'm still sad and heartbroken for him😔)

Don't hesitate to like, reblog, or comment<3 also you can request some stuff you'd want to happen next and I'll do my best to include it if it works w what i planned to write :)

See you soon, take care of yourselves, love y'all xx

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x you #formula 1 x you #max verstappen x you #mv1 #mv1 x reader #mv1 x you #grid mum series<3

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kithtaehyung · 15 days ago

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yoongi's interlude: fugue pt. ii (3tan) (m) | myg

title: yoongi’s interlude: fugue pt. ii (m) pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f) series: masterlist | three tangerines | fireworks | house party | basketball | stay | sidewalk talk | friends | dalo | like that | anytime | sundress season | yoongi’s interlude | forfeit | flutter | video call | busted | broken pt. 1 | broken pt. 2 | fugue pt. i rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , smut ; brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: he would do anything for you, even if that means leaving your light... to venture into his dark. note: fugue—in music, a compositional procedure characterized by the systematic imitation of a principal theme in simultaneously sounding melodic lines ; a state or period of loss of awareness of one's identity, often coupled with flight from one's usual environment. note 2: if you haven’t read them or haven’t read them in awhile, i highly recommend rereading busted, broken pt 1, and broken pt 2 before diving into this one. note 3: yes. this is where i will hold hands. warnings: language, flashbacks, time skips, angst, heavy isolation, brain fog, fugue state experiences, ruined instrument, depression allusions, alcohol mentions and consumption, fight scenes, spice from yoongi’s pov????, trauma, bro is a real one, drugs mention/use, the demons are being fought y’all, among other things😔, blood, yoongi please get up😭😭, darkness, jimin being his ride or die self, surprise reader cameo?, anxiety, ptsd reflexes, the ex is getting screen time🚶‍♀️‍➡️, friendship is truly power, yoongi just needs a gd hug😭, dark thoughts, tension, the ending.. oh god the ending<33 ; nsfw warnings: under the cut! drop date: july 1st, 2025, 9:57pm est word count: 21.1k wtfffff

smut warnings: YOONGI SMUT POV!!!, ch*king, head/hair tugging, reader has a pain kink and yoongi knows it, penetr*tive s*x, chains but come on now, protective s*x, cowgirl, or*l (m/f rec), edg*ng a ha ha, thro*tf*cking, kissing :’))), kissing D:, hitting from the b b back, yoongi king of consent sheesh, multiple org*sms, spitting lmfao, sl*t/wh*re mentions, yoongi jfc lol, the aftercare y’all already know!!

“How do you even call this work? You don’t do shit!”

—

When you’re in the eye of a tempest, you don’t see the danger surrounding all sides. You feel the calm. The temporary peace—when really your mind is constantly on the run.

But from the outside looking in, no one can reach you through the darkness. If they get too close, they risk getting hurt. Swept in the chaos and shut out from where you stand in false hope.

They’ll scream for you to leave. Beg for you to run. But only you can make that choice once you have the chance to hear them. And why would you? If you don’t see any issue with what’s in front of your eyes?

They will try, and try, and try. Their voices will run repetitive until distant. Pleas will fall on deafer and deafer ears. Try as they might to step into the rush of fury, they’ll only get pushed away because you can’t deal with the cacophony of disappointment.

Pretty soon, nobody wants to brave that cyclone. Nobody will come save you from the wrath because all it does is make them burn.

You’re happy, right? Why can’t they be happy you’re happy where you are? Safe. Comfortable, like you’ve never been before? They don’t see it like you do. They don’t understand what you have.

Slowly but surely. One by one—even the best one. No one except your storm will be there beside you.

And when it abandons you to drown in the ocean it created?

Only then will you realize all your lifelines are long, long gone.

—

The sky is dark again.

From the dips of his sofa, Yoongi awakes to pitch black, watching the ceiling flash sinister grins with lightning white teeth.

Ah. Back to the beginning.

Not that he’s surprised, of course. Everything always goes back to the way it was. Back to the way it’s supposed to be. Because it’s all he deserves.

Right?

When thunder crashes into the night, Yoongi flinches in knots, memories jagged at the edges piercing his head violent.

You know not to—

—shitty day to—

Seriously?

—knew this would—

Prove it.

—only gonna end up alone.

—

Thunder booms once more.

But Yoongi wakes in a memory.

“Why don’t you just stay?”

He looks to his side, seeing a face that has been with him for more days than anyone else’s lately.

No one has ever asked him to stay. At least, not during the morning after when there’s not much left to talk about. With everyone else, it’s been a quick one in the nearest bathroom or him bouncing before the sun comes up.

It’s his fault for sleeping this long. He should’ve at least gotten woken up by—

Thunder cracks outside, catching Yoongi’s attention before he finds himself still hesitating. “You sure?”

“At least until the storm stops. Then you have to go.”

A bit of morning attitude does feel nice. And at least he remembers her name. He should, though, since this is the fourth time he’s been over.

“Uhm.” The only complication is that… Yoongi has a thing. A pretty important thing, since his friends are finally all in town again and planned to spend the day together. He’s surprised his phone isn’t blowing up right now, which is what he expected to be woken up by.

He shifts. Oh. It’s dead.

Yoongi hears a snort behind him before an arm snakes around his bare torso. “It died a long time ago, you know.”

Interesting. “You didn’t charge it for me?”

Another smug laugh crawls along his spine. “I could’ve.” When the hand on his stomach slithers lower, Yoongi’s body responds on instinct, his eyes closing and his heart bumping just a bit louder.

And he doesn’t yet know it.

“But I wanted you all to myself.”

Yoongi turns. “Is that so?”

But this stormy day from years past is significant.

Lashes bat at him with shimmering lust as he’s lured away from his still-uncharged phone. Away from his plans. Away from his awaiting, concerned as hell friends. “Find out for yourself.”

And Yoongi’s gone before the next groan of thunder ends its roar. “Fuckin’ plan on it.”

It’s not a cleanse. Not a relief.

But an omen.

—

Time passes as he’s thrown back to the present.

But Yoongi doesn’t know how long it’s been. Hours? Days? …Weeks?

It’s dark again.

But his phone is alive. Barely there across the room, a light blue screen is all he can make out. Someone could be texting. Or calling. Or whatever else he’s gonna ignore.

How did it get all the way over there?

Whatever. Not like he cares. He’s not gonna need it for awhile anyway.

The last thing Yoongi remembers is clutching your words in his hands, but apparently Namjoon and Hoseok found him eerily sick. Practically kicked him out of the studio to force him to get better, not knowing how painfully ironic that would become.

The endless rot coaxed a slow descent into his warring mind, corroding from the inside. Seeping defeat along his veins.

Pelts pelts pelts against the windows hit him like punches, weakening his resolve to even stay awake. It’s all too much. His brain is too battered and bruised to fight right now.

So he plummets from the sofa back into the past.

—

“That one looks like you.”

From a ways behind, Yoongi watches his younger self, seeing vibrant hair shaking in a laugh before sweeping his pensive gaze along the hazy, deep orange skyline.

He remembers this hilltop, benches and trees overlooking the city life below. How can he forget when he passes it every time he goes to practice with the guys? Well, every time he went. He doesn’t think he’s gone anywhere in a minute.

At least he’s observing this memory from a distance this time. Yoongi assumes this is his mind’s way of coping. Because reliving the memories from his own point of view was too much to bear.

The air carried a certain hue of pink that day. And his hands can still recall the stickiness of the popsicle he held as stickier lips get caught in another kiss.

Right. This is where it happened. Where Yoongi fell in love for the first time.

At least, that’s what it felt like to him. He felt wanted for more than his body, understood on a level that no one else had before. Be it his yearning for companionship or for simply being needed, Yoongi felt something beat in his chest that day, spurning him to embrace new emotions never before experienced.

But something feels off as he relives it on the sidelines. She says those words so differently than how he remembered before.

“I love you.”

Yoongi turns away before he can watch himself react. Because he doesn’t need to witness the light in those eyes, a light that would soon be squashed and smothered to the point of nothingness.

Because in the end, it wasn’t love he received. Love doesn’t come with terms and conditions that don’t go both ways. Love doesn’t make someone second guess everything they’ve ever said and done.

Love doesn’t make someone want to end it all.

But what did he know back then? All he saw was someone making him feel good. Great, most of the time. What he didn’t think about, though, was why they were on the hilltop in the first place.

Right now, that Yoongi doesn’t know about this girl skipping out on work to hang out with him. He doesn’t remember shirking responsibilities to meet her in her bed, caught in his feelings enough afterwards to blow his friends off yet again.

How many times did he do that at this point? Were they already annoyed with him? Or was this when they started asking if they’d even get him back?

Sighing deep, Yoongi stuffs both hands in his hoodie as he watches another kiss unfold, grimacing at the way she tries her best to swallow him whole. Months down the line, she accomplishes that. He’ll feel trapped with no way out in no time.

He needs to get out of this nightmare. The sunlight is fading and so is his control.

Then he watches himself get up, begging to not get in that car. To not leave. To just run.

Fuck, he wants to haul himself away with everything in his bones. The fact that he can’t stop any of this from happening is what hurts the most, feeling like he can save himself yet knowing it’s impossible. All he can do is watch.

As she yanks on his younger arm to haul him back down to the bench, Yoongi flinches where he stands, triggered by all the times he tried to leave his own fucking place just to be guilt-tripped into staying. Every time. So many times so many times so many fucking times.

Get out of here. Either version, get the fuck out of this timeline and into any other. He’s damn near ready to beg and sacrifice anything with a squeeze of his eyes.

And when he opens them, Yoongi meets a different orange hue on his speckled ceiling, blinking before turning his head into a pillowcase that smells like… You.

Thank fuck.

Wait, how’d he get here? Wasn’t he just on the couch? Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

Relieved, he burrows a cheek into your lingering presence, inhaling short to preserve the one thing that makes his apartment feel like a home. It’s such a comfort that he feels remorse in his chest, right before something leaks slow from his eye.

Even in your absence, you save him once again. There’s nothing Yoongi won’t give you when he gathers himself again, because you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to something good.

Guess going back to sleep is not an option. Maybe he’ll finally try to work on some tracks again.

—

A boom of thunder jolts him conscious, and Yoongi winces at the crick in his shoulder before grabbing it in a rub. What the hell? When did he fall asleep?

Checking his dimmed screen, he squints when the brightness blooms and curses at the many, many, many errant notes displayed on his workspace. Because of fucking course he fell asleep on his keyboard.

The instrument track is deleted without another thought.

But after a brief stare, Yoongi undoes the action and goes to the very beginning of the timeline, just to see if he had an idea to start with before descending into a dreamless symphony.

Nope. Delete.

Failure wisps down his chest before he rubs both eyes. This has got to be the most disjointed he’s ever felt. Yoongi doesn’t even know when he last ate something, much less spoken to somebody or taken a fucking shower.

Disgusting. He needs to do that last one. It’s the only productive thing he does before falling face first into his bedsheets, wondering when he last washed them before succumbing to sleep again.

—

“Wow, about time you finally brought her!”

“Ah, yah, he’s back out from hiding!”

Yoongi can visibly see his hand squeezed with apprehension, and he remembers nails digging into his skin hard enough to crunch his smile.

Throughout the house, multiple people greet them both as they pass, and even Yoongi shifts as if he isn’t just a ghost of a bystander.

This party. This night. This very house witnessed the moment when everything started going to absolute shit.

For once, she agreed to come with him to a party. It wasn’t at Jimin’s, since she never wanted to be there—red flag stupidly ignored—but at another acquaintance’s across town.

Yoongi was simply relieved, happy to be able to see everyone he cared about in one place. But it soon became harder and harder to hold conversations without being pulled somewhere else, being told to go elsewhere, feeling bad about not making it a good time for her.

As his younger self follows her to a room upstairs, Yoongi prods his cheek. Because unlike sneaking around with your shy smile, this was to hash out a petty argument about nothing. Nothing.

But he cared about her so much that he took the harsh statements behind closed doors. He listened as she expressed that she felt ignored the whole night. He hated himself for making her feel that way because that wasn’t his intent at all.

Poised against the wall just outside the door, Yoongi hangs his head, hearing the same painful words from the other side and sending his past self all the love he didn’t have before.

And he watches as the same door bursts open, his ex rushing for the stairs and his bright hair bolting after her.

Soon, he’ll chase her down the stairs, calmly try to reason with her but failing miserably. People will stare. People will talk.

But they’d already be in a car and silently driving away.

—

Another day. Another thunderstorm.

Somehow, Yoongi always ends up in his living room when this happens. Like his bedroom feels too sinister when it rains—unless you’re in there filling it with your sunshine.

He hopes you still know how beautiful you are. How wonderful, how mesmerizing he finds you, no matter where in space and time he resides. Are you finding ways to be happy? Are you out there conquering whatever you want simply because you can?

Can he send himself to your dreams instead?

No. Even in dreams, he doesn’t deserve to see you right now.

And there’s his same problem again. The shadow standing over him. Whether this is due to his past mistakes, or the darkness in his mind, Yoongi fully believes he isn’t yet worthy of your light.

Besides. As he feels the guitar standing in its same place, he hears it speaking. Reminding him of all the things he’s done wrong.

When lightning strikes, Yoongi counts the seconds. And four counts later, he flinches at the boom before blanking again.

—

“Who’s that?”

“No one.”

“You know not to tell me that. Who is it?”

Ah. He knows why this memory is still taking up space in his mind. Yoongi takes a spot along the wall of her living room, remembering how clean it was and knowing that’s one of the reasons he liked her in the first place.

Settled on the spotless couch, his younger self with undyed hair turns his head. “The studio guy I was talking to before. Wants to bring me in so I can see what’s up.”

She gets up with a pout, “Awhh, does it have to be today?”

He remembers being excited as hell for this. But no one would be able to tell based on his response, “Uhh, I think so. Is that okay?”

“Umm.. I mean, I guess.”

Truthfully, there were many reasons Yoongi liked this girl. But there were also warning signs, and he must have ignored them in favor of bliss and companionship.

“What’s wrong?”

Walking up to his knees, she starts to mount his lap. And this is when Yoongi softly thumps his head back on the other side of the room.

“I just wanted to hang out today.”

“Well.. I practically live here now.” When he watches his younger hands skirt along her legs, no feeling rushes into his veins. It’s all evaporated. There’s nothing where everything used to be. “We can when I get back?”

“You don’t live here officially,” she tuts, slinging arms around his neck and bringing him into her chest. And again, his current self is repulsed. “Are you sure you need to go? What are you even gonna do?”

She fucking knows what she’s doing. Red flags are everywhere for eyes unblinded by infatuation.

“It’s not that I need to, but I really fucking want to. It sounds really sick and I think I can work there with them.”

“With who?”

“The.. Studio guys?”

This is more painful on the other side.

Because that boy doesn’t know what’s coming. He doesn’t know the pain that will splay out from his inability to see what’s happening to him. Those arms will tighten and tighten around his neck in due time, suffocating like mad.

But for now, she agrees to let him go, dismissive of the main reason and having ulterior motives. “Fine, but you’re bringing me back food.”

“I got us,” he readily agrees. And Yoongi can just feel the rush in his chest. Incredible, considering he recalled zero emotion from her earlier touch. “Just let me know what you want.”

This is when it hits again. This feeling in his gut is not because of the food they ate when he returned. But from preparing for what’s coming next.

And he dreads the next time he can’t stay awake anymore.

—

Yoongi eyes the molded tangerines in his bowl.

And his heart walks away before he does.

—

Hail comes down in sheets as Yoongi watches himself haul ass to the apartment corridor. Right behind him, growls and angry yells erupt, “I told you it would be a shitty day to do this.”

“It’s my only day off,” he reiterates, steadying a box with the door as he jingles in the key. “Been busy as fuck lately.”

“At that studio again?”

Waiting as they bustled inside an empty unit, Yoongi’s jaw locks right up. Right then and there he should’ve walked away from that dangerous precipice, new place be damned. So slippery with condescension. So littered with malice and passive aggression.

But they both took that step from beyond the bounds of friends with benefits, and with those benefits also came the ones of his doubt. Because Yoongi dealt with the jabs. He could handle those, though he shuns his own naivety of liking instead of loathing them. How did he ever let himself be subtly shot down so many times?

It continued to happen all throughout the day. Even when they both waited out the hailstorm and came out to their cars dented to hell, all he’d really hear were complaints about his hobby—his hobby?—taking up so much time.

It’s when they’re almost done that she drops a heavy hit, with Yoongi watching them from the hall. “Just think about it, okay? You’re spending all this time and money on it and aren’t really doing anything.”

Maddeningly, it’s hard to really tell someone a hobby is actually your entire life. Especially when you haven’t got anything to show for it other than a couple self-produced tracks and one producer credit on a local, aspiring singer’s album. Man, that guy was an asshole. He needed to learn how to move sessions along even with artists bickering the whole way or else—

“Are you even listening?”

“Sorry,” Yoongi mumbles, adjusting the moving box in his arms that’s holding a deconstructed bar cart. “Work shit again.”

“Seriously? Can you not for like two seconds? I just wanna get everything done with and shower. I feel gross.”

“You aren’t supposed to shower during a—”

“Don’t care! I do not care. Let lightning strike me the fuck down while I scrub my asshole.”

Yoongi snorts as he struggles to open his door once again, noting in the far, far back of his mind that the person with a free hand could’ve held it open but didn’t. That should’ve told him enough. But of course, he gave her everything, including way too many chances to redeem herself.

As they stumble inside, Yoongi follows, remembering how, despite moving someone in, he felt so… Alone.

His music equipment gets shoved over for more desk space; his shoe collection stuffed in cramped spaces to make room for smaller kicks; his kitchen groaning with boxes and bins with no organization that was slowly but painfully driving him up and through the nearest wall.

Watching this dreary day play out from a distance, Yoongi observes his younger self with abject misery, sweeping his gaze across a cluttered living room and noting the obvious slump in his shoulders. Shoulders that bore the weight of his brash decision of a relationship.

What were his friends doing that day? Were they watching a basketball game together? He remembers it was the end of the season, so a lot of them were gathering for watch parties and cook-outs. Get togethers he had turned down for weeks in order to spend time with her.

If only he had asked himself one question. One question should’ve been enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

If he ever had the chance to tell his younger self not to get hung up on one mistake in his life, he would pick this one. Because this one fuck-up set him back years, and became the first splotch of grey in his shrinking, shrinking universe. One question he could’ve asked himself. One answer he could’ve gotten to immediately.

Why didn’t anyone help him move her in.

—

There’s nothing in the fridge Yoongi can eat. And there’s a severe lack of food in his pantry, even though he remembers it being stocked but not taking any of it out. So for the first time in awhile, he forces himself to go outside for sustenance.

Yoongi shuts his door before locking it, also noting that very empty bowls lie next to his shoes.

“Oh! There you are.”

Who the fuck? Who’s even out at this hour? Sluggish, Yoongi turns, noticing the elder lady next door watering the plants along her welcome mat. What was her name again? He thinks it starts with a vowel. But when he tries to answer with a hello, his voice cracks and dies on his tongue.

Holy shit, when’s the last time he’s even spoken?

“You okay, sugar? I haven’t seen or heard you in a long time.”

Wait. Even the neighbors are getting nosy now? How long has he been away from the world? Attempting speech again, Yoongi swallows before rasping out, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy. Where’s that nice girl that’s been coming over?”

Oh. He thinks that’s a pulse in his chest before he answers, “At her place.” Where you need to stay. Far, far away from him.

“Oh… Well, I hope she comes back over soon.” She sets her watering pail on the windowsill. “You two have the best time when she’s here. Hah! Those laughs I hear when I don’t have my dramas playing.. You two give an old lady hope.”

…What? Yoongi can’t even form a coherent thought.

Did… Did you really make his laughs so hard his walls couldn’t contain them? The concept seems so obvious yet so foreign, because he can’t even recall the last time he used muscles in his face to smile. Let alone expel joy.

Suddenly, he sees rain on a cloudless night. Where is he? He doesn’t even fucking know anymore.

“I’ll be waiting,” the lady continues, breaking through his haze again. “You look like you’re about to tell me something. But I know you aren’t done with her yet.”

Closing his mouth, Yoongi blinks before nodding his tired head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good! And tell her Miss Dion says hello, okay?”

Yoongi hasn’t spoken to you in awhile now. But he doesn’t have the heart to tell her that. “Yes, ma’am.”

—

This memory doesn’t reveal much other than onyx static. But it morphs and twists until it sprouts edges, and it sends him into shakes. Fuck. This is the night he always dreads. The night that transcends time, showing itself like a specter no matter the time of day. The night he said those three words that have him fucking tethered to his living room corner.

The night of his twenty-first.

It happened all those years ago, with only the two of them because she wanted it to be special and waved off his desire to have his friends there. For a milestone that should have been celebrated with whoever he fucking wanted.

And he remembers being completely fine with the isolation. Because despite all the studio shade, all the music dismissal… She got him a brand new guitar. A real one. Not just some rented instrument he had to keep returning, but a true, beautiful black guitar.

She got it for him because music was his hobby. His hobby.

Not his life, not his dream career. But a hobby. The gift was laced with malicious intent and he didn’t see it until months later. When everything was becoming crystal clear and frightening.

Yoongi wedges himself in the corner so strongly he can actually feel the scrap of his walls, watching with short breaths as his younger, ignorant self takes it from its case with admiration. Breathe. This isn’t real anymore. Fucking breathe.

He will always hate this memory. He wants it to burn, to break, to shatter into pieces just so he can’t witness it any longer. But it’s always there. Taunting him when he’s close to healing, whipping around his arms when he’s close to feeling okay again. You’ve done every fucking thing you could, but even you aren’t strong enough to fight this one for him.

Only he can conquer this. And he’s only succeeding in failing.

Yoongi’s head drops when he hears himself say those three little words again, eyes pinching tight at the reaction he gets back.

“You got there,” she says through manufactured tears. “I knew this would do it.”

Get him the fuck where? Hell? The abyss? In the middle of the fucking ocean?

Hair slides in front of his eyes as he has to hear her cry again, feeling his heart sag knowing he’s tugging her in for a hug. “And I’m there forever,” he mouths along with his past self.

Her grin is still piercing. Sharp. Striking. “Forever.”

Get out. Get out, get out, get out.

Forcing himself out of the nightmare, Yoongi shoots from his bed, unsurprised his head is pulsing hard.

Fuck this. He’s got to get out of here. Your house. Your bed. Your arms. God, the yearning for any of those claws at his chest and bangs against his ribcage. But the studio is his safest place that doesn’t have you in it. So he hastily grabs his keys, heading to the door to slip on his shoes.

Aiming an offensive finger at the guitar in the corner. The same one that will be waiting for him when he returns.

—

“You’re seeing someone else.”

“What? Why would I be?”

“You were seeing someone when you saw me.”

Yoongi’s stomach lurches at this particular memory. Because hearing that accusation from her lips crushed his heart and slid it across their apartment floor. “First of all, that’s not what happened.”

“Looked exactly like how it happened. And you won’t even admit it.”

If she was willing to be down with that, then she was no better. But why would she ever put herself in the wrong? Her aversion to ownership was something else.

Yoongi watches from the kitchen this time as she taps her utensils on the table. At least she’s not digging lines in it this time. His words across the wooden surface sound completely unlike her ire, “I said I wasn’t good for her. And I left before we got serious.”

“Well why aren’t you serious about us now?”

That was a goddamn stretch and they both knew it. It took everything to not slam on the gas, crashing into the window next to his shoulder. “What makes you say that?”

“You don’t make time for me anymore.”

Because no matter how upset he got, Yoongi could never find it in him to shout. That was her thing. He vowed to never make it his. Explaining soft, he moves food around his plate. “It’s the only time that studio space is free. And I picked that place because it’s the closest one, like you asked.”

“You’re so cheap.” Both versions of himself feel the same deep pang. “But whatever. Why aren’t you answering my calls lately?”

When he watches himself sigh, Yoongi flexes both hands at his sides. “Phones are out when we’re in there.”

“Bullshit.”

“Are you gonna believe anything that I say?”

“I’ll believe it when you actually make time.” Every memory seems to be harder to watch than the last.

“Okay,” his younger self relents, knowing this is how all the arguments end. “I’ll try. But I’m making progress so as soon as I’m done with this mix—”

She laughs while slamming the utensils down, the dining table screaming in pain. “Of course!”

“Of course what?”

“Another excuse, Yoongi,” she grits out, leaning back to fold angry arms. “You don’t even bring that guitar with you, either.”

“Cus it’s staying here.”

The way she could slip between the monster and the victim makes him squirm. Her eyes grow wide, brows creasing with a practiced pleading that makes him grimace. “Why? You don’t like it?”

“I don’t wanna break your gift.”

“Oh.”

He holds his hand out, and Yoongi slides his jaw knowing what he does here. Taking her by the hands, the younger him offers a moment of peace, “You really think I’m not in this for real?”

“It’s more like.. I feel like I’m competing with your job and your.. thing. And losing.”

His thing. Yoongi loves his thing. He is genuinely enjoying creating and analyzing and experiencing music that he can’t wait to go back. It’s all he can think about when he sleeps, when he wakes. But now he feels bad because he may need to do it less to spend time with her. “I’ll prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“That you aren’t.”

“Okay,” she sighs, gripping his hands. “You better.”

Voices that aren’t his or hers leak into his slumber. And the memory starts to fade into dust on his tongue.

“Let him sleep.”

“He’s gonna wake up as soon as we start anyway.”

“Why’d he sleep in here and not the back room?”

Yoongi slowly opens his eyes, blinking away sleep as blurred shapes come into focus. Mm. He made it to the studio. And he’s definitely on the couch, based on the awkward slant of his back. Lolling his head sideways, he watches all three of his coworkers bustle around the console, flipping on different switches and wincing at the loud hum of the CPU. When Hoseok glances back to see his eyes in squints, he tuts to the others,

“Ah, see? He’s already awake.”

“Mmph,” Yoongi grunts out as they all turn, struggling to a sitting position and kneading his eyes. “Don’t wait, I’ll get up now.”

“When’d you get here?” Jungkook suddenly asks, his bright hair flopping as he pulls off his jacket. “You finally feel better?”

“Awhile ago,” he sleepily responds, a yawn swallowing his last syllable. “And yeah.” Joints popping at his upward rise, he grimaces while Namjoon cuts through the youngest one’s laughs,

“I dunno about that, old man. Is it like that every morning?”

Your favorite nickname for him echoes lovingly through his mind. Like a rush of water to soothe the burn of his terrors. “Pretty much.”

Hobi can’t help but chuckle with a finger point, the company to his misery. “I’m getting like that, too. It’s only a matter of time for you, Joonie.”

The tallest in the room sighs before everyone locks into work mode, “Looking forward to it.”

—

Ah. Back here this time? Looks like his younger self needed him to drop into this one, if only to give him support from another celestial plane.

“How can you call this work? You don’t do shit!”

“We’re working on a project—”

“We? Are you even on it?”

The roll of his chair bumps into the bed frame behind him. “I’m… Making some of the decisions, but—”

“So you aren’t even in charge? What are you gonna get for this?” Not a lot. But his silence answers before he can give a true amount. “Exactly. So ridiculous, you need to get a real job that gives you real money to pay for all this shit.”

Yoongi was doing just fine when it was just him. But taking care of someone that has a bit more refined taste, too? It’s draining him to the point of alarm. “We can cut our spending, too, you know.”

“Excuse me?”

“We don’t have to get food all the time. We can just cook here.”

“But… Ugh, doing all that work just to eat and then clean?”

Well. Yes. That’s the order of operations. From his leaned position in his bedroom doorway, Yoongi shakes his head. Even cooking was an issue? He did it all the time when he was alone. It’s not hard. What the hell did he get himself into? How did he not see any of this from the jump?

“My uncle might be hiring. I can ask him to get you an interview or something, but you cannot fuck it up.”

“Where at?”

“Does it matter? It’s a job.” She sighs while sliding hair down her shoulder. Oh, how he’s been tricked by that move too many damn times. “It’s downtown.”

Fuck. That’s way too far from the studio he’s working at. There’s no way he’d be able to work both… And she knows it. Goddamn. “You really want me to quit?”

She gives him a look, and he can’t tell if she’s stricken or annoyed at the question. “I mean, not… Really. It’s just…” A sigh. “I’d rather you get a real job now and make music when you’re more stable.”

Even now, Yoongi gets that. But at the same time, nothing else truly called to him. Music is his real job, the very thought of doing anything else makes him anxious. He doesn’t want to commit to anything that he’ll dread going to every fucking day of his life. But if that’s what she wants, he’ll at least try because he cares about her. Enough to lose a part of himself along the way? Guess so.

Guess so.

“Yoongi?”

His head jolts from the memory as he’s positioned in the middle of a studio. The very current studio that’s only a few doors down from the job he ended up getting years ago. Several pairs of eyes are staring as he takes in his surroundings. Shit, when did he wander off? How did that even happen this time? Why is he looking at a very familiar band he’s listened to for years?

“You okay, man?” One of them asks, a guy with such a relaxed look that just seeing him makes Yoongi’s shoulders loosen. “It’s just us, no need to be scared or anything.”

“I dunno, Sammy, you look kinda rough around the edges in person.”

“Do not?”

Beside him, Hoseok claps Yoongi on the back, his grip both comforting and telling him to get it the fuck together. “He’s fine! We’ve just been busy, and this guy’s been working hard to get everything ready for you guys.”

“Give him a sec,” Namjoon agrees, shaking all the band’s hands while Yoongi continues to buffer. “But yeah, we’ll give you a quick look inside and see if it works for you?”

“Works for us,” Sammy agrees with a smile. “Lead the way.”

All four members walk through the recording room door after Joon, thanking Jungkook for keeping it open before he heads inside, too. Leaving Yoongi with a very concerned Hobi, who turns to him with furrowed brows. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah,” he finally forces out, throat scratched. Fuck. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“If something’s up, tell us.” Hoseok watches the silent movements and conversations happening through the studio glass. “Your gut’s the one I trust the most.”

Oh. Wait. That’s not nearly what Yoongi’s got on his mind. Even though he’s snuffed out flaky musicians and artists before today, that isn’t the current issue. That’s not what’s sticking to his mind like a parasite and feeding him random haunts from his past. “Nah, it’s not that. I’m just shocked they’re here.”

“Right! When Jungkook said it’d be a surprise, he wasn’t kidding. I might damn near faint.”

“Don’t do that just yet,” Yoongi warns. “We can’t have two of us out of it.”

They both puff out laughs at his previous blanking. And they fall silent with folded arms when Woosung—Sammy—picks a guitar off the wall for hopeful inspection, nodding and smiling at a doe-eyed Jungkook.

The kid knows how to develop connections, that’s for sure. He needs to start doing that, too.

“But seriously…” Yoongi looks at Hoseok, met with a stare that he only gives when wanting nothing but the truth. “Anything bothering you? You looked… I don’t even know.”

“I’ll be fine, Hob,” he breathes out in a sigh. “Just got some things on my mind.”

The look keeps going, and going, and going. But there’s no more scrutiny when Hobi finally turns forward with an unconvincing, “Okay.”

—

Embers crackle while sparks float to a darkened sky. Yoongi can still smell the metal of the train tracks, still feel the dirt under his shoes as he tips a bottle for another sip.

A bunch of them were gathered that night. And he wasn’t gonna miss this no matter what, already expecting the onslaught of terror waiting and pacing the cage he calls his apartment.

Since he got that job downtown, he’s been trying his best to do the work and head across town to the studio to finish things there. But that effort wasn’t taken pleasantly. Apparently, she wasn’t asking him to make music a hobby; she was telling him to give it up—for now, of course. Always for now. And he ended up leaving it far, far behind.

After he gave that up, everything else followed. Every time he made plans to hang out, he got yanked back into the apartment, whether by a desperate arm or a scathing, manipulative scowl. His whole life was being stripped away. Nothing was his anymore.

But this night? He finally got away. And Yoongi watches as his younger self faces the heavens with a wide smile.

Your brother’s there, along with some friends he hadn’t seen in ages. Even a younger Jungkook tags along, watching as they push each other in abandoned shopping carts and fling random stones in open spaces. All of them in questionable fits, his hair as vibrant as a polarizing ice cream flavor, everything defines this pocket of time and no other.

Watching them like this? Yoongi almost buckles from the pang of nostalgia seizing his chest, wrapping its roots around his heart in a bittersweet embrace. It reminds him of a balcony. It reminds him of you.

This is the night he chose to not go home. Because his home is here with his friends.

Fuck everything. Fuck life. Fuck love. It was all he could say and express as all of them stuck middle fingers to the world, as if doing so would banish all the troubles in their lives. Every single conversation he had that night was cynical in a freeing way. Because nothing mattered. They were all infinite. Infinite and infinite.

With each bottle chucked into a blazing fire, his eyes droop lower to the ground. Without much effort, his head lolls, mirroring a few others around him until they’re a heap of buzzed freedom and youth. And honestly, he doesn’t remember much beyond this. He doesn’t even remember who drove him back to your place.

They were infinite—

A vacuum sucks Yoongi out of his dream so fast he flinches, muscles seizing and locking at hard angles. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck is happening? Focus on something, anything. Is this his room? Okay, he’s in his bed.

Raking sweaty fingers through his hair, Yoongi closes his eyes, centering himself as he slowly raises to a sitting position. His room. His desk. His television. Even his sheets look fine other than his crumpled side of the bed. What the fuck was that.

He’s never experienced something like that. Sure, he’s been yanked from a dream while in free fall, or when he’s almost slammed into something. But he wasn’t even doing anything that time except lulling to sleep? So what the fuck was that about?

Shit. The whole fucking point was to get this shit under control. To fight the memories and the dreams and shove them out of his mind to make room for his own. For yours. Yours and his, his and yours. So why hasn’t he even been trying?

Panic starts to rush up his throat, clogging it and jamming and amalgamating into something so thick he can’t even breathe. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, get the fuck up.

He hasn’t had to do this in so long he’s almost embarrassed to reach for what he’s beelining for in his kitchen, perched on top of the fridge behind an unopened case of water bottles. Water bottles. Yoongi clings onto a familiar memory with you yet again. You, you, you.

The bag crinkles as he rips it open, some wrapped pieces pinging onto linoleum. As he hastily opens one of the candies, he pops the sour coated lifeline on his tongue, slowly closing his eyes and sagging against his refrigerator.

Shaking, shaking, sour apple, stop fucking shaking. Breathe. In out in out in out in out. Eat another one. Breathe. Silence. Clear head. Sour cherry. Nothingness.

Breathe.

Sliding down chilled aluminum, Yoongi feels his ass hit the cold ground, his arms immediately coming up to rest on tired knees. After a minute goes by, he lets more pass. Then another. And another. And another.

It’s not fun knowing the panic’s back.

As much as Yoongi wants nothing but your concern crossing kitchen tile, he’s thanking the universe that you haven’t ever seen him like this. Your brother has, but you don’t need to. Ever. But if his demons have all the power again, he might be too far gone.

—

He should feed the cat.

Never mind.

The food from two days ago is still there. Which means she left him a long, long time ago.

—

What day is it. Is that the sunset or a new day.

Doesn’t matter, does it? Even music doesn’t call to him now.

And that single, damning fact slathers his whole brain in shadow.

—

A knock sounds at the door. Which Yoongi completely ignores until it erupts into straight banging.

“Fuck, hold on,” he rasps in a cracked whisper, falling off his couch before his arms crumple, every muscle in his body creaking with lack of use. Pain jolts through his limbs as he lies there for a beat, jump-starting his mind into sudden, bleary awareness.

What day is it? How did all these bottles get on the floor? How fucking long has it been this time?

More knocks break through the fog of Yoongi’s brain before a voice pierces the door, “I swear to god if you don’t let me in—!”

A sigh escapes in the dark. Jimin.

Shit, Yoongi doesn’t wanna be seen. Not now. Not when he can’t even recall the past however many hours. But knowing this particular guest, the door will be kicked down if he doesn’t answer soon.

Hissing, he slowly gets up, stumbling to the door a few steps away before resting shaking fingers on the doorknob. Breathe. Just fucking breathe.

“Alright, you motherfucker, I’m breaking this fucking door—”

Yoongi cracks it open a tad, a sliver of his unkempt hair and stubbled chin the only things he’s willing to show. His eyes squint as bright light spills into his apartment, but all he can see are the telltale shoes of his best friend.

“...Yoongi?”

When he finally looks up, his heart clenches and erupts all the way up to his ducts. The first emotion he’s felt in the sludge of time he’s been chained to his dipping, sagging sofa.

Because Jimin is staring right at his face. Eyes so rubbed they’re rimmed red. “I thought… I didn’t… No one knows where you are,” he starts, shaking the words out of puffed lips. “And when your phone kept going to voicemail, I—I couldn’t think of anything except coming here so when you weren’t answering the door, I thought—”

As soon as Jimin breaks, Yoongi slowly closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the door’s edge. Nothing can get him like this other than the tears of a select few. If you had been the one crying at his doorstep, he probably would have given everything up.

But his mouth is so dry he can’t form words, arms so numb he can’t move them to swing the door. There’s dust where his tongue sits, shadows at the edges of his fingers. Anything he tries to say is swallowed, adding to the lump in his scratchy throat. Instead of a tempest of rage, this is the other way to lose control. The subtler, scarier, sinister way to let go.

Yoongi says nothing. Because he can’t think of anything to say at all.

“Are you listening to me?”

Unmoving, Yoongi breathes, long hair falling onto his paling cheek. He doesn’t even know what month it is. And that scares him so bad he doesn’t hear the next sentence. So Jimin says it again,

“Let me in.”

“Gimme a sec,” he croaks.

“Now.”

A sigh. Yoongi knows he lost the second he heard Jimin’s voice through wood. So he slowly wills his body to move, stepping—swaying—to the side to let his friend into a dark, blacked out space.

“Holy fuck,” Jimin curses, stepping through a sea of glass bottles before wrenching open the curtains. Light bursts around his silhouette and, for a split second, Yoongi thinks he sees an angel in his living room.

“Yes. Okay.” With hands on stern hips, Jimin nods to himself before inspecting the litter around his feet. “Yeah, I’m staying here now.”

—

“You don’t have to do this,” Yoongi drones while his best friend scuttles around his apartment like a roomba. Clinks of trashed bottles and shifts of trash bags rattle next to the front door, and he sighs before looking out the window. “I’m up now.”

“You don’t get a say in it,” Jimin blithely responds, hauling another groaning trash bag from the kitchen. “And stay there, I’m almost done.”

“Where the fuck would I go.”

“Anywhere but here?”

Yeah. Right. Where else would he even go right now? Your room is the only place he wants to take residence in—the room in which he said goodbye without knowing when the next hello would be.

When’s the last time he’s even texted you? Shit, he really has left you behind completely and he feels like a fucking idiot.

Determination thumps to the door, with a little more force than necessary, though understood. Jimin rarely gets this mad, so when he does, molten emotion rolls off of him in reddened waves, “Couldn’t even fucking call? Text? Do you ever think about what that does to all of us?”

Yoongi buries a hand in his hair. “Listen, I—”

“Shut the hell up. You don’t get to have excuses this time. Last time this happened you scared me to death and I am not letting it happen again.”

“You see me. I’m alive. So you can go home.”

Jimin whirls at the door before slamming it behind him, eyes wide in shock as he stomps to the kitchen. “If you think you can get me to go home, you’re an idiot. What else hasn’t been cleaned in a week?”

…A week? Fuck. Maybe it is better if Jimin stays.

His friend wrings his hands in water before drying them, moving to sit in the chair you usually occupy. Used to occupy. Yoongi’s head sags.

Jaw ticked, Jimin sits and rests elbows on his knees, brows up in a way that leaves no room for arguments, “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

With a sigh, Yoongi closes his eyes, shifting his own jaw in the hopes he can find enough courage to do this. Because even though Jimin knows most about what happened before, he’s been the one pushing him to move forward, not backward. Which means Yoongi is in for a verbal beatdown.

But before he can say anything, Jimin urges again, “Start talking.”

Fuck. “Go home.”

“No. Try again.”

It’s back. The anxiety. Making him vacate his seat and slink against his bedroom door. “I’m not doing this right now.”

Jimin rockets out of his chair right after, getting all into his space. “Tough fucking shit. Tell me. Now.”

He can’t. The words won’t come out. “It’s nothing.”

A bubble of caustic laughter flings out of Jimin’s throat before he outright shoves Yoongi against his door. Slight pain erupts from his back, branching out and alerting his body with adrenaline. But he’s so numb he doesn’t even say anything. Nothing. Just… pain.

“Is that it? Not even gonna say anything?”

Silence. Yoongi can only serve silence. A lighter push at his chest doesn’t do anything either, neither do the grips at his shoulders before he’s shoved against wood. Is this all he has left? Pain? He can’t feel anything else. Why? What’s happening? Why is he so… drained?

“Yoongi…” The words wobble. So soft now. So pleading. “…What’s wrong?”

Like a burst of shock, that jumpstarts something deep.

A thousand things. Three thousand things. All of them having to do with him and his inability to deem himself worthy of the one thing he wants most. His shameful weight of the past barring him from everything good, and bright, and healing.

You would ask him the same question. Yoongi knows it in his heart. But here you are, giving him the space he asked for and trusting him with your feelings because that’s just… You. And he has done absolutely nothing to show for it.

A whole week passed and he didn’t know it? He still doesn’t even know what day it is. How long has he kept you in the dark? How long will he keep failing you because this isn’t fair to you at all. You deserve better.

…Is this when he lets you go?

Dark, painful throbs in his chest let him know he’s barely alive. But if he’s been radio silent with no explanation, who fucking knows what you’re thinking now. About him. About yourself. Fuck, the panic is rushing in again and his breaths are short, short, short—

A hand warms his shoulder, prompting him to look up and notice that blurred, wavering red eyes are staring back at him.

And the only thing Yoongi feels after that is a hot trail of regret down his cheek.

“Fucking hell, man—” The pull yanks at Yoongi’s heart as strong arms wrap tight around his shoulders, and he buries searing eyes into his friend’s familiar cologne, drowning it in heaves of sobs that burn his lungs and spread fire into his throat—burning, burning, burning. His heart is on fucking fire.

But Jimin is there, hugging tight and trying his best to smother the flames, choking on his own sobs and apologizing for anything. Everything. Nonsense, but it’s Jimin all the same.

“I can’t fucking win,” Yoongi chokes out, finally setting all the fears free. “She’s always here. I can’t… Fuck.”

Jimin grips tighter. “You can,” he says with a rasp. “I promise you can.”

“How do you know.” He can’t even recognize his own voice. “You don’t know what it was like.”

Jimin flinches before holding on even tighter. “Because you won’t do it alone this time.”

Yoongi feels a vice clamp his chest.

“I’m… Shit, I’m really sorry for not trying harder before. We all are. We were young, and stupid, and should’ve paid a lot more attention instead of…” His friend sighs to the ground. “Instead of letting her slowly kill you.”

It’s a gut punch. Reliving all those memories is confirmation enough.

Jimin chokes out his last vow, and it tugs at Yoongi’s very being. “So. Yeah. I’m not leaving until you know you have someone. Even if it’s just me.”

Now Yoongi feels like an asshole. All that time, he’s been so lost that he didn’t even think of his friends. The self-deprecation devolved into self-isolation, squeezing him inside a smaller and smaller box until he couldn’t breathe. He owes Jimin more than his life.

Hands slowly raise, hope and promise lifting them to his friend's shoulders. There’s a million words he can say to this man, but the only thing that comes out is a mere, “Thanks.”

“You’re thanking me now, but. Even if you get annoyed, I’m not leaving.”

A knock comes at the door, and Jimin finally leans away before smiling. “We’re gonna fight this, yeah? You got us. So get used to it.”

Yoongi nods. But then gives his friend a scowl. “Who the fuck did you invite to my place.”

Is it your brother? Is it you? Fucking hell, Yoongi would give anything for you to be on the other side.

But Jimin smirks at his reaction. “It’s not her, but I like the look on your face.”

A glare is shot while his friend walks to open the door.

While Yoongi’s heart deflates, he still gives a shake of his head when he sees the newcomer. “If you’re both staying, I’m booking a hotel.”

Taehyung stands affronted while Jimin laughs behind his broad shoulders. “Excuse you? I’ve just been sent here to bring food.”

Are those bags of groceries? Fuck, he already can’t thank them both enough for what they’re doing. His stomach hollows at the thought of food, which is a good sign because that means he’s ready to eat again.

“Ah ah, tell him what else.”

Yoongi tilts his head as he goes to help. “What else is there to do here.”

Jimin already stormed through like an unstoppable force to clean everything and take out the trash. Ironically, the clouds outside seemed to clear when his apartment did.

Thumps of vegetables and fruit litter his counters before the newest guest smiles soft, “I’m here to update you on what the love of your life has been up to.”

Yoongi blinks at paper bags before slowly turning to meet his gaze. Long, speechless, and so fucking relieved.

“But only if you cooperate.”

—

You got the job. And he fucking missed the opportunity to congratulate you.

Neither Jimin nor Tae judge him for needing a moment to himself.

—

This memory is one he hasn’t visited yet. But Yoongi recognizes it immediately, and he steps aside as his younger self bolts from your brother’s room. It was the morning after they all defied the world. And frankly, he doesn’t remember how they got here but knows for a fact he didn’t drive. Following himself into your familiar foyer, he winces at his own freak out, his tousled hair sticking in all directions.

But both versions of him freeze when he sees you, standing with a spatula in the kitchen he’ll eventually end up kissing you in years later.

This happened right before you left for university, heading to a really good one according to your brother. He didn’t doubt that at all, either. Both of you look so much younger, living completely different lives.

You barely get out a nervous smile and hello before he quickly comes up to hold your shoulder, noting how softly nice you smell before reassuring, “Hey, he’s fine. But check on him in like an hour.”

He whizzes away as soon as you ask, “You okay?”

But he doesn’t have time to explain. You’ll understand. You’re a pretty, smart girl—Wait. Pretty smart girl. Right.

Yoongi doesn’t know why he looks back, but he remembers seeing you standing in your doorway, watching him open his car door with nothing but concern.

Standing on your porch, his current self remembers that tug in his chest. It was small, but it was there. Regardless, he chalked it up to the anxiety telling him to get home now. So he gives you one more look before shoving into his car and driving off, not knowing he was going backwards that whole time.

Like a dream, the scene change is abrupt, dumping him in the middle of the fight that happened minutes later. Shards of glass litter the kitchen floor as the bar cart once full of alcohol lies shattered and bleeding potent fumes.

“You lying mother fucker!”

“I was helping—”

“Didn’t even tell me? Didn’t even think to say something?”

“I was focused on keeping him alive?” Keeping him alive and home safe. Something that your brother had done for him multiple times. He’s with him until the end. End of story. “Are you gonna ask me if I’m okay? Do you even care?”

Yoongi should’ve recalled that you did. But not right now. He doesn’t think about anything until later. But watching from this side, you were the only one that asked.

“You’re here, right? That tells me enough.”

Yoongi stands there. So broken, so distraught. “What if I wasn’t?”

“Don’t even ask stupid things.”

“I’m serious. I’d look everywhere for you.”

She can’t answer. And Yoongi knows exactly why. He loved someone that never loved him back. This is the karma he gets for all the hearts he broke. The people he played with. It’s all rearing its head and kicking him straight in the teeth.

This was the final straw. He was done feeling like shit in his own home. With one look at the glass pieces at his feet, he loads finality into his tone. “If you can’t answer me, we’re done.”

“No, babe, please—”

“Don’t.”

“…What?”

“You do this every time.” His younger self’s finally gonna do it. He’s gonna stand up for himself, and Yoongi hates what he’s gonna hear next. “Cut the bullshit.”

“I’m not, I just—”

“If you’re gonna answer, answer.”

“Don’t rush me. You putting this back on me now?”

“Cool.” He opens the door, signaling for her to leave and never come back. “You’ve already moved or broke a bunch of your shit, so. This should be easy.”

This is the moment. The singularity that forever sucks him back into the dark.

“Useless piece of shit.” And here it all comes undone. “What a joke. After I bought you all this shit and you don’t even use it.”

He has. She’s just never paid attention.

“Fucking loser. I gave you the world and you gave nothing. Nothing.”

He gave up everything.

“It’s sad, really. How you’re only gonna end up alone.”

That will be true. This is when he decided that, right? To be done with this shit. Done with love.

“How did I even let you keep me this long?”

Yoongi stops, his fingers shaking. Him? Keeping her? It’s so twisted that his vision still jangles. He’ll never forget that feeling, being blamed for the exact same thing she had been doing to him the whole time.

“Forget it. You’re just gonna fuck up until you have no one left. And I can’t wait to see you end up all by yourself.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond to her wrath, walking to the corner of the room and grabbing the guitar he was gifted. But he’s halted by a pointed finger.

“Keep that. Cus you’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna realize I’m right and there won’t be a thing you can do to fix it.”

“Are you done actually? Or is this another stunt?”

“A stunt? The only one that does that is you.”

It’s his turn to unload. And he makes it a point to say everything he needs to. “I don’t do anything. I don’t go anywhere. See anyone. Or whatever the hell you’re accusing me of. I stay here, or go to the studio. That’s it.”

“Some studio you got there. Haven’t even heard one single thing you’ve done this entire time.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“Huh?”

Ah. Yoongi remembers this. Right then, he was finally, finally done. “You never asked about anything I’ve worked on once.”

“Well, you never cared to share.” Acid bubbles from her throat, hair tossed back in an unforgiving laugh. “A fuck-up and now a screw-up? Why did I ever think I deserved you in the first place?”

Yoongi stares for what seems like the final time. And he couldn’t be happier. “Hope you find someone that you do.”

And the door shuts right as he’s flung from deep sleep, thrown over any perception of reality and taking in the voice at his face.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay—”

“Give him space—”

Yoongi shudders, breathing ice cold fire and chilled by the air ghosting over his sweaty back. Front. Legs. Fuck, he’s drenched.

“Yoongi?”

Gulping air, he flicks his eyes between Jimin holding him steady with shaky hands, and Taehyung on the other side of the bed, watching him with eyes locked and one knee making a hard divot in the comforter.

Shit. This isn’t like the other night he fell asleep in his kitchen. This is a whole other level of frightening.

“Please say something,” Jimin squeaks out, lightly rubbing him on the shoulder and providing much needed warmth. “Anything. Please.”

“Let him breathe, babe,” Tae softly orders, to which Jimin snaps his head at but calms.

Tae’s right. Breathe. Breathe deeper. It was just a dream, just a memory, just the past. Fuck. Yoongi thought having people over would help. But that was a terrifying reminder that he was wrong yet again.

Head dumped in his wet hands, he notices his hair’s new length before raking it back. Looking straight at his desk, he takes it all in, quietly reminding himself that it’s filled with equipment.

That’s it. Nothing else. Just his equipment, his notepads, his writing utensils. No traces of broken keyboards, cracked monitor screens, snapped wires. Nothing except your light touches which he will take any day over what occupied it before. In his whirlwind of thoughts, he wonders if anything else of yours on that desk would look nice—Ah. He’s truly losing his mind.

“I’m good,” he croaks, startling everyone in the room including himself. “What the hell happened.”

Taehyung answers first, “We heard a lot of noise, so..”

“We checked in and saw you,” Jimin finishes, his eyes holding back multitudes.

“Saw me what.”

“Thrashing.” Taehyung holds his gaze unflinching. Because one of them has to be level headed, and Jimin is clutching Yoongi like he’ll sink into the bed. Maybe he would have.

“It looked painful,” Jimin rasps out, voice sagging with melancholy. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he looks Yoongi in the eyes before whispering, “Does this happen a lot?”

“Not in a minute.” And for once, he’s honest about this. “It’s only the second time recently.”

He thanks every star above that you’ve avoided seeing both. This is exactly why he shunned himself, isn’t it? Until this is dealt with, he doesn’t think he can be with you on a clear conscience.

Taehyung’s fully sitting on the sheets now, hair looking like he was yanked from a deep sleep, too. “Have you told anyone about it?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“Maybe.”

“Tae’s right,” Jimin whispers, his expression filled with grey. It’s a look Yoongi decides he doesn’t ever wanna see on that face. “I think you need that, too.”

Something very close to discomfort creeps along Yoongi’s bones, making him shift in his seat. His very moist seat. God, if he doesn’t shower now he’s causing a riot. “Lemme wash first,” he offers, barred from swinging out his legs until Jimin gets up. When he gets to his bathroom, he flips on the switch inside before deciding, “Then I will.”

Tae stays still as Jimin walks up to his side of the bed. The closer side to the bathroom. “You sure you’ll tell us?”

“Yeah.” Yoongi looks down before heading in to shower, saying one more thing as he shuts the door, “But you won’t see me the same after I do.”

—

He tells them everything. All the memories plaguing him for years. The things they don’t know and some of the things they do. While they listen, Jimin’s eyes blink the least, not wanting to miss a single second.

Taehyung’s hands grip the couch cushions harder with each passing moment. But neither of them judge. Neither of them offer pity. If anything, they’re ready to pick up swords they don’t have to attack someone that doesn’t exist to him anymore.

Lies. If she didn’t exist to him, none of this would be happening.

So therein lies Yoongi’s problem. He needs to get rid of anything that still ties him to her, the biggest one being the guitar watching all of them right now.

“Why didn’t you tell us. Tell me,” Jimin asks through fresh tears. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought about that for a long time.” Yoongi hangs his head between his knees before lifting. “Turns out, I was just.. Ashamed. I dunno.”

“Does anyone know all of this?”

Well. “Just one.” He doesn’t have to elaborate for them to know who it is.

“I didn’t wanna bother anyone with it,” he finally admits. “Didn’t feel like you guys needed to hear how fucked up I am.”

“Yoongi.” He raises his gaze to meet Jimin’s. “That’s exactly what we want to hear. Because we’re friends.”

“You’d say the same to us,” Taehyung adds. “And to her. Who, if I’m being completely honest, would lose her shit if she knew.”

Yoongi doesn’t doubt that. “I know.”

“No, you don’t. I’m not saying because of the reasons. I’m saying because she would offer to do exactly what we’re doing now.”

Burns sear around his eyes. Because deep down, he fucking knows that. He does. And yet, he still can’t accept how selfless you are when it comes to him. How good, and reckless, and understanding. And a revelation pierces right through his bruised heart.

He’s lived in his dark for so long that he’s afraid of your light.

Fuck, his admittance scratches every inch of his mouth on the way out. His heart takes collateral damage, seeping out of his eyes, “I think I have to let her go.”

In an instant, both pairs of eyes gloss over to match his.

“I’m doing all this for her,” he rasps out. “Everything, for her. But I can’t fucking do it and she deserves someone that isn’t so fucked—”

“Yoongi—”

“My ex was right. Back then. Now. She was right.” His voice lulls to a dull thrum. “I’ll just end up alone.”

“Shut the fuck up.” His head snaps to Jimin’s at the same time as Tae’s. “Are you alone right now? Hmm?”

No. But he doesn’t say a damn thing.

“I’ll answer for you since you’re being an idiot. No, you’re not.” That’s not the point, but— “And even if we weren’t here? You’re never alone unless you decide that, not some fucked up ex. And the Yoongi I know? Is too smart to do something so stupid.”

Ouch. But fair. “That’s not what I mean and you know it—”

“So what? You wanna talk about relationships? Let’s talk about the one you’re in—because yes, you’re in one—and how you’re fucking it up because of some bullshit.”

“Jimin—”

“No, I’m tired of this shit! Why can’t you see what’s in front of you? Why can’t you see all the good shit you do? Why can’t you just be happy—”

“I’m trying all of that for her—”

“You need to do it for yourself!”

Jimin stands rigid as his words pulse around the room, eyes swimming and unblinking as Taehyung dons a similar look.

“This isn’t about her. This isn’t about anyone else.” He shudders out a breath. “Right now? You need to get your shit together to pull yourself out.”

Shit.

Yoongi completely lost the point along the way. Didn’t he think like that when all this started? When did it all become so muddled? Did part of him always know this, deeper down? And that’s the part of him that he had left behind first? When he tries to speak, he can’t. No words, no thoughts, no sounds escape the desert of his mouth.

“And you can do it. I’ve seen you do it before,” Jimin whispers. “But now, you have two people—three people—to fight for this time.”

Ah. But one of those people still doesn’t know the truth. Doesn’t know why Yoongi’s done this to himself in the first place. A sour laugh leaves his lips before he stares at nothing. “He’s trusted me with everything. And I’ve told him nothing.” Lifting his head, he shudders out, “Say I do all this. Once I tell him the truth… I’m losing him. I know it.”

“You don’t know that.” Jimin sounds very unconvinced.

“Hah.. Right.” Yoongi sighs. “We all know he’s gonna kill me.”

“Well.” Taehyung is the one that finally interjects, and Yoongi shifts his gaze before the man correctly and accurately assumes, “You’d die for her anyway. What’s the difference if he knows.”

Oh. Well, that’s…

There’s a ping of silence before Jimin blurts a puff of amusement.

Then Yoongi breaks into a smile as Taehyung’s sudden laugh joins the fray, all of them grinning and laughing because it’s all so fucking simple. Really, really fucking simple. And for the first time in weeks, Yoongi feels like things are gonna be okay.

Coming down from the broken ice, Jimin reiterates the whole point, “You’re not gonna lose her. But you will if sulking is all you’re gonna do.”

A nod. “I know.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

Yoongi looks at them both, then sweeps his gaze around the living room before landing on his coffee table. Warmth fills the divots in his cheeks as he allows himself to grin, not caring if he gets peculiar looks at his first order of business. His highest priority.

“Gonna move some books.”

—

The loudest roar of thunder signals the end of a storm. And in following that same pattern, the rest of Yoongi’s week goes by dreamless. Calm. Merciful.

And he cannot thank Jimin enough.

He helps him when he cooks, drags him out for walks in the afternoon, and even Taehyung drops by to show him a bunch of movies that he is appalled he’s never seen before.

Yoongi even goes back to the studio on the regular, earning looks of relief and mild annoyance, which he fully expected. But with minimal questions, he throws himself back into work, urging himself to eventually tell them what happened.

When Taehyung stays over, too, all three of them simply… Talk. About anything and everything, deeper and deeper conversations the more he gets to know them. Yoongi doesn’t talk as much as they do, but he does divulge a lot more about his past than he ever has. Both of the guys present never judge him for any of it, which makes him feel seen. Feel not so alone.

Because he’s learning that these experiences are universal. The true danger lies in not knowing how to handle them. How to be accepting of those parts of his life when he’s all he’s got.

Now that he’s got his priority straight, he knows he can get there. He can find that door to himself again, no matter how long it takes. Yes, for you. Yes, for his best friend.

But, first and foremost, for himself.

—

To his complete shock, the cat comes back. And in the quiet, radiant night, Yoongi’s eyes gloss over when his heart tells him her name.

She’s gonna be yours. For getting the gig. The idea itself breathes life into his soul, and he can’t fucking wait to get everything ready for the day he gets to surprise you.

Finally, Yoongi has something to look forward to. Just wait for him. He hopes you can hold out just a tiny, tiny bit longer.

Filled with joy and excitement, he sends Tae to the store for some food, supplies, and a new set of bowls, barely noticing Jimin watching his detailed orders with a newfound sense of relief.

—

One day, Jimin comes back from work and asks if Yoongi is ready to see people. When he asks why, he talks about his brilliant idea of bringing the parties to him. When Yoongi continues to ask why yet again, it’s to fill his apartment with even more life. Maybe even a certain person will come, too.

Nah. You probably won’t.

But if you do? Yoongi won’t be able to contain himself. And just knowing that he’s okay with feeling that way is a step in the right direction.

—

Three months.

Based on the date on the studio monitor, it’s been three months since he left. Way too long, and the remorse in his stomach is acidic.

Three months. How many seconds is that? You would know. You’re brilliant and know everything except the dark secrets he can’t tell you yet.

And it’s the deepset shame lining his bones that won’t allow him to go see you, as much as he fucking wants to. Letting it all out for his friends did lift an astronomical amount from his shoulders, but now he’s embarrassed as hell for taking this long to do something so simple that he’s still unsure. Unsure of when he can show himself to you again and is terrified at how you’ll perceive him.

But just because he doesn’t know about seeing you. Doesn’t mean he can’t at least talk to you.

And he’ll make that call last the entire night. Jimin and Tae have given him space for a little while now, both of them back in their respective places, so he has the apartment to himself and your voice. If you give him another chance.

It’s that one solid loophole that has him rushing out of the studio and eager to finally ring you up. The uneasiness is getting beaten out by excitement, pouring over from the news they all received about the album release party.

Things are finally, finally, finally looking up. He’s feeling better. Not enough to face you, but enough to not feel worse than complete shit. But all of that freshly blossomed energy sweeps into a torrent of worry as soon as he’s greeted with silence on the line.

“Hello?”

He can’t blame you for hesitating. Fuck, you’re probably over him and are just answering out of pity. You aren’t saying anything. Shit, he fucked all the way up.

But your silence isn’t because of anger. Or annoyance. Because you make the smallest, most desperate noise he’s ever heard in his life.

And the intention to burn the rest of the world shatters every shackle he’s placed on himself, fierce sparks igniting his body to go wherever the fuck you are and deal with anything awaiting his wrath, “Where are you.”

He’s coming to you no matter what.

—

Is that you? Are all those bags chips?

Holy fuck, that’s the funniest shit he’s seen in months.

He’s so fucking in love.

—

He wants this drive to last for hours, if only to maintain this expansion in his chest that lets his lungs breathe.

Being in the car with you? Your pretty voice singing along to all his favorite songs? This will always be one of his favorite things, long after he’s too old to operate even the slowest vehicle in existence.

Remembering the mountain of bags in the backseat, he selfishly tuts, “You still have to gimme chips.” And he also selfishly glances over your chest when you reach behind to get a random flavor. Goddamn. You’re still perfect.

“You really made me get these just for you, huh? Are you eating?”

“Yes, my love. And I never said that.”

…Did he just say what he thinks he said? Well. No taking it back now. Especially when it felt like the most natural thing to call you. An oath. A reminder. To himself, more than anyone else.

It takes you awhile to respond as you open the bag. And Yoongi assumes your comment is to brush off the same sudden shock he still feels, “Such a smartass.”

“You’re the smartass.”

“Don’t act like you aren’t smart, too,” you laugh before pulling down your dress. Wait, are you cold? “I know you are.”

He doesn’t know how to take that compliment, reaching into the bag and watching you shiver, wondering why you’re just dealing with the chill. “Why?”

Yoongi is so thrown off by your reason that he laughs after you say it, “I just… You read.”

His cheeks strain as he lowers the fans, the music now commanding most of the air space. The way you’re turned away is so cute, and you immediately stop fidgeting with your tiny dress. “I’m smart cus I read? How do you even know?”

“You have books under your coffee table. And you don’t have decor just to have it, so…”

Did he ever tell you that? He doesn’t remember saying it, so did you just accurately read him again? Who’s the avid reader now? But speaking of those books… You don’t know what he did with them, or why, and that curves his mouth up a tad. “I moved those, by the way.”

“Em”—you cough—“Embarrassed?”

“Proactive.”

“Huh? For what?”

Perfect. You lead him right where he wanted you to. Proudly telling you why, he says it all through a smirk, “The next time you decide to fuck up my place.”

“Oh, bullshit!”

You’re tickling him while he’s driving? That’s unfair as fuck! “You soaked—aish—my whole apartment!”

“That was you!”

“No?”

“Yes? I was nice and only got your head wet!”

Mm. That sounds like a damn good idea. The visual in his mind is nowhere close to appropriate, and Yoongi’s enjoying your squirm in his passenger seat. Elated you’re back in it in the first place. But you’re almost out of reach again. And he’s dreading the next rolling stop.

At least he gets to hear your huffs again. Those are his absolute favorites. “Ugh. Whatever… I’m right.”

You haven’t changed a bit. Still the same person he left behind, and his heart pangs from the need to do it once again.

But your quick resistance halts his brain. Screeches it to a stop. Fuck, you’re begging him not to do it and he doesn’t want to do it but it’s the right thing. He’s trying to do the right thing but god, does he want to just veer off the goddamn street. He can’t. He can’t he can’t you can’t— “Babe… We can’t.”

“I don’t care.”

“I was only gonna bring you back.”

“Baby, please.”

“He’s home—”

“Do you still miss me?”

…What? Yoongi stills, mind resetting and going blank.

Still miss you? He’s never fucking stopped.

Suddenly, Yoongi abandons any sense of restraint. All control he previously held onto falls away and crumbles to dust. You have his full attention. And you rip his soul to shreds with every word you say,

“Because I get it if you don’t. I do. But I really… I really fucking miss you. And not just because of, whatever. But I consider you a friend and fun as hell to be around, and I haven’t…” The shake of your exhale rattles his eyes. “I haven’t been this happy in weeks. And we aren’t even doing anything.”

God, he feels the same. You could both sit in silence and he’d be filled with joy just looking at you.

“I know you said I wouldn’t see you. But after getting to know you? The real you? …That sucks.”

Shit.

“I’m not gonna make you change anything, just. Telling you what’s on my mind. Like you said. I’m gonna do that a lot more now.”

Yoongi doesn’t say a word as a tear cuts one of your cheeks, and you’re brave enough to look his way again. “But it’s been three months, Yoongi,” you whisper. “Is that still not enough for you?”

Every brick. Every wall. Every fortress he’s built around his mind crumbles into stardust, shards pinging around his ribs and cutting into his beating, beating, beating heart.

A day was enough for him to miss you. And these three months have felt like three years.

There’s no denying it. He fucking needs you.

Of course. That’s the only reason he sped down here to pick you up and pinned you against his car as if you’d flee. You’re his oxygen, his inhale, his breath of life and hope for new beginnings and goddamn if he lets you go now you’ll never know it—

“Stop.”

Just tonight. He’ll allow himself one night. Does he deserve it? Probably not, but you sure as fuck do for laying your dying heart in his withered hands.

And Yoongi decides with a lock of his jaw. Following where his own broken heart points and peeling out into the street.

—

Once he gets his hands on you, Yoongi can’t fucking stop. From the car to the walls of his apartment, his fingers can’t decide where to stay, raking down your sides and tugging you close before finally shoving you against his bedroom door.

God, your touch. Your lips. Your little sounds of pleasure. Why the fuck did he deprive himself of the one person that makes him whole? Yoongi’s so lost in you that he barely remembers his pain, and he loves the way you laugh in the face of it. So fucking hot.

Closer. He needs to be closer and it’s driving him mad how he’s limited to pressing against your front. Hitching your leg up, he shoves himself forward, the rush of blood tightening his groin and emptying reason from his head.

This is already too much. You’ve already taken things too far. But goddamn, he’s not stopping even if the entire complex broke down his door. “Shouldn’t be fucking doing this—”

You moan and he’s a goner again, the next twitch in his pants straining against your soft pelvis. When a plea leaves that pretty mouth, Yoongi’s ready to give you the world. All you have to do is say it and it’s yours and yours alone. “Please what.”

The tug of his hair makes him groan, but it’s your words that drag his soul across coals, “Choke me. Use me. I don’t care, do it all.”

“Huh?”

What did you fucking say?

Nah. Yoongi needs to hear that again because he cannot forgive himself if he’s hallucinating all of this, too. Yanking you forward, he strains his ears just to be bombarded by your demands,

“Don’t be nice. Spit in my mouth. Make me beg like a fucking slut, I need it.”

You’re gonna be the fucking death of him. “The fuck.”

Any hesitance Yoongi had before flings out the door. The whole time he’s trying to do the right thing, here you are spewing everything good and wrong and he’s enraptured. You’re clearly not holding back, so why wouldn’t he match that chaos like his life depended on mania? You give and give and give, and Yoongi makes it his mission to reciprocate.

Soon, he’s everywhere, swallowing you devouring you inhaling you like his last meal of his last life. Busting into his bedroom, the hot rush of adrenaline magnifies his darkest thoughts. But you don’t even give him the chance to say them out loud because what the fuck he’s in his chair now? “Babe—”

What the fuck? What’s gotten into you and what can he do to suspend this moment in time? You’re sin incarnate at his feet, dropping to your knees and attacking him, undressing him with a force that downright startles him through.

It borderline scares him because he’s never seen you like this. Shit, he can’t shake an icky feeling off now and he can’t fully immerse himself in the moment if he’s correct. “Are you su—”

“Let me do this,” you plead upward. And Yoongi lets those sparkling eyes lure him down.

Fuck, fuck, focus. The way you hold his cock is heavensent and the feeling will never get old and he can’t help but groan at the feel of your fingers. But the feeling is still there. The question is still occupying his mind.

So Yoongi utilizes every single ounce of control to stop you, saying your name for the first time in weeks. When you shoot him a look of rejection, his heart breaks in two, because your mind is like his when it defaults to the worst possible scenario.

All he wants to do is kiss you. So he does just that, keeping it tender to calm your potential buzz. Voice soft, he asks through the dark blue of night, “You drank tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah…?”

Ah. He was right. Fuck, if you aren’t lucid enough, this has to stop right now. No matter how fucking bad he wants to tear you apart.

But you reach out to palm his cheek, as if you knew exactly what he was getting at without asking. “I’m not drunk, baby. I just missed you.”

Please be telling the truth. He won’t live with himself if you aren’t telling him what’s really going on.

“I’m not,” you reassure through a smile that he’s missed so fucking much. Once again, Yoongi kisses you, because he can’t bear not feeling those puckered lips on his for another second. How strange it is, being able to breathe best when his mouth is smothered by yours.

“So are you gonna fuck my throat or nah?”

Holy fuck, you can’t do that. You can’t just say shit like that and get away with it. It’s infuriating in the best way and Yoongi will worship this new, unbridled attitude of yours. What an honor to say he knew you had it in you all along. Yoongi never doubted your skyrocketing appeal for a second. “What are you doing to me.”

“This.” You don’t even give him the mercy of a warning. All Yoongi feels next is those angelic, sinful lips around his tip, eyes fluttering shut as his head kicks back in a moan.

Euphoria. You’re his beginning and end, the middle and the rest. Nothing else in the world can bring him to his knees like this, and he can’t imagine being anywhere except at your feet. He’s in trouble. You’re not going home for a long while.

Every swirl you make zings light along his limbs, and he opens soul-sucked eyes to you tugging your dress down fuck.

He tastes himself when you kiss him, the wet of your efforts slathering around his mouth but he doesn’t fucking care. Reaching out, Yoongi smacks at your perfect tits, laughing to himself knowing how lucky he is. “Get the fuck back down there.”

And the smirk you send his way makes him fall in love ten times over.

Yoongi doesn’t even know where he is. And this time, he counts that as a win. Because your licks and sucks are sending him into space, straight past the stars and into the next galaxy over. When the fuck did you get this good? It’s spurning the competitive side of him that vows to not lose to you even though he perpetually will. “Holy fuck.”

His back muscles strain between arching and collapsing, the squeak of his chair the choir to your sinful symphony of sounds. Unbelievably hot. He may as well pass away from how good you’re milking him down.

Then he feels the back of your throat and then some. And something ignites in his core that causes his hands to find your head.

Fuck, your eyes. They’re molten. “So fucking filthy...”

Your laugh around his cock sends him into another frenzy. “Don’t do that.”

But you disobey like the good girl you are, unsheathing your mouth just to swallow his balls oh goddamn. “Fuck!”

It’s over. It’s over for him. All you have to do is tell him what you want and he’s shoving the world aside to make it happen. Your insecurities? He’s banishing. Your wants and needs? He’s providing. There’s no one else but you and his chest is heaving with shallow shallow shallow breaths.

When you let him push you closer, Yoongi groans, tapping that pretty cheek with his length and savoring the way you suck him back in like an addiction.

He’s addicted to you, too. And after tonight, he doesn’t think he can ever get enough. The withdrawals will hit like no other, and he’ll shake and tweak until the next time he can steal you away. “So perfect… So fucking perfect… There will never be anyone else.”

Can you even hear him? You’re so goddamn loud.

“Fucking hell, baby,” Yoongi praises, thrusting into the heat of your mouth and shivering at the sensation you’re willing to give every time. “Missed that fuckin’ mouth.”

You’re already a beautiful sight around his cock. But when you come up for air, erotic effort dripping from your mouth and sloping down in strings to your bare chest? That’s when you’re mesmerizing. And Yoongi doesn’t dare to look away from your face.

What the fuck, you’re going in again? Fuck that. You’re gonna make him bust before he gets the chance to ruin you.

Gathering sweaty hands under your arms, Yoongi yanks you upward, tossing you onto his bed and growling with pride. After he’s through with you? You’ll never doubt where he stands anymore. And quite honestly, he’s damn near scared you’re gonna realize you’re much better than him, in every aspect of your promising life.

Because you’re radiance personified, laughing up at him as if he never left you in the dark. How he played with your light, Yoongi won’t ever forgive himself. But you already have. And his heart lurches forward to worship you.

“Take this off,” he commands into your chest. Because he needs it all. Everything, everything, everything. “No more hiding.”

He helps you with shaking hands as you strip the dress for him, breath ragged with excitement and relief to have you here again. When you question your shoes, Yoongi immediately interrupts, because this is a fantasy he’s had from the fucking jump. “What about my—”

“Don’t.” He grips your pliant thigh. “I’m fucking you with them on.”

“Oh, fuck.”

That’s right. You’re getting all of him—the good, the bad, and all the forbidden thoughts he’s kept locked away. All of it’s now unleashed, unlocked by your ability to finally tell him what you want.

When Yoongi smacks the side of your ass with a possession he’ll think about hours from now, the sound you make launches him to the edge. And when he wrenches your legs apart, his eyes blow obsidian at the sight between them.

Yeah. He’s wrecking your shit tonight. And you’ll feel so good he might cry.

“Please fuck me, baby,” you whisper soft, a far cry from your uninhibited demands from earlier.

But the feeling inside Yoongi’s chest renders him even softer. Because yes, he’s going to. But there’s so much he didn’t get to do, so many things he’s been wanting to give but tore apart every chance.

You deserve more. A whole lifetime more than what you’re asking for. And Yoongi can only summarize how he feels with a single sentence, “I’m gonna do a lot more than that, doll.”

You don’t truly understand. But that’s okay. All you need to do is sit back and let him cherish you, starting with the smooth skin of your ankle that he brings in for a soft kiss.

There’s no way to deny anything anymore. Here you are ready to be used, and Yoongi’s taking precious seconds to plant kisses on your leg? Of fucking course he’s too far gone. He’s been too far gone for months. If there’s one way to show you how he feels without words, he’s gonna take it. Because those three syllables are too profound to be said in a mere tryst under moonlight.

So he pries your legs apart with passion taking the reins, growling out safer thoughts that praise you, “So fucking perfect.”

“No, you,” you counter with a pout, and he cups your cunt to shut that shit down. “Hey!”

“None of that,” Yoongi orders with finality. “Not after all that shit you said at the door.”

“I dunno what happened there,” you admit, now shy and looking more like yourself. It strikes his heart so hard a confession flows right out of his mouth,

“Almost made me come.”

“Be for real.”

“Damn serious.” Goddamn, that grin. Yoongi has found a new obsession.

“Then I should keep going?”

“Uh huh.” Perfect. Spill everything from those shining lips, break him down like you did two times tonight already. “Tell me.”

Yoongi thinks you aren’t gonna do it again. You usually spark like a flare, simmering down after your initial fire then defaulting back to that adorable shyness again. So when you surprise him? All bets are off. Nothing is off limits.

“Fuck me like you missed me.”

And that’s when Yoongi fucking snaps.

He launches for your throat first, feasting on your succulent skin and forcing you up his bed. When his dick brushes against your soft center, his name expels from your mouth at the same time he groans like mad. “Careful,” he finally sends you a warning about your last demand. Because he needs you to know what’s about to happen in this room. “You won’t leave if I did that.”

“I don’t want to,” you hastily respond, gripping his hair just how he likes it. “Wanna stay.”

Stay. He wants nothing but you to do that, too. It’s why he’s wrapping himself around you, latching onto every inch of your skin and grasping at anything he can get his fingers on.

Of course, reason weasels through his brain again, seeping from his mouth without his permission. “You shouldn’t even be here, babe.”

“Just tonight.” Fuck, you sound deflated already. “But if you really don’t want this then please kick me out before—”

“Fuck that.” Yoongi tweaks your chest before rolling hard against you, relishing in the feel of your cunt and defying all sense of morals. “Fuck all of that.”

Kick you out? You’ll learn to never say that again. “Don’t move.”

Yoongi drops to his knees, nudging your legs aside and promising dark and dangerous thoughts against your thigh. Fuck, you smell like heaven. He’s painfully hard and it will take everything in his soul to not come on his bedroom floor.

What are you flinching for? What did he fucking say? “I said. Don’t move.”

“But—Yoongi!”

Patient, he shifts your slick thong sideways, breath heady as his tongue flattens completely against your cunt. And the taste, holy fuck. This is his favorite place and he’ll keep eating until you’re a shuddering, shivering mess on his sheets. The most exquisite mess he’s ever had the pleasure to make.

A dark chuckle rumbles as you instinctively clamp your legs together. And he will always be willing to punish for that because your little whines in response are his guilty pleasures. “Uh uh.”

You taste so fucking good. All essence pooling from your folds coats his mouth in layer after slick layer, his tongue basking in the warmth of your core and lapping over, and over, and over. Greed is too light a word to describe his thirst, and he sucks at the spot he knows you love until you tremble.

Gripping his cock with slicked fingers, Yoongi pumps himself slow, moaning as he keeps licking, sucking, penetrating your cunt with his tongue and deciding that’s not enough for him. He wants you losing your goddamn mind because you made him lose his. He wants you thrashing on his sheets and locking those beautiful muscles for hours.

Your sounds tighten his groin impossibly hard, mingling with the squelches of his feast and the slide of his fingers along his length. Nothing beats this. Nothing will ever compete because you both sound so fucking obscene.

The neighborhood gets to hear you again, and that thought carves a prideful grin into Yoongi’s features. You’re back, and they’re gonna know it. For as long as he can make you scream.

When he inserts a finger to join his tongue, the sound you make almost makes him come oh fuck. Say his name like that again and he will. Days from now, he may even bust off that singular memory alone.

When you grab at his hair, he knows that’s when you’re close. And it spurns him into his next twisted fantasy that has his stomach fluttering.

“Yoongi—I’m—” Nope. You’re not getting there yet. And your response curls his mouth into something ominous. “No no no! Please, fuck—”

Unbothered, Yoongi swats your sopping cunt, completely ignoring your cries for release, “What’d you say?”

“Plea—Baby!”

“Huh?”

Such a terrible listener. What a shame he wouldn’t have it any other way. Because every fucking time you speak, he gets to shush you with a wet tap. And every time you decide to be a smart ass, he rewards you with no hope of reaching the edge you so fiercely crave.

And this goes on for minutes.

Yoongi has time. In fact, he has all the time in the world when it comes to breaking you down. You’re gonna spiral for him, you’re gonna unwind under his tongue. Because this is what you wanted and he’s nothing but incredibly thorough.

Your thighs are quivering by the time he’s ready to reward you release, and he kisses them lovingly as you prattle off complete and utter nonsense above his sweaty head. Standing, he roves his gaze over his sheets, satisfied to hell how he’s made you a mess among them.

And Yoongi is far, far from done with you. Sliding his dick along your folds, he hums, “This is what you wanted, huh. You gonna be a good little slut?”

That obedience you give sets butterflies free in his chest. Because Yoongi knows you hold all the power here, him nothing but a vessel to carry out your every whim. “Then fucking beg.”

When his cock pats your pretty pussy, your reaction has him fraying at the seams. So fucking beautiful when you twist like that. He can’t believe you gave him all these chances to see you at your most vulnerable because this is when you can’t hide a single thing from him. Your mouth betrays you in the best ways, your soul speaks to him when your brain can’t find the courage to.

And Yoongi preens when you shower him with nothing but praise and a sailor’s barrage. His lips find yours after way too long, and when you tug at his shirt his heart pulls taut with it.

“Please,” you finally beg. “I need you.”

“Need you, too.” He does, he does, he does.

Quickly getting up to grab a condom, Yoongi smirks at the way you keep spouting nothing and everything, as if a dam inside burst with no hope of being stopped. Fully stripping himself, he slips the protection on before finding solace between your twitching legs, kissing you once again because fuck he cannot get enough of you tonight. Ever. No matter what lifetime he meets you in.

When you whisper his name, he takes it in his mouth, and the innate need to have you completely makes a mess of his hands.

This is what will destroy him every time. This connection with you is what he will remember long after everything else fades away. There will never be another soul that embraces his so fully, and that truth is a belief so deep rooted it’s unshakeable. No matter what branches he cuts off, no matter what decisions he has to make. He will always, always come back to you.

Because you’re it for him. And he can’t thank his past self enough for walking onto that balcony.

You like it best when he starts slow, especially since it’s been awhile since the last time. When Yoongi knows for a fact you haven’t seen anyone else, either, his heart grows a size, making his breath shudder while he slides further and further inside.

He’ll wait. As always. But you don’t take long to feel comfortable, your hands lifting up to softly pull at his chains. Yoongi’s shoulders relax as you slide up to hold them for support, and he almost can’t look into those eyes he’s so afraid of.

Bliss. This is exactly what he’s been fighting for. This is exactly why he’s going to make a much better effort—now, tomorrow, and forever.

“I’m ready, baby,” you whisper.

And Yoongi lets himself loose completely.

Fuck, you feel better than he remembers, wrapping around him just right and pulsing against every ridge. If he could stay inside you every second, he would. There’s only one thing he can think of that would feel better than this, and just imagining that has him vibrating. The warmth enveloping him buckles both arms at your sides, and he crumbles to an elbow to smush his body against yours.

“Look at me,” he commands, and he gives you a light pat on the cheek before squeezing your jaw. “Open up.”

When you do, spit flings from his mouth into yours, and his eyes blaze and twist at the primal dragon laying claim to you in his chest. Because you’re his, and he’s yours. This is all he ever needed to know.

“Fuck!”

Fuck, that was too fucking hot. If he doesn’t control himself now he’s spilling inside of you in seconds. “What do you say?”

“Me?” you pant, hissing when he grips your chin once again. “Thank—”

He’s thrusting inside you too hard you can’t think. But Yoongi doesn’t relent. Because he knows you can fucking take it. He knows how strong and relentless you can be, reckless just for him and pulling those same commitments from his core.

And you prove him right yet again. “Thank you.”

“Now swallow.” As soon as he shoves inside, your obedience is his unraveling. Watching your eyes roll and your mouth part in release drags him down the shoreline with you, and he can’t fucking save himself because your tugs are too goddamn dominant. Fuck, you’re unbelievable. He will never, ever get enough of you.

“Such a whore for me,” Yoongi praises, smiling lopsided when you remember exactly what he’s referring to. That first night you hustled the shit outta him and left him with a mind so jumbled he didn’t know what to do. God, that was ages ago. He’s not even sure he’s the same person anymore.

But you are. Just a lot more confident. At your core, you’re still the same wonderful woman, and the light in your eyes has not faded even one shade. “Love when you do that,” you admit, and he laughs when you shake your head. “Don’t know why.”

“Me neither.” He spears you again with a cheeky lip bite. “But it’s so fucking hot.”

Your grin can’t be contained, and this is where you wanna be. Right here. Nowhere else in the fucking universe.

“I’m ready.” When Yoongi regards you with curiosity, he gets blindsided yet again by your forthcomingness. “Fuck the shit out of me.”

Oh. Tonight is his last, it seems. “Goddamn, this isn’t good for me.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sitting back on his knees, he gathers your pretty ankles in a bunch. “Hold these pretty legs up for me. There you go.” It’s his turn to not give you a warning. Because you’re slick enough to handle what’s coming and he’s determined to make you do the same.

Driving hard and fast, Yoongi unleashes his energy, slamming into your pussy again and again and relishing in the way you mewl and moan and whine. Keep doing that. He wants to hear you. It’s fuel for him to keep going and give you exactly what you want and need. If you felt insecure around him before tonight, he vows to erase all of that worry until it’s wiped from existence. You’re his world. You’re his everything.

“Feel so good—”

More. More, more, more, he needs fucking more. When he leaves your cunt, you mewl before he grunts, “Fucking—Get up.” Raising you up by the arms, Yoongi leads you to the edge of his bed before swiping a firm arm to clear his desk. Knowing what he’s about to do, his cock twitches like mad.

Fuck, you already look divine facedown on the surface, your legs teetering on those heels and making him grit out a groan.

He cannot come. Not before living out one of his deepest fantasies. Fucking you on his desk? His workspace where he works on his other love? Yoongi’s already shaking before he even grips your quivering hips, shoving your thong away and letting it rest useless on one side of your perfect ass. Fuck.

“Yoongi—”

He finds home again in an instant, pushing your bowing spine down when you habitually flinch, “Uh uh. Stay like that.”

“I wanna—” Your words are cut off with his spank. “Fuck!”

“There you go.” The rock of the desk is so strong that every bang against the wall booms loud, equipment sliding back and forth and teetering just like you had on your high heels. Just the mere sight of you like this makes him spiral. And Yoongi can’t help but whoosh out a raspy laugh. “Goddamn.”

He grabs your hands, shoving you even flatter against his desk so he can pin your arms against your slick back. Possessive? Yes. Unsatiable? Even more so.

Your moans fling out as he doesn’t let up, and Yoongi moans at the way you squeeze and milk his cock—relentless, uncompromising, just how he fucking wants it.

More. He still wants more? Fuck. “Come here.” He gathers your wrists in one palm before reaching around your chest, hauling you up and pinning you against his body by the throat. It’s so sweaty under his touch, glistening and tempting to be sucked until he mars you with lust.

“Never fucking kicking you out.” His next stroke is intentionally harsh, and those moans will take residence in his mind for years. “Don’t even think about saying that again.”

Your weight falls on his arms when he shoves into you again, feet scrambling for solid ground and wobbling your legs into jello.

But Yoongi doesn’t give a shit. “You hear me?” When you let out a breathy confirmation, he still isn’t satisfied. A hand pats your cheek before he asks again, “Say it louder.”

“Yes!”

“Good.” That’s all you get before he jumps into a frenzy, pistoning as fast and as hard as he can possibly manage. When he brings you back down to his desk, Yoongi takes advantage of the position, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting into your heavenly velvet.

This is exactly what he needed. What you needed. Of course you both yearned for the same blue flame, ripping each other apart and rebuilding each other again.

You’re close. Yoongi can feel you. So he menacingly decides to prolong your release yet again—

You shove him so fast he can’t react, thumping onto his bed and cackling like mad when you leap onto his frame. Fuck, your eyes are so blown and vicious they set him on fire, and he’s gripping your sloping hips and shoving you against his length before he can fully taunt, “Let’s go then, pretty bitch.”

“You already fucking know.”

“Show me what I’ve been missing.”

“Don’t fall in love.”

Right. He’s already groaning when you take your throne, regal and royal and showing him exactly why he already has. But when you swing your pelvis and take him even deeper, Yoongi reminds himself that he can always fuck you like he doesn’t. And that’s both of your favorite ways to sin. “Fuck.”

His head kicks back, eyes squeezing shut in lust. He’s so tight that he might hurt you, so his hands grapple his sheets instead and tense his muscles indefinitely.

You feel good. Way too fucking good. If you’ve been practicing with those secrets you have in your bedside drawer he can damn well fucking tell. Soon, his hisses devolve into groans, and he snaps his head back up to slap your breasts—one after the other before gripping your hips with force. “Fuck, I missed this pussy,” he confesses with husk, and you whine in response as you lower yourself to kiss him deep.

“It missed you, too.” You’re extending yourself up his body now, upping his heartbeat until it races to catch up with his feelings. But everything unholy fills him to the brim when you arch your tits to his face. It seems you figured some things out while he was gone.

A dark chuckle leaves as he suckles on one of your nipples, lolling around and drawing whines right out of your lips. It’s adorable to feel you frozen around his waist, too distracted by his tongue that you can’t multitask both ends.

It’s okay. He can do that for you. Grabbing the back of your neck, Yoongi thrusts himself up into your heat, marvelling at the way your mouth flops open to say his name. “Uh huh.”

Before you can talk again, his other hand joins in to choke you from the other side, and his eyes engulf in black when yours roll impossibly far back.

Fuck. He’s not gonna last much longer. But you’re gonna reach bliss a thousand times before he worries about himself. “You gonna come?”

A frantic nod.

“Then come.”

As soon as you hear the words, you do exactly that, windpipe released just as you pulse around him so hard he hisses out a curse. Shit, shit, his release is right behind yours. The way you tug at his cock proves too much, and he stutters out words of encouragement when spilling out his own release inside latex. But you’re inundating around him even after he comes, and Yoongi selfishly commands you with a rasp, “Again.”

To his shock, you obey immediately, crying out and arching so far back Yoongi feels himself close again, too. Has he come more than once in awhile? He doesn’t remember the last time that happened, if at all. But he knows it can happen with you. There’s no doubt he can get there with you, because he loves you so fucking much.

Fuck. Fuck, did he just say that last confession out loud? No. No, he didn’t. There’s no fucking way.

Sitting up, he waits as you sling arms around him, leaning back and smirking at the way the new angle makes you moan. Confident you can do it a fourth time, he repeats, “Again.”

Your head shakes before your arms lock around his neck, and one tilt of his hips pushes you over the edge. And god. Damn. This reaction you have to your own body sends Yoongi to a higher plane. He stares in awe as your eyes roll again, drinking in the sight of you and questioning what the hell he’d done to deserve a front row seat.

You’ve both come so far. But Yoongi is more proud of you for finding your sensuality in perfect stride and pace. This is wholly you, losing yourself and baring your soul to him in full. Despite what you’re doing, you radiate such an angelic aura, and Yoongi has pricks at the corners of his eyes.

He has his guardian angel back. And he would burn the universe without a second thought if it kept you safe and warm. “So fucking perfect.”

“For you,” you wisp out. “Only you.”

How you decided to stay with him, Yoongi will never be able to fathom. But you came back effortlessly. You welcomed him back like the promise of a nostalgic summer.

Lowering you to his sheets, he positions you to where you’re most comfortable. When he asks if you’re okay, you can only nod, and he plants another kiss on your temple before sliding off his protection. It doesn’t take him long to trash, and he makes his way back to the bed to take full advantage of your body heat.

There’s complete silence now. But for the first time in months, Yoongi’s more than fine with that. Because it’s nothing but comforting, with your occasional nudge against his chest and soft breaths warming his chains.

Soothing your back with circles, something walks into his brain, and he can’t hold it in any longer as his mouth spreads wide into a grin, “I need to re-up this damn cat’s food.”

That squeal is so fucking worth the surprise.

“I knew it!” Yoongi pretends to be annoyed when you figure him all the way out. “Tried to hide it from me all these months? Somebody’s getting soft.”

“First off.”

“Uh huh.”

Someday, one day soon, he’s gonna take you shopping for her. You’re going to run through his entire wallet, but Yoongi doesn’t care because he’s gonna be at his happiest picking toys and things out for you.

He can even buy you storage for some of your clothes, too.

Maybe that can be your next surprise.

“I’m her favorite.”

Your scoff is immediate, and Yoongi watches as you attempt to tower over him. “Only because you gatekeeped her.”

Gatekeeped? Is that even a word? A soft disagreement precedes a more prominent, “Won’t even matter.” Because she’s definitely going to warm up to you more. He’s gonna take pride in the small amount of time he’s the favorite before being recognized as the lowly food and water boy.

Something softens in your stare. And he’s wondering what’s floating around in that attractive mind of yours. “You took care of her.”

He did. Because she came back when he was himself again. And if that wasn’t a sign for good things to come, Yoongi will make it one anyway. “She was gonna be your surprise,” he finally murmurs. “For getting the gig.”

Your eyes still before you offer a smile that stops his heart. When you lean down to give him a kiss, the same organ beats in double time when you plant love on his forehead right after.

Oh. That was…

“Come here,” Yoongi whispers, wrapping you against his side as you lie back down. Calling it what it is, he’s simply too shy to look into your eyes right now. “How are you gonna get home?” He’s fine taking you. But there’s a lot of risk there if your brother is awake or driving up at the same time. And—

Shit. You still have those shoes on. They can’t be comfortable while lying down, especially after you took him like a champion.

“I’ll call a ride in the morning. He’ll be out cold until noon at the earliest.”

“K.”

“Did I keep you from anything?”

A puff flies out his nostrils. Of course you’d still ask that after commandeering the rest of his night. “Kinda late for that, huh.”

“True. Sorry.”

“But no, we were finishing up when I called.”

“Okay… Did I scare you?” When Yoongi can’t confess out loud, he lets his eyes speak for him. Which makes your voice heavy with apology, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“S’ok.”

“I just… It hurt tonight.” Fuck. “Really hurt.”

He knows exactly what you mean. It’s been hurting like this ever since he left. Which means he has to make up all that time. Grappling onto this chance you gave like a lifeline, he’s gonna right all his wrongs and fully commit. No matter how many shadows are in this damn apartment, because he now knows you’ll help chase them away.

After a light squeeze, Yoongi gently shifts his weight, resting his head exactly where your hand clutches your chest. When you move your fingers, he kisses that same spot, hoping you understand what he means. “How about now.”

Fingers meek, you clutch his head with a broken response, “Maybe try that one more time.”

He’ll do it as many times as you ask.

Yoongi can feel the shudder in your chest. And he knows what that usually means. So he decides to run from your expression one more time, trying something else to hopefully comfort you. Sliding to the edge of his bed, he gently lifts one of your ankles onto a leg, back fully facing you as he undoes the meticulous leather straps. “I always do, babe.”

When you’re silent, he slips one heel off before clarifying. “Miss you.”

“I just… Wasn’t sure.”

He hates the waver in your voice. Hates how he’s the sole cause of it and fighting hard to not hurtle down another hole. “That’s my fault.”

Throat small, you’re swift to reassure him. “No, no. I need to just suck it up. I’m sorry.”

After freeing your other foot, he rubs it without prompt, finding comfort in massaging your exhausted soles. If he allows himself to dream, it would be to end each and every night just like this. Driving you to release before soothing your tired bones as you talk about whatever’s on your mind, working toward his dream while you drift off and get lost in yours.

Can he have that? Will the universe let him have a future despite his past? “Just a little bit longer, doll,” he says, turning to look at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“You gave me tonight.” When he swallows, you reassure him with all the support you can give, “A little longer is nothing.”

Of course. How could you be any less than perfect? A moment passes before he shifts, and this is when he finally spots the ocean of littered pens and papers on his floor.

Is his smile that obvious? It doesn’t take you long to call his ass out. “You liked whatever happened over there, huh.”

Immediately, Yoongi’s shoulders bob with a laugh before he admits, “Fucking you on my desk? I’ve wanted to do that for months.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Going through all the other scenarios he’s thought of—one that occurs a little far from here—he grins. “There’s a lot of shit I’ve wanted us to do for months.”

“Oh? Like what?”

He looks over his shoulder, and you scoff in frustration at his answer, “What’s the fun in telling you?”

“Ass!”

—

Yoongi does his damned best to keep that smile on your face. After a shower that proves steamier than usual, he offers to make you dinner when your stomach roar makes him double over in laughter. And while he whips up a meal from the last batch of groceries Taehyung brought, Yoongi peeks around the bar to watch you discreetly open his front door.

Wearing a shirt he used to wipe his own tears weeks ago. He’s been an utter, complete fool.

“Is she there?” He calls out, to which you turn with a prominent pout on your lips.

“No.” When you huff and puff to the kitchen, his eyes crease tight. “Whatever, I have plenty of time to become her new fave.”

Over dinner, your laughs mix with his own as you tell him all your work stories. And Yoongi quickly realizes that this could’ve been the whole night and he’d be just as happy. Just as fulfilled. What does that tell him? Nothing he doesn’t already know.

It’s when you both settle into bed that things simmer. And as Yoongi lies on your hearth of a chest, you tell him everything that happened with Jungkook. How you met, when your brother went from protectiveness to approval, up until the night he broke your heart.

Yoongi doesn’t say a word. But he does encourage you to keep talking about your new job. Because it seems like the perfect fit for you, which is the complete opposite from where you were before.

“Oh, wait,” you suddenly stop during a story about office decorating, “What did you call about?”

“Huh? Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

Now that it’s his turn to speak, Yoongi feels shy. You’ve been experiencing so much while he was away, and it’s relieving to know you didn’t lose most of your spark. “We finally have a confirmed date. For that album,” he murmurs. “I was gonna invite you to the release party.”

You tense. “Me?”

A laugh flows out, warming his cheek. “Yes, you. All of y’all.”

It takes a second for you to ask what he suspects you would, “That won’t be weird?”

“Nah. You can bring anyone you want, so. I was assuming you’d bring your friends.”

“Ah, I see.”

Nope. There’s that insecurity again. And he’s already there to push it away, planting kisses along your skin, your neck, and landing home on your lips. “It won’t be the only one,” he promises. “We got time.”

“Duh,” you giggle. “And I’ll be at all of them. Whether you like it or not.”

Oh. Yeah. He loves you more than words could ever convey.

But he doesn’t feel like he can tell you just yet. That’s the last hurdle he has to clear, and he finds himself eating shit every time he attempts. But it’s okay. There’s still time. Because you chose him again, you gave him another chance, you’re here.

Finding his spot on your chest again, Yoongi immediately feels at peace. All the nights he dreaded, and all the nights he doesn’t remember—every single one can’t touch him now. Because in you, he finds a safe haven, the rolling hills of your limbs and the valley of your breasts shining and warm under your smiles.

He’ll find a way to do this. He’ll find a way to set things straight with your brother and his past. Soon. Maybe. Hopefully.

Yoongi starts to lull as you glide gentle fingers through his hair, something else that lends him the solace he’d been seeking for months. God, all he needed was you. And you’re the only thing he left… behind…

You’re humming.

Ever the curious musician, Yoongi perks his ears to figure out what you’re singing. Is it something he can recognize? Is it a song he doesn’t know? No. You aren’t humming anything in particular. Which makes this performance unique and only for him, and your soft lilt tugs on every single string of his heart.

Forget everything he had said before. This is how he wants to end every night, floating amongst your stars while your voice dips his mind in a stream of gentle song.

God. You’re composing and don’t even know it. The way you stop before trying something different, the small grunt you make before going again to make a phrase better. It’s not unlike his own creative process, and that connection yanks tears straight from his soul.

What did he ever do. What did he ever do to be with you.

“Shit, was I too loud?”

Yoongi just shakes his head, holding you closer and hoping you don’t notice the droplets through his tee. “Not at all.”

So you keep going, humming more familiar tunes and phrases, moving on to a drumline on his head that makes him huff in pure delight.

But Yoongi commits that moving line you liked to memory, remembering every note and already weaving it into the fabric of his own making. A breakthrough sparks new life into his eyes, and Yoongi squeezes them tight while his lungs silently burn and burn.

It’s what he had been fucking missing.

You were the key this whole time.

And he waits until you fall asleep to let out grateful, heavy sobs into your chest.

—

The day after you left is one of the most stressful ones of his life. From the whirlwind of a morning to the moment of bravery in the studio to handling your brother, Yoongi needs a whole week of no brain activity.

But that call with you long after night fell just changed his whole perspective on the time he’d been gone.

You sounded so broken, so fragile, so defeated. It didn’t matter to have that one night of reunion. He fucked up the next day by falling asleep and leaving you worried yet again.

You asked if he was done with you. And from the way you asked it, you already believed it to be true.

And Yoongi never, ever wants you to question where he stands again. Not when there’s three words he wants to say to you every fucking day.

When the phone cuts, Yoongi’s hand falls, his stare shifting straight to the living room. Right towards the corner that stares back. “You’re nothing to me anymore,” he vows, walking to the guitar that almost shies away. “I’m done.”

Keep saying it. Keep believing it. Keep focusing on the present and grasping that instead. And one day, these words will be truer than true.

Reaching for the case, Yoongi stops midway, his hand unable to go any farther.

All he has to do is throw it out. That’s it. Just take it, walk to the nearest dumpster, and discard. Years of toxins will fester somewhere else, and he’ll finally be rid of the dark.

In the end, he still can’t do it. But that won’t stop him from showing you he’s better now. Showing himself he’s better now.

Because he is, he is, he is.

“For us.”

tbc in fugue, pt. iii

so... thoughts before part 3? | join the server! | fugue pt. iii

a/n: this was the part that i couldn't write until i knew yoongi was fine. it was always the plan to have him isolated, but to see real life yoongi go through all that last summer.. i couldn't find it in my heart to write his self-isolation and self-deprecation without my soul hurting. it just didn't feel right. but as soon as i saw him okay? 3tan yoongi came back again. and my fingers flew. a/n 2: thank you again, everyone. i hope you all love all the parts of fugue in equal amounts! any support, love, or encouragement means the whole world to me. again, i'm sorry for taking so long to update the main storyline, but i am back. for real. love you guys so much. ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

#part two is here!!#bts fic #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts reactions #yoongi fic #yoongi angst #yoongi smut #yoongi x you #bts smut #btsfic #*latest #ryenwrites #3tanfugue2

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chuelectrico20 · 4 months ago

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Movie Tails appreciation post

Idk why I've been having Tails brainrot lately, especially movie Tails, so i wanted to put my thoughts out there about him mainly bc I think he's really underappreciated in his character compared to Sonic and Knuckles who have more animated personalities and Shadow who's well you know Shadow lol.

First off his introduction, already the basics he's a kid genius and admires Sonic greatly though in this iteration it's important to note he actually goes out of his way to find Sonic (see pre-quill comic for more info) so he already has a great deal of independence for himself. In this, though, while he can take care of himself in some ways, it comes from a necessity as he was outcast from his village, and in the novel, it's implied he was abandoned.

Likely being isolated for the majority of his life (hey, like Sonic!) he's kinda socially inept, like when he's explaining he was basically stalking Sonic for months (to be fair Sonic also did this with the Wachowski's), fanboying during the car escape with a confused Sonic, or when he tried telling Sonic everything will be ok when Tom got hit by Shadow. He's like the most mature out of the 3, but that doesn't mean he understands everything. He's only like 8 or younger, and he still needs guidance at the end of the day.

Add to that point, I just generally appreciate how they don't forget how Tails is the youngest. He got so happy seeing the live Chao show he was clapping along and everything that's just plain cute! His age is also easily recognizable in his character design, both because of his more stubby stature and bigger forehead. (I always go aww when he's on screen)

Back to his genius side, what's a Tails without gadgets and his gadgets also tell alot about him. Tails relies a lot on his gear, which makes sense, and, more importantly, his gadgets are his way of connecting with others to show them he's someone with something to offer. This comes back to his abandonment issues. He puts a lot of worth in them because without them, he doesn't feel like he's worth a lot, let alone friends or family. Even when he finally reached Sonic, he didn't think that Sonic would want him to come along. When he says lines like "Tails was just excited to be included." or goes along with the Team Sonic name and is the most adamant about being a team he's trying so hard not to be abandoned again.

And now I wanna highlight some moments i personally love

-he's the only one to put the down the Chao head without throwing it

-giving Unit a chance and wanting to keep him (using puppy eyes too lol)

-they let him pilot the GUN helicopter🥺

Okay that's it thanks for reading my ramblings to the end 💛

#sonic movie #movie tails #tails wachowski #miles tails prower #tails the fox #sonic the hedgehog #sonic movie 2 #sonic movie 3 #ramblings #long post

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sungstars · 10 months ago

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fall off. | pjs x fem!reader

i.e your boyfriend is so shy and you have so much fun making him flustered!

content warning: smut! (18+ only, mdni!!), oral (f. rec), fingering (f. rec), implied dom!sung sorta… established relationship!

word count: 1.6k (not proof read sawri)

author's note: this is entirely based off of that tiktok sound that goes "come here bae come sit next to me come and take ur draws off damn u on the edge of the bed u about to fall off!" i had sososos much fun writing this :3 i love freaky shy jisung! likes & reblogs are very appreciated and i hope u guys enjoy reading this!! also i finished this before the hurricane hits because i have nothing better to do for the next few hours LOL... will try to get some more stuff out over the next few days!

"come sit next to me," you patted the empty space on your bed as you looked across at your boyfriend, jisung, "why are you so nervous?"

jisung was gripping his jeans so hard his knuckles were turning white and ears flushed fiery red, "oh. i'm okay right here. thanks."

his words were coming out very strained and jisung couldn't even bring himself to look at you, "it's really warm in here."

"you are wearing jeans and a hoodie, as well as a long sleeve shirt underneath it," you replied, leaning back against your pillows and extending your legs out, "you could take them off."

jisung's voice got caught in his throat, face turning beet red, "all of it?"

you giggled, poking his side gently with your foot, "sure. make sure you take your underwear off too."

it took everything in you to not bust into laughter at your boyfriend, and it took everything in jisung to try not to implode from embarrassment.

jisung was by no means a virgin, he had a plethora of sex before the two of you started dating. there was just something about you that made him so nervous to be intimate with you.

you had your fair share of make out sessions, always ending up with you in his lap and sucking dark hickeys into his neck, but anytime the two of you tried to do more, he just froze up and couldn't.

of course you never made him feel bad about it. you found it endearing and cute how nervous he was. even when jisung mentioned that he never had this issue before, you didn't get upset. you were so understanding.

"jisung," you sat up on your elbows, "come back to me. you started wondering off in your little world again."

he muttered out a quick sorry, starting to fan his face gently to calm down this heat in his face. you watched him in adoration, smiling because he was just too cute when he was flustered.

however, your head tilted in concern when you saw how far off the bed he was, "sung, you're about to fall off of the bed."

"oh. didn't even notice." he scratched the back of his head, adjusting his positioning on the bed, leaning against the wall, "sorry."

the two of you fell into a silence, comfortable for you, but awkward for jisung. you stretched your legs out to lay across his lap as you rested against the pillows again and closing your eyes.

jisung didn't know what to do or say. he's been in your room before, so he's not sure why he feels so. . . hot. the temperature isn't too high, and he's been in physical contact with you.

he really wants to get more physical, to make you feel good and fall apart from pleasure that he knows he can inflict upon you. there was just. . . something that made him nervous about doing it. maybe he didn't want to disappoint you because unlike other people he's slept with, you are a constant presence in his life.

and also, most of the people he's slept with were drunk freshman year experiences.

he just needed to stop thinking about the what ifs. jisung needed to stop thinking in general, he just needed to do it. he was more than capable of doing these things to you.

"stop thinking." he told himself as he looked at your legs across his lap, drumming his fingers against them, "just do it."

"fuck it, we ball." he squeezed his eyes shut before adjusting himself to stand on his knees, pushing your legs gently to stand between them.

your eyes fluttered open, looking up at your boyfriend who had an unreadable expression on his face, "everything okay, ji?"

jisung nodded, his hands coming up to unzip his hoodie before shrugging it off and tossing it behind him, "y-yeah."

you smiled up at him, gazing at his defined arms before finding his eyes again, "you look handsome."

his cheeks turned a rosy pink which caused him to mentally curse because he just got that hue to leave his face, "you look pretty. you always do."

"what's on your mind?"

with a strong exhale through his nose, jisung pushed all of these nervous thoughts that returned down and pressed his lips against yours.

a surprised noise escaped you, but you brought your arms to wrap around his neck and kissing him back. one of his hands brought your leg to his hip, pressing his growing erection into you and causing you to part your lips slightly.

jisung took his opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth and you gently tugged on the nape of his hair. a moan escaped the man above you, causing you to pull on it again to get another noise out of him.

his hands began to wonder between the two of you, starting to travel underneath the material of your camisole, fingers dancing lightly against the expanse of your stomach.

the boy pulled away from you slightly, his lips slightly swollen and eyes full of desire, "can i. . .can i touch you, y/n?"

"of course you can, ji." you said softly, hands rubbing up and down his chest, "you can do whatever you want."

he gently pushed your shirt up until it reached your collarbones, breath hitching when he saw that you weren't wearing a bra.

you watched him for a moment, wondering if he would touch you or get flustered and pull your shirt back down over your tits.

instead, he caught you by surprise and leaned down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth while rolling the other one around between his fingers.

a noise of pleasure escaped you, bringing your hands up to his hair to pull on it once more.

jisung switched between your tits constantly, making sure to show them an equal amount of attention before removing them from his mouth and continuing to kiss down your stomach.

the cold air coming into contact with your now hard nipples caused you to whimper, jisung looking up at you with concern.

"are you okay? should i stop?" he asked, pulling himself up to check on you, which you quickly stopped by pushing his head back down.

"i'm fine, perfect actually," you flashed a reassuring smile at him, "continue, please."

he nodded, beginning to kiss your stomach once more, his hands moving their way up to your shorts.

jisung gently dipped his fingers into your waistband, slowly starting to pull them down to your hips.

his lips followed behind, kissing over the hibiscus tattoo that began to fade after years without a touch up, grazing his teeth over the skin lightly.

“no panties?” he murmured against your skin, biting down harshly, “hah. . . it’s like you planned this.”

you smiled mischeviously at the boy between your thighs, threading your hand through his hair, "wishful thinking."

"don't think," he said in between kisses, pulling your shorts down your thighs and over your ankles, tossing them behind him, "just focus on me."

jisung grabbed one of your legs, adjusting himself before placing your knee over his shoulder and attaching his lips to your inner thighs.

you felt your heartrate pick up, nervous at what was to come next. you talked a big game because you didn't actually think anything would come from teasing jisung.

his lips traveled closer to your core, but instead focused on sucking light marks into your skin. jisung wanted to see how desperate you could get for him, even though he wanted nothing more but to taste.

"ji," you whined out, tugging on his hair harshly, "don't be a fuckin' tease. you were just acting like a virgin who's never even touched a girl before."

annoyance crept up on jisung, rolling his eyes in disbelief. there was no way he was gonna let you talk to him like that when you both know he is far from a virgin.

"talking a lot for somebody who wants to be touched," he muttered back, using two of his fingers to spread your lips open and admiring how glistening your cunt was, "she's practically drooling for him."

your face flushed at how vulgar he was, but oh you were eating it up on the inside. this is exactly what you wanted, jisung to snap and show you how nasty he was under that shy boy exterior, "then do something about it."

jisung ignored your comment, blowing air on you cunt to make you shut up. he was going to get you to beg, no matter how long it took or how much he desired to lick you clean, "ask nicely."

"i'm not asking for shit," you spat, faux irritation escaping you, "we both know you wanna eat it anyway."

you got him there, he couldn't lie. however, he knew what game you were playing, and he decided to give in, "you're right."

a victorious look on your face quickly contorted to one of pleasure when jisung wrapped his plush lips around your clit.

a high pitched whine left your lips when his teeth gently grazed your bundle of nerves before letting his tongue lick down your slit.

your grip in his hair tightened when you felt his tongue move skillfully as he teased your hole with one of his fingers. the one wrapped around your thigh began digging crescents into your skin, the boy between your legs moaning into your cunt.

"fuck ji," you breathed out when his finger slid into you, gently pumping in and out, "fuck it feels so good."

the boy pulled away for a moment, looking up at you with your juices glossing his lips and dripping down his chin, "good because i don't plan on stopping anytime soon."

END

pt. 2 ???

#park jisung x reader #park jisung smut #park jisung imagines #nct dream hard thoughts #nct dream hard hours #nct dream smut #nct dream imagines #jisung smut #park jisung hard thoughts #jisung hard thoughts #jisung hard hours

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arclic-stuff · 4 months ago

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What's been missing

Pairing: Lilia Calderu x fem!reader

Synopsis: You and Lilia have been dating for a few months, but she has felt you becoming distant over the last week. She confronts you, and you open up about your issues with intimacy.

Warnings: smut(18+), sexual tension, teasing, fluff, slight angst?, mentions of bad past relationships and intimacy issues, praise, fingering, begging, cunnilingus, petnames?, sort of dirty talk?

Word count: 3.1k

Author's note: This is the product of burnout and loosely based on my own experiences, whoops. Also, my first time writing smut, in case you couldn't tell lol. I've read over it but honestly fuck it y'all will get the vibe regardless of typos. Feedback is welcome, hope you enjoy!

READ ON AO3

MASTERLIST

The harsh bathroom light hurts your eyes as you contemplate your next move. You and Lilia have been dating for a few months since you started tarot lessons with the witch. The two of you clicked and soon the friendship developed further into a relationship that feels so right. All was going well until tonights movie date.

Apart from the occasional make out, things hadn't progressed far on the intimacy side of your relationship. Due to bad experiences in the past, you're hesitant to get intimate with her in case it goes badly and scares her off. So when her hand began to creep up your leg during the movie, you panicked. And so, you've been sitting in the bathroom for the last 15 minutes thinking of what to do.

Knowing you can't hide forever, you head back to your living room towards the couch. Lilia smiles as you approach before looking back at the TV. You sit down next to her, trying to focus on the movie, but Lilia has other plans. Once again, her hand finds your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze as she moves higher. Of course, it feels nice, but you dont know what to do with the feelings, so you shift on the couch, moving to the far end of the couch. You feel Lilia's head turn, but you ignore it, hoping for the moment to pass. Lilia sits for a moment before reaching for the remote, turning off the film.

"(y/n) has something happened?" Lilia turns to face you, worry painted across her face as she prepares for the worst.

"No, I'm fine" You offer a weak smile hoping it is convincing but her face remains the same.

"No, you're not. Why are you pulling away from me? And I don't just mean tonight, this whole week you've been distant. If something's happened between us, I need to know."

Sometimes you forgot how observant Lilia is. You struggle to find the words to explain yourself, instead sitting in silence trying to string together a sentence. The silence is too much for Lilia to bare and so she stands up.

"I should go, I don't know what I've done but I'm sorry. Goodnight (y/n)" The older woman tries and fails to hide the wobble in her voice as she rushes to get her jacket. You rise to your feet to follow after her.

"No please don't go. You've done nothing wrong" You rush to stand between her and the door, reaching for her hand which she pulls away.

"Then why?" Lilia asks, looking at you for an explanation. Struggling to find the words, you grab her hand and pull her back into the living room to sit down on the couch, hoping the movement can give her time to think. The silence of the space mixed with Lilia's pleading eyes pulls the words out of your mouth before you can stop them. Closing your eyes, you explain your issues with intimacy from your last relationship, how you're terrified of going further with her in case you mess it up, but also at the same time how you yearn for her and didn't know how to communicate it without sounding crazy.

You open your eyes, bracing for her reaction, but instead she looks at you with nothing but understanding, "Thank you for telling me this. How are you feeling now?"

"Good, it's been hard keeping it to myself. It's so confusing, I want us to get closer, but it scares me" You fidget with your hands, moving slightly towards Lilia without realising, meanwhile she sits back on the couch.

"We can start small?" Lilia opens her arms to you, inviting you closer, and you accept. Lying in Lilia's arms feels like a reward for finally being open with her and yourself. You sink into her chest as her arms envelope you. Lilia hums as she feels you relax in her arms and starts rubbing your back absentmindedly, making you press into her more.

"We can go at whatever pace you need Dolcezza" Her hand continues on it's path drifitng up and down your spine, making you shudder with every movement, her other hand moves your hair out your face.

"We're in no rush, we can try things out together when you're ready" Lilia plants a gentle kiss on your temple, sighing. Something about how gentle she is being with you fills you with curiousity, urges you haven't allowed youself to dwell on resurfacing with every touch.

"What if I want to try things now" You blurt it out trying to hide you face from the woman.

"Oh? What kind of things?"

You shrug, making Lilia chuckle, "Well, we need some ideas first"

The hand on your back drifts down towards your waist, making you shiver.

"Do you like being touched like this?" Lilia's voice sounds more suggestive, as if she is being affected just as much as you. You hum as she continues rubbing your back, every often moving back to your waist then hip, making you whimper slightly, but once again lilia notices.

"How did you ex touch you?"

"Not like this"

"That's not what I asked baby, what did they do? What did you like or dislike? Its okay you can tell me"

"They never did things like this, it was just sex"

"What do you mean just sex"

"You know sex sex"

"Honey do you mean no foreplay?"

You look up confused, as if it's an alien concept.

"Oh my God that explains so much"

"There's more to relationships than sex, sweetheart, of course that's nice, but being caressed, worshipped, loved, that's different"

You stare at her in shock, shock of how simple the issue had been. It wasn't the intimacy you had issues with, it was the lack of.

"Can you keep going please?"

Lilia smirks tucking your hair behind your ear.

"Of course love, like this?" Lilia continues to rub your back, going in long movements covering your shoulders, waist, hip bone, it makes you fall back into her arms, head in chest, hand gripping her upper arm as she runs her nails lightly down your spine.

"Is this okay?" She using her other hand to caress your face thumb rubbing your cheek. You nod before nuzzling into her neck again, shifting closer to her in the process.

"(Y/n), I need an answer"

"Yes"

"Do you want anything else?" You look away awkwardly, still unsure how to verbalise your thoughts, instead trying to avoid her eye. "Do you want me to stop?"

"What? No dont"

"Then what do you want? This is about you right now" Lilia pulls your head out her neck so her mouth is against your ear.

"I just want to make you feel good baby, what can I do?"

Feeling her breath against your ear gives you new found confidence and without thinking you sit up and move to sit on her lap, straddling her thighs. Lilias eyes widen at the sudden action, keeping her hands at her side, not wanting to push you any further. You slump, fidgeting with your hands unsure what to do now the two of you are face to face. Lilia senses your nerves, moving to hold you hands, making you look up.

"What can I do?" She whispered. Trying to act on instinct, you move her hands to your hips, bottom lip between teeth.

"Show me what I've been missing"

"Are you sure?"

"Please, Lilia"

"Come here then" She hums looking down at you lips. Slowly you lean forward and finally kiss Lilia. It's soft, gentle, quick like the ones you've shared before, but this time it isn't just a sign of affection. Lilia moves her hand to the back of your neck, pulling you in for another kiss. This one goes on for longer, and has more heat contained within. Lips moving against eachother, hands finding Lilia's shoulders and neck.

Lilia's hands are still glued to your body, squeezing your hipbone, advancing upwards but this time under the barrier of your shirt making you sigh into the kiss. Her hand goes further up then comes down quick, nails lightly scratching on the way done. The action makes you break the kiss, pulling back to gasp.

"You okay?" lilia says lips grazing your jaw.

"Yes.."

"Yes? And?"

"Yes and keep going please" You whimper gripping onto her shoulders as if it's the only thing stopping you from combusting

"How about we take this to the other room hm?" Lilia tilts her head to look up at you, hands running across your thighs. You nod eagerly, standing up, pulling her up with you. The two of you head for your bedroom, Lilia stops at the doorway, slipping off her shoes before entering after you.

It occurs to you suddenly that Lilias never been in your room before. You feel self-concious about the space, the cluttered bedside table, piles of clothes, and the work desk with your sketches and projects spread out across the surface. Lilia inquisitively looks around the room as she takes off her robe, folding it over your chair. Her eyes settle on the sketches looking at them with genuine interest.

"Are these the commissions you mentioned earlier?" Lilia glances at the open sketchbook infront of her, you come to stand beside her pointing out a seperate drawing.

"Those are just warm up doodles, this is the actual work, it's been a very interesting process actually," You go on to explain when you feel hands snake around your wasit, realising Lilia has moved to stand behind you, looking over your shoulder at the drawing.

"Continue please" she rests her chin on your shoulder listening to you try and continue with what you where saying. You do try to keep talking but Lilia starts kissing your shoulder, hands gliding across your stomach resting on your hips, pulling you in closer. Somehow, she manages to continue asking questions about your work, asking about the process, the inspiration, showing interest in your work aswell as your body.

You can only take so much. The questions, the attention, the compliments, it all makes you feel light headed and wound up. It makes you turn around and crash your lips against hers, starting to back her up towards the bed, pushing her down.

Lilia looks up with a smug smirk, perched up on her elbows watching you catch your breath, the eye contact makes you shiver and suddenly feel self-concious. She moves on the bed to create space for you to join her, which you do, lying down so you're both facing eachother.

"How are you feeling now?" Lilia whispers, hand reaching out to trace your arm and side. You reach out towards her pulling her up to lean on her elbow.

"Like I need you on top of me" You huff, trying to pull her, but she stays where she is, running a hand along your jaw.

"Are you sure (y/n)? I dont want to push you too much" Lilia pulls her hand away but you grab it before it goes too far.

"I know, but I want you to" You kiss her palm before taking one of her fingers into your mouth. As you slowly suck, you look up at her with pleading eyes. The actions make Lilia's jaw clench, eyes darkening. Realising it's working, you lie down on the pillows, laying your arms up, resting around it. Making Lilia chuckle, she sits up.

"This is quite the view" Lilia moves to sit infront of you, gently guiding your knees apart, shifting to hover above you. Having her this close in this position makes your breath hitch, bottom lip going between your teeth.

"Aw do I make your nervous baby?"

She kisses you, hips pressing down into yours, making you moan at the sensation. She continues kissing you, going to kiss your neck again. She moves the collar of your shirt to find new skin, making you start undoing the buttons of your shirt, she swats your hand away.

"That's my job, Dolcezza" She unbuttons your shirt before pushing it off your shoulders, runs hands up your side, stopping just under your bra, making your back arch.

"Absoluting stunning my love, may I?" Lilia hooks her finger under a bra strap, you node shifting to give her access to the clasp. Lilia takes it off tossing it across the room. Her lips meet yours again as she palms at your chest, making you whine into her mouth, legs tightening around her waist keeping her close.

You roll your hips, she sits back looking at the mess she's turned you into, topless, messy hair, love bites painted across your neck and chest, but what she loves the most is your expression, the heavy eyelids, gaze fulled with lust, pure relatation and arousal. This is exactly how she wanted you, sunken between pillows, relaxed, needy.

"You look so good like this," Lilia ghosts across your lips, pulling back when you lean in. She keeps you like this, right on the precipice of contact, she moves to drift along your neck, breath fanning over you as you shiver. She settles next to your ear as she whispers, "Do you like how I take care of you baby?"

You whine at the words, unable to speak. Lilia moves to face you again holding your chin so you can't look away.

"What else can I do " She cooes placing quick kisses on your lips, "Where do you want me?" You look down, gesturing to your core. Lilia follows your gaze but returns a faux puzzled face, "I don't know what you mean?"

"Yes you do Lilia!" You try to move her hand down but she pulls it away to graze your inner thigh, just off where you need her.

"I can't do anything until you tell me what to do, please baby I want to take care of you" The hand on your inner thigh tightens. Finally you snap out of frustration, hands covering your face as you give her what she wants.

"I need you to fuck me Lilia, please however you want" Your hands are pealed away from your face, Lilia's fingers lacing between yours. She takes in your dishevealed appearance, how you lean forward waiting for her next move.

"That's a good girl", you gasp at the petname and Lilia notices, leaning in to ghost over your lips, "Thats my good girl"

Her lips crash on yours with a new hunger behind them. Teeth clashing, tongues advancing into each other's mouths, making both of you moan at the new territory. Lilia's hand fidgets with the belt loops on your jeans, pulling you closer. Wanting to speed things along, you reach between your bodies, undoing the button and zipper. Before Lilia can fully pull away and make a quick remark, you pull her bottom lip between your teeth, making her shiver for the first time tonight.

She eagerly pulls your jeans and underwear off in one go, the cold air of the room finding your exposed skin, goosebumps covering in its wake. Lilia kisses you once more before moving down your body to rest between your legs. The vulnerability and anticipation battle within you, stuck between rolling your hips in her face and shutting your legs from her, which is met with hands gripping your inner thighs.

"None of that", Lilia looks up at you through heavy eyes as she starts kissing and sucking on the flesh adjacent to your core. Her hand rubs the other thigh, helping to soothe any anxieties you have as she continues her assault on your skin. You gasp when you feel her teeth sink in, imprinting a similar mark on your thigh to the ones decorating your neck and chest. The sting of the bite mixes with the heat in your core, making you feel dizzy, unable to imagine how it gets better than this.

That was when she ran her tongue up your folds. Slow and gentle at first as you adjusted to the feeling, applying more pressure with her tongue alternating between long strips and sucking on your clit, making you arch your back and grip the bedsheets benneth you. You feel yourself tense up, closing in around nothing, making you whine at the emptiness. You grab her shoulders, clawing her to come back up to you. Lilia looks at you with concern, which you quickly resolve with your next request.

"Your hand," you pant, guiding her hand down between you, "I need you inside me," you whisper against her smiling lips. She moves to hover above you again with her hand exploring your core. She keeps her eyes glued to you as she gathers wetness on her fingers, teasing your entrance with her middle fingertip.

"I don't think it's just my fingers you want" Lilia moves so her face is inches from you, filling your eyeline with nothing but her inquisitive face. "I think you just want all my attention. You want to be touched here," She punctuates the last word with two fingers slipping inside you, watching you moan, "but you want me up here too, kissing you, looking at you, talking to you. You're a bit greedy, aren't you?" She starts thrusting her fingers, rocking her hips into you as well. Your legs find her waist again, giving her a better angle to curl her fingers.

"I want to hear you say it baby, say you're greedy"

Your hands fly to her back, scratching into her shoulders, the knot in your stomach tightening as your knuckles turn white around her arms. "I'm greedy, oh god Lilia!" You nearly scream as she adds a third finger and increases the pace to a brutal speed.

"Good girl, you can come now go on baby" Her encouragements are all you need to go over the edge. The climax runs over you, clouding you mind, stilling your body as you gradually come back down to earth. When you open your eyes, Lilia is already heading for the bathroom where she washs her hands and gets a wash cloth. When she comes back, she cleans you up then pulls you back against her chest like how this started on the couch.

"You did so well Dolezza" Lilia runs her hands along your back, feeling you shift against her. You start moving your hand down her body towards her stomach. You go to touch her further but is stopped by her hand moving it back to rest on her chest.

"But I want to-" You start when Lilia kisses you tenderly. "I know you do, but this was about you. I got what I needed, now rest, please baby" She lays her head back against the headboard, smirking.

"And besides, we have plenty of time for that later"

#fanfic #wlw #patti lupone #agatha all along #lilia calderu #lilia calderu x reader #writing #fanfiction #wlw fanfiction #wlw smut #wlw yearning #this feel so wrong to post but also loving it hehe

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epiphainie · 3 months ago

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buck meta

ohhh boyyy. i've been putting this off for weeks because it takes me a minute to be objective about buck with how it feels about him around here sometimes but i wanna put all my thoughts somewhere for once and all so here you go, for my 20 followers who like to read my meta 💛

now i've been thinking about how to frame this entire thing, and i keep going back to buck's passivity that people (including me) has talked about since the breakup because this is one thing i never felt in consensus with. when people say buck's passivity it's always about him not calling tommy when he wanted to, how he should go after him and tell him he loves him, and to this day i cannot see what that would change. even if tommy was willing to reconsider his stance during the breakup because all he needed to hear was those three words (which i don't think he would). it would only put them back into this pattern where buck's passivity during the relationship would continue to be an issue.

@alchemistc wrote this awesome tommy meta the other day about how tommy's way of talking about his past in this polished way where he presents these facts like they have no emotional bearing on him anymore created an environment where buck had no way of knowing more about tommy without pushing. now i'm not gonna rehash that because i think her meta is perfect, but i wanna bring it back to buck here and his unwillingness to push. buck who's known for inserting himself in places where he's not even welcome (with eddie's entire life, with taylor and her dad, with abby and her mom). but also buck who has kept hearing he's "too much" or "making things about himself" and has a string of failed relationships in his past, suddenly finds himself in one where it feels as transformative and special as the first time he fell in love. he's comfortable, he's happy, they nominally have started on really strong foundation etc. now this is kind of a side note but while i think part of this is due to how tommy treats buck, i think another part is the freedom he finds in not having to act like "the man" in the relationship, which is awesome because heteronormal roles in relationships suck and buck has always been the giver in his relationships, but only till it skews the other way and you forget the "mutual" part of being in a relationship.

i think this combined with tommy's "water off my back" way of bringing up things about himself that again catie mentioned, and i also wrote about here, really made buck unwilling to rock the boat. do i think he was ignoring tommy when tommy was bleeding his heart open to him? no. again, the way tommy shares things about himself (like just look at the way he talks about gerrard's 118 being oppressive or the one time he brought up his dad; which he again does with the eddie reveal but we'll come back to that) doesn't really invite more digging, especially from a guy like buck whose way of inserting himself in places and wanting more has cost him many relationships.

then the abby fiasco happens. this is likely the first time buck has felt anything conflicting about tommy, especially something he has a personal connection to (now tommy doesn't know this obviously but the way he talks about being closeted with abby and breaking abby's heart is also so reminiscent of how he talks about anything to do with his personal story lol what a guy) and buck genuinely SUCKS at dealing with conflicting emotions. he's such a head in the sand guy when it comes to things that concern him personally and emotionally. he refused to acknowledge that abby had left him for a year, spent almost as long ignoring that him and taylor were on a downward trajectory, pretended eddie leaving didn't make him feel weird till it came out as him acting out and being passive aggressive, he didn't even crack open the book on his sexuality beyond what this relationship means. it is SO in character for buck and i felt this way since the moment i watched 8x06 when people were going "that's so ooc of him" to deal with the storyline (my daily reminder that characterization in an ongoing story is dynamic and there's not one true way for characters to act)

so he learns about abby, he's already unwilling to dig too much into tommy lest he hit something tommy doesn't wanna show, and this time he also has a personal connection to it. he's not gonna "make it about himself" in front of tommy obviously, so he tries to resolve and process the entire thing before the next time they even see each other. he makes peace with it, he's ready to go back to their undisturbed bubble of peace, there's no reason for them to not continue on as they have been.

then he miscalculates his level of damage control.

now i genuinely think that all buck has told tommy right before the breakup is earnest, in that he wants to be with him as long as they can see into the future, he'd love to live together, hell maybe he even thought about marriage, but his motivation for saying these at this time is all wrong. namely that he wants to forget about the one thing he perceived as threat to their relationship so far, pretend he resolved it all in his head, and they can be back in their honeymoon.

then tommy breaks up with him. now i keep going back to tommy's insecurities about buck outgrowing him or finding someone else (someone else later becoming eddie) is a smokeshow to cover for his actual fear of investing in this relationship longterm and seriously, not because he's flaky, but real commitment would require him to open even more of himself to buck. because while these insecurities might have been building up, it's buck's mention of their future that triggers tommy. now i always give tommy more credit in terms of how aware he's of the situation, what he's doing/feeling, but also what buck's doing/feeling, under his layers of bullshit, so i think a part of him foresees the pattern with buck that doesn't spell out confidence in the longevity of their relationship. but this is not what buck hears.

buck doesn't hear "you can't even bring up your issues to me" or "you never ask for more when you seem overtly invested in everyone else's lives" what buck hears is "you're great, i would like to be with you, but you will hurt me whether you mean it or not, so i can't give us a real chance" tommy leaves buck with nothing to reflect on other than that what he's feeling is not forever and he'll cause tommy heartbreak.

now this is where i get back to buck calling tommy in the aftermath. i genuinely think buck calling tommy in the mindset he was in post-breakup would be useless, and the 118 not encouring him was the right thing, because look at buck in those eps. he's upset but he's upset about being in the state of tommylessness. he doesn't do any introspection about what motivated the breakup, what would cause tommy to think that (partly because tommy doesn't give him much as mentioned above lol), and most importantly how he feels beyond "sad" he's not angry, he's not hurt (on the surface), he's making up scenarios about tommy being injured so they can reconnect and take each other back and pretend it's okay. to me THIS is buck's passivity. his unwillingness to take things apart in himself.

so months go by, they're both in a limbo, then they see each other again, and immediately fall into acting the same easy way. buck brings up being dumped but only as a joke because that's the diatance of how willing he is to think about it, tommy sidesteps that comment entirely, buck doesn't ask for more, and they're two amicable exes who clearly still have sexual chemistry and are down to fuck, sex is the easiest thing to buck and they have a great night.

in the morning, buck thinks tommy has left and why wouldn't he? as the party who said "i can see a future for us" and in response got broken up with with "well i can't" i'm not even saying that buck was entirely blind to the possibility of tommy's mind changing, i'm not saying his "what changed?" was in disbelief because tommy is so tightly closed, but i also can't see his "this doesn't have to change anything" as him throwing tommy's feelings in his face (between this line and "tommy is so vulnerable" i lost a couple of years of my lifespan). it's an out in case they're not on the same page after their great night together and can you blame buck for being cautiously optimistic instead as the person who was told their relationship won't last because his feelings are not permenant and will cause the relationship to fail?

i see people taking buck's "are you not scared anymore i won't break your heart?" as him thinking he could never hurt tommy but i think the exact opposite. buck who takes on the blame of things that are not even his fault (like chimney leaving in s5), to the point it genuinely feels like he's making things about himself, who punishes himself emotionally, in my opinion, would just chew on that line for months. especially when tommy didn't give him anything else. why would tommy think buck will break his heart when buck was being so careful with this relationship to begin with? i think buck is aware of his capacity to hurt tommy (or anyone for that matter) especially because we've already seen him hurt tommy, apologize, and ask for a second chance right at the beginning of their relationship, but i don't think buck quite grasps not pushing can also hurt their relationship, come off as disinterest, make tommy latch onto every little think because he's already looking for ways to sabotage himself.

anyway i think, "this doesn't have to change anything" is clearly just an optimistic prompt for them to actually talk about what changed, and "you're not scared i'm not gonna break your heart anymore?" is buck hopeful tommy believes him now when he says he wants a future for them, and i think tommy sees it as that as well but then. he does his own cautious thing where he brings up eddie by downplaying what he felt re him during their relationship. what i love the MOST about this scene is how tommy's careful way of dropping personal nuggets was the one reason buck held back from pushing at all, but here precisely the way he brings it up sets buck off. i genuinely think that if he gave buck any other reason or this reason presented differently, without making a joke of tommy's own insecurities but also buck's feelings, buck would just take tommy back. he was willing to the moment tommy first walked out of that loft, he's had ZERO DESIRE to question tommy's choice or how it made him feel, but this pushes him into the territory where we for once see him feel something about this breakup other than "sad bc i'm alone again". he's justifiably angry because he's hurt and it is so delicious to me after how the show sets up their breakup where maddie suggests if buck's scared tommy will hurt him like he hurt abby, to which buck obviously says no because buck never even thinks other people can hurt his feelings, and then the breakup plays out with tommy leaving him hurt, precisely for the reasons josh spells out.

tldr; to me so many of bucktommy's issues boil down to both treading so carefully because of how much they wanted to make it work and neither being willing to share much of their baggage and not asking more in return. will it change? eh. do i think the show will have buck process all his feelings in front of tommy? i don't think so. at most we'll get an "i'm sorry, i didn't mean that thing about not having feelings for you" and we're lucky tommy responding with "i'm sorry i left" then kiss kiss smooch smooch. which i will take, i will take all the crumbs, but i think it'd be awesome for buck's character and their relationship if buck felt comfortable to bring up all his hurt and conflicting emotions to tommy, realize he can push with his own bullshit but also push tommy to share back more of his bullshit. my kindgom for buck and tommy to be the safe haven to each other where they can lay their hurt, neediness, insecurities, fears, anger with.

#i accidentally deleted this halfway thru and rewrote the entire thing lol #bucktommy #evan buckley #911 #mimi.txt #girl why dont i have a meta tag

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em1i2a3 · 6 days ago

Text

Paper Crown

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader! x Bucky Barnes

Summary: Coincidentally, everyone is having sleep issues one night, and they come to you to seek out your comfort.

Warnings: Fluff, Angst (kind of), Intimate Touching (non-sexual though), Lots of Cuddling, And a bit of Awkwardness.

Author’s Note: I may or may not do more with these three…Hint double hint. But I absolutely loved the idea and the awkwardness that could possibly ensue if you were two people’s comfort person…I certainly wasn’t kicking my feet and giggling while writing this lol. Enjoy <3

Word Count: 3,021

Your room was quiet, steeped in a hushed, amber-tinted glow that felt more like a lullaby than light. The old wall sconce above your desk buzzed faintly, its filament flickering with the kind of uneven rhythm that should’ve been annoying, but had long since become familiar–softer than silence, steadier than thought. In the far corner, your salt lamp glowed like a dying ember, casting a low, rose-gold hue that melted into the walls and floor, giving every surface the illusion of warmth even in the late-night chill.

Outside, the rain whispered steadily against the windows, not a storm, just that persistent, needling drizzle that clung to the glass like it didn’t want to leave. It pooled in the corners of the sill and slid down in slow, meandering rivulets, tracing lazy paths through the city grime. That sound–soft static and water–was usually enough to soothe your mind into stillness. A constant, familiar hush that blurred the edges of thought and wrapped around your senses like a shield.

You were tangled up beneath a fortress of heavy blankets and layered throws, their weight pressing down over your shoulders like an arm curled around you. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender, mint, patchouli and clean laundry, warmed by the heat you’d trapped beneath them hours ago. In your hands, a worn paperback sat open on you, its yellowed pages fanned gently with the curl of time and use. The spine cracked softly each time you turned a page, and the cover–creased at the corners and faded from sun–bore the faint scent of a used bookstore: paper, dust, and someone else’s perfume.

You had picked it up weeks ago from a little shop in the middle of the city, fully intending to read it the same night, but life had its way of pushing things aside. Now, here in the glow of your room, with the rain curling around the windows, you were utterly immersed. You barely noticed how tense your shoulders had gotten, or how your legs had gone numb beneath the blankets–you were too deep inside it, clinging to each word like it might disappear if you blinked too long.

You shifted onto your side, blanket sliding off your shoulder slightly, and flipped to the next page with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts. The next line of dialogue was already calling to you–and then–

Knock Knock

It was soft, barely audible, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you were in total silence you would’ve missed it. You froze mid-breath, eyes lifting from the page, heart ticking a little–not from fear, but from anticipation. You knew that knock. There were only two people in the whole compound who ever knocked like that.

Bucky or Bob.

It was always a surprise to you who would walk through the door.

For the past couple of months, you had been the unofficial comfort person for them–Bucky and Bob, two men stitched together by grief and guilt and the kind of quiet loneliness that didn’t always show. They never came on the same nights, never overlapped. It was like they had an unspoken agreement, or maybe some sixth sense, knowing when the other needed you more, without actually acknowledging the fact that you were being shared between them. And somehow, you always had space for it. For them. It had become routine for you–curling up with one of their bodies pressed to yours, listening to the soft cadence of their breathing drift into sleep, their presence grounding, warm, and achingly human. Sometimes you would speak to them, but oftentimes they were too distracted to even respond to you.

Both of them had their preferences, sometimes Bucky would slide his vibranium hand beneath your top, just to trace the skin of your back or stomach, like it was a way to soothe himself. Bob on the other hand seemed like he fully wanted to melt into you, most of the time the two of you looked like one monstrous pile of tangled limbs–exchanging breaths and knocking noses by accident from how close you would get. You didn’t have a preference for either person though, you were just glad that they had so much trust in you to actually come and seek out the comfort that they needed.

You cleared your throat softly, closing the book with care and slipping your bookmark into the page before whispering, “Come in.”

The door creaked open a few seconds later, just enough for a sliver of light from the hallway to pool across the floor. Then he appeared–Bob, soft-eyed and sheepish, shuffling into the glow of your room with an uneven gait. His light brown hair was pulled back into a loose bun, a few strands escaping to cling to his temples. He looked tired in the way only he could: like he’d fought off sleep for hours before finally giving up and walking down the hall to you. The shadows beneath his eyes were gentler in your lighting, made less hollow by the way the salt lamp warmed the edges of him, casting him in honey instead of sorrow.

He wore a plain white t-shirt and black joggers, both slightly wrinkled, like he’d been curled on top of his bed before coming here. The cotton clung faintly to his chest and arms, stretched just a little around the quiet strength he always tried to make smaller than it was. His feet padded quietly across the rug, and he smiled at you, tentative and crooked.

“Hey, stranger…” You greeted softly, watching him step further into your room, closing the door behind him. He wrung his hands together, fingers twisting with nervous habit, something he had always done in moments like these–in moments where he needed to ask something of you.

“Do you…Do you mind if I sleep here tonight?” His voice cracked just slightly near the end, like he was preparing himself for a different answer that he usually got. You let out a breath of a laugh, warm and fond.

”When have I ever said no to you?” He gave a tiny shrug, toeing off his socks gently.

”Well…I thought I’d ask, just in ca-case you wanted some time alone…Or something.” He replied quietly.

”I would’ve told you if I did.” You commented, already shifting the blankets back for him. Watching as he moved carefully like he didn’t want to possibly disturb the sanctity of your room. He tiptoed towards your bed, slipping beneath the covers slowly, like he was easing himself into a body of water. The moment he settled beside you and adjusted slightly against your memory foam mattress, you placed your book behind you on the nightstand and turned onto your side to face him.

He took a few deep breaths–each one a little steadier than the last–before mirroring your position, turning onto his side to face you in the hush. You opened your arms for him without a word, and he slid into the space like he belonged there, like your embrace was the only place his body remembered how to breathe.

His legs tangled with yours under the blankets in a natural sprawl, his limbs looping around you until you could hardly tell where one of you ended and the other began. One of his arms slid beneath your side, the other curled around your back, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. He was the pure embodiment of heat, all soft cotton and quiet strength, chest rising and falling against yours in a rhythm that slowly began to match your own.

Your fingers found the tie that held his hair back away from his face, and you unfastened it slowly, allowing the strands to fall loose in messy waves. They slipped through your fingers like warm silk as you threaded through them slowly, brushing the mane of hair gently with the patience of a saint. He nestled even closer to you, humming at the sensation, burying his nose into your shirt with a quiet exhale, warming the fabric.

Then, in a barely there, incoherent mumble that you had grown used to, he said “Always smell…Nice.”

You smiled at the comment, and rested your cheek against the crown of his head, breathing in the tea tree oil conditioner he used for his hair before folding yourself around him like he was something to protect, continuing to run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

His breath deepened again, lashes fluttering against your shirt, muscles relaxing into you like melting wax.

You were just beginning to slip into that warm, floaty drift of half-sleep, your body starting to give itself over to stillness, when–

Tap. Tap tap. Tap.

Your eyes opened at the familiar rhythm, lids heavy with sleep but not enough to miss it–tap, tap tap, tap–that cautious little code of his. You blinked once, and brought your gaze toward the door, your hand still resting in Bob’s hair, your other arm curled around his waist where he lay folded into you.

Bob stirred against your chest with a faint sigh, just enough to press his face deeper into your shirt, but not enough to fully register what was happening.

The door opened a crack.

Then a little wider.

And there stood Bucky.

His silhouette cut a dark shape against the dim hallway glow, his hair tousled from sleep or tossing in bed, his black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps, and the familiar flannel pajama pants–blue, slightly rumpled, soft from years of wear–hanging low on his hips. His bare feet were silent on the hardwood, his black vibranium arm glinting just slightly in the low light.

He stopped in the doorway, startled. You watched his expression shift–guarded first, then confused, then…Quietly resigned. His wide blue eyes landed on you. Then Bob. Then you again. You could see the flicker of understanding behind them, like this wasn’t a shock but still something he needed a second to register.

“Sorry,” He murmured. “I can come back.”

He was already beginning to turn, hand reaching to pull the door closed when you whispered, “Wait…No. It’s okay… You can come in.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, his hand tightening around the handle of the door, almost like he was considering listening to you. Then you felt Bob move against you, groggy but aware, head lifting slightly from your chest.

“Who is it?” He mumbled, voice rough with exhaustion, his words more vibration than sound. Your fingers halted in his hair for a moment as you glanced down at him.

”It’s Bucky…Is it okay if he joins us?’ There was barely a beat of hesitation before Bob gave a small sleepy nod against you, letting out a little sigh.

”Sure…I don’t want to im-impose on him getting sleep…” He commented, his words slurring with drowsiness, “We’ll have to deal with him if he’s grumpy tomorrow.” You huffed out a soft laugh, affection blooming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

“You’re definitely right on that,” You whispered, shifting him closer to you as he settled back into his place, his limbs going heavy against yours again, taking in slow pulls of air. You tilted your gaze back up to Bucky’s, seeing that he was still processing what was going on in front of him. You gave him a small nod.

”Come on, don’t be shy.” You whispered, motioning for him. He lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, eyes flicking to Bob curled against your chest, then back to you. He looked hesitant–like standing on the edge of something too tender to touch, unsure if he had the right to interrupt and intrude on something that was already so full of connection. But your expression didn’t waver, and the look in your eyes was welcoming and so warm…

So he took the plunge and crossed the room in a few quiet strides, the floorboards creaking just slightly beneath the heavy weight of his feet.

”Should I…” He started pausing near your light, “Should I turn this off?” You nodded.

”Yeah, that would be good, thank you.” The wall sconce flicked off with a tiny click, the room dimming all at once into shadow. The only light that remained spilled in through the window: soft, fractured glows from the city skyline–orange neon and cool blue flickers dancing faintly across your floorboards, the edge of your desk, and the lower halves of the curtains. It painted the room in a hush. A kind of peace that wrapped around the three of you like another blanket. You heard the gentle rustle of fabric as Bucky approached. Then the whisper of the comforter being tugged back. The mattress dipped slightly behind you, and you shifted just enough to give him space as he slid beneath the blankets.

Then the covers were drawn back over all of you–tucked in again, sealed into this private cocoon of silence, breaths, and body heat. Bucky settled in behind you, moving gently to adjust to the positioning without taking up too much space. His vibranium arm slid over your waist. It was cold at first, but it warmed quickly against your skin due to the heat that was entrapped beneath the covers–which was mainly caused by Bob’s overheating. The metal arm rested just slightly higher than Bob’s, like a second tether holding you in place. A quieter claim. A mirrored need.

Then slowly he slid his other arm beneath your pillow, seeking your free hand in the dark. You met him halfway, your fingers relaxing easily into his as he laced them together–skin to skin, his warmth grounding and familiar. His thumb stroked once across the back of your hand, then stilled, his chest expanding slowly against your back, before shifting downward, nuzzling himself closer until his beard grazed against the space between your shoulder blades. His breath was hot and steady through the thin cotton of your shirt as he melted into your body completely. Bob let out a small, breathy snore–just a little noise fluttering against you. You gave Bucky’s hand a soft squeeze beneath the pillow.

“You okay, Buck?” You whispered, your voice muffled by the hush of the blankets and Bob’s hair that was sticking up every which way beneath your chin. He nodded against your back, the scruffiness of his cheek dragging along the fabric of your shirt again.

”Definitely better now…” He murmured, his voice low and raw in that sleep-soft way. “But I don’t know how you survive this heat…Feels like the tropics.” You huffed a sleepy laugh, pressing a little closer to Bob just to prove your point.

“Imagine how it feels being pressed against it every other night, basically…You get used to it after a while.” Bucky gave a slow hum, almost like a chuckle trapped deep in his chest.

“I guess that’s true ’cause you got used to me…” He commented. At that, Bob shifted slightly, dragging his leg further between yours. His cheek nestled into the curve between your chest again, and you could feel the unmistakable warmth of drool beginning to soak through your shirt. You sighed, amused, and tilted your head toward Bucky.

“You say that like you’re a burden or something…” You whispered gently, brushing your thumb along the back of his hand. “Which isn’t even close to the truth.” Bucky didn’t say anything right away. Instead, his vibranium arm slid lower over your waist, the plates flexing softly before his palm splayed wide across your stomach. He tucked himself closer into your back, his breath slowing as he melted into you with a quiet intensity.

“Well…” He finally replied, barely audible, “…I’m glad you think that way.” Another snore rattled out of Bob–louder this time. He shifted again, adjusting his face against your chest, arms tightening around your waist again, not to pull you away from Bucky but to get even closer–if he could manage that.

A slow, sleepy smile tugged at the corners of your mouth.

“I think we should do this more often,” You murmured into the dark, the words barely more than a breath.

Bucky shifted behind you just slightly–enough for his nose to nudge against the curve of your spine. His hand squeezed yours gently, voice quiet and low against the shell of your ear.

“It’s not as awkward as I expected it to be…” He admitted, and you could feel the grin he tried to hide against your shirt. “So I wouldn’t object to the idea.”

You smirked, your voice light despite the weight of the bodies wrapped around you. “Well, I guess we’ll have to run it by Bob in the morning then…”

There was a pause.

Then, muffled against your chest, Bob let out a little grunt of awareness. “Good for…Me.”

That sent a puff of laughter out of both you and Bucky, breathy and brief and a little stunned–like the sound surprised you as it escaped. Not loud enough to disturb the peace of the room, but just enough to feel like a thread of gold had stitched its way into the quiet.

You closed your eyes, letting your body relax again between the two of them, tucked between metal and muscle and tangled limbs, feeling every inch of warmth and closeness.

Bucky adjusted his hold, pulling you just a little closer, while Bob let out another soft, sleep-heavy sigh and nosed further into your chest, content.

Outside, the rain whispered like a lullaby.

And inside, you drifted into sleep wrapped in everything that mattered.

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withleeknow · 1 year ago

Note

i think you'll do well with requests bc they seem to be popular in the fanfic side of tumblr! but even if it doesn't take off that quick, at least that'll be less overwhelming bc some ppl can be so demanding....anyways, i hope the best for you in this new journey haha 💝

me personally, i'm not very creative so i'll leave the details to the professionals (aka you) but i'd like to req something from minho's pov. i think those type of stories are SEVERELY lacking in the lee know fics department lol 🥲 it could be a childhood friends to lovers where he is pining for oc but he has a lot of self esteem issues and thinks she's not interested in him. also a big softie and just all around head over heels for her. you can add your magic! (if this is even remotely interesting enough to write lol i just want a minho pov tbh shsjjfjdjdj 😭)

light years.

summary: three times minho bites his tongue, and one time you don't let him.

pairing: minho x f!reader genre/warnings: childhood friends to lovers, fluff, angst; kissing, cursing, so much pining i could hurl. could this have been more edited? oh absolutely lmao but i actually don't hate it sooo this is what we're going with :p word count: 4.2k note: to the first anon, thank you so much for your kind words! :') and i'm sorry that this took me longer than expected. i was trying to figure out what i wanted to write for your prompt but then i got the second request with the song and i thought they would go nicely together hehehehe i hope the both of you enjoy thissss

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / request masterlist / ko-fi

I'm not sure what it means to love But I blink kind of slow around you I'm not sure what it means to love But I'll grow wherever you do What that means, I don't have a clue

I'm Not Sure - Margeaux Beylier

One.

Minho is 18 years old, and he doesn't know what love is, doesn't really care for it at all.

While his friends are out there wrapped in the clutches of young love - the kind that blooms with stolen glances in classrooms and sticky notes passed in secrecy, Minho finds it simply unnecessary. He doesn't understand it whenever Hyunjin whines about not having a girlfriend because they're still young, they've got all the time in the world for romance later down the line. It's not the end of the world like Hyunjin laments it is.

Minho has his own life to prioritize. College is starting after the summer and he still needs to figure out how he's going to cope with the absence of his cats once he moves away. He's got dancing and he's got his other hobbies to keep him fulfilled and occupied.

And above all, he's got you.

You're getting ready for your sister's wedding when it happens for the first time. Or rather, when it doesn't happen.

You step back into the room where Minho is waiting for you on the sofa, his gaze resting idly on the screen of his phone, scrolling absentmindedly through his friends' group chat even though he has no interest in whatever they're talking about. You cough lightly to indicate your return after disappearing into the bathroom minutes prior to change into your dress. He looks up upon your soft announcement, and when his eyes settle on you, he swears it feels like an invisible force has collided with his chest and knocked all of the air from his lungs.

Throughout all his years of knowing you, inseparable from childhood until now, Minho has never seen you like this - all dolled up with your hair falling over your collarbones, cascading over your shoulders in soft waves that beckons him to run his fingers through. The light blue dress hugs you beautifully, the silky material catching the light from outside the window every time you shift on your feet under his steady gaze.

"So...?" you ask, moving your arms awkwardly behind your back like you're not sure what to do with them. "What do you think?"

What does he think?

Minho thinks you might just be the prettiest girl in the world. He thinks he must have been an idiot his whole life, to have spent most of his waking hours beside you and not once has he noticed how truly breathtaking you are. He thinks about the feeling that spreads in the pit of his stomach, sends warmth throughout his body and makes his heartbeat race a million miles an hours.

Your best friend blinks slowly as he savors the warmth that he's never experienced before. It's similar to the feeling you get when you're sitting under the shade of a big tree on a summer's day. It's comparable to the satisfied tranquility you get after you've just finished a hearty meal. A little hazy in your contentment.

It's not until you probe with a pointed Well? that Minho realizes he's been staring at you in silence for a few minutes now. He swallows thickly, willing away the words that he wants to say but they get lodged in his throat. He reckons it's weird to verbalize them, because it's not how the two of you function. You don't often utter that kind of sentiment out loud and he doesn't either. Never have and likely never will.

In the end, he bites his tongue. "You look presentable," is what he settles on.

You roll your eyes, then reward him with a laugh.

Minho doesn't care about love. He only cares about you.

Two.

Minho is 21 years old, and he's gotten used to his heart beating erratically whenever he's in your presence.

Three years flew by in the blink of an eye, and graduation is just around the corner. You've always done well in school, straight A student with a track record that most could only dream to have. You put in the hours, you do the work. You deserve everything that you've achieved.

But it's been a challenging few months for you both, being seniors and all. He's had to watch you struggle to stay on top of your classes while also having to slave over a thesis 24/7 until you were sure it was perfect. It reduced you to tears a few times, and Minho was there to hold your hand through it all.

He held you in his comforting embrace when you wanted to give up. He made you dinner when you were too immersed in your schoolwork to notice that you'd forgotten to eat. He was your biggest support system; if it weren't for him, you don't know if you would've made it through.

It's hot outside today, a little unbearable but not uncharacteristic for June. Minho waits in a familiar hallway, the same hall that he's walked past for hundreds of times over the past few years, the same hall that he won't see again once he holds a degree in his hands in only a few weeks' time.

As he sits on an old wooden bench, he bounces his leg as if he's one of the people in the classrooms that line the hall. He doesn't have to be on campus today, but here he is regardless because you're scheduled for your thesis defense this morning. You're in one of those rooms, probably also bouncing your leg from the overwhelming nerves. Minutes feel like hours; you went in there a while ago after he had sent you off with a pat on the head and an encouraging Godspeed.

He's nervous for you, but he's sure that you'll do great. Years of hard work accumulating in what must be the most important moment of your academic journey. You even stayed up all night last night, refusing to sleep a wink just to revise your arguments and talking points.

Minho's head snaps up instantly as he hears a door creak open, the sound of it reverberating throughout the empty hallway like a gong announcing your return from battle. It takes you a few seconds to step out of the room and into his line of sight. He can't see you very well with all this distance between you, but he can still make out the way your frame is visibly shaking with every step you take. He rises to his feet, and you break into a sprint.

He opens his arms wide - a hug of consolation or congratulations, he doesn't know yet - but he still can't seem to brace himself for the collision. You run straight into his embrace, your warms wounding around his middle tightly. Minho feels your tremors, hears your sniffles from where you're pressing your cheek against his shoulder.

"How did it go?" he asks gently.

You start crying then, and he doesn't know if the tears that his shirt is soaking up are those of joy or of grief, but he holds you through it anyway. He swears he can feel every single beat of your heart, hammering so wildly as you're pressed against him like you could sink into him if only you'd push just a little bit more.

"I passed," you say in between sobs. "I got an A."

Minho heaves out the breath that he's been holding ever since you entered that classroom, but it's not like he had any doubt about it to begin with. He hugs you tighter than he's ever had before, and he loves you just the same.

You two must look so dramatic, all wrapped up together in your own little bubble, but who the fuck cares? Although, when another student passes by and coughs, you do break away from him, a little embarrassed for a second.

Even with your hair all mussed up and your flushed cheeks stained with tears, he still thinks you look the same as you did when you were 18 at your sister's wedding. The prettiest girl in the world.

Minho wipes away the wetness on your face with his sleeves, then swipes with gentle thumbs at the moisture that's gathered along your lash lines.

"Holy fucking shit," you breathe out, your shoulders sagging with evident relief, so much more relaxed now that you've done it. "I can't believe it's finally over."

Your best friend can't entirely agree, because he's always believed in you. He's had faith in you since the beginning, since you were mere children laughing and crying together on the playground. You were meant to do great things, this was always crystal clear to Minho.

I love you, he thinks as he smooths a hand over your hair, his chest swelling with nothing but pride and fondness for you. You did so well.

But it's not what he ends up telling you. He swallows it down, washes it away with a dose of regret and longing. He's still not the type to express sappy sentiments, and he's grown accustomed to adoring you only in secret.

"Let's go," he says softly. "I'll buy you dinner."

Minho is still young, he's still got his whole life ahead of him, but he knows what love is now. He knows that it's you.

Three.

Minho is 24 years old, and he finds it hard to make peace with the fact that you're starting to get out there, that you're finally going on dates now that academics aren't taking up most of your time anymore.

To be fair, none of the guys you've seen have been graced with a second date, and Minho thanks his lucky stars whenever you return from a night out and text him a simple Not it. He knows that it wasn't your decision in the first place, that your mom and your sister have been setting you up on blind dates because they want to see you bring a boyfriend home.

You complain about it all the time, whining about how you're not interested but your family is adamant on it. Minho is well aware, and yet, there's a part of him that's a little shaken, because what if? What if the universe miscalculates and the stars misalign just enough in his misfortune for you to cross paths with someone who's absolutely perfect for you? Someone who's a good man that can give you what you've always deserved to have.

He really doesn't know what he would do if that happens. When it happens?

He doesn't know why you're here tonight either, sitting on a chair on the other side of his kitchen island in a pretty dress when you're supposed to be going on a date in half an hour. The guy apparently works for a big record label, some producer that your sister knows through a friend of a friend.

You look indifferent, kind of bored, as you watch Minho makes dinner for himself. "You seem miserable," he comments, taking a quick break from chopping vegetables to glance up at you. You do look a bit miserable, but you're still the most beautiful in his eyes.

You throw your head back and groan loudly, "Because I am. God, I don't know why they keep making me do this. These guys always give nothing."

"Please elaborate."

"They're all boring suits with tedious routines." you say, and as absentminded as your tone is, it sounds a little pointed to Minho's ears. "They don't make me laugh."

Do they not make you laugh, or do they not make you laugh more than I can?

"Then don't go," he snickers, though there's no humor in his voice at all. "These guys sound like duds. Just tell your sister to fuck off."

"Do you mean that? Do you really think I shouldn't go?"

And there's something in your gaze, something so suddenly expectant in the way you're looking at him that makes Minho wonder. If he says yes, would you listen? Would you stay here with him? Would you stay here for him?

I'm serious. Don't go. You can have this and I'll make myself ramyeon. Just be here with me.

You both stare at each other on either side of his kitchen island for an infinite stretch of time. He feels like your eyes are trying to tell him something that he can't decipher, as if they're sending him signals in a language that he never learned how to read.

For a second there, he indulges himself. He pretends that you're only asking because you want to hear him say it. That you want him to put up a fight and not let you go.

But he bites his tongue because it's become a bad habit. A habit that he can't shake because he simply doesn't have the courage to do so. Because if you stay here tonight, looking like that under the cozy lighting of his living room, he might just spill his secrets and he wouldn't be able to take it when reality comes crashing down and you end up telling him that you've never felt the same way.

"I'm kidding," he musters up the words, and tries to plaster on a smile for your sake, even though he's not sure if you really believe it. "You're dressed up anyway. Go and get a free fancy dinner, if anything."

Minho knows what love is, but his love has always lived in the shadows, his longing has only existed in the dark that it terrifies him just thinking about it meeting the light.

Four.

Minho is 26 years old, and he's been a coward for the better part of a decade.

Maybe he's loved you for even longer, but he has spent the past eight years head over heels in love with you, and not once has he done anything about it. Never been able to gather enough courage to ask you out, never even hinted at his feelings for you. He loves you from his place by your side and yet, you've never known.

He loves you the most, but he loves you in the worst way that a person can love another - he loves you in silence.

You're the prettiest girl in the world, and Lee Minho is a pathetic coward.

All these years, he's kept quiet and for what? There's always a spot reserved for him right next to you and yet, it feels like he can only watch you from the sidelines, far away from where it really matters, because he doesn't think he can fit into your life the way he truly wants. You taught him what love was, and love, to Minho, is unattainable. Something he can spend the rest of his life yearning for but won't ever have.

Love hurts. Sometimes, all love does is hurt.

"I would've taken you to a nice restaurant if you asked, you know," he says, putting a chocolate cupcake on the coffee table in front of you before he sits down next to you on the fluffy carpet of your living room. He pulls out a candle next, placing it right in the center of the sweet treat.

Your gaze follows his hand has he lights the candle, your eyes glinting with excitement as though you're a child again and your favorite day of the year is still your birthday. The tiny flame curves and bends, dancing to a rhythm that looks like only you can hear. You watch the candle like it's magic, while Minho just watches you, thinking the same thing.

He watches as you close your eyes and clasp your hands together for the theatrics, then you blow out the flame seconds later with a swift breath.

You turn to him with a smile, "I don't need a nice restaurant. This is perfect."

He blinks, and there's that warmth simmering in his belly again. He first felt it when he was 18, and he feels it now. He feels it almost every moment that he spends with you, and he reckons it's only reasonable, because you're his home personified and love can still be beautiful even when it hurts. There's his heart racing again, but that's nothing new to Minho.

He muses over your words. Perfect. Just one simple word is enough to get his hopes up in a way that it really shouldn't.

Your definition of a birthday well spent is in your cozy apartment, eating takeout pizza with your best friend. Perfect, to you, is him baking you a singular chocolate cupcake upon your request and being with him within these four walls, where his fingers occasionally brush yours when you sit next to each other.

Oh, Minho would follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked him to.

He clears his throat lightly, breaking away from your gaze that's full of gratitude and childlike wonder. "What did you wish for?"

"I'm not gonna tell you. It won't come true then."

Wishes don't come true anyway, he thinks, but obviously he won't say it out loud to you, and on your birthday no less. Instead, he diverts his attention to the cupcake, subconsciously tonguing his cheek as he takes a small chunk of the sweet and offers it to you.

You let him feed you even though your eyes are narrowed. "What was that look?" you ask.

"What look?"

"You had a look."

"No, I didn't," Minho insists.

"Yes, you did. You wanted to say something, didn't you?"

He shrugs, popping a piece of cupcake into his own mouth. The answer is yes, he did want to say something, but if you want to get technical about it, then he's wanted to say something for years now. He asks you the same thing every birthday, What did you wish for?, and you would refuse to tell him every time.

"Wishes don't come true," he verbalizes it this time, with a voice that's lighthearted on purpose despite knowing that you wouldn't take it that seriously either way.

You roll your eyes. "Now you're just being pessimistic."

"What? I'm speaking from experience."

"You've never had a birthday wish come true?"

"My birthday wishes haven't come true since I was 18."

Minho feels your eyes on the side of his face, and when you remain quiet for a beat too long, he turns his attention back to you. "What?"

"How do you know they didn't come true?"

"Because..."

Because you've been my wish for almost a decade now. I didn't use to believe in wishes but I always believed in you. Every year, I wish for you to look at me the way I look at you, but it never comes true. Every year, I wish that you would love me back, not just as a friend, but you never do. You are my wish, but you're also the very reason why I know wishes don't come true.

Then he's laughing, but nothing is remotely funny about this. It's your birthday and suddenly all he can think about is how much it stings to be reminded that you're the only thing he'll ever wish for, and still, maybe this simple wish is absurd enough that the universe will never grant him what he truly wants.

"Never mind," he says. "This whole thing is silly."

There he goes, biting his tongue again. Coward.

"No, what were you going to say?"

"You're so bossy today," Minho pretends to complain.

"It's my birthday. Tell me," you press on, and suddenly he can't find any appreciation for your stubbornness that he's adored all his life. You keep your eyes fixed on him when all he wants to do is hide from you.

What is he supposed to say to you? What can he even say? That he's spent more than a third of his life hopelessly enamored with you? That the second he utters any of this out loud, he knows it will be the end of your friendship?

And Minho can't afford to lose you. Even if it hurts, he would rather let love hurt than live in the absence of you.

"Eat your cupcake," he says instead. "I'll get some ice cream."

He makes a move to get up, and the bad habit further cements its place in his subconscious. He's always running away from you when you're supposed to be the person he can be the most open with. This is how he knows he doesn't deserve you.

But you reach for his wrist and it makes him still, the feeling of your hand sliding downward to hold onto his fingers. He's used to the feeling of your smaller hand in his, used to how he can hear his heartbeat in his ears whenever you lace your fingers together.

What he isn't accustomed to, is the look on your face this very second, akin to the one you wore two years ago as you sat on the other side of his kitchen island, asking him if you should go.

Expectant and hopeful; you're holding something back too.

The words that slip from your lips are ones that he never imagined you would say to him.

"I've waited for you long enough."

His poor excuse of retrieving ice cream is all but forgotten as he stares at you, doe-eyed and despairingly confused. "What is that supposed to mean?"

You take a breath, and Minho wonders if this is how he looked every time he wanted to say something only to back down in the end.

Then it all comes rushing out.

"For a while, I thought there might've been something between us, something more than just friendship. I don't know why I thought that, I just had a feeling. On the day of our graduation, I thought you would finally kiss me or at least say something, but you didn't. Whenever I went on dates, I wanted you to tell me not to go, that I was wasting my time with those guys that couldn't make me laugh because they weren't you. You never said anything, you never did anything. I waited every birthday just like I waited tonight. You're still holding it over me and I'm starting to wonder if you really love me too or if I imagined everything this whole time."

Your voice gets smaller toward the end, almost as if the uncertainty takes over you the longer he remains silent. He doesn't have the words for it, doesn't really have the mental capacity to process all of what you just professed. Years and years of longing, of hoping that you would come running into his arms the same way you did on the morning of your thesis defense, and it turns out that you were always the one waiting for him to reach you.

If you really love me too.

Your fingers start to loosen around his but Minho doesn't let you get away, not now and not ever again. Not when he finally knows that he's burnt up enough of your time just because he was too stuck in his head to see that you were holding a hand out for him all along.

He pulls you into his orbit and he likes to imagine that somewhere out there in the infinite universe, two stars collide when he kisses you for the first time, long overdue but still heavenly nonetheless.

He's crying but you don't seem to mind the tears. You're kissing him back and it's really all that matters. He can't think straight but he adores you to the point that his lungs ache.

"I love you," he mumbles against your lips. The sentiment comes out clumsy, half coherent but wholeheartedly sincere. "I'm sorry. I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you."

You're the one who breaks the kiss first, with your hand on his chest gently pushing him away. Panic instantly shoots through him like a lightning strike. These are the words he's been holding back for years, did he not even say them right? Did he fuck things up yet again?

You brush the tears from his cheeks, your voice so impossibly soft when you ask, "Do you mean it?"

Minho splinters into a million pieces, of course he does.

Your name falls from his lips, sounding like a prayer, like the most tender plea that's ever been uttered, "I love you the most. I'm so in love with you that it hurts. I've been yours for so long and I never said anything. Fuck, I-I'm sorry. I love you so much. I'm sorry. I-"

You bring his face to yours once more, shushing him with a kiss that makes him putty in your hands. You tell him that it's okay, and you kiss him like you forgive him. The world could be ending right now, and he doesn't think that either of you would even care very much.

Because you're the only wish of his life, and you kiss him as though you want to make up for the lost years. Because Minho feels like he's 18 again and you're the most beautiful girl in the world, wearing a smile that leaves him breathless in the most wonderful way possible.

#stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #lee know fluff #lee know angst #lee know scenarios #lee know x reader #lee know imagines #lee know x you #lee minho x reader #lee minho x you #stray kids #lee know #lee minho

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kenananamin · 2 years ago

Text

Baby please (negative, be positive)

Let me break our hearts for a bit. I think we’ve all seen the other side of this where Nanami is… very excited for the process of children, if you catch my drift lol but what about the other side? What about when there’s a large amount of negative tests followed by fertility issues, and the partner feels every single overwhelming emotion about their body and their struggle? Note: If you have struggled or are struggling with fertility, this may not be for you. I have other fluffier/cute/positive posts and so many great accounts have amazing stories, so take care of yourself and maybe read those instead. I’ll immediately follow this up with a cuter post <3 If you know anyone who may be struggling, be the help they may need and start by simply listening. I am aware from experiences with close family and friends that fertility issues do not always have a happy ending, but this fictional story will end as a hopeful one. If you decide to read this, thank you. If not, I’ll see you on the next post babes 🖤 Warnings and tags: nanami kento x fem!reader, fertility issues, sad, angst, comforting nanami, hopeful and happy ending ~3.0k words

You lay in bed in a fetal position in the darkness of your home. You curled your body as much as you could as you let the tears fall. You were tired of the loud sobbing and your body and throat could not handle another sob. But the tears did not stop. You felt a wet spot underneath your head and you shift your head forward to avoid the cold spot. When you finally think that the tears are running out, you hear Nanami’s car pulling into the driveway. You drag the bed throw to cover yourself and wipe the new tears. You weren’t scared of Nanami’s reaction, he had held and taken care of you after the past tests, but you were scared of any underlying disappointment.

“God, I’m trying. I’m trying, I’m trying,” you let out one last sob before Nanami enters the house.

You hear the key enter the lock and you quickly wipe your tears and cover most of your face with the blanket. You hear his every movement and you can almost see exactly what he’s doing as he moves around the house.

It was not uncommon for Nanami to come home to a dark house. He knew you were a napper and he actually enjoyed waking you up after making dinner. Something about your sleepy eyes while eating dinner and sighing after each delicious bite made his heart flutter. One of the smaller things you did that he absolutely adored. He turns on the hallway light and peeks into the bedroom to see you in bed in the dark. The house feels colder than usual so Nanami turns on the heater and heads into the room to put a thicker blanket on you. He rubs and kisses your hair before heading out and closing the bedroom door enough to only leave a sliver opened.

Nanami grabs extra clothes from the laundry room to change before heading to the kitchen to start dinner.

As Nanami quickly glances into the trash after throwing out veggie scraps, he notices the familiar blue box and the tips of two sticks peeking out. He feels his heart stop for a second, but reaches for a napkin before digging into the can to move the box to read it. Another pregnancy test. Nanami reaches for the test sticks and immediately sees one single line on the first and one bold ‘Not Pregnant’ on the second. His heart rate speeds up and he immediately wants to run to you but he’s reminded of your devastation the last time you got a negative. He had never seen you so upset and had to convince you to let him call your manager as your emergency contact to let them know you would be out for the next couple days. Nanami puts the sticks back and covers the tests and box with the napkin and vegetable scraps. He turns off the stove and washes his hands before heading back to the room.

Without the hallway light on, you could not tell if the door was fully opened or closed. You didn’t care either way, you just wanted to be in the dark and not face Nanami yet. You moved the blankets over your head again to return to your safe space. You begin to take slow deep breaths, slow inhale, slow exhale. Slow inhale, slow exhale. Slow inhale, slow exhale. It is not the quietest breathing exercise so you cannot hear Nanami slowly open the door and walk into the room. He sees the familiar sight, a bundle shaped like you with the blankets moving to the sound of your breathing. He softly puts a knee on the bed before crawling over to you. The movement on the bed stopped your breathing completely and you hoped, no -- you prayed, that you didn’t forget to cover the tests.

“My love,” Nanami says just above a whisper before softly wrapping himself around you, while making sure he does not burst your bubble within the safety of your blanket. He feels your body shudder once his arms are completely wrapped around you and gives you a moment to calm down. Once he feels your breathing even out again, he taps on the blanket and asks if he could come in. You loosen the grasp on the blanket and he slips underneath to hug you from behind.

You thought you had finally run out of tears, but feeling Nanami’s arms around you and his scent so close for the first time that evening, you felt them gather again. Thank the heavens that it was dark and he was not facing you because you felt your face contort in a terribly painful way followed by the loudest sobs to have ever left your body. Nanami pulls you in unbelievably close, as close as he would when your anxiety left you shaking and desperate. You start writhing in what feels like emotional agony and he pushes his entire body weight to your back, pinning you down. It was something he had learned to do after years of being together. You would jokingly call Nanami your human weighted blanket but you were thankful that he could detect when you needed to feel him.

“Two years, Ken, two fucking years,” you let out between sobs, “why can’t I do it, Ken? Why can’t I--” Your words cut short.

“Shh shh, no no no, baby, please. Not you, I’m sorry, please don’t think that. We can do it, there’s more we can do,” Nanami rubs your arms and kisses your neck and shoulders, “Please, I promise there’s more. It’s ok, it’ll be ok. We’ll be ok.”

Nanami wasn’t sure what he was saying, and to be honest, he knew he would say anything that could help you. But what would? He didn’t know what exactly to say after so many negatives. On the other hand, you weren’t exactly sure what you wanted to hear after so many negatives.

Time flew by underneath that blanket. Nanami had eventually moved the blanket down to let you breathe cool air after a layer of sweat covered you. He ran his fingers through your hair to try to cool you down and shushed and hummed against your skin while he still held you. You could feel your back and his front wet with both of your sweat and the spot underneath your head drenched with a much larger spot of your tears.

You don’t know what time it is and you don’t even have the energy to tilt your head up to look at the clock. All you know is that you have finally stopped sobbing and there really was nothing left inside you.

Nanami moves the hair from the nape of your neck and plants the softest kiss. “Let’s take a break.”

You turn in his arms, eyes wide and thinking, a break? From this… from us?

He could see the gears turning and panic in your eyes before hugging you again from your side and saying, “No no, baby not that break. Never. Never never, I promise. I mean from the tests. Let’s stop buying and taking any tests. Let’s toss any extra ones around the house, too.”

Your heart knew that Nanami adored you and would not leave you, but your foggy brain that was convincing you that you were not enough left you thinking he would leave. The thought lasted a second, but the panic was unbearable.

You shift to face Nanami and tightly hug him. So tight. He felt as if you were hugging him in fear of him running away. He knew of "men" that would leave their partners after fertility issues and he detested every single one of those disgusting beings that dared take space as a bag of bones roaming the earth. He could never leave you, especially for something nobody had any control of. He loved you, adored you, and with or without certain possibilities, he wanted to be there with you.

Nanami planned to see your crows feet and smile lines deepen. He wanted to retire as soon as you both could and travel to see everything together. He wanted to look at your joined hands and notice the sun spots and new wrinkles. He wanted to see your entire face wrinkle and your steps become slower. He wanted to dance with you in the middle of the kitchen and feel your heartbeat match his. He wanted it all and he needed to remind you, even if it wasn’t with words at that exact moment. Nanami hugs you back like he had before in response to your own bone-crunching embrace.

You feel defeated, but loved by the man that said ‘I do’ to you and promised everything for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, and in sickness and in health. You finally nod to his request.

———

You wake up early that morning with the driest throat and what feels like the world’s puffiest eyes. You look at the clock: 4:52am. Nanami is beside you, but you see he fell asleep in a sitting position against his pillows with his laptop on his lap. You feel a small towel beside your head and reach up to feel a folded cold towel. Nanami would always put a cold towel over your eyes if you fell asleep crying. The cold towel didn’t happen often, but it seemed like he always knew what to do even if he didn’t have the words to help at that moment. Your clothes had been changed to a large shirt that you had stolen from Nanami when you lived separately, but he let you keep.

You sit up to remove the laptop from his lap and gently lean him down to bed. As he’s shifting his body, the touch pad is slightly moved and his laptop is turned back on. You turn your head to avoid your sensitive eyes looking at the bright light and turn down the brightness. You look at the screen to decide if you should just close the laptop or shut it down. The tabs… the tabs surprise you and your heart breaks the more tabs you read.

How to deal with fertility issues

How to help sad wife

How to distract sad partner

What is egg retrieval surgery

Adoption process

Recommended income for adoption

Malaysian vacation homes for rent

Best time to vacation in Malaysia

Along with the searches, Nanami had a note opened with notes from every single tab.

The man sleeping next to you… loves you. You would do anything for him and he would scour the world and pick up brick by brick for an answer to any of your problems. You lean down to kiss his temple, “I love you, Kento. So fucking much.”

———

Seven months later, you get curious and tell Nanami to bring a test after work. He's hesitant and asks if it’s a good idea. After several months in therapy and extra doctor visits, you feel like you can handle any result. A negative would be like facing your biggest fear and you needed to overcome it.

Nanami rereads your texts the whole afternoon, and again when he’s at the pharmacy looking for the tests, and again when he’s in line to pay. He only hands you the small box after a big hug and deep kiss, and suggests you take it after dinner in fear of you not eating after seeing the result.

After a distracted dinner, you take the tests and leave them on the bathroom counter. You walk out the restroom and sit on the bed with Nanami. He wanted to be inside the restroom with you but despite being married and knowing each other’s secrets, that was one line you just could not cross. Your husband had no other option than to wait outside the door.

Nanami turns his whole body to you and reviews the exercises your therapist had given you both to work through the next result. You intently listen and follow his lead until the timer finally goes off. You both look at each other, scared for the next event but relieved to finally hear the beeping. You stand first and hold out your hand for Nanami.

You cover the test from afar as you close the gap and tell Nanami to count to three. One… two… three. You quickly move your hand to see the two tests.

You stare and stare, and Nanami’s eyes have never gone wider. You can see him looking back and forth frantically, waiting for your reaction. You screech, not yell or scream, a straight screech that could compare to the latest dinosaur feature film. Your hands cover half your face and sobs immediately break through. Nanami hugs you and picks you up from the floor.

“Ok ok ok, doctor, umm, we need to go to a doctor, ok? That's what he told us to do.” you nod frantically, still sobbing, and wrap your arms around your husband.

———

The doctor is happy to see you in his office for a different reason this time. He confirms the result with another test at the office and for the first time in a long while, the nurses lead you and Nanami to a room with a big ultrasound machine.

Nanami tightly holds your hand as the cold clear cream is spread on your tummy. There is no visible difference that you or Nanami could see but you were both very fucking nervous despite the home and doctor’s results. The doctor takes a second to spread the cream and look around. After what seems like an eternity, the doctor confirms that you are over halfway on your first trimester and points to the smallest blob on the screen.

Nanami’s legs give out and literally falls to the chair pulled for guests. His breath is heavy. He trusted the tests before, he really did believe those positives, but hearing it from the doctor's mouth in that room, seeing what was on the screen and where he knew you were in the best hands — his relief was unmatched. He had never felt such relief, happiness and an overwhelming sadness for what you had to go through.

He covers his mouth with one hand while he lets his tears fall for the first time in front of you since your wedding. His other hand still tightly holds your hand and he moves his forehead to touch the side of your stomach, where he knows the product of your love and effort will slowly start to make its home.

You lay on the chair with your arm folded on your face, crying loudly with the same relief and joy when Nanami stands back up and carefully moves your arm down to kiss your face. He starts at your temple and moves to your cheekbone, then nose, then eye, then forehead, other eye, lips, cheek, and temple again. He holds your head close to his chest and you wrap your remaining arm around him. After so many visits to this clinic, so many negatives and so many tears of sadness, you were finally able to cry for a completely different feeling.

You both lean to see the screen, the barely visible blob making you laugh but you lie your head back down and let yourself imagine a scene of a mini you and Nanami.

———

30 weeks, one 20 hour birth and an emergency C-section later, Kento holds your tiny girl. She had been rushed to the NICU shortly after the birth and you and Nanami were left scared in the OR. One of the nurses tells you that she is alright and they need to check her more since she was a preemie.

You wake up from a nap later that evening in your recovery room and see a shirtless Nanami holding your baby by the room window. He'd become so intrigued by the skin-to-skin contact benefits with a baby and promised himself he’d do anything for a closer bond with her.

Without him knowing you were awake and listening, you hear him tell the small bundle that is a sleeping baby girl, “b/n, you are so loved. We’re going to love you forever. I'm going to adore you for as long as I can and more.” He gently brushed her hair and continued, “I have so much to teach you, to show you. I love you, I'll give you everything, I promise." He lifted her and leaned down to kiss and stroke her cheeks, "my girl, my sweet girls — I'll do anything for you and mommy, I swear.”

You lean back smiling. Your body aches and the pain is incomparable to anything you’ve felt before, but you are happy. Whether it was in that hospital room as a new unit of three, or in your own living room relaxing with your husband alone, you would be happy.

Nanami turns around and sees you awake. He flashes the biggest smile and walks over to the bed with your sleeping newborn. “I love you, y/n.”

“Forever.”

2K notes · View notes

notiddygothgf · 2 years ago

Text

❛ Talk to me, baby. I'm goin' blind from this sweet, sweet craving, whoa-oh. Let's lose our minds and go fucking crazy. I-I-I-I-I-I keep on hoping we'll eat cake by the ocean. ❜

★ pairings: choso kamo x f!reader

★ synopsis: you and choso find a way to beat the heat.

★ c.w.: sexual tension, PWP, porn without plot, happy ending! au?, idk everyone's happy lol, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, cowgirl in the backseat, creampie, blowjobs, choso has mommy issues lowkey, and the reader caters to them lowkey. dom/sub undertones, choso doesnt know how to deal with his horniness lol, old fashioned, nasty ass sex, just read it you'll love it.

★ a/n: hi baby girls!! I have been holding onto this one for a MINUTE bc I wanted to make sure it's perfect. im doin a lil bit of a kinktober, so send those requests in! I hope u all love it as much as I do. bitchz w mommy issues wya???🗣️🗣️

★ w.c.; 8.6k

masterlist

CHOSO LOVED THE BEACH. Not for the reason one might normally proclaim such affection for an otherwise family-friendly pastime, but it was a valid reason nevertheless. He used to hate it, actually, especially when Getou and Mahito would drag him out there on the hottest day of the summer for their stupid villain conventions. He was quite comfortable at home in all of his layers. But there was something about the beach these days, something that had him reconsidering his bias.

Call him classless, call him perverted. Whatever it was, there was this strange pull towards the beach that had him in a chokehold. He just couldn’t quite place it.

“You’re staring,” Megumi remarked.

Choso’s brow quirked. Letting his head loll to the side, teetering just off the edge of his beach chair, he offered the following words to his brother’s friend. “No, I wasn’t.”

He totally was. The way his sun glasses slid down the bridge of his nose as you walked past the two was a dead giveaway. But, shit, you looked too good to be true. You were this pretty little thing, strutting around in a pretty pink bikini, soaking in the rays of sunlight, and you were bringing a drink to your friend, Maki. Looked like a lemonade. Also looked like booze. It could have been anything, in all honesty, he wasn’t looking there.

If there was a god out there, he hoped they would forgive him for his ravenous gaze. He had always had a little thing for you, if you will, but the moment you had walked onto the beach today he found himself completely enamored by you.

As you bent down to set the drink in the sand, the bottom of your small pink bikini slipped inward, revealing the smooth, sand-dusted skin of your plump little butt. Then you plopped down on the beach towel next to your friend and popped open the bottle of sunscreen.

Choso watched – rather shamelessly – as you sprayed some of it onto you arm, rubbing it in. You held the canister towards your chest at arms length and released some more of the sheer spray onto the skin there. It trickled down, catching the light of the sun, dripping down between your breasts–

A pair of hairy, pale legs obstructed the view.

“Found a sand dollar,” Spoke none other than the world’s quirkiest little brother, Yuuji Itadori. In a rather fitting slow-pan up to his face, Choso took note of the dorky goggles that he had popped over his eyes. He was shirtless. You would think that the man would have learned that you don’t need to go deep sea diving at the beach by now. “You guys coming?”

Megumi took the words right out of Choso’s mouth. Or, actually, ‘word’ might be more fitting.

“No.”

“I’ll pass,” Choso sighed, repositioning his sunglasses over his eyes. Silently, of course, he cursed his brother for putting on such a show in front of – what was he talking about? Choso Kamo… letting his desires cloud his love for his brother? He usually wasn’t this bad. “I thought I threw those out on you?”

“I bought new ones,” Yuuji muttered. He practically tore the goggles from his face, sending locks of pink hair standing up in the air. Tossing them to the side, he plopped between Megumi and Choso on the picnic blanket.

“Of course you did,” Megumi, who had, for a brief – but beautiful – moment been alluded into believing his friend had decided to keep his remarkable lack of social awareness to himself, reached into the cooler they had filled earlier that day and produced a much needed refreshment.

“Hi!”

Choso, Yuuji and Megumi all turned their heads toward the sound.

It was you. His ‘crush’, as Yuuji had embarrassingly called it. And, shit, you looked even prettier up close. Your hair looked so soft. So did your–

He shook the thoughts away.

“Sorry to bother ‘ya,” You lowered your head apologetically. You extended your arm out towards the three men. Clutched in your small hand was the bottle of sunscreen you had been using before Yuuji had caught Choso’s attention. “My friend is out cold. Could you just get my back for me?”

Choso felt his face grow red at the mere prospect of being so close to you. He had never had the courage to actually reach out and touch you. He felt as if, for some odd reason he didn’t quite understand, his touch would have killed you. You had always been so sweet to him, offering him small talk, refreshments, and friendly jokes when it was just the two of you away from the group.

“Not a problem, Sensei,” Yuuji replied rather quickly.

He reached for the bottle. Before he could grab it, Megumi jabbed his elbow harshly into the back of Yuuji’s neck.

“Bitch, ow,” He hissed.

The glare Megumi shot him could have been heard from ten miles away. Choso sighed, refraining from shaking his head.

“I think he’s sick. I’ll bring him to the infirmary,” Megumi added quietly, standing up rather abruptly and taking Yuuji with him.

Yuuji babbled mindlessly the whole way back.

Highschoolers.

Choso looked back to you. Just you. Alone. He felt his hands get all clammy again. He blamed it on the sun. You were holding the bottle expectantly.

“Uh… I can… I can help, if you’re okay with that,” He looked away, internally kicking himself for fumbling so hard.

You only tilted your head at him. Your eyes were so pretty, wide open as they lingered over his body, his eyes, his nose. Your gaze was a wildfire spreading over the expanse of his face.

It was then that he realized he was very, very shirtless.

“‘Kay, thanks,” you smiled softly.

As you laid down on the beach blanket, Choso felt his heart race even faster. He could hardly believe this was all happening – hell, part of him wondered if he had overstepped by offering his services to you. The sun beat down on your skin, his head, the sand – he blamed the warmth flooding his face on the weather.

You were laid on your stomach only a few inches away, completely oblivious to his moral dilemma.

He took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself while he reached for the bottle of sunscreen you had set onto the blanket beside you. With hands that trembled ever-so-slightly, he uncapped the bottle and squeezed a small amount onto his palm. The sunscreen was cool to the touch – so, not wanting to cause you even the slightest bit of discomfort, he warmed it up between his hands.

He then hesitantly placed his hands on the smooth valley of your upper back.

You gasped, twitching beneath his palms.

“Did I hurt you?” He asked quickly, withdrawing his hands.

“No, sorry,” You sighed, shifting on the blanket and then relaxing once more. “Your hands are cold ‘s all.”

Choso felt the blush coming on all over again. He hoped you wouldn’t turn your head back around and see him like this. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, averting his gaze.

“You’re all good, hot stuff,” You offered. “You can keep going.”

His face burned like hell at your compliment. He knew you were that way with everyone, dropping little ‘babe’s and ‘honey’s to your friends and fellow sorcerers. He wasn’t anything special, anyway. Surely, you weren’t talking to him.

He replaced his hands on your back, touch delicate like your skin would crack if he pressed too hard. He started with broad strokes, making sure to spread the sunscreen across your skin evenly. His fingers splayed out over your warm, soft skin, moving in circles. He massaged the sunscreen into your back with a tenderness that surprised even himself.

He wasn’t sure what this stuff actually did. He had seen some of Yuuji’s Jujutsu friends slather some on earlier. Judging by the name, he assumed it protected them from the sun. From what, though? Could the sun hurt some humans? He didn’t really understand.

“You’re wondering something,” You asked, seemingly sensing his pensiveness by the way his hands slowed. “Ask away.”

Choso bit the skin on the inside of his lip, “This lotion…” he asked, “What does it do?”

“Sunscreen?” You hummed. “It forms a layer over your skin so you don’t get sunburnt.”

“Sunburnt…” He reiterated.

“Yeah, that shit hurts,” You added. “I’m guessing Itadori never gave you the run-up on beach necessities…?”

“I guess not,” He remarked quietly.

“I can show you how to apply yours if you want,” You said.

Choso’s heart felt like it would burst. “Okay,” he said, pausing slightly. “I’d like that, thanks.”

Then he was back to his job. His hands smoothed over your back, dipping down a little lower until his thumb brushed against the strap of your bikini. He felt suddenly aware of how soft and warm you felt beneath his touch.

He was dangerously close to the knot in the string that held your whole getup together. He worried for a moment that the dainty bow would come undone – by some strange, supernatural turn of events – despite him making a great effort to move around it.

Choso’s breath hitched when his finger caught on the string, making the knot snap against your skin. He froze up, heart pounding in his chest, perfectly still over your body. The string felt like a fragile barrier between your warm skin and his cold touch, between your body and the thoughts that raced through his mind.

He wondered if you found him weird and off-putting. His gaze flickered up to your face, leaning over slightly, searching your face for any sign of discomfort.

But when he looked into your eyes, he found you were looking at him with the same curiosity. You smiled at him, pretty lips forming a reassuring expression, wordlessly encouraging him to keep going.

Slowly, unsurely, Choso continued his ministrations. He trailed two digits down your spine, stopping at the string. He felt a knot beneath the skin there. He knew sorcerers put themselves through rigorous training. He didn’t doubt that you were feeling sore from the mission you had just come back from a few days ago.

“You’re tense here,” He said quietly.

You turned your head to look at him, “Yeah?”

“Right here,” He pinpointed the exact area with his knuckles, pressing deep into the tissue.

In response, you moaned quietly, back shifting beneath his touch. His shorts seemed to get just a little bit tighter.

Calm down.

“You got magic hands, Choso,” You quipped, though your voice was strained as he passed over the knot a second time. “You could be a masseuse.”

He felt his nerves subside only slightly, though he felt flustered by your words.

You got magic hands.

You could be a masseuse.

Unbeknownst to him, the sensation of his touch created a pleasant tingling beneath your skin. You closed your eyes, letting him take the reins.

Choso continued to work his fingers over your back, feeling the tension slowly melt away beneath his touch. He had used up the last of the sunscreen to cover your lower back, the skin just above your bottom, and he realized his job was done.

“I think that should do it,” He said softly, voice tinged with reluctance as he removed his hands from your back.

You sat up, stretching, turning towards him, eyes sparkling, “Thanks, Cho, you’re a lifesaver.”

You’re a lifesaver.

A shy smile tugged at his lips, “Of course.”

Then, to his surprise, you asked. “You’re sweet. Mind if I sit with you?”

Choso felt his heart skip more than one beat. His eyes widened. He looked at the sand, the shoreline, anything but you. “Sure,” he said.

Smooth, dumbass.

You grinned and pushed yourself up, saying, “I’ll be right back.”

Choso took a moment to collect his thoughts as you left. He was getting ahead of himself. Way ahead of himself. Stll, you had chosen to spend more time with him. You wanted to sit with him.

Conveniently, only a brief moment after you had stepped away, Megumi returned with Yuuji in tow. Choso quirked a brow at the speed of their return.

“That was quick,” he remarked.

Megumi shrugged, “Took him to get ice cream on the boardwalk instead.”

“You get her number?” Yuuji asked.

“I was doing her a favor,” Choso’s calm facade broke. With wide eyes, he hissed, “Pervert.”

“Dumbass,” Yuuji sucked his teeth.. “Look, tonight’s the night to make a move. When else would you find yourself alone with her like this?”

And before Choso could respond, you came back, holding a speaker in one hand. “I brought snacks!” You smiled.

Some time around sundown, sometime after Getou had summoned up one of his low-grade curses to start a fire, the beach day transformed itself into a fireside chat. It was a picturesque scene. The sky was a canvas of blue, with hues of pink and orange painted over the horizon. It was mostly empty there, now. The waves lapped calmly at the shore, a quiet noise that seemed to accompany the quiet chatter of friends gathered around a fire.

There was laughter, groups of people indulged in conversations. Everyone seemed so calm, so happy, it almost seemed to good to be true.

Megumi and Itadori were caught in a cock-off with Maki. Nobara stargazing on her and Maki’s beach blanket. Gojo and Getou were talking in his direction, but not necessarily at him.

“I just think you have an unfair drinking advantage because you’re a man,” You were saying just off to Choso’s side.

The mood was light. Everyone seemed to be content.

Choso, however, couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from you. The warm, fading sunlight seemed to caress your features from the side, highlighting your pretty smile and making your eyes shimmer. He found himself completely and utterly enamored by you.

You and Getou had cracked open a bottle of Tequila about an hour ago. Getou’s boyfriend long-term-long-distance-low-commitment-casual-boyfriend, Satoru Gojo was red in the face, slouched against the bare chest revealed by Getou’s unbuttoned floral shirt.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Gojo chuckled, letting Getou top off his fourth shot of the night.

Getou denied any relationship with Gojo. Their eyes betrayed them, though. The connection was evident in the loving glances they exchanged.

You had a faint flush of your own, though you had only taken two shots so far.

He tried two of his own, only because you didn’t want to do them alone. He had never been big on drinking. He just didn’t want to seem like a pussy.

“Why don’t you pour me one so we can test that theory?” Nobara nudged you in the side.

Choso watched the scene unfold with mild interest.

“Because you’re a minor,” You said.

Nobara pouted, leaning back onto her blanket. “Not like I’ve never drank before.”

Maki chimed in over her shoulder, “Got vomit stains on my carpet to prove it.”

“Shut up,” She bit back.

You handled the situation effortlessly. “I don’t condone teen drinking,” You began, your voice softening as you continued, “But. I know the four you will probably go hit up one of those beachside bars tonight with your fake IDs anyway.”

“Fake IDs?” Gojo looked at Megumi out of the corner of his eye. Megumi did not look back.

You clapped. Choso’s ears perked up at the sound.

“That being said!” You raised your voice a bit. “I would rather you drink something less potent. Under adult supervision.”

You turned to Getou and Gojo, who exchanged knowing glances before nodding their approval. Choso couldn’t help but be impressed.

“So who wants a Malibu rum spritzer?” You clasped your hands together.

Excitement rippled through the group, and all of the kids, yes all of the kids, Including Yuuji, eagerly raised their hands.

Choso shot his brother a disapproving glare, one that dissipated the moment you leaned in, laying your head on his shoulder. Your voice, soft and smooth like your skin, enticed him as you sing-songed, “Let the kid live a little.”

It was rather remarkable, actually, how quickly his defenses melted at your gentle persuasion. He sighed in resignation. “Alright.”

You grinned up at him, effortlessly stealing his breath away.

“Great,” you said, getting up from your spot without another word. “I’ll go get them from my car. Don’t wait up for me, I walk real slow.”

Turning your attention back to Choso, you looked at him with a warmth behind your gaze he couldn’t quite place. “Choso, sweetie, could you help me carry the cooler?”

His heart soared at your request – at the prospect of you wanting his assistance. He got to his feet quickly, eager to help.

The sand felt cool beneath his feet as he followed your lead.

The moon hung low in the sky as you and Choso strolled through the parking lot, searching for your jeep. The temperature had dropped quite a few notches from earlier, cold breeze rustling through Choso’s hair.

When you spotted your ride, you said, “There it is!”

Choso followed wordlessly behind you. He was still quite nervous that – for the second time today – it was just you and him… alone. Yuuji’s words echoed through his mind.

“When else would you find yourself alone with her like this?”

You popped the door to the backseat open, sitting on the floor – your truck was raised a bit off the ground, so it didn’t put you too far below him.

“My legs are so fucking sore,” You sighed. You dusted your leg off with the backside of your bare foot. When you peered up at him through those long, dense lashes of yours, he felt himself fall for you a second time.

You asked him, “Mind if we take a little break?”

Choso nodded along like the dumb little dog he was for you.

You pushed yourself up and away from the truck, gesturing for him to get inside. It didn’t take much at all for him to step into it and take a seat. You settled in right next to him – perhaps a little closer to Choso than was strictly necessary. He couldn’nt help the pleasant shiver that went down his spine at the feeling of you sitting next to him; so warm, so soft, so perfect.

You let out a contented sigh and leaned your head on his shoulder once more. “I got tired of bein’ social,” You confessed.

He tried hard not to quirk a brow at the admission. Am I an exception?

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” He asked sincerely. He tried even harder to ignore the warm weight of your small head on his shoulder.

So close.

“No,” You hummed quietly. The interior light faded away, gently submerging the two of you in darkness. He could still see your face, your eyes – the way they seemed to sparkle as they looked up at him. “You’re different.”

Choso’s heart took the liberty of skipping one, two, three beats.

You continued without allowing him time to come up with an adequate response. “Can I be honest with you, Choso?”

His cheeks flushed. Still, curiosity piqued, he muttered, “Of course.”

Your voice was soft and vulnerable when you replied, “I think you’re really hot.”

If his face wasn’t hot, it sure was now. He turned away even though he knew you couldn’t see him blushing.

She thinks I’m hot?

Does that mean she likes me?

You had nothing but sincerity in your eyes while you gazed up at him. “You feel the same way, don’t you?”

He bit his tongue, answering honestly, “I do.”

He hated how calm and collected he sounded. On the outside, he was the image of composure. On the inside, he was dying a hundred times over.

You grinned at his admission. “Can I ask you something else, then?”

His lips suddenly felt very dry. He tried his best to focus on the street outside, counting landmarks and objects like his life depended on it – two seagulls, five wooden posts, two dim street lights.

“Sure,” he said.

“Can I kiss you?” You asked. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

And, dammit, when you asked him like that – he could practically feel the last of his resolve crumble beneath your gaze, beneath the weight of your head on his shoulder, beneath your gentle touch on his knee that he hadn’t noticed until now.

You were so close. So close that if he turned his head, angled it down just slightly, your noses would touch. He felt your breath, warm and steady against his neck – a calming symphony that contrasted the trembling mess he had become,

Yuuji’s words played on repeat again. Tonight’s the night to make a move.

He was such a fool for you. Still, he considered himself to be a man of restraint.

His voice was small and scarce, hardly above a whisper when he breathed out, “Yeah.”

Time seemed to slow down as your request hung out in the air. He could feel the anticipation building, buzzing. His heart pounded against his ribcage like a mallet to a gong. He had spent months wondering what would happen if you – by some odd, small chance – returned his affections, and now, with your vulnerability laid bare, he couldn’t resist any longer.

He considered himself to be a man of restraint, that was, until he peered into your wide, longingful eyes.

With a barely noticeable nod, Choso turned his head just slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. Just as he had anticipated, your noses brushed together – he could feel the warmth of your breath on his lips.

You were magnetic.

And in that final, heart-pounding moment, your lips met in the middle – in a gentle, tender union. Choso’s hand seemed to find its own way to your cheek, touch soft as he cupped your cheek. He felt for some odd reason that you might vanish altogether if he let you go.

He wasn’t entirely sure if it had been you or him who deepened the kiss. Either way, he felt himself melt into the seat. The world outside seemed to fade away, ceasing to exist in your presence. None of it mattered – not the empty, public street, not the group of friends waiting on the beach for his return.

Yuuji.

Choso pulled away with a shuddering gasp, pressing his forehead against yours. He licked his lips, panting, “The drinks… We– we should probably– uh… get those.”

He feared that if his heart beat any faster he would explode.

You made no effort to put any distance between you and him. In fact, you put your hands on his shoulders, moving yourself so that you were situated comfortably in his lap.

“There’s no rush,” You hummed. “Getou and Gojo are probably off sucking face somewhere, and those kids have been keeping themselves entertained just fine. Who would notice?”

His eyes were everywhere but your face. For a half-curse, he found himself to be no better than a man, hungry eyes wandering over your body – your eyes, your lips, the subtle curve of your waist, the fabric of your bikini that seemed like it was hugging you just right.

You seemed to have caught him in the act.

“Do you wanna touch me, Choso?” You asked, and it sounded like an invitation.

Still, he worried he was reading too deeply into things. Doing his best to refrain from making you feel any sort of discomfort, he swallowed, “I…”

He was about to fucking explode – both metaphorically and physically, judging by the way his shorts began to tighten again at your words.

“You think I didn’t see you staring today?” You continued, letting your fingers slip into his hair.

He wanted to freeze up, wanted to feel some form of remorse, but when you were massaging his scalp so gently, so lovingly…

“I’m sorry,” he lied.

“Don’t be,” You giggled, and he felt his stomach do a fucking flip at the sound of it. You leaned in close to him, close to his ear, and whispered into it, “I was staring, too.”

He felt like such a virgin, thighs tensing up at your admission. He thought of you on the beach again – sneaking sideways glances at him, at his body, at him…

He felt his resolve break when you pressed a soft kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Kiss– Kiss me again,” he breathed, feeling slightly lightheaded from all of the attention you were giving him. You placed another kiss to the corner of his jaw. “Please… kiss me again.”

You pulled away, pressing your nose right up against his again. Your breaths were shallow and ragged now – strange. “You want me, baby boy?”

Baby boy. Baby boy, fuck.

He licked his lips, “Please.”

And then your lips were on his without so much as another word. You ate him up like a starved woman, teeth nipping at his lower lip for entry.

The last of his restraint flew out the window.

The kiss was electrifying, sent sparks shooting through his veins, fingertips tingling as they found their way to your hips. It was a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. He could taste you – the sweetness of your lipgloss as it smeared messily over the lower half of his face, the beat of your heart thrumming beneath his touch, the scent of sunscreen that lingered on your skin.

He found himself getting lost in the moment.

He deepened the kiss further, gripping your hips, your lower back with a bit more confidence. For a moment, he could forget about his responsibilities, his past. It didn’t matter; not now, not when he could feel your body pressed up against him, hot and soft and compliant.

His face burned when he felt that familiar tingling feeling – he knew he was getting hard beneath you, he could feel the way your hips lifted when you adjusted yourself over the tent in his shorts.

However, to his surprise, you didn’t pull away. Instead, you pressed into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and bringing yourself even closer. He felt dizzy, sliding his tongue across your wet lips, exploring your mouth. You tangled your fingers in his touseled black locks, rolling your hips against his slowly, hesitantly, like you were testing the waters.

The jolt of electricity he felt from that small movement had him pulling away. Even in the midst of the fervor, Choso was acutely aware of his own impulses. He feared he was getting too far ahead of himself; if you kept rubbing yourself against him like that, he was gonna cream his fucking pants like a middle schooler.

“Wait, wait– ah–” He grunted, leaning back against the seat.

“Hmm?” You hummed – still, you only slowed down a little bit.

His mouth hung open. It felt so good, the friction, the feeling of your warmth rolling up and down the thin layer of fabric separating the two of you. Fuck — why did he tell you to stop, again?

He fought hard to regain his composure. “I– I’ve never done this before,” he stammered.

“Really?” You asked, teasingly, almost, like you knew the effect you had on him. You rutted up against him again, a little harder. “You’re a natural.”

He could feel you – the thin cloth covering your nether regions left little to the imagination. You felt so warm, so welcoming. He ached to pull the thin fabric to the side and sink into you.

Fuck. Stop. He turned his head away, at war with his impulses.

Again, for a half-curse, he felt like nothing more than a man. A weak man, and it was all your fault.

The whine that left his mouth felt anything but natural. “Won’t– What if someone sees us?”

You said nothing. When he looked back at you, you were undoing the knot behind your head – the one holding your bikini together.

His eyes went wide. If his attraction to you were any more obvious, his jaw would have been on the floor.

“Let them watch,” You grinned. Then you let your top fall over, breasts spilling out like something out of a porno.

He was in awe. You were perfect. There were little bits of sand stuck to the skin where your bikini lay only seconds prior, faint tanlines already forming over your skin. He felt his mouth water.

“You can touch them, if you want,” You answered his unasked question.

And he wasted no time, gently cupping one of your tits with his large, warm palm. He gave it an experimental squeeze. Then another. Then his thumb wandered down to your nipple, giving the bud a gentle flick.

You whind, hand sliding up the back of his head.

She likes that, he noted.

So, deciding to take his experiment a step further – and for the sake of conserving time, he began peppering kisses to your hot skin, to the valley between your soft, plush mounds. He held both in his hands, rolling his thumb over the hardened buds to compensate for the lack of attention.

He wanted nothing more than to take his sweet, precious time with you – committing every curve and valley of your body to memory. But, alas, he knew you were on a time crunch. Any minute now, someone could find the two of you here, like this.

He kissed his way back over to his hands. Then, finally, he wrapped his lips around that place he knew made you feel good.

Sure enough, you arched into him, pink, swollen lips parting to release a pant of his name, “Choso, baby.”

He flattened his tongue over the tip of your nipple, rolling over it in slow circles – then quicker ones, until he felt the spit gathering between his lips and your skin. You responded in kind by rutting against him a little faster. He had never felt a burn quite so delightful in his life.

He can’t quite help himself from letting out a little whine when you tug on his hair. The flavor of sunscreen and salt lingered on your skin. He felt hot– you were hot, oh so hot.

Before he could return the favor on the other nipple, you pushed him away. You looked disheveled, pupils blown wide, hair frizzed up.

“Y’feel so big,” You gasped, still humping his hard cock like a dog in heat. You stopped, but only to sink into the space between his legs and the back of the driver’s seat. Splaying your fingers over his thighs, his shorts, you panted, “Wanna taste. Can I?”

He could only blink up at you. This isn’t real.

“Of course, baby,” He replied, throwing the nickname from earlier back at you, already reaching for the strings of his swim trunks when you batted his hands away. Your enthusiasm made his head spin.

He let you take the reigns – watching with hungry, lustful eyes as you undid the bow yourself. You reached for the waistband of his shorts, tugging them down and letting his dick spring free.

It nearly hit you in the face, how big the thing was. He had never actually thought about it that way, at least, not until now, when you were gazing up at it with wide eyes and wet, parted lips.

Your eyes were on his tip, glistening with a bead of precum, then wandering down the shaft as the two of you watched it drip.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked.

You didn’t bother pulling his pants the rest of the way down, or even acknowledging his comment. No, the moment the waistband was out of the way, you were swallowing him whole.

Choso exhaled sharply, nearly doubling over at the sensation of your warm mouth closing in around him. He felt the muscles in his abdomen tense with the strain of it – he thought he could cum like this, with your lips stretched around him, and he didn’t really think he would mind testing that theory.

His skin was hot. He burned for you.

You pulled up. Sucking him back into your mouth, you hollowed your cheeks. Then you throated him again, right up until your nose brushed his navel. He felt himself throb in your mouth.

“Fuck, ‘s good,” He heard himself whimper weakly, tangling a trembling hand in your hair while you picked up the pace.

And you went at it like you were made for it. Up and down, up and down, fitting him all the way in until the head of his cock bumped the back of your throat. Over and over again, until his vision blurred a bit at the edges, mind a little hazy with lust.

You were sucking and slurping on him so lewdly – fuck, he could die like this.

You didn’t show any signs of stopping, either.

He moaned – much to his embarrassment – actually moaned. You were working him rather quickly up to what he knew would be an earth shattering (albeit poorly timed) orgasm.

You made a noise in response, though it was broken up by the nasty, dirty sound you made every time you gagged on his dick. You peered up at him through half-lidded eyes, through long, wispy lashes, leaving a trail of saliva running down his thighs that he didn’t even mind.

Choso caressed the side of your face, biting his lip. “Mmh,” he panted, “You do it so well.”

In response, you put a hand over his. You directed his gentle touch to the top of your head, instructing him to push down. Hesitantly, gently, he began to guide your head, bobbing you back and forth on his length while you sat back and let him use you.

He noticed that you were struggling to fit the whole thing in your mouth. He saw that there were tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but he knew you were determined. He used his thumb to wipe your tears away, tucking your hair behind your ears to keep it out of your face.

With a shudder and a whine, he pushed your head down a little further. You gagged on it again, swallowing him down, tightening your throat around him like you were made to suck dick.

If this was to be his last night alive, he would die a happy man.

His legs felt weak, as did his arms. You took over, gently assisting him in fucking your mouth.

“Ah– nnh, you’re–” He licked his lips, guiding your head while allowing you to continue setting your own pace. You were making him feel so good, so hot.

You pulled back for a moment to slurp unceremoniously on his tip, letting spit drip down his shaft. You wrapped your hands around him, working what you couldn’t fit into your mouth while your tongue did tricks on his tip – circles, shapes, letters, he didn’t even know anymore.

He felt like he was going dumb.

Just as he leaned his head back into the seat, you pulled off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Got carried away,” You giggled breathlessly. “Sorry.”

Then you were climbing right back into his lap, bracing your hands on his shoulders, kissing him with a ravenous hunger.

“I’m not gonna blue ball you, don’t worry,” You licked your lips. Reaching down, you slipped the fabric of your bikini thong to the side. “I want you.”

“H–...” He trailed off, fighting to catch his breath – better yet, to regain his surroundings. “How do you want me?”

In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to feel you sink down onto him, to feel your warmth envelop him entirely. He wanted you to ride him past the point of hypersensitivity. He wanted you to use him until you were satisfied – like some sort of fuck toy.

He didn’t care anymore. He had left his inhibitions at the door.

“Wanna fuck you right here, like this,” You muttered against his lips, licking a stripe from his chin all the way to his cupid’s bow. You guided the head of his dick between your folds, smearing your slick all over him in a way that made him arch up. “Wanna drain that pretty cock of yours, wanna cum all over it– can you do that for me?”

You were so nasty… so dirty that he found himself a red, blushing mess at your words. But, still…

For you?

Anything.

“Yes,” he groaned. He felt like he was going to melt if he waited another moment longer. “Fuck, please, use me until you’re satisfied.”

He hadn’t even thought about saying it. It had slipped out.

You paused, blinking down at him with wide, lustful eyes. Finally, you said, “you’re such a good puppy, you know that?”

He would be whatever the hell you wanted him to be.

“G’nna let me ride you, pretty boy?” You cooed, sliding your hands up his torso, up his bare chest, up his shoulders while you hovered over him.

This was moving quickly. Not like he had any objections to that, of course. Clearly, you didn’t either. As you positioned the tip in line with your dripping cunt, sinking down onto him, he felt his eyes roll back into his head.

He gasped, letting his eyelids fall shut. He didn’t even care that he was losing his virginity in the backseat of his coworker’s truck like some cheap whore. He would let you take it, take more, take everything you wanted from him.

You lifted your hips and then sank down on him again, eliciting a strangled grunt of your name from him. The filthy squelching sound your cunt made as it squeezed him in threw him for a loop.

He leaned forward, shivering, burning his head in your neck. “S’too tight,” he panted, though he let you continue working on him with a remarkable amount of ease – sliding back and forth in a way that had the both of you panting for more. “Fucking– shit, ah–”

“Chosooo– ‘S so big,” You moaned his name like it was made of honey, fucking yourself down onto his dick, letting all of the sinful noises flow from your lips. “Fuck, feel it in my guts.”

He would have thought you were lying to him if it weren’t for your spectacle earlier.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he breathed. When he looked up at you again, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. You were the image of pornographic beauty – sinful, beautiful, sultry. Your brows were scrunched together with concentration, legs trembling around him as you slowed down to savor the way he worked you open.

“Pretty baby,” He mused, running his hands over your stomach, your hips. “You keep goin’ like that ‘n– fuck– I won’t– Last long.”

“Mmh,” you giggled.

Then you picked up the speed a bit, like you hadn’t even heard what he had just said. You were rising and sinking on his dick with newfound purpose, chasing after the promise of paradise like a wild animal.

“Look at me,” he begged, eyes half-lidded and desperate, tongue running across his lower lip. “Fu-uck– please, ‘M...”

You obeyed, meeting his gaze with such a fiery passion that he almost wished he hadn’t asked you – feeling that coil in his gut grow a little tighter when your hazy eyes were on him. You bounced obediently on his cock, up and down, up and down until you were a grunting, groaning mess.

“Mm… fuckkk,” You sighed, hips faltering a bit. “Feels good, Choso.”

Choso felt his hips twitch beneath you, hands tensing on your backside. Then, slowly, he began to meet your thrusts midway. His ass lifted off of the seat, legs spreading a bit further apart while he used his strength to continue fucking you senseless.

He was mesmerized by you, by the way you clenched and squeezed him, by the way your mouth lolled open to make way for broken cries of his name, by the way your tits bounced in his face whenever he thrusted up into you.

He worried for a moment that he was being too harsh with you.

“Harder– please!” You gasped, clawing at his shoulders, at his chest.

Still, he obeyed. He fucked you dumb, hips snapping up against your ass with such strength that the whole car lurched forward. Your head came dangerously close to the ceiling.

But he didn’t have the guts to stop. Not when you were screaming for him, repeating his name like some sort of mantra. He was as weak for you as he had always been.

“Choso– Choso–”

The feeling of your warm, wet walls massaging the head of his cock had him whimpering into the crook of your neck. It was a hot, gummy abyss he wouldn’t mind getting sucked into for the remainder of his life.

“You like that?” He asked you, spare hand sliding up from your hips, past your breasts, to your neck.

He knew now that you liked it rough. He could provide that.

So, with no further warning, he gripped your hip roughly, sliding into you at full force. You cried out his name again, fingernails digging into his skin.

The car bounced every time he pounded up into you. Faster, faster.

It felt like you were squeezing him for dear life.

Choso cried out, a broken whine as he slowed his thrusts for a minute to a much slower pace. Feeling your perfect pussy clenching around him, he nearly doubled over from the sudden pleasure. “Please,” he gasped, laying his head back. “Fuck, that’s good.”

You bit your lip, sliding up until it was just the tip left inside of you, and then slamming back down onto him at full force. You repeated this action a few more times, lips parted to make way for the sinful… sultry moans that passed from between them. Clearly, you were relishing in the way he squirmed and gasped beneath you.

He couldn’t blame you. He knew that he, too was doing everything he could to commit this scene to memory, wild eyes raking over your body, over the junction where you met him. The way you were riding him… shit, he didn’t know he would be able to make the walk back.

You looked so obscene like this, all fucked out, dumb on his dick.

Throwing your head back, you groaned.

He was gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. Fuck, he knew that– cursed strength and all. But he couldn’t bring himself to slow down.

“So f-fucking good,” he stammered. He sought out your lips again, snapping his hips up against your ass mercilessly. For someone who had been so concerned about being discovered a little while ago, his quiet grunts and gasps turned into moans and whimpers against your sore lips. Louder and louder.

Admittedly, though, he was more focused on the noises coming out of your own mouth. You were practically screaming for him.

He had no idea that sex could even feel so mind-numbingly good. For him, especially, but for you…?

You froze up rather suddenly, hips spasming wildly, toes curling up on either side of his thighs while you gasped brokenly.

“FUCK!”

There it was.

He felt his face burn. You cried his name again, bouncing up and down on it, wildly chasing after that high. “Choso– m’close–”

“You gonna cum, pretty girl?” He hummed, once again throwing your nickname back at you. He grinned, knowing full and well that he had cracked the code. So he kept that same speed, same pace, same everything while his fingers dropped from your neck to the mess you had made between the two of you.

He knew what to do now – surprisingly enough. He had done some… internet research after his brother had broken the meaning of his feelings down to him (along with what Choso was to do when his crush came to fruition).

What? Curses didn’t make love. Sex was transactional.

He was curious about how sex was on the human side of things.

He ran his tongue over his thumb, reaching between the steamy, sweaty union of your bodies to find your clit. He pressed down, rolling over the nub in quick, expert circles.

One look up at you, and he knew you were close to your breaking point. You looked like you were about to pass out, letting yourself be thrown around on his wild hips like a ragdoll. You were too weak to move, so you sat there and took his dick like a good girl, eyes glazed over with pleasure while he fucked you dumb.

You looked like you were in love.

Choso sped his ministrations over your clit up a little faster, feeling the knot in his own stomach begin to grow faster than he wanted. He was in another world, out of this plane, hypnotized.

All he could see in that moment was your angelic face above him, face scrunched up in pleasure – and partially in pain, as he bullied his cock into your cervix – sweat rolling down your neck, your breasts, your voluptuous body.

“Mine–” You gasped out, clawing at his shoulder blades while your back arched. “Oh– fuck! Th’s dick ‘s mine, mmh?”

It was.

He nodded. But, clearly, that wasn’t good enough. Your hand shot out to grip him by the neck, painted fingernails digging into his throat.

“‘S yours,” He gasped back into your mouth. “All yours, I swear– ah–”

You were so hot. It made him feel things– feel like he was dying over and over again in the best way possible.

That along with the way your hand gripped his throat – using your small thumb to cut off his blood supply for a few seconds too long before loosening your grip, letting him gasp for air as the blood came rushing back – he felt lightheaded.

The way your pussy was spasming around him certainly didn’t do anything to help. He knew you were close, shit, but could you hold on a minute?

You were gonna make him cum too fast.

“You’re mine, yeah?” You asked again, keeping your grip strong on his neck. “All mine?”

“M’yours,” The cursed womb grunted against your neck. His brows were furrowed in concentration. His teeth nipped at the sensitive skin, careful not to leave marks. “All yours.”

He meant it. Even though he would have said anything you asked him to at this point, he really meant it. He hoped you knew that.

Judging by the way you came a moment later with a stutter of your hips and a strangled cry of, “Cho–”, he assumed you understood.

Your cunt was a warm, wet, death trap, walls milking his cock for all it was worth.

Shit, he thought. You really weren’t lying about that.

His dark eyes were burning into yours, burning with a desire so intense he felt he might burst at the seams if he kept looking a moment longer.

“Want you to cum inside of me,” You commanded him, holding his head in your trembling hands. “Fill me up, please, I need it.”

His eyes widened, blinking down at the white ring you had made around the base of his dick. His eyes flitted back up to you, pleading with you to let him go. Pleading for you to give the soul that you stole from him back,

“I can’t–” he released a trembling breath.

He thought of himself as a father raising a child. Right now, it didn’t seem so bad.

“Please, ‘m on the pill,” you begged him, gazing into his eyes like you knew he wasn’t strong enough to refuse. “Wanna feel it dripping out of me. Think about it– what– ah– what would they think? … If they knew–”

You gasped when he delivered a harsh smack to your ass, slowing his strokes so that he could savor the way you sucked him in. “If they knew we snuck off to fuck? That– that I had your cum dripping out of me while they ask what took us so long?”

“Fuckk,” Choso groaned, hips trembling beneath you. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, cheeks burning. His breaths – and yours – had fogged the windows up.

You squeezed around him one more time, placing a tender kiss to his lips. You muttered into his mouth, “Do it f’me… please, Choso.”

“Mmh–!” And that was all it took. Choso rolled his hips up into you one more time, twitching, whining, feeling your warmth spasm around him as he spilled into you. He drove as deep up into you as he could – holding onto you for dear life while the coil snap, and he came so hard that his legs gave out. Lots of it.

So much that he felt it drip out.

You sought another kiss from him, sealing your lips together. When you pulled away, you giggled, “Good boy. Good puppy.”

“God,” he shuddered, falling back against the headrest once his orgasm subsided. You fell against his chest, snuggling up to him.

And Choso, not knowing what else to do, pressed a kiss to the top of your head. To his surprise, you didn’t immediately leave him in the dust. Instead, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, basking in the warmth of your post-coital bliss.

You broke the silence after a minute or two.

“So…” You began, trailing a finger up his bare chest. “Help me carry that cooler back to the beach?”

And Choso, breathless, felt himself begin to laugh.

The two of you came back onto the beach. Choso was carting the cooler behind while you walked ahead, waving your friends down.

As you approached, Itadori remarked with crossed arms, “The hell have you guys been?” His hair was done up into two, pink, little pigtails. It was clear as day that Nobara had a hand in his current hairstyle.

“Oh!” You had grinned rather awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck with your hand. “We– Well, we realized we didn’t have as many spritzers as I thought. Had to make a run to the liquor store.”

Itadori raised a brow. Still, if he noticed something, he didn’t say anything about it. “Uh huh.”

Choso bent down to set the cooler onto the ground, back turned to the group.

Getou peeped up from his paperback novel, lips twitching at the sight of Choso’s back. He nudged his counterpart, Gojo.

Who nearly spat out his drink.

You sat on the beach blanket nearest to Gojo and Getou. The moment your butt hit the sand, you practically collapsed into the ground.

You could feel eyes on you. So, begrudgingly, you rolled over, throwing Satoru a weak glare. “What?”

He only nodded towards Choso.

You turned around, following his gaze. It settled over his back. He bent down, picking a few spritzers out of the ice. It was then that you noticed the harsh red claw marks on his shoulderblades.

Subconsciously, your gaze drifted down to your hips, to the skin where purple imprints of Choso’s fingertips stood out as clear as day.

You gasped, then, clamping a hand over your mouth.

“So,” Gojo began casually, handing you a shot. He leaned in, ocean blue eyes twinkling as he teased you, “Was he gentle? He seems like he would give it rough.”

You turned to his not-boyfriend, brows furrowed. “Suguruuu…”

It was with no great amount of satisfaction that Getou looked up from his novel. “Satoru,” he sighed languidly. “Not in front of ths kids.”

Gojo ignored his not-boyfriend’s remark. “Was it big?”

You sank back into the blanket, feeling the heat of your embarrassment burn your cheeks as your words from earlier came back to bite you in the ass.

Who would notice?

a/n: hello there my precious little sugarplums! I hope u enjoyed the first installment of my kinktober writings ( which will prob continue throughout the fall bc I started hella late ). send in requests! there's no part two to this, but I would write one if enough ppl requested it. yk the drill though, comment ur thoughts/wishes below! I love reading them. reblogs are alway always always appreciated bc my reach is ass on Tumblr...

I obviously do not own jjk or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

credits: cover artist(s) unknown??, dividers: @bpdier, @cafekitsune

taglist: @missphanosaur18 , @bontensbabygirl, @megumissunshine, @chocoyanchan, @littlelovebug98, @lucisimpongod, @xochyw, @jaegerstan222 , @electro-supremacy, @mellytheteddy, @clover0310 , @soraya-daydreams, @priussy, @insanehumantinker, @staygoldsquatchling02, @nonksity, @hinata7346, @chososwhoresblog, @mindurownbussines , @hearts4sid , @simplefools , @ynjimenez

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