#seeing everyone having a good time just warms my heart | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ihyuka · 1 day ago

Text

Of regrets and other tells | Choi Soobin

summary: Soobin has been building his acting career for years. Sacrificing his time and personal life in more aspects than one, holding onto a broken heart for over 5 years, and perpetually wishing his past relationship didn't end the way it did. Now, he's gotten an imminent return to his hometown thanks to a wedding, the high possibility of seeing his ex (Very possible because she's the groom's sister), and oh, it turns out the groom doesn't know he ever dated his sister. A recipe for disaster

word count: 11.5k

pairing: soobin x female reader

warnings: exes to lovers (sort of), brother's best friend, taehyun is our matchmaker bec he adores his friends, yeonjun is oblivious, tiny bit of angst, soobin is a sweetheart, they're Overthinkers, smut, cunnilingus, fingering, cute and soft love making, unprotected sex, they have feelings for each other, reader can be nasty at times (soobin isn't doing any better tbh), huh, i hope i'm not forgetting something☝️

note: happy valentine’s day! 💕 welcome to my blog!

this idea has been sitting in my drafts forever, so i’m really excited to finally bring it to life today. i’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments (and please be nice—this is my first time posting 🫣).

i hope you enjoy this story! it’s slightly inspired by those classic early 2000s rom-coms we all love. also, english isn’t my first language, so please excuse any mistakes—i’m working on improving!

Soobin doesn’t know what to do with himself.

The first glance had him intrigued. The second? Addicted.

Here’s the thing—he’s known you all his life. He was always the kid befriending older guys at school, constantly seeking the company of those ahead of him. He loved it. Until, of course, life happened. One by one, his friends left for university, leaving him behind for one last year of high school. It wasn’t all bad, though—because that’s when he met you.

Yeonjun’s little sister. A friend of his. Someone his age who helped him adjust to a new social scene, introducing him to people and boosting his confidence. You were always there. Always helping. And now? Now he hasn’t seen you in years. He has a life in Seoul. He’s moved on.

Or so he thought.

Because the moment he sees you in that red dress, smiling, radiant, otherworldly—he realizes something painful and undeniable.

He’s so fucked.

And worse? He’s dated you before.

He’s so, so fucked. Yeonjun is going to kill him.

Soobin is hyper-aware of his surroundings.

He always is. It comes with the territory of being a high-profile actor. He’s gotten used to sneaking around, blending into crowds, avoiding unnecessary attention. Weddings in South Korea, though, are practically public events. The worst place to hide. He’s trying to be subtle—maybe if he stands still long enough, he’ll blend into the walls.

“Hi?”

He freezes. He knows that voice anywhere. Familiar, warm—like home. And like regret.

It’s you.

It’s ridiculous, really. He’s standing there, towering over everyone, wearing sunglasses in the middle of December, looking every bit as awkward as he feels.

“Um, hi?” His voice comes out strained, awkward. God, why can’t this be easier? “How have you been?”

What a stupid question. He hasn’t seen you in five years. You both took different paths, built your lives apart. He dated you for two months, so why does it feel like he can’t breathe now that you’re standing in front of him?

“Good.” You smile. “Let’s not make this weird, shall we? It’s been a long time.”

You’re so over him.

And he’s regretting everything.

“Okay,” he says softly. “I’m glad you’re doing okay.”

And just like that, you’re gone. Someone calls your name, and you walk away.

Fuck.

That’s the only thing running through your mind, too.

Why did he have to be this attractive? You had a plan. Approach him, make small talk, prove to yourself you were over him. That was it. But the second you saw him? Plan out the window. He looked unfairly good—taller, broader, blonde. Blonde. What kind of sick joke was this?

And thankfully, mercifully, he didn’t notice the way you reacted.

God, you’re so fucked.

Soobin tells himself he’s fine.

He gave his speech as best man. He made people laugh. He shared embarrassing photos of Yeonjun for everyone’s amusement. He did his job.

But now? Now he’s pissed.

And he knows he shouldn’t be.

You aren’t his. You haven’t been his in years. Even if you were, he doesn’t own you. He understands that—logically. But watching some guy dance too close to you, hands lingering where they shouldn’t—his instincts are screaming.

He knows that look. The same one he’s giving you now. Hunger. Want. Need.

Maybe the guy is your boyfriend. Maybe he isn’t. All Soobin knows is that he hates him.

“Why aren’t you dancing with her if you want her so much?” Taehyun’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. Ever the straightforward one, Taehyun has had the front-row seat to Soobin’s misery for the past five years.

“I don’t deserve her.” The words come out bitter. Regretful. “I broke her heart.”

“Maybe. But she still wants you to try.” Taehyun doesn’t hesitate. “She’s dancing nonstop with Jihoon, but everyone knows he’s chasing her, not the other way around. This isn’t like her. She’s doing this because of you.”

Soobin swallows hard.

“Besides,” Taehyun adds casually, “she told Yeonjun about you two this morning.”

Cold dread washes over him. “What?”

Taehyun shrugs. “I overheard. You know that tree in front of their house? They were talking there.”

“So what did he say?” Soobin asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“No clue. I had to get to work.”

Soobin groans. “How do you just drop information like that and leave?”

“Because I trust you’ll figure it out.” Taehyun smirks. “Now go get your girl. She’s drunk, and she looks done with that guy.”

Soobin didn’t think it through.

You were drunk, and all he wanted was to get you somewhere safe. A chair—that was the plan. That should have been enough. But then you whined about wanting your bed, and Yeonjun, in a rare moment of brotherly responsibility, decided Soobin was the best person to handle it.

“The party’s ending soon, and I’m leaving for Japan tomorrow,” Yeonjun had said, handing you over like you weren’t his problem anymore. “Just drop her at her apartment.”

And that’s how Soobin found himself here—standing in your building’s dimly lit hallway at an ungodly hour, praying to every higher power that no one was following him. The last thing either of you needed was for the media to sniff this out.

Not that he was worried about himself.

It was you. You, who deserved a normal life. You, who had worked so hard to distance yourself from him, from his world. And yet, here you were, tangled up in his orbit again.

And here’s another thing: you’re just as bad as Yeonjun when it comes to alcohol. Soobin knows this. He also knows you have a soft spot for that fruity soju, the kind that creeps up on you before you even realize you’ve had too much. And he knows you’re probably going to feel sick soon, which is why, in the worst decision he’s made today, he stays.

You’ve been awake for an hour now, your body heavy with the aftermath of last night. The alcohol is gone, drained from your system, but the discomfort lingers—hunger gnawing at your stomach, the stale aftertaste of regret coating your tongue.

You should get up.

You should get water.

But the thought of stepping into an empty apartment makes your chest tighten.

The memory of his hands—gentle as he guided you to bed, careful as he removed your shoes—lingers. He was being nice. That’s all. He was being nice.

God, you still like him.

Five years, and you still haven’t gotten over a man. Two months were all it took for him to ruin you, to make every fleeting touch feel like a shock to your system. You’ve tried. You’ve moved forward. And yet, here you are, terrified of facing an empty space because for a moment—just a moment—he had been here again.

Your breakup had been your fault.

You tell yourself that, over and over.

You were young—barely nineteen, selfish, and desperate for attention. Soobin was chasing his dream, working himself to the bone between university and his company’s relentless trainee schedule. He had asked you to understand. He had begged you to wait. But you got tired. You fought. And the cracks in your heart never quite mended after that.

Soobin has only slept for four hours before deciding he should leave something behind for you—a quiet, impersonal gesture. Some homemade food. A note about how busy he is, how he can’t stay, but he hopes you feel better.

That’s the plan.

And that’s what he’s thinking as he stands in your kitchen, stirring ramen—the closest thing to homemade comfort he can manage.

But then you appear.

The dress from last night is gone, replaced by something that barely qualifies as pajamas. Soobin freezes, spoon clattering against the pot.

December. It’s December, and you’re walking around like this?

Jesus Christ.

“Hi,” he says, clearing his throat. “I made ramen. I hope you’re hungry.”

You don’t answer right away, moving past him to grab a glass of water. He watches as you take a slow sip, the silence stretching between you.

Then, softly, “I’m sorry. For last night.”

Soobin shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do,” you insist. “I can handle my alcohol better now. You didn’t have to do all this.”

“But I wanted to.” The words slip out before he can stop them. Too honest.

You pause. Then: “Add an egg. They’re on the top shelf.”

It’s not quite an acknowledgment. Not quite forgiveness. But you move to set the table for two without another word, and Soobin understands. He’s staying.

There are things that need to be said.

And it’s not safe for him to leave. You know that. The cameras follow him everywhere. You’d never risk him like that—not after everything.

“It’s done,” he says, bringing the pot to the table. “But I should—”

“Don’t,” you cut in. Your voice is steady, decisive. “The cameras could be outside. Stay.” A pause. Then, softer, “Besides… we need to talk.”

Easier said than done.

The ramen sits between you, steam curling into the air. Neither of you moves to eat.

Soobin watches as you fidget with the edge of your sleeve, pressing the fabric between your fingers like it’s something to hold onto. It’s a nervous habit—one he remembers all too well.

You’re the first to break the silence.

“So… How have you been?”

It’s a ridiculous question. Too small for the weight between you. Too casual for two people who haven’t spoken in years.

Soobin exhales, forcing a small smile. “Busy.”

That much is obvious. His face is everywhere—billboards, magazine covers, TV screens. He’s the one people stop in the streets, the one whose name is whispered in admiration or envy.

But you nod like you don’t already know, like you haven’t seen his face staring back at you from the glossy pages of magazines while waiting in line for coffee.

You reach for your chopsticks, stirring the noodles absently. “And… are you happy?”

That question lands heavier. He doesn’t answer right away.

He should say yes.

He should tell you that everything worked out, that he got everything he wanted, that all the sacrifices were worth it.

Instead, he looks at you—the way you avoid his gaze, the way your fingers tremble slightly before you curl them into a fist—and he tells the truth.

“I don’t know.”

Your breath hitches, but you recover quickly, schooling your features into something unreadable.

You look away, pretending to be focused on your bowl. “I thought you would be.”

Soobin swallows. “I thought you would be, too.”

That gets you. Your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, but you don’t say anything right away.

Soobin leans forward slightly, watching you carefully. “You left first,” he says, quiet but firm. “I waited. I called. And then, one day, you just weren’t there anymore.”

You let out a slow breath, finally meeting his eyes. “And if I had stayed?”

The question is quiet. Almost a whisper.

Soobin blinks. “What?”

“If I had stayed.” You search his face like you’re looking for something—confirmation, maybe. Closure. “Would anything have changed?”

The answer sits heavy on his tongue.

Would it have?

Back then, he was young and hungry, chasing a dream he wasn’t sure he’d ever catch. He was terrified of losing you, but he was also terrified of failing—of choosing wrong, of looking back one day and realizing he had given up too much.

And you—God, you just wanted him. Not the future version of him, not the one he was still trying to become. You just wanted the boy who used to walk you home, the one who held your hand under the table, the one who promised to love you even when things got hard.

Soobin looks at you now, older, sharper, still devastatingly familiar.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

You let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me neither.”

The room settles into silence again, but this time, it’s different. Softer.

Soobin watches as you finally take a bite of your ramen, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment at the warmth.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s too late.

But for the first time in five years, you’re sitting across from each other, sharing something that feels dangerously close to peace.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

“You should go.”

The words taste like regret the moment they leave your lips.

Soobin stills. His chopsticks pause midair before he lowers them onto the table with agonizing slowness.

His eyes meet yours, searching. “You really want that?”

You inhale sharply, willing yourself to hold his gaze. “Yes.”

A lie.

But you say it anyway, because it’s easier than admitting the truth—that his presence is unraveling you piece by piece. That sitting across from him like this, pretending there isn’t history between you, is torture.

Soobin exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Right.” He pushes his chair back, standing. “I should’ve known.”

He’s hurt. You can see it in the tight set of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch at his sides. And it makes you want to take it back—swallow the words down and tell him to stay.

But you don’t.

You stay seated, gripping your hands together in your lap as he walks toward the door.

He hesitates.

For a moment, it feels like the universe is holding its breath.

Then, his voice—low, steady. “Why do you always do this?”

Your head snaps up. “Do what?”

“Push me away.”

You freeze.

Soobin turns, expression unreadable. “I don’t get it. You let me take care of you. You let me stay. And now you want me to leave?” He lets out a bitter chuckle. “Is this a game to you?”

Your stomach twists. “No.”

“Then what is it?” His voice rises slightly, frustration seeping through. “Because I don’t know what you want from me, and I don’t think you do either.”

Your heart pounds. “I just—” You stop, exhaling shakily. “It’s not that simple, Soobin.”

“It could be.” His gaze softens. “If you let it.”

You shake your head. “You don’t understand—”

“Then make me understand.”

The words cut through the air between you, heavy and full of something you’re not ready to name.

You swallow, feeling exposed. “I don’t want to need you,” you whisper.

Soobin’s expression shifts. He steps closer. “Why?”

“Because it’s dangerous.” Your voice shakes. “Because I’ve spent years trying to forget what it felt like to love you, and every time you’re near, I realize I never really stopped.”

Silence.

Then, Soobin exhales sharply. “You think you were the only one?”

Your breath catches.

“I tried,” he admits. “I tried moving on. I tried pretending you weren’t the best thing that ever happened to me. But it never worked.” His voice drops lower, more vulnerable. “You never left me, _____. Not really.”

You feel yourself crumbling, breaking open under his words.

“So tell me,” he continues, stepping even closer. “Do you really want me to leave?”

You open your mouth—

But the answer is already written all over your face.

And Soobin sees it.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand, his fingertips ghosting over yours on the table. “If you tell me to go,” he says softly, “I will.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling shakily.

Then—

You flip your hand over, letting your fingers intertwine with his.

“You should stay.”

Soobin exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for years.

And this time—

He does.

Soobin stays.

Neither of you says much after that. The weight of your confession lingers in the air between you, delicate and fragile, like glass that could shatter at any second. But neither of you runs.

Instead, you sit there, sharing ramen in comfortable silence, the steam curling between you like something unspoken. His fingers, warm and steady, never fully leave yours—not gripping, not demanding, just there. A quiet promise.

You don’t sleep much.

Even after the bowls are empty, after he insists on washing the dishes, after you both linger in the doorway of your bedroom—uncertain but unwilling to let go—you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the city outside.

Somewhere in the other room, Soobin is asleep on your couch.

Or at least, you think he is.

You don’t have the courage to check.

By the time morning comes, you’re still lying in the same position, arms curled under your pillow, the weight of last night pressing down on your chest.

You should get up.

But then—

A soft knock at your door.

You inhale sharply, heart stuttering.

Then, his voice, groggy, uncertain. “Are you awake?”

You swallow. Your fingers curl into the sheets.

You shouldn’t answer. You should pretend you’re asleep, give yourself time to think. But your voice betrays you before your brain catches up.

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then—

The door creaks open.

Soobin stands there, sleep-rumpled and unfairly attractive in the dim morning light. His hoodie hangs loose on his frame, his blonde hair a tousled mess. He looks softer like this—less like the untouchable actor everyone knows, and more like the boy you once loved.

Still love.

He hesitates, fingers gripping the edge of the doorframe. “Can I…?”

You nod before he can finish the question.

And just like that, he steps inside, quiet, careful.

The bed dips under his weight as he sits at the edge, close but not too close. He rubs a hand over his face, sighing.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admits, voice low.

You exhale, shifting onto your side to face him. “Me neither.”

A small, tired smile flickers across his lips. “Figures.”

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just… there. Something old and familiar. Something neither of you knows what to do with.

Then, softly—

“Did you mean it?”

You freeze.

His voice is careful, like he’s afraid of the answer.

You know what he’s asking.

You could lie. You could say it was the alcohol, or the moment, or the past clouding your judgment.

But you don’t.

“Yeah.”

Soobin exhales, shoulders sinking like he’s been carrying the weight of that answer for years.

Then—hesitantly, slowly—he lifts a hand, brushing his fingers against yours on the sheets.

And this time, you don’t pull away.

Not when his fingers trace over your palm. Not when his touch lingers, warm and sure.

Not when he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it—

“Then don’t make me leave.”

The air between you is thick, suffocating. The moment you told him to stay, the balance shifted. The door remains closed, the walls pressing in, the weight of years apart and the lies you’ve told yourselves coiling tighter and tighter.

Soobin doesn’t let go of your hand. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t move closer either. He’s waiting. For what? For you to give in? For you to push him away again?

You don’t know. But you know this: you can’t breathe.

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back words he doesn’t trust himself to say. “I don’t know how to do this with you.”

“Do what?” Your voice barely makes it past your lips. Your fingers twitch in his grip, and that alone has his jaw tightening.

“Pretend,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against the pulse point of your wrist. His voice is quiet, careful, but there’s an undercurrent of something dangerous. “Pretend that I’m okay. That seeing you doesn’t do something to me. That I haven’t spent the past five years wondering if you ever thought about me, too.”

Your breath stutters, but you force yourself to keep looking at him. “Soobin—”

“I should hate you.” His voice is steadier now, but his grip on your hand betrays him. Tight, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. “Do you know that?”

You swallow. “I know.”

“I tried.” He lets out a sharp laugh, bitter and tired. “God, I fucking tried.”

“So did I,” you whisper. “I tried forgetting you, too.”

His fingers tighten around yours. “Did it work?”

“No.”

The word sits heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you move. The ramen has gone cold. The room feels smaller. Your heart is a hammer against your ribs, and still, he doesn’t let go.

Then, his eyes flicker downward—just for a second. To your lips.

And that’s when you do it.

You rip your hand from his and step back, breathing uneven. “This isn’t fair.”

Soobin looks at you like you’ve just torn something out of him. “No. It’s not.”

You turn away, hands trembling as you grip the edge of the counter. “We’re not kids anymore. We can’t just—just fall back into whatever this is.”

“What is this, then?” His voice is lower now, rough, frayed at the edges. “Tell me. Because I think about you, and it makes me fucking sick how much I still—”

He stops himself. He presses his lips together so tightly it looks painful. He takes a deep breath, then another. But it doesn’t help. You can see it. The storm in his eyes. The anger. The longing.

You shake your head, pushing down everything clawing its way up your throat. “You should go.”

“No.”

You whip around. “Soobin—”

“No.” He steps forward, and this time, you’re the one who freezes. He towers over you, his presence burning into your skin. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to pull me back in just to push me away again.”

His voice drops lower, dangerously soft. “I stayed away for five years. I did what you wanted. I let you go. And now you tell me to stay, and then you tell me to leave?”

You close your eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He exhales sharply. Then, after a long pause, he whispers, “Neither do I.”

Another silence. But this one is different.

You open your eyes, and he’s right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough that you can see the way his lashes tremble, the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back.

And you can feel it—

The breaking point.

It’s coming.

His breath catches. His fingers flex against the fabric of his hoodie, knuckles whitening like he’s barely holding himself back.

His silence is unbearable, but you don’t know how to fix it.

So you move before you can talk yourself out of it.

Slowly, carefully, you reach for his hand, mirroring the way he was holding you. Just a brush of your fingertips at first, testing, waiting—until he lets out a shaky exhale and turns his palm over to catch you.

Your fingers intertwine again, the simplest thing in the world.

Soobin's voice is hoarse when he speaks. "Tell me what you want."

"I don’t know," you admit. "I don’t know if I can do this again. If I can survive losing you twice."

Something flickers in his expression—something raw, breaking.

"I never wanted you to lose me."

"Then why did it feel like I had to?"

Soobin squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over the ridges of your knuckles. His voice is unsteady when he says, "Because I was scared. Of ruining things. Of choosing wrong."

"And now?"

Now.

Soobin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lifts your joined hands, pressing his forehead to the back of yours like he’s trying to ground himself. You can feel the unspoken words vibrating against your skin, seeping through his touch.

Now, he's still scared. But more than that—he doesn’t want to lose you again.

His lips part, breath warm against your skin. "I think I've been in love with you this whole time."

Your heart stops.

Then—before you can overthink it, before logic creeps in and tears this moment apart—you let go of his hand.

Only to reach for his face.

Your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him in, and before you can fully process what you're doing, your lips brush against his.

Soft. Tentative.

The moment you start to pull away, Soobin makes a sound—low and desperate in the back of his throat—and suddenly, he's kissing you like he's afraid you'll disappear.

His hands are warm when they cup your face, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss, so he can drink you in like he’s been starving for you.

And maybe he has.

Maybe you have, too.

The past and the present blur together, all the years apart collapsing into this one unbearable, impossible moment.

And when you finally break apart, forehead resting against his, breaths mingling in the quiet night, you realize something terrifying.

Loving him was never the problem.

It was surviving it that scared you.

And now?

Now, you're not sure you care about surviving at all.

Soobin can’t stop kissing you.

It’s reckless. Messy. A raw, consuming need that shakes through him, leaves him breathless, leaves you breathless. His fingers dig into your waist like he needs something to hold onto, something to tether himself to reality, because this—this doesn’t feel real. It feels like something forbidden, like something he shouldn’t have, but is taking anyway.

It’s crazy. It’s physically impossible for him to stop.

And you don’t want him to.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, and he shudders. His lips press harder, deeper, stealing the air from your lungs, but you don’t care. You’d let him. You’d give it to him.

Then you whimper. Just the softest, neediest sound—one you didn’t mean to make, one you probably don’t even realize you made.

How dare you.

Soobin groans against your mouth, low and guttural, and suddenly, his hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pressing you closer, closer, like there will never be enough space between you to satisfy him.

"Please," you breathe, and it’s wrecked.

His lips hover just above yours, his forehead resting against yours as he exhales sharply. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but there’s something else, something deeper—like he’s drowning in you and has no desire to come up for air.

"Fuck," he mutters, his voice rough, strained. Your name follows, dripping from his lips like a prayer. "You need to stop making those sounds." He swallows hard, his jaw clenched. "Unless you want another thing."

Another thing.

You shiver, your fingers curling around the fabric of his hoodie, barely keeping yourself grounded.

But Soobin doesn’t stop. His lips keep finding yours between words, between breaths, and god—he kisses like he’s never going to get the chance again. Soft, then rough, then soft again. Like he’s caught in between worshipping you and ruining you.

And then you moan.

A real moan. Not soft. Not restrained. A full, broken, breathless moan.

And that’s it. That’s the end of his control.

Soobin curses under his breath, something low, something desperate. Then suddenly, he shifts—presses you down, his body covering yours completely. His hands, once hesitant, now move like they have a purpose, sliding up, gripping, mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing it.

His lips are everywhere now—your jaw, your throat, your collarbone—hot and lingering, teeth grazing, tongue soothing.

"God," he breathes against your skin. "You don’t—" He presses another kiss just beneath your ear, his voice unraveling. "You don’t get it, do you?"

You can barely think, barely form words. "Get what?"

"How long—" He exhales sharply, his breath fanning against your skin. "How long I’ve wanted this."

Your chest tightens. "Then why—"

"Because I was a fucking coward," he admits, voice thick, raw. His fingers tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are unreadable—too many things crashing together at once. Lust. Longing. Something deeper. Something dangerous. "But I can’t be, not right now. Not when you’re—"

You kiss him before he can finish.

Because you don’t want to hear whatever doubt lingers in his words. Not now. Not when his body is so warm, not when his lips taste like regret and longing and every single thing you’ve ever tried to suppress.

Soobin groans into your mouth, deep and ruined, and it sets you on fire.

And the worst part?

You know this won’t be enough.

It never will be.

"Stop moving," Soobin growls against your neck. His voice is low, strained, barely holding together. His lips are hot where they press into your skin, and his hands—god, his hands—grip your waist like you’re something fragile, something he’s trying so hard not to break.

But you don’t make it easy for him.

You shift again, just the slightest movement, but it’s enough. Enough for him to tighten his grip, enough for him to press his hips just a little closer, enough for his breath to come out sharp, ragged.

"Or what?" you ask, breathless, teasing, your voice tinged with something dangerous.

You know exactly what you’re doing.

His eyes flick up to yours, dark, heavy, filled with something that makes your stomach flip. And it’s only then that you realize just how close his face is to yours—how you can feel every unsteady breath he takes, how the heat between you feels unbearable, suffocating in the best possible way.

Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and when his gaze drops to them, his jaw clenches.

"Or you’re going to regret it," he murmurs, voice rough, thick with a warning you know he fully intends to follow through on.

But you don’t stop.

Maybe you want to push him. Maybe you want to see what happens when he snaps.

So you shift again, just the tiniest bit, your knee brushing against his thigh, your fingers ghosting over the fabric of his hoodie. Innocent movements, but not really. Not when his breath stutters, not when his fingers twitch against your waist like he’s barely holding himself back.

"Soobin," you whisper, and you don’t even know what you’re asking for, but you can feel the shift in the air between you. Heavy. Charged. Unforgiving.

His hand moves suddenly, gripping your chin, tilting your face up until there’s nowhere to look but at him. His thumb brushes the edge of your bottom lip, and his breath is uneven, his restraint hanging by a thread.

"Do you even know what you’re doing to me?" he asks, his voice low, almost desperate.

And before you can answer, before you can even think, his lips are back on yours.

But this time, it’s different.

This time, it’s not just desperate—it’s deliberate. It’s slow, like he wants you to feel every second of it, every inch of the way he kisses you, the way he presses against you.

Like he’s trying to prove something.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re about to find out exactly what happens when you push him too far.

You moan again.

It’s soft, wrecked, the kind of sound that makes his restraint snap like a thread pulled too tight.

The heat between you is suffocating. You’re burning, aching, every nerve in your body hypersensitive to the way Soobin touches you—like he needs to, like he has no choice.

His breathing is ragged, uneven, his grip on you tightening as if you might slip away.

"Fucking hell, ___," he rasps, voice dark, rough, filled with something dangerous. "Be clear. What do you want now? What do you fucking want?"

His forehead presses to yours, his lips ghosting over your mouth but never quite kissing you, torturing you with the distance. His fingers dig into your waist like he’s barely holding himself back.

"You," you whisper, the word breaking apart in your throat. It’s desperate, needy. You don’t care.

Something shifts.

Soobin exhales sharply, a curse slipping past his lips before he finally—finally—loses the control he was clinging to.

His mouth crashes into yours, rough, insatiable, as if he’s been starving for you and is only now letting himself feast. His hands roam your body, urgent but reverent, like he’s trying to map out every inch of you, trying to commit this moment to memory.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, to drink you in. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen and glistening.

"I shouldn't be thinking about you the way I do," he murmurs, his voice almost unsteady. "You make me so fucking crazy."

His lips trail down your neck, hot, open-mouthed kisses pressed into your skin, each one sending a shiver down your spine. His teeth graze your collarbone, and your breath catches.

"That red dress you wore yesterday—fuck." His voice is barely controlled, like the thought alone is unraveling him. "At your brother’s wedding… you have no idea what you did to me."

His hands slide lower, skimming the curve of your waist, gripping you like you belong to him. His mouth follows the path of his hands, kissing, tasting, worshiping.

"You were always beautiful," he breathes against your skin, voice thick with something deeper than lust. "You always were. But yesterday... yesterday, you were fucking stunning."

He pulls back just slightly, his breath hot against your chest. His hands settle over your ribs, thumbs grazing sensitive skin, just barely there, just enough to drive you insane.

And then he stills. Waiting.

"Can I touch you here?" he asks, his voice lower now, raspier, the last shreds of his restraint hanging by a thread.

You shudder. There’s no hesitation.

"Yes."

It comes out breathless, desperate.

The second the word leaves your lips, his hands move—slow, deliberate, fingertips dragging over your skin like he wants to savor every reaction, every tremor that runs through you.

Like he wants you to feel every single second of it.

Soobin takes his time.

He isn’t just exploring you—he’s worshiping. Every inch of your skin is sacred under his touch, and he treats it like something to be memorized. His fingers drag over your ribs, featherlight, teasing. His lips trace slow, reverent paths down your collarbone, pressing kisses that feel more like devotions.

"I'm gonna take these off, okay?" he murmurs, fingers slipping beneath the straps of your bra.

You can only nod, breathless, as he peels the fabric away, eyes darkening at the sight of you. He exhales sharply, almost in disbelief, his hands hesitating like he needs a second to take it all in.

"These are so pretty," he whispers, voice rough. His fingers graze over you, barely there. Then firmer. His thumb flicks over one peak, and you shudder. "Fucking missed them. So much."

His lips replace his fingers, hot and wet and needy. He sucks, licks, nips—his mouth working you over like he's making up for lost time.

"God," he groans against your skin, his voice half-wrecked. "They didn’t look this full before."

The moan that leaves your lips is absolutely shameful—high-pitched, desperate, almost embarrassing. But you don’t care.

Soobin definitely doesn’t care.

He groans at the sound, his grip tightening as if he's trying to steady himself. But then he does it again—scraping his teeth lightly against you, his tongue soothing over the sting, sucking just enough to make you whimper.

"Shit," he breathes, voice shaking. "You're too good. Too fucking good."

He looks up at you, eyes burning. And then he does it again.

And again.

Until you're nothing but gasps and shivers and pure, unbearable need.

"Please," you whimper, your voice barely more than a breath. "Please."

Soobin’s lips hover just above your skin, his breath warm against your cheek. He doesn’t move, doesn’t give in. His fingers dig into your waist, keeping you still, keeping you desperate.

"What do you want, sweetheart?" His voice is low, teasing, thick with something dark and knowing.

"You."

His lips quirk up slightly. "But you have me right now, hm?" His tone is deceptively soft, but there’s something else underneath—something dangerous.

"You know what I mean," you say, almost frustrated.

He tilts his head, pretending to consider. "No, I don’t," he murmurs. "Tell me."

Your cheeks burn. Your entire body burns. But you say it anyway, voice shaking with need.

"Please, I want you inside."

Something in him snaps.

"Oh? Me?" He pulls back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes, his own gaze dark, unreadable. "The man you wanted so bad to leave?"

Your nails dig into his shoulders. "Fuck you, Soobin."

He laughs, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against your skin. He leans in, his lips brushing your ear.

"Ah, yes, babe, I’m fucking you," he whispers, his voice dripping with wicked amusement. His hands tighten their hold on you. "And you’re gonna take it—every inch—because you know damn well that you’ve been mine just as much as I’ve been yours."

His words send a shudder down your spine, a delicious ache curling in your gut.

"Mmm," Soobin hums, dragging his hands down your sides, his touch maddeningly slow. "Should I take my time with you... or not?"

Your body is burning, aching. You can’t take it anymore.

"Just do it," you snap, your voice needy, desperate.

He chuckles, tilting his head, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. "That eager, huh? Then help me out, baby." His fingers toy with the waistband of your shorts. "Take these off. Let me see that beautiful body of yours—fully naked."

Your fingers shake as you push them down, the cool air against your exposed skin doing nothing to cool the fire raging inside you.

"This is unfair," you mumble, looking up at him. "You’re still dressed."

That’s all it takes.

In one smooth motion, Soobin pulls off his shirt, then his pants, and finally, his boxers. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t tease. He just stands before you—bare, unashamed, strong.

And big.

Your breath catches in your throat. God. It’s been a while since you last saw him like this, but—oh, wow. Yeah. Big. He was always like that.

Your mouth parts slightly, your thighs instinctively pressing together.

He catches it. Of course, he catches it.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans down, pressing his mouth to your ear. "Speechless?" he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Missed me that much, baby?"

His hands find your hips, gripping them firmly as he pulls you flush against him. Skin to skin. Heat to heat.

"You have no idea," you whisper.

You moan when he dares to tease you, his fingers ghosting over your aching heat, his breath hot against your skin. It’s unbearable.

Your patience snaps.

"Fuck you, Soobin," you nearly growl, frustration dripping from your voice. "Why the fuck—just please."

He looks at you, amused, entirely too in control. He loves this. Loves watching you unravel.

"Poor, desperate thing," he muses, tilting his head like he’s savoring every second of your frustration. "So fucking needy. Do you want me that bad?"

Your face burns. Humiliation and desire mix in a dizzying cocktail, but you can’t lie.

"Yeah," you admit, barely above a whisper.

Soobin hums in satisfaction, his hands gripping your thighs, thumbs smoothing circles against your heated skin. "Mmm, I think I should have my fun first," he murmurs. Then, without another word, he drops to his knees before you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with hunger.

His breath hits you first, warm and teasing, and then his voice—low and devastating.

"Has this sweet little hole missed me?"

Before you can even react, he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, sending a violent shudder through your body.

You cry out, hands flying to his hair. Oh, god. No, no, please—oh, don’t stop.

And then you lose it.

Soobin devours you, his mouth hot and greedy, tongue working you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. The wet sounds, the low, satisfied groans he lets out against you—it’s filthy, overwhelming. His grip tightens, pressing you further into his mouth, making sure you feel every movement, every flick of his tongue.

"Let me worship this pussy," he groans against you, his voice muffled and rough. "It’s been too fucking long."

Your back arches.

"Fuck, you taste even better than I remember." His lips press against your thigh, only to return to where you need him most. "Mmm, let’s take our time with this, babe. Some good, long foreplay, yeah?"

You can’t help it—you start moving, rocking your hips against his face, desperate for more friction, more of him. The pleasure is too much, too overwhelming, and you barely register the strangled sound Soobin makes as you grind down against his tongue.

"God," you whimper, your breath hitching. "I’m—"

His fingers tease at your entrance, slow, lazy, completely unbothered by your urgency. "What? Gonna cum already, babe?" His voice is muffled, drenched in amusement, lips slick and glistening from you. "Mmm, you really are needy, huh?"

He presses a teasing kiss against your thigh before slipping a finger inside, just barely, making you jerk.

"Bet that boyfriend of yours doesn’t give you shit," he murmurs, voice laced with something sharp, something possessive.

"I don’t—" You gasp as he pushes in deeper, a single finger stretching you open just enough to make you shudder. "Fuck, fuck," your head tilts back, eyes rolling as he adds another. "I don’t have a boyfriend."

That makes him pause. You feel his smirk against your skin before he speaks.

"You don’t?" He croons, curling his fingers just right, making your whole body jolt. "No wonder you’re this fucking desperate. God, you needed this, didn’t you?"

"Soobin—"

"Wanna cum, babe?" His breath is hot against your core, his fingers still working you open. "Say it."

"Yeah," you pant, gripping at his hair, hips still rolling instinctively against his hand.

"Mmm," he hums, withdrawing his fingers just enough to make you whine, just enough to leave you aching. "Let’s edge you a little first."

"No—fuck you," you snap, your voice dripping with frustration.

His low chuckle sends shivers down your spine. "You get so fucking mean when you’re horny," he muses, pumping his fingers in again, slower, teasing. "I like this coming from you."

And then he presses his tongue against your clit again, and all coherent thoughts disappear.

The coil in your belly winds so tight, so unbearable, that when it finally snaps, it sends you spiraling.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" your voice breaks, and your entire body trembles as the pleasure crashes over you in waves. Your thighs clamp around his head, fingers tangling in his hair as you convulse, lost in the euphoria of it.

Soobin groans against you, feeling everything—the way your walls pulse around his fingers, the way your body shudders under his grip, the way you completely come undone for him. And fuck, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t dare stop.

He laps at you, drinking in every drop, his tongue relentless as he works you through the high, dragging it out, making your legs shake. His hands tighten around your hips, keeping you still, keeping you his.

"Soobin—oh, god—" Your voice is hoarse, wrecked, but he doesn't let up. His tongue flicks over your sensitive clit again and you jerk, body twisting, overstimulated and desperate.

"You taste so fucking good," he groans against you, voice thick with hunger. "Missed this. Missed you."

You whimper, pushing at his head, your body twitching, too much, too much—

But Soobin just smirks against your trembling thighs, eyes dark, voice husky.

"One more," he murmurs. "Give me one more, baby. I know you can."

When you come again, it blindsides you. You weren’t lying—it was too much, your body was too sensitive, but somehow, it still betrays you, still obeys the relentless pleasure he’s forcing on you.

The orgasm rips through you, fast and hard, stealing the breath from your lungs. It’s overwhelming, all-consuming—your thighs quake, your back arches, and your hands claw helplessly at the sheets, at him, at anything to ground yourself.

And then—fuck.

A rush of wetness spills from you in pulsing waves, leaving you breathless, wrecked.

Soobin stills for half a second, then groans, long and deep, as if you just gave him the most precious gift. His hands tighten on your thighs as he watches, completely mesmerized, watching how your body gushes for him, soaking his mouth, his chin, the sheets beneath you.

“Holy fuck.” His voice is thick, raspy, wrecked. "Look at you, baby." He doesn’t miss a single drop, drinking you in like he’s been starving for you, eyes dark with pure, unfiltered lust.

You whimper, trembling, overstimulated beyond belief. “Soobin—fuck, I can’t, I—”

He shushes you, pressing slow, deliberate kisses to your inner thighs, letting you feel the way his lips linger. His hands caress your shaking legs, soothing and possessive at the same time.

“You can,” he murmurs against your skin. “And you did.” His voice drips with pride, with something dangerously close to reverence. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

And then, with a wicked smirk, he licks his lips, tasting you all over again.

“Think you can give me one more, sweetheart?”

“No”

Soobin chuckles, low and deep, the sound vibrating through the air between you. His hands trail lazily over your trembling thighs, teasing, never staying in one place long enough to satisfy.

"No?" He mimics your weak protest, tilting his head as if he’s actually considering giving you a break. But the smirk playing on his lips says otherwise.

Then he sees it—sees the way your eyes keep flickering downward, dark and hazy, locked onto him. The way your breath hitches just slightly at the sight of his cock, thick and hard, standing between you.

“Mmm, we should let this body rest, shouldn’t we?” His tone is soft, almost pitying, but there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “You’re so sensitive, all worn out, we should stop—”

He pauses, trailing a teasing finger up your inner thigh.

“But,” he drawls, watching the way you squirm, “the way you’re looking at me right now? Fuck, sweetheart, you’re practically salivating.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “You know you’re trouble, don’t you?”

Your breath stutters, but you shake your head weakly. “Mmm… no.”

His eyes darken instantly. “Liar.”

You swallow, voice barely above a whisper. “Want you.”

His grip on your thighs tightens.

You’re relentless now, pleading, your voice thick with need. “I really want you.”

Soobin hums, his fingers skating dangerously close to where you need him most, barely there, teasing. “Didn’t you just say you needed a rest?”

You nod, breathless. “Yeah…”

He raises a brow. “So what happened?”

You whimper, arching into his touch, impatient. “I—fuck—I want you,” you admit, your voice trembling with desperation. “It’s been too long. Please.”

Something in him snaps.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and heavy.

“You want me that bad?” His voice is dark, full of something you can’t quite name.

You nod rapidly, your whole body begging for him.

He chuckles again, low and satisfied, pressing a soft, teasing kiss against your jaw.

“Then, baby,” he murmurs, “you better take what you asked for.”

And just like that—despite the way your body trembles, despite the way you're still reeling from the last two orgasms that left you oversensitive and dazed—he enters you.

It’s slow at first, agonizingly slow, as if he’s savoring the feeling of stretching you open, of feeling you take him inch by inch. Your breath hitches, a gasp spilling from your lips at the fullness, the overwhelming sensation of being filled.

But then he snaps.

A sharp inhale, a guttural curse under his breath, and all that patience vanishes. His grip on your hips tightens—no hesitation, no holding back.

"Gotta fuck this pussy like she deserves to be fucked." His voice is rough, wrecked, tinged with something possessive.

He drives into you, deep and unrelenting, his hips slamming against yours with a force that makes your head spin. The room fills with the obscene sound of skin against skin, the wet, messy proof of just how much you need this, how much you need him.

Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into his skin as he pounds into you, dragging you closer, forcing you to take every inch. Every thrust sends a new wave of pleasure tearing through you, unbearable and yet not enough.

"So fucking tight," he growls, watching the way your body swallows him whole, clenching around him, greedy. "Like you were made for me."

You can't even respond—your words lost to the moans and cries spilling uncontrollably from your lips.

His hand grips your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. "Look at me," he commands, voice dark, dangerous. "You feel that? Hm? You feel how deep I am?"

You nod weakly, barely able to think.

"Good," he grits out, snapping his hips even harder. "Because I'm not stopping until I ruin you."

He does ruin you. Completely.

The sound of it—wet, obscene, filthy—fills the space, each thrust echoing between the walls like a symphony of pure sin. Your body is a mess beneath him, pliant and wrecked, reduced to nothing but sensation, but pleasure.

And Soobin devours you.

His lips find every inch of your skin—your neck, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat—leaving open-mouthed kisses, sucking bruises that will linger long after this moment. His hands roam, gripping, kneading, worshiping. Every touch is possessive, claiming.

Your only response is to take it. To surrender to the way he stretches you, fills you so perfectly. It’s been too long since you’ve felt like this, since you’ve felt this full, this good.

"You feel that, baby?" he mutters against your jaw, his voice thick with lust, his thrusts sharp and punishing. "This is what you’ve been missing. What no one else can fucking give you."

You moan—a broken, desperate sound.

"Say it," he demands, his fingers slipping between your bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and pressing down hard.

You jolt, eyes rolling back. "You," you gasp. "Only you—fuck—no one else."

He groans, burying his face against your neck as if the admission undoes him. And then he snaps, fucking into you like he wants to make sure you’ll never forget this, never forget him.

"I'm gonna fucking cum," you practically scream, your voice breaking, body trembling.

Soobin chuckles, low and taunting, never slowing his ruthless pace. "Oh, poor baby," he coos mockingly, his fingers slipping down between your bodies, finding your clit with wicked precision. He presses down, rubs slow, lazy circles—just to watch you squirm.

"You wanna cum that bad?" he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement, eyes dark with something feral. "So fucking desperate. Look at you—shaking. You can’t even take it, can you?"

You whimper, your fingers clawing at his back, his arms, anything you can reach. It’s too much, too good, too perfect. Your body is fire, every nerve on the edge of combustion.

"So needy for me," Soobin groans, leaning down, his lips brushing over yours. "But you know I love it when you beg, sweetheart. So why don’t you be a good girl and ask me for it?"

Your pride and sanity shatter.

"Please," you gasp, wrecked and mindless. "Please, Soobin, let me cum. Please—"

"That’s my girl," he growls, and then he rubs harder, fucks you deeper, until you break—until you fall apart around him with a sobbing cry, your body seizing, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave.

And Soobin watches it all, drinking in every second, every sound, every tremor of your body as you unravel beneath him.

It takes him a few seconds—just long enough to watch you come undone beneath him, to feel your walls flutter and clench so tightly around him that his restraint snaps like a frayed wire.

A deep, guttural groan rumbles from his chest as his hips stutter, losing rhythm. His fingers dig into your waist, hard, holding you still as he buries himself to the hilt.

"Fuck—" he rasps, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he spills inside you, the heat of it making you shudder. He pulses, each wave of his release drawn out by the way your body still clenches greedily around him.

He pants against your skin, his breath hot and uneven. "Shit," he mutters, pressing absentminded kisses against your jaw, your cheek, anywhere he can reach. His hand slides up your side, lazy, possessive. "You feel so fucking good—"

You're still trembling, body sensitive, spent, but you turn your head, catching his lips in a slow, messy kiss. He groans into it, hips rolling shallowly, like he can't stop, like he’s still savoring every aftershock.

Neither of you move for a long moment. Just the sound of your mingled breathing, his weight pressing you into the mattress, the warmth of his release still deep inside you.

Then, finally, Soobin exhales a small, breathless laugh against your skin.

"Yeah." He nuzzles into your neck, voice lower, softer now. "You're mine."

You smile, breath still uneven, body still trembling. "I always was."

Soobin exhales sharply, like the words hit him somewhere deep. His arms tighten around you, pressing your body closer, unwilling to let go just yet. He kisses you—slow, lingering, almost tender now. Like he’s sealing something between you.

You don’t remember falling asleep, only the warmth of his body wrapped around yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the way his fingers lazily traced circles into your hip until everything faded into darkness.

You wake up to sunlight slipping through the curtains, golden and soft, warming your skin. The bed smells like him—clean and musky, something uniquely Soobin. His arm is still draped over your waist, heavy and possessive, fingers curled slightly like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

You shift slightly, your body sore in ways that make heat curl in your stomach. That definitely happened.

A low, sleepy hum comes from behind you. "Mmm, morning." Soobin’s voice is rough, thick with sleep. He tightens his hold, nuzzling into your neck. "Where do you think you’re going?"

You let out a soft laugh. "Nowhere."

"Good." He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his lips warm and slow, like he’s savoring the moment. "Stay right here."

You roll over to face him, and god—he looks unfairly good in the morning. Tousled hair, drowsy eyes, lips still slightly swollen from last night. He blinks down at you, then smirks. "You look wrecked."

"Whose fault is that?" you mumble, stretching.

"Mine." He grins, completely unapologetic. "And I’d do it again."

Your cheeks heat, but before you can reply, Soobin rolls on top of you, caging you in effortlessly. His weight is comforting, his bare skin warm against yours.

"What are you doing?" you ask, even though you already know.

"Making sure you don’t regret it." He brushes his nose against yours, voice still thick with sleep, but his hands are already moving, slow and teasing. "And if you don’t, then I think I have some unfinished business with you, sweetheart."

It’s practically lunchtime when you and Soobin finally decide to leave the bed. Your body aches in the best way possible, but more importantly—your stomach aches for actual food.

You call for delivery, and right in front of you, like fate, they drop off food from your favorite restaurant just a few blocks away. Perfect.

Soobin busies himself preparing the table, setting out plates, pouring water into glasses, smoothing out the tablecloth like this is something the two of you do all the time. Like he belongs here. Like this isn’t completely new and terrifying.

Everything is so domestic, so effortless—it almost scares you.

You watch him for a moment before blurting out, "Soob, you’re truly an idiot."

He freezes mid-reach for the utensils, turning to look at you, confused. "Huh?"

You inhale sharply, then murmur, "We didn’t use protection last night… or today."

Soobin’s eyes widen. "Fuck." He looks absolutely stricken, like the realization just knocked the air out of his lungs. "Oh my god, I was too focused on— I mean, I was so into you that I just—fuck."

You cross your arms, watching him spiral.

"Babe, I swear, I’m clean." His voice is urgent now, panicked. "I got tested two weeks ago—I think I still have the document on my phone. You can check—"

You can’t help it—you laugh. "Lucky for you, I’m on birth control."

Soobin sags in relief, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Jesus." Then, his expression shifts to something more serious, his brows knitting together. "This is a thing for two—I should have been more responsible. I’m sorry."

You step closer, poking his chest. "Damn right you should have been."

His lips quirk into a sheepish smile. "I’ll make it up to you."

You raise an eyebrow. "How?"

Soobin leans down, voice dropping, teasing, "Well… I could start by feeding you before you get grumpy."

You roll your eyes but let him press a kiss to your forehead anyway. The moment should feel awkward, heavy even, but instead, it feels warm. Familiar.

You don’t even think before you say it. The words just spill out as you sit across from him at the table, food untouched between you.

"We need to talk."

Soobin looks up immediately, jaw tightening like he’s already bracing for the worst. His fingers tighten around his chopsticks, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Before you can even gather your thoughts, he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Before you say anything, I know." His voice is quieter now, a little rough. "I know how hard it was for you back then."

You open your mouth, but he keeps going.

"Babe, I didn’t pay attention to you."* His eyes flicker with regret, dark and heavy with memories that still linger between you. "And I am so sorry. But I didn’t have the time back then—I had just made it into university, and I was juggling a full-on trainee schedule. I barely had a second to breathe."*

He looks down at his hands like he can barely stand to face you.

"At the time, I didn’t understand why you made such a fuss. I thought you were overreacting. But looking back… fuck, I was selfish. I was spending fourteen hours a day training, barely sleeping, and the little time I had left, I should have given to you."

His voice cracks, and when he looks up, his eyes are shining with something raw. "You were at university too, just as busy, and still… you made time for me. You always made time for me. You’d cook my meals, check up on me, make sure I ate something even when I got home at 2 AM—and I took you for granted."

Your heart clenches painfully.

"I will always be deeply sorry for that," Soobin continues, his throat bobbing as he swallows. "I should’ve been better. I should’ve been there for you like you were for me."

His hand reaches out across the table, tentative, fingers brushing against yours.

"But I never stopped loving you. Not even once."

Silence stretches between you. The weight of his words sinks into your skin, deep and unshakable.

It would be so easy to let that be enough—to fall back into him completely, to pretend the past doesn’t matter.

But it does.

So you take a breath, steadying yourself, and finally, finally, you start to say everything you’ve been holding in for years.

"You really hurt me, Soobin." Your voice is quiet, but steady. "I don’t think you ever realized how lonely I felt back then. It wasn’t just that you were busy—it was that I felt like I didn’t exist to you anymore."

He flinches, like the words hit him straight in the chest.

"I’d wait for you. Every night, I’d wait. I’d cook you something, even if I knew you’d barely touch it. I��d leave you messages, even if I knew you wouldn’t answer until hours later. And I told myself it was fine. That I could handle it. That I was just being selfish for wanting more of you."

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. "But it wasn’t fine. And I wasn’t selfish. I just wanted to be with you."

Soobin grips your hand tighter. "I know. I know, and I was a fucking idiot. I don’t think I really let myself see how much it was affecting you. I was so focused on surviving every day that I just… I don’t know. I thought you’d always be there. And that was unfair of me."

He swipes a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. "I can’t change what I did back then. I can’t undo the times I hurt you. But if you’ll let me—if you still want this—I swear I’ll spend every day making up for it."

Your chest tightens.

The truth is, you never stopped wanting him.

And maybe that’s the most terrifying part of all.

You squeeze his hand. "I’m still scared, Soobin. I don’t know if things will be different this time."

"They will be." His voice is firm, certain. "Because I’m different. And if you give me the chance, I’ll prove it to you."

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you watch the way his fingers tighten around yours like he’s scared you’ll slip through them again. You watch the way he looks at you—like you’re something he refuses to take for granted ever again.

"For the record," Soobin starts, voice quieter now, steadier, "my career will not be a problem anymore."

Your breath catches, but you let him speak.

"I don’t want to hide you. I never did, and I won’t—not unless you’re uncomfortable with how public it’s going to get. If you are, then I swear I’ll respect that. But me? I will always stand for you."

His fingers tighten around yours, warm and firm, like an unspoken promise.

"I will always be there from now on." His voice wavers just slightly. "I should’ve been there before, but I wasn’t. I don’t deserve you after all the ways I hurt you… but I love you, and I want to make you so fucking happy, babe."

A lump rises in your throat.

"You’re the only reason I keep working so hard," he continues. "Every day, I push myself so I can prove that it was all worth it. But the thing is… none of it means anything without you."

Your heart stutters.

"I have everything I ever dreamed of, but I don’t have the one thing I want most." He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. "You."

The word sinks deep, heavy with meaning.

You exhale shakily, watching him. Soobin—your Soobin—who once felt like a memory you had to let go of, is here, right in front of you, holding on like he’s terrified you’ll slip away again.

"Do you mean it?" You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

His brows furrow like the question physically pains him. "Of course I do. I’d never say it if I didn’t."

You hesitate, searching his face for any sign of doubt, any hesitation. But there’s none. Just unwavering determination, just love—raw and unshaken.

Soobin lifts his free hand, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. "Give me the chance to make it up to you. Let me prove to you that I can be the man you deserve."

You don’t realize you’re leaning into his touch until your eyes flutter shut.

And then, all of a sudden, Soobin is kissing you.

It’s not rushed, not desperate—just sweet, meaningful. The kind of kiss that says more than words ever could. His lips press against yours with a quiet reverence, like he’s savoring the moment, memorizing the feel of you. Like he’s afraid of letting go.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"Could you be my girlfriend?" His voice is barely above a whisper, hesitant, hopeful.

Your eyes flutter open, meeting his gaze—soft yet so intense, like he’s holding onto every second.

"I can make my company release a statement," he murmurs, pressing a lingering peck on the tip of your nose. "They can say that I’m very much taken. That I belong to you."

Your breath catches, but Soobin isn’t finished.

"I have an event coming up—a fancy, over-the-top party, filled with industry elites, idols, actors, CEOs. Everyone who’s someone will be there." He swallows, brushing his fingers down your arm. "I can introduce you to the world."

Your heart pounds.

"You don’t have to," he adds quickly, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. "I know this isn’t easy, and if you don’t want that kind of attention, I’ll keep us private. But I don’t want to hide you. Not anymore. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and that I—" He exhales shakily, eyes glistening with something raw. "That I’m yours."

Your lips part, but words don’t come.

Soobin doesn’t rush you. He just waits, watching you like your answer is the most important thing in the world. And to him, it probably is.

You take a breath, steadying yourself as Soobin watches you with hopeful, expectant eyes. The weight of his words lingers between you, thick with meaning, with promise.

"Yes," you finally say, your voice soft but sure. "I want to be your girlfriend."

Soobin's entire face lights up, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly, like he's grounding himself in the moment—like he can’t believe this is real.

You exhale a small laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t love the attention, and I know the media follows you everywhere... but if you want to release the statement, you can. I just—" You hesitate, chewing on your lip. "I don’t know about the party though."

His eyes search yours, carefully gauging your comfort. "We don’t have to go," he assures you, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your palm. "I don’t want you to feel pressured, babe. If you’re not ready, we’ll do things your way. The world can wait."

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. "You’d really be okay with that?"

Soobin chuckles, tilting his head. "I waited this long to have you again. What’s a little more waiting?"

His words make your heart clench, and before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s soft, full of quiet gratitude.

Soobin sighs into it, his hands finding your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. "God, I love you," he breathes against your lips. "I’ll do this right this time."

And you believe him.

When Yeonjun finds out, it’s messy.

There’s yelling. A lot of it.

"How the hell did this happen, and I didn’t notice?!" Yeonjun practically explodes, his voice bouncing off the walls. His expression is a mix of pure disbelief and mild betrayal, his hands flying through his hair like he’s on the verge of losing his mind.

Then, in the middle of his outburst, realization hits. His mouth clamps shut, and his face shifts from outrage to something quieter—understanding.

Of course, he didn’t notice.

He wasn’t here.

He was studying in the U.S. when everything went down. He missed it. All of it.

His gaze flickers between you and Soobin, and for a long, drawn-out moment, it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. Then, without warning, his eyes lock onto Soobin’s with a silent threat—If she ends up hurt, I’ll make sure you regret it.

Soobin swallows thickly.

But then—almost unexpectedly—Yeonjun smiles.

It’s not exactly a warm, welcoming grin, but it’s something. A reluctant acceptance, maybe. A begrudging fine, but if you screw this up, I will personally end your life.

Soobin lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, tension leaving his shoulders.

And then it clicks.

A memory. A conversation. Something that doesn’t make sense.

His brows furrow, and he turns to you, completely thrown. "Babe... that day at the wedding… did you say something to Yeonjun about us earlier?"

You blink at him, confused. "Huh?"

"Taehyun told me he overheard you talking to Yeonjun about us.*"

Your face scrunches in confusion. "That never happened."

Soobin freezes. "What?"

"I never talked to Yeonjun about us before everything happened. Not at the wedding. Not before it. Never."

The realization crashes down like a ton of bricks.

"He probably lied to you," you murmur.

Soobin’s eye twitches.

Oh.

Oh, he’s gonna kill Taehyun.

And then, after that, he’s going to buy him one of those weird torture-looking gym machines he’s always obsessing over. That’ll shut him up.

Thank fucking god for Taehyun.

Let me know what you think about this hehe :D

#txt fanfic #soobin smut #txt smut #txt au #txt x reader #soobin x reader #txt #tomorrow x together smut #choi soobin smut #txt soobin #txt ff #soobin ff #soobin #tomorrow x together #kpop ff #kpop fanfic

61 notes · View notes

levanterhaze · 13 hours ago

Text

── GAMEBOY, BANGCHAN

♡ ― 󠀬󠀬 fratboy!bangchan x f!reader there's no smut in this one just a sliiiight mention of it, this is just drama and angst because this chapter will tell a lot about their future relationship! contains mentions of anxiety too.

♡ synopsis ― Bangchan is the campus playboy—charming, cocky, and infuriatingly irresistible. One reckless, drunken night leads to a secret you swore you'd never have. Now, hating him is harder than keeping him your dirty little secret.

[5.5k words ]♡― i can't believe that so many people like gameboy, like, that's crazy! thanks for everyone's support. to those who ask to be added to the taglist, it warms my heart. if you want to talk about the story or anything else, i'm open to questions and conversation! don't forget to listen to the playlist and those who just got here PLEASE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS!!!! that said, have a good read.

♡― THE PLAYLIST.

♡ [part one] ♡ [part two] ♡ [part three]

You're scared of heights, that's vertigo You wanted lights, go see a show You ran away, that's touch and go You're scared of love, well, aren't we all?

What was supposed to be a one-time thing turned into two days, then three, then four. Before you even realized it, seeing him had become part of your routine, like breathing—natural, inevitable, and far too easy to justify.

Today, though, your mind was anywhere but on him. Mrs. Baek had scheduled a meeting, nothing more, nothing less. You and Hyunjin were goofing around, hands clasped as you twirled like a chaotic, offbeat version of Jack and Rose at a third-rate ballroom. Seungmin doubled over laughing, because of course he did. That was just your dynamic—ridiculous by nature, friends for life.

Then, everything stopped. A chorus of surprised gasps cut through the room, followed by an eruption of chatter that made your spinning halt. Confused, you glanced around, searching for the source of the commotion—until you saw her. Mrs. Baek stood at the front, and next to her…

No. Absolutely not.

Your stomach flipped as your eyes landed on him. Standing there with his head tilted slightly downward, one hand gripping the opposite arm—ridiculously muscular, by the way—Bangchan looked unfairly good in a black T-shirt that was doing the bare minimum to cover anything.

Your gaze flickered to Hyunjin, then to Seungmin, silently demanding an explanation, but before either of them could speak, Mrs. Baek’s voice cut through the haze of your disbelief.

“…which is why we now have a new student to take care of the sound design. Welcome, Bangchan.”

And then—anger.

The girls whispered like they’d just witnessed the famous idol in the world. Bangchan basked in the attention, grinning at them, then at the guys. And then, of course, his eyes found you. One brow lifted, pure challenge.

No. Fucking. Way.

“Sound design? Since when?” you weren’t really expecting an answer, but Hyunjin, ever the dependable sidekick, squeezed your shoulder and offered a half-smile.

“It’s kinda his and Jisung’s thing,” he said, arms crossed as he observed Bangchan effortlessly charm his way through the group. “Jisung’s drowning in work this semester, so I guess that’s why.”

Oh, how nice. How convenient. You couldn’t care less. It was one thing sneaking around with him in secret. It was another for him to invade your space. Your special space. And worse—acting like he belonged there.

As soon as the group began to break apart, you made your exit, feet moving fast. The last thing you needed was—

“Running away already?”

You stopped dead, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. Spinning on your heel, you found Bangchan standing there, arms crossed, smirking like he had all the time in the world.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” you shot back.

“Ouch.” he clutched his chest, faking a wince. “You look angry.”

“Oh, do I?” your voice dripped with sarcasm. “That’s because I am.”

Lucky for him, the corridor was empty—just the theater crew lingering in the distance.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you demanded.

“Gonna need you to be more specific.”

You inhaled sharply. “Seriously? Sound design? You don’t even like theater.”

He took a step closer, brows furrowing.

“How would you know? We’re not friends.” the way he said it was off—something about his tone made your stomach twist. But you ignored it. “And if you actually bothered to find out, you’d know that, shockingly, I do this for real.”

You hated being proven wrong. But you especially hated being proven wrong by Bangchan.

“Look,” you sighed, arms crossing. “I don’t know what your game is, okay? But just… don’t mess things up. I like them the way they are.”

Bangchan nodded, slow and deliberate. But something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable. His stomach clenched, and he didn’t like the reason why. Because the way you said it, like having him here without sex was some kind of inconvenience, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” his voice dropped an octave, sharp and cold. He met your gaze head-on, not an ounce of warmth left. “The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

And just like a punch to the gut left hanging in the air, he was gone. No rush, no glance back—just the weight of his words lingering between you.

Things were a mess, and you needed to get a grip. Studying, focusing—doing something that wasn’t theater or… well, him. The last few days had blurred together, your attention split in ways you weren’t used to. And you hated it.

The library was too quiet, the kind of silence that crawled under your skin. Three art history books sat open in front of you, mocking your lack of focus. It was ridiculous. How the hell had you let some guy scramble your brain like this? That wasn’t you. It had never been you.

Frustration boiled over, and before you knew it, you snapped one of the books shut, the sharp thud cutting through the silence.

“Jesus. What did the book ever do to you?”

The voice came from behind you, smooth and amused. You barely looked up before Mingyu’s face came into view. It hit you then—how distracted you’d been at the fundraiser. Otherwise, you definitely would have noticed him before. That annoyingly charming, white-knight smile. Tanned skin. Muscles for days.

He grinned, leaning over your table, arms flexing just enough to be intentional.

“Sorry. My head's a mess.”

Mingyu nodded, taking in your exasperated, borderline fried expression. “Yeah, you look like it,” he said with a knowing half-smile, sliding into the empty chair across from you like he belonged there. No permission needed.

You sighed, gesturing vaguely at the books. “Just trying to focus.”

His smirk deepened. “Right. Because nothing says laser focus like slamming a textbook shut like it just insulted your mother.”

You huffed, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

“Well, since you’re clearly on the verge of a breakdown, I have an idea.” He leaned back, stretching in a way that was both casual and strategic. “A coffee. On me.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but your phone vibrated against the table, barely visible beneath the stack of books. A quick glance at the screen. One new message.

Bangchan: my dorm. 30 min.

Your pulse jumped. Short. Direct. No room for misinterpretation.

“Everything okay?” Mingyu’s voice pulled you back, his eyes scanning your face.

“Yeah, yeah.” you laughed, maybe too lightly. “Just… distracted. Coffee sounds good.”

His grin widened. “Perfect. Let’s go.”

“Just let me put this back…” you grabbed one of the books, heading for the shelf when your phone buzzed again.

Bangchan: ignoring me?

You exhaled, fingers hovering over the screen.

You: I can't. I have plans.

A pause. Then—

Bangchan: ok.

You pressed your forehead against the bookshelf, inhaling deeply, willing away the strange tightness in your stomach. It was ridiculous. It was just a text.

When you returned, Mingyu was still at the table, casually texting someone. He looked up as you approached, grinning. “Everything good?”

“Yeah.” you nodded, forcing a smile.

He was nice enough to grab your bag and help carry your notebooks, the easy charm of someone who had probably been effortlessly handsome his whole life. The café wasn’t far—just a short walk from campus—but the crowd made it feel like the busiest spot in town.

Mingyu picked a table near the entrance, the air thick with the smell of espresso and fresh pastries. Strawberry sponge cake. Cinnamon rolls. Chocolate mousse cupcakes. The kind of place that made you want to abandon all responsibilities and drown yourself in sugar.

And yet, as you sat down, all you could think about was the ok.

Mingyu ordered coffee for you both but went the extra mile, adding a slice of strawberry shortcake to share.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.” you smiled, wrapping your hands around your cup, already feeling the caffeine seep into your system like a lifeline.

He shrugged. “I wanted to. You looked like you needed something sweet.”

You caught the double meaning but let it slide. He was being nice, and you weren’t in the mood to overanalyze. “Right. So… football?” Smooth. Real smooth.

Mingyu didn’t seem to mind. “Going well. We’re set for the next game, and if we keep this up, the next university sponsorship should be ours.”

“That’s great, Mingyu.”

“Yeah, but I heard drama class was saved. Good news, huh?”

“Great news. We’ve got enough for now.” you took a bite of cake, letting the sugar melt on your tongue. Mingyu watched you, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I’m happy for you. Getting the basketball team to sell brownies half-naked must’ve been a real passion project.”

You laughed. “It was, but that wasn’t me. That was Bangchan.”

It felt strange, saying his name out loud. Different when he wasn’t there.

Mingyu frowned, arms crossing over the table.

“Bangchan did that?” his brows knitted together, skepticism lacing his tone.

You shrugged, taking another bite of cake. “That’s what I heard. Why? You guys friends?” the idea alone made your stomach twist in an oddly unpleasant way.

“No. Not even close.” he laughed, shaking his head as if the thought was ridiculous. “Just curious.”

“Well, instead of wasting brain cells on him, you should try this.” you pushed the plate slightly toward him. “It’s actually amazing.”

Mingyu picked up a fork, took a bite, and let out an appreciative groan. You grinned, clapping your hands as if you had just won a bet, then promptly stole another piece for yourself.

Being with him was easy—effortless, even. A surprising friendship you hadn't expected but didn’t mind one bit.

Back at the dorm, Eunji and Sohee were curled up on the couch, sharing a bucket of popcorn while a movie played on the laptop. Your casual entrance was met with two pairs of curious eyes locking onto you like detectives sniffing out a case.

“Where have you been?” Eunji narrowed her eyes, her fingers pausing mid-popcorn grab.

“Why?” you laughed, kicking off your shoes.

“You’ve been acting weird,” she accused, tilting her head. “Always busy, barely around.”

“Sorry, I... I've just been very busy. The theater is eating me up. And there's the exams...”

Sohee smirked. “Why do you smell like coffee?”

“What?” you instinctively sniffed your shirt, the rich aroma of espresso lingering faintly.

Eunji gasped, scandalized. “You totally went out with someone!”

Sohee just shook her head knowingly, already seeing through you. “Liar.”

“Alright, fine! I got coffee with Mingyu. Happy now?”

As soon as the words left your mouth, Sohee’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Mingyu from the soccer team?”

Eunji, on the other hand, nearly leaped off the couch. “Girl, you rocked it! I knew you had game, but Mingyu? That man is fine.”

You groaned, already regretting your life choices. “It wasn’t a thing, okay? We’re friends. We had coffee. That’s it.”

Eunji scoffed, dramatic as ever. “Honey, nothing with Mingyu is just coffee. That man doesn’t do casual.” she clasped her hands together like she was already planning your wedding.

You sighed, exasperated. “Make her stop.” you turned to Sohee, your last hope.

But Sohee just smirked. “I mean… she’s not wrong.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Oh my God.”

“Look, you’ve been drowning in rehearsals and exams. Maybe this is a good thing,” Sohee added, ever the voice of reason.

A good thing. That uneasy feeling crawled up your spine again.

Because the problem wasn’t Mingyu.

Because you had met someone. Someone who already occupied every corner of your mind. Someone who texted you with demands instead of invitations. Someone who kissed like it was the only language he spoke.

And that someone sure as hell wasn’t Mingyu.

“Alright, I’m done.” you grabbed your things and stood up. “I’m taking a shower. Goodnight.”

Before they could say another word, you ducked into your room, shutting the door behind you.

Now, if only you could shut off your thoughts just as easily.

It was lunchtime, and the table was buzzing with chatter. It had been nearly two days since you’d heard from Bangchan. Odd, right? The silence felt almost intentional. No texts, no glances that said too much.

You were sharing a basket of French fries with Hyunjin when suddenly, that topic came up. Jisung was DJing at another party this weekend, and everyone was planning to go. Of course, Eunji—bless her heart and big mouth—decided now was the time to bring up the perfect subject.

“You should invite Mingyu, now that you’re going out and all.”

You nearly choked on a fry, coughing like you’d just inhaled a cloud of smoke. Hyunjin slapped your back, but you could feel all eyes on you as the table went silent, then turned to look in your direction.

Bangchan, seated across from you, slouched in his chair like he didn’t care. But you knew better. The tension radiating from him was like a ticking time bomb.

“You’re seeing Mingyu?” Hyunjin’s voice dripped with mock disbelief. “How am I your best friend, and this is news to me?”

Great. Just great. The whole table was waiting for an answer, and suddenly, everything felt like it was about to spiral out of control.

“Going out with Mingyu? Really?” Changbin raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “I thought you had better taste, bro.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not dating anyone!” you shot back, finally managing to catch your breath after the shock of the conversation.

“Sure, sure. But you two went out the other day, didn’t you?” Eunji grinned, clearly enjoying every second of it.

You felt it before you saw it: Bangchan’s eyes, burning into the side of your head. His silence wasn’t just a void, it was a warning, sharp and heavy. You should’ve felt guilty—after all, you had brushed him aside for Mingyu.

“But we’re not together,” you quickly clarified, hoping to quell whatever storm was brewing behind his eyes. “And he’s practically at every party anyway. It’s not like he’s not going to show up.”

Eunji wasn’t buying it. “Still should invite him, though.”

Hyunjin tossed an arm around your shoulders, all casual but still sorta protective. “Alright, stop messing with my girl,” he said, voice light but you could tell he wasn’t having it.

You muttered a quick ‘thank you,’ relieved when the focus shifted away from you. Your thoughts drifted as you nibbled on the end of your fry, mind half on your food, half on the tension buzzing at the table.

Bangchan, though, wasn't as distracted. He sat there, twisting his tongue inside his cheek, fighting off the surge of frustration coiling in his gut. The thought of you with Mingyu? It hit him like a wrecking ball. Not just because you had ditched him for the guy, but Mingyu.

He could hardly keep his anger in check. Only his closest friends knew the history between the two of them—and no one, especially not you, would ever guess how deep that hatred ran.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. Without a word, he stood, breaking the rhythm of the conversation.

“Leaving already?” Changbin asked, raising an eyebrow. Lunch still had half an hour left, but Bangchan didn’t seem to care.

“Yeah, gotta handle something,” he muttered, his voice sharp enough to make everyone shut up for a second.

The group barely noticed his departure. You certainly didn’t. After all, it wasn’t like anything was out of the ordinary. Right?

The days were flying by, and with every one that passed, the auditions loomed closer. The lineup was finally set—each student would perform next Friday, the day before Jisung’s party. No pressure or anything. Your nerves were on high alert, and anxiety was practically gnawing at your bones.

And then there was Bangchan. Or rather, the lack of him. You hadn’t heard a word from him in days. During the rare times you actually sat with the guys for lunch, his seat was just... empty. And you pretended not to care, stealing quick glances and keeping your mouth shut.

Most of your free time was spent holed up in the library, pretending to study, or locked in your room, trying to convince yourself that, yes, you could totally make it through the semester without crumbling under stress. Mingyu had texted you a few times, but you’d dodged his messages so hard that even you felt guilty about it.

Not that he seemed to care. The guy was persistent. He still wanted to take you out, get to know you, charm his way into... whatever he was aiming for. Just today, he’d invited you to join him and the soccer team at some bar near campus. Apparently, they were celebrating a big win—not that you had a single clue who they even played against.

You needed to get out. Desperately. But showing up solo to a team hangout? That was a level of confidence even you didn’t have. So, naturally, you did what any sane person would—you called your emergency contact.

Hyunjin picked up before the second ring.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to return from the dead,” he drawled.

“Yeah, yeah. Roast me later. Right now, I need a favor.”

“Hm. Depends.”

“There’ll be drinks,” you baited, already knowing his answer.

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if I go, you have to give me the full rundown on whatever mess you’ve got going on with Mingyu.”

You exhaled sharply, tilting your head back like the universe was punishing you. “Ugh. Deal.”

Satisfied, you threw on a black fit—strappy top, skirt, boots, plus a long-sleeved cardigan for balance—and grabbed your phone to text Hyunjin.

And that’s when you saw him.

Bangchan.

Walking toward his dorm, jacket slung over his shoulder, bag in one hand. The second he spotted you, it was like his brain hit a hard reset. Blue screen. No thoughts, just you.

You, on the other hand? You just…froze. Phone still hovering mid-air like you were trying to signal the mothership.

He looked good, annoyingly so—tired, sure, but with that effortlessly undone look that made you want to fix things that weren’t even broken. And judging by the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly, he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see you looking this good either.

You could practically hear the battle happening in his head. Logic telling him to keep walking. Instinct screaming at him to drag you somewhere private and remind you exactly why you shouldn’t be ignoring him.

But no. Neither of you moved. Just standing there, locked in some ridiculous silent standoff from across the way.

That is, until a hand brushed against yours.

“Took you long enough,” Hyunjin teased, but his voice trailed off the second he noticed who had stolen your attention. His steps slowed, eyes flicking between you and Bangchan like he’d just walked into the middle of a soap opera.

You bit back a smirk, shoving down the weird twist in your stomach. “Shall we?”

Hyunjin hesitated, still piecing things together. Then, with a last glance at Bangchan—who looked like he was about two seconds away from saying something he’d regret—he sighed.

“Yeah,” he muttered, brows still furrowed. “Let’s go.”

The moment you step into the bar, Mingyu zeroes in on you like a man on a mission—half-drunk, half-thrilled, and entirely shameless about how his gaze drags over you. He grins, tells you how gorgeous you look, and hands you a shot of soju like it’s a requirement for entry.

Hyunjin, of course, fits right in immediately, the social butterfly that he is. Meanwhile, you start to relax, the initial nerves fading as the drinks flow and the unfamiliar space becomes less intimidating. Mingyu’s friends are nice—too nice. The kind of nice that feels like they're sizing you up, like you’re some kind of prize waiting to be claimed. Mingyu’s prize.

The room is loud, buzzing with alcohol-fueled laughter and drunken debates, but your thoughts are fixated on something else. Someone else. And damn it, Mingyu is right there, flashing that easy smile, brushing his fingers against yours like it’s an accident every single time. Complimenting you in ways that should make your stomach flip.

But all you can think about is the guy who hasn’t spoken to you in days. The one who supposedly doesn’t want you anymore.

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

With a frustrated sigh, you push back your chair and stand. You’re not even tipsy, but everything suddenly feels too hot, too suffocating.

“I need water,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else, and head for the bar before you do something stupid.

Mingyu appeared at your side, leaning against the bar like he had all the time in the world.

"All good?"

You forced a smile, gripping the cool glass of water like it could ground you. "Yeah. Just needed something cold."

"Glad you came," he said, smirking slightly as he looked down at you.

He’s the one you should want, the one who actually wants you.

Your gaze flickered to his lips. A bad idea waiting to happen.

Mingyu caught the hesitation, eyes darkening as he glanced between your lips and your eyes. You barely had time to register what was happening before your hands found his shoulders, his lips pressing against yours.

The guys erupted in cheers, their drunken approval ringing out across the bar.

And after that, a blur of stolen kisses, too much soju, and voices too loud to ignore.

The night air was crisp against your flushed skin as you and Hyunjin walked back toward campus. The distant hum of the city buzzed in your ears, the alcohol still warm in your veins, though the high of the night had started to fade. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and Hyunjin, ever the gentleman, walked just a step closer in case you stumbled.

“You good?” he asked, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

You hummed a response, not trusting yourself to say anything else. Your mind was a tangled mess of soju, Mingyu’s lips, and something deeper—something you weren’t ready to admit.

Hyunjin let the silence settle for a moment before he spoke again. “If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?”

You sighed, already bracing yourself. Here it comes. “If it’s about Mingyu, I—”

“It’s not.” he cut you off, tone softer than before. “It’s about Bangchan.”

Your stomach twisted.

You stopped walking, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Your hands fidgeted, grasping for something—anything—to ground you. “Why would you ask that?” you muttered, trying to play it off, but even you could hear the slight tremble in your voice.

Hyunjin tilted his head, studying you. “I figured it all out.”

A sharp inhale stung your chest, and before you could even think of a response, it hit you. The overwhelming, suffocating weight of everything you’d been trying to bury. The frustration, the confusion, the way he made you feel like you were something and nothing all at once.

“Oh, shit,” Hyunjin muttered, eyes widening as the tears spilled over. “Come here.”

He pulled you into his chest, letting you press your face into his shoulder. You clung to his jacket, shaking as silent sobs wracked through you. Half-drunk, half-heartbroken, you let yourself break in the only safe place you had at that moment—Hyunjin’s arms.

“I don’t— I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” you mumbled against the fabric of his hoodie, voice barely above a whisper.

Hyunjin sighed, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

But it wasn’t okay. None of it was.

After a few minutes, he gently pulled away and wordlessly handed you a bottle of water he’d bought from a vending machine nearby. You took it with shaky hands, gulping down the cool liquid as if it could wash away the lump in your throat.

As you wiped your eyes, Hyunjin leaned against the streetlamp, watching you carefully. “Talk to me. What’s going on with you and Bangchan?”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “I wish I knew.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

With a deep, shaky breath, you finally let it spill. “It started as something casual. No expectations.” your fingers tightened around the water bottle. “But then he started pulling away. And I don’t know if it’s because he got bored, or if I did something wrong, or if this was always the plan. I don’t even know if I want more, but the fact that I’m this messed up over it?” you scoffed, blinking back fresh tears. “That has to mean something, right?”

Hyunjin exhaled, his gaze thoughtful. “Damn.”

You let out a wet laugh. “That’s all you got?”

“I mean, what do you want me to say? That doesn’t sound casual to me.”

Your stomach twisted. You knew that. You knew that. But hearing it out loud made it real in a way you weren’t ready for.

You swallowed hard, voice small. “I got myself into this mess. I was the one who asked him to keep it a secret.”

Hyunjin frowned, his posture shifting. “Why?”

“Because I was scared,” you admitted, the words raw in your throat. “Scared of what people would say. Scared of the judgment. You know how it is—girls get torn apart for way less. And I worked too hard, cared too much to be reduced to just that girl who’s hooking up with Bangchan.” you laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “And now? Now I don’t even know how to deal with it. Because I was supposed to hate him, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin was quiet for a moment, his usual teasing gone. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady. “You don’t have to figure it all out tonight. But you also don’t have to go through this alone.”

Your throat tightened. “I feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.” he bumped his shoulder against yours. “You’re just in deep.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning into his warmth as you both started walking again.

“Look, I don’t have the answers. But I do know you’re not crazy for feeling this way.” he squeezed your shoulder. “And if he’s too much of an idiot to see what he has, then maybe you should let him be the one losing sleep over it.”

You sniffled, managing a weak smile. “You’re my soulmate, Hyun.”

“Damn right I am,” he said, flashing you a grin. “Now drink your water before you pass out, drama queen.”

You laughed—actually laughed—and for the first time that night, the weight on your chest felt just a little bit lighter.

The day had finally arrived. Showtime. No matter how many times you’d done this, stepping on stage always felt like a first-time, heart-in-your-throat kind of thing.

Up in the audience, Seungmin, Hyunjin, and Sohee were posted a few rows above Mrs. Baek, waiting for you to do your thing. No pressure.

Backstage was quiet—eerily so. You sat there, taking slow, deep breaths, wiping your sweaty palms against your thighs like a seasoned pro in pre-show anxiety management. You were next. Three minutes. One shot. No room for mediocrity.

You’d chosen a song that wasn’t just sentimental—it was a statement. A vocal rollercoaster that climbed from deep, rich lows to a falsetto so clean it could cut glass. If you were going to go down, at least you’d do it swinging.

Reaching into your bag for your water bottle, you were mid-sip when movement in the distance caught your attention.

And just like that, reality glitched. Bangchan.

It was almost ridiculous how unreal he looked, like a mirage conjured from some fever dream. You hadn’t seen him in days, and yet here he was, strolling in like he hadn’t been living rent-free in your mind this whole damn time.

Laptop in hand, fingers flying across the keyboard, looking every bit the sound tech genius he was. You hadn’t expected him to actually show up for this gig, but—oh, look—there he was, punching buttons like he was defusing a bomb.

Then, he saw you. And something shifted.

His fingers stilled, tightening around the laptop.

The air was heavy. The tension was palpable. Whatever was going on between you two didn’t need words—it was written in every sharp breath, every stolen glance.

And just like that, your pre-show jitters had a new contender.

"Hi," you muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

Bangchan gave you a small, polite smile—too polite. Something about it felt off. The usual spark in his eyes? Gone. And that was all it took for reality to sink in.

So that’s it, huh?

The game was over. You had your answer. He was done, and honestly? You couldn’t even be mad—because weren’t you just as much to blame?

Mrs. Baek’s voice cut through the buzzing in your head, thanking the student who had just finished performing. You’re next.

You turned away from Bangchan, unscrewed your water bottle, and took a long sip, willing yourself to focus. Breathe. Lock in. You’ve got this.

Then it happened. A warm touch on your waist—his touch.

Your body betrayed you instantly, heat rippling through your skin like a live wire. It had been days, and yet, all it took was this—a single touch—to remind you how much you’d missed him.

You spun around, frowning, swallowing hard as your gaze locked onto his.

Bangchan didn’t back down. If anything, he doubled down.

His arm lifted, caging you in the small space between you and the backstage wall, pulling your bodies so close it was downright insane. His head tilted slightly, studying you, reading every little reaction like he already knew the ending to this story.

Without warning, Bangchan crashed his lips onto yours, his free hand gripping your waist like he had no plans of letting go. His palm slid up your back, fingers teasing under the hem of your shirt, branding heat into your skin.

You barely had time to process before his tongue was in your mouth, claiming, demanding—like he was making up for every second of distance between you.

A sound slipped past your lips—a mix between a sigh and a moan, involuntary, unstoppable.

God, you hated how easily he unraveled you. And worse? You loved it too.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatshirt, yanking him closer—like you needed him just a little closer, just a little longer. Your lips moved in sync, deepening the moment, drowning out everything else.

Then—

Mrs. Baek’s voice rang through the backstage, shouting your name.

Then reality crashed back in.

But instead of nerves clawing at your stomach, instead of the suffocating pressure you’d felt moments ago, there was something lighter—something electric. Like a field of wildflowers blooming where anxiety used to sit.

You pulled back, panting, heart racing, but this time? You were smiling. Bangchan, just as breathless, leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Break a leg," he murmured.

And just like that, you knew you would.

♡ taglist ― @kenia4 @chrizrizz @meerabmalik @gnabnahcsworld @gncbnahc @jinniejjam @skzworldx @itsacatastrophe-xo @soonie1010 @4ng3l-ch1ld @justwonder113 @tsunderelino @eastjonowhere @lyracarvahall @akindaflora @victoriaaf @ebnabi @wickedbutlovely

61 notes · View notes

cherry-coffees · 2 days ago

Text

Labyrinth, Chapter 3: Uh-Oh, I'm Falling in Love

Premise: Ever since Vi saved you on that Piltover ship, there's been tension between you two. But when Vi suggests a late-night sparring practice, you and her reach a breaking point.

cw: 1.7K words | childhood crush!Vi, minor mentions of sparring, kissing, confessions, fluff, EEEE sm cuteness

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

The old, usually dark house is filled with warmth and good spirits tonight. None higher than Vi’s: who’s smugly recounting the successful mission and how just how good her leadership had been. “Yeah,” she smirks, leaning back in her chair as she runs a hand through her pink hair. Her chair next to you — since when did this become the new seating arrangement? “I got us all out before the guards could catch us.”

Meanwhile, Mylo and Claggor are busy stuffing their faces with the food that selling all the stolen jewelry had bought them, Powder’s talking your ear off about some necklace she had found during the raid, and Vander’s listening to Vi’s ramblings. For your part, you’re half-paying attention to Powder. Though, admittedly, your mind is elsewhere.

Why had it felt so good to be carried in Vi’s arms? You had been in danger back there, yet you had never felt safer than when she had literally swept you off your feet. You know it had been a heat-of-the-moment action; the fastest way to ensure you were both hidden when the guard rounded the corner. But you can’t ignore how your heart had sped up, how you had clung to her just a little harder than necessary.

And how warm she had been in the night’s cold air.

And-

“Hey,” Vi’s voice breaks you out of your stream of thought. The others had evidently moved on to talking about something else, but her eyes are locked on yours, imploring. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you smile, if a little nervously. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” Vi nods, but she doesn’t look away. Instead, her hand comes up to scratch the back of her neck, almost sheepish. “For your first job, you were pretty good.”

“Thanks,” it’s your turn for your smile to turn sheepish. “Um, and thanks for that, by the way. You know, saving me before the guard could see us.”

She blinks, as if surprised you’re bringing that up. “Oh, right. No problem. It’s my responsibility to make sure everyone’s okay.”

“Yeah…” your voice trails off, the swirl of thoughts inside your head getting stronger. Are you just overthinking everything? Are you flustered over something that was purely a responsibility for her?

Too preoccupied, you don’t notice the faint tinge of pink on Vi’s cheeks, nor the way her gaze drops to her own plate.

And neither of you notice Vander’s eyes darting between the two of you from his end of the table, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips.

With how late it is, it doesn’t take long for you to retire to one of the worn-down couches in the front room. Powder finds her way next to you, curling up with a soft sigh. You’re both asleep in minutes, worn-out from the late night and the topside ship raid just a few hours ago.

As Vander’s gone to bed, Vi remains at the table with Mylo and Claggor. Though, she can’t help the soft smile that graces her features at the sight of you and her little sister. Nor can she help the brief thought that goes through her mind of what it would be like to have you leaning against her shoulder instead?

“Jealous,” Mylo murmurs from across the table, taking note of Vi’s almost wistful expression.

She snaps her gaze to him. “What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Mylo holds up his hands in mock-surrender, sending Claggor a smug glance. “You wouldn’t be interested anyways.”

|------» ~~~ «------|

A few days pass, filled with more of your gazes at Vi that linger just a little too long, and her sneaking equally as many when she thinks you’re not looking. Having gotten a nice sum of money from the last job, it allows more time for laying low. This includes a lot more training on your part, both with and without Vi’s instruction.

One night, you’re sitting in the glow of a lamp in the front room, braiding Powder’s hair in a braid crown that she’s wanted to try ever since she saw you with it one day. You form braids on either side of her head before looping them around her head, tying them together to resemble a crown. “Done,” you finish with a pat on her head.

Powder squeals in happiness, jumping up to twirl around the small room. “I love it! Your hairstyles always look so pretty!”

“I’ve had practice,” you smile at her evident joy.

This sparks an idea within Powder, her eyes widening. “Can I try your ribbons sometime? Pleaseee? They look so nice when you wear them!”

“Of course,” you can’t help but giggle at her hopeful expression. “But it’s kinda late right now.”

“Yes,” Vi cuts in, stretching her arms out as she enters the room. “Your hair looks nice, Powder, but c’mon. You should get some sleep.”

Powder hesitates, her eyebrows furrowed in contemplation. At least, until you lean forward, a hand coming up to stroke the braid in her hair. “Why don’t you go to bed, and you can keep the braid in for tomorrow?”

“Thank you!” She nods eagerly at the idea, turning to give you a quick hug before she bounds upstairs. “Good night! Good night, Vi!”

“Good night,” Vi crosses her arms, smiling after her sister before turning to face you. It hits you, suddenly, that you and Vi are alone now. You’ve been alone before, of course, but never like this. Never this late at night, in a quiet house, with some kind of unspoken tension in the air.

You place your hands in your lap, still kneeling on the floor, and glance up at Vi. “You can sleep, too. I’m not tired, so I’ll be up for a little.”

“Nah,” Vi shakes her head, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not tired either. What’re you going to do until you are?”

You huff out a sigh, your eyes flicking to the door. “I should train more. I still have a ways to go if I want to be able to handle myself.”

Vi’s expression contorts into one of worry. “At the warehouse?”

“I guess. Where else?”

She shakes her head again. “I can’t let you go there alone this late.”

“Vi,” you start in protest. “I’ll be fine-”

“You’re not able to defend yourself that well yet,” Vi’s tone is firm, and you know there’s no getting out of this. “You might be okay in the day, but at night is just asking for trouble. Let me go with you; it’s not like I can sleep either.”

You sigh reluctantly. It’s not really a question; you know she’s coming whether you like it or not. “Fine.”

“Good,” a smile eases back onto her face, and she extends an arm to help you up. “Let’s go, then.”

|------» ~~~ «------|

“Do you want to try sparring?” Vi’s voice echoes throughout the empty warehouse.

You glance at her, evident doubt in your expression. “Uh, are you trying to kill me?”

Vi laughs, unable to bite back the grin that spreads across her face. Her eyes almost glint as she steps toward you. “Not seriously. Just so you can get more practice, yeah? It’s just me.”

Right. It’s just her.

You cross your arms, trying not to return her smile with one of your own. On one hand, it would be good practice. But on the other, you’re just slightly nervous because, well, it’s Vi. “Fine.”

“Just ‘fine?’” Vi raises her eyebrows. “Alright, princess. Whatever you say.”

Your cheeks burn, though you can’t tell if it’s from annoyance at her mocking you or at the would-be-romantic nickname. So you just step forward, making the first move in this sparring practice by taking one of her arms to yank her forward. “I’m not a princess.”

Vi stumbles a little bit despite her strength, having been caught off guard. But she recovers quickly, darting behind you and swinging you around so your back is pressed against her chest, your arms pinned. “Yeah you are,” she murmurs, and you can feel her breath hot on your ear.

“I’m not,” you snap your wrist from her grip in the way Vi herself had taught you a few days before, ducking out of her hold.

A flicker of surprise crosses her features, and you swear she almost looks impressed. “Better,” Vi hums, and you smile, pleased with her praise at your training progress.

That quickly ends when Vi uses your momentary distraction to pull you right back against her chest, this time spinning so your feet lift off the ground. “Hey!” You shriek in surprise. It’s meant to be a protest, but you can’t help the laugh that falls from your lips.

“Admit it,” Vi spins you a second time, and you don’t have to see her face to note her own held-back laugh in her tone.

“Vi!” You gasp through giggles. “Okay, okay, I get it!”

She sets you down, blue eyes imploring you expectantly, as if coaxing you to admit the truth of her nickname. But you take the chance to initiate another one of your recently learned moves: sweeping her leg to cause a fall.

Or, well, you attempt to. Because Vi jumps back with a feigned look of pity on her face. “Oh, sorry,” she furrows her eyebrows. “Were you trying to do- this?”

With that, she sweeps your own leg easily, causing you to yelp as you tumble to the warehouse floor. Vi’s on top of you in an instant, pinning your arms beside you and hovering over you with a shit-eating smirk.

“Oh, you-” you start to grumble, but your breath catches in your throat as you realize how close she is. Your faces are just inches apart, eyes locked. Your lips part slightly in surprise.

It takes a moment for Vi to process this as well, her determination to win the sparring match fading as she takes in your proximity. The smirk slowly slips from her face, her own eyes widening. “Uh,” she breathes. “I think you need some more sparring practice.”

You barely manage to nod, unable to tear away from her piercing gaze. “Yeah, I– maybe.” Your voice comes out breathier than you intend. Whoops.

It’s silent for a moment, and you can practically feel the air grow more and more tense. “Do you-” Vi’s voice drops to a murmur, and is she suddenly closer? “Do you mind if I try something?”

Your noses brush, and the brief thought flits through your mind that you really hope Vi can’t hear your steadily increasing heartbeat. “Try what?” You can barely hear your own voice, and Vi might have missed the whisper if she wasn’t so close to you.

“Just something.”

You barely have the moment to bob your head once before Vi’s lips are on yours. She kisses you gently, her lips soft and unhurried against your own. As your eyes slide shut, she moves her hands from your wrists to better rest on her elbows above you. One hand slides up to cradle your jaw, gently angling your head so your lips slot against each other more easily. It’s a chaste kiss filled with the warmth and tenderness that’s everything you would expect from kissing Vi.

She breaks from you a few moments later, letting her lips brush against yours. “Was that okay?” She whispers, so faintly that you question if she even said it.

“More than,” you breathe, eyes fluttering open to meet hers.

Vi pushes herself up, moving to kneel next to you. You mirror her actions, and Vi heaves a sigh, running a hand through her hair. “Are you sure? I know it was kind of out of nowhere and-” She’s rambling and she knows it, but she just can’t seem to stop her nervous outpour of words.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you tilt your head, concerned over her evident nerves. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vi reassures, eyes darting to the floor before back up to you again. “I just don’t really know how to do this, and I want to do it right. You deserve as much.”

The heat in your cheeks returns, but this time, it’s not unwelcome. “Hey,” you mumble, your tone reassuring. “I don’t know what I’m doing either. But I do know that I liked that. A lot, actually.” It’s your turn for your gaze to drop down to your hands in uncertainty because you just can’t look at her when you say this. “I like you.”

You don’t dare glance back up at her when a moment of silence follows your confession. That is, until a palm on your cheek gently coaxes your head up so your eyes meet Vi’s. To your surprise, all you find is softness — with an equally soft smile to match. “I like you too,” she murmurs, her voice steady and firm with no trace of the anxiety it held a few seconds ago.

Vi continues, her gaze dropping to your lips. “And if you’ll let me, I really want to do that again.”

Your breath hitches as you blink at her, taking a moment to regain your words. “Vi,” your hand moves to gently cover hers on your cheek. “I’ll let you.”

It doesn’t take long for Vi to tug you into her lap, your lips finding each other with growing confidence. Your fingers lace through her short hair, and her arms snake around your waist. They’re searching kisses, kisses that elicit soft sighs and whispers of confession in between. It’s as if neither you nor Vi can bear to separate now that your feelings for each other are out in the open.

“You’re so sweet,” you whisper as you briefly part for air.

“And you,” Vi whispers against your lips before placing another soft kiss on them. “You’re beautiful.”

PSA: THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER! We have a lot more plot to get through y'all. I told you this is childhood love to meeting again as adults for a reason...

Anyways! I said this separately but I'm going home from university for the weekend, so please be patient if the next chapter isn't up for a few days.

Hope you enjoyed the cute confessions my lovelies!

~Cherry 🍒

57 notes · View notes

ylangelegy · 2 days ago

Text

svt & love poems they'd give you.

★ footnotes: decided to marry the two halves of my heart this valentine's: svt and poetry. this is unashamedly inspired by the brilliant @heartepub, whose constant intersection of svt x poetry inspires me to no end. viv, you are an entire poem in itself; i would give you all the pretty words in the world, if i could. + happy carat day, everyone!

seungcheol ★ Isn't Every Love Poem an Unfinished Love Poem?, Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz

Praise the caps of your shoulders, my lips pressed against them.

Praise the poem I was trying to finish when you showed up

at my door.

jeonghan ★ If I Had Three Lives, Sarah Russell

If I had three lives, I'd marry you in two. The other? Perhaps that life over there at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing—a memoir, maybe a novel or this poem. […] I'd walk the beach at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks water makes in sand. And I'd wonder sometimes if I'd ever find you.

joshua ★ True Love, Sharon Olds

I quietly call to you and you come and hold my hand and I say I cannot see beyond it. I cannot see beyond it.

junhui ★ February & my love is in another state, José Olivarez

stay with me. while the sky is still golden, hold the ladder so i can climb, & from the highest rung, i can scrape away a drizzle of light to wear around my neck. alone

is the star i follow. in love & in solitude: alone is the home with the warmest glow.

soonyoung ★ Variations on the Word Love, Margaret Atwood

This word is far too short for us, it has only four letters, too sparse to fill those deep bare vacuums between the stars that press on us with their deafness. It's not love we don't wish to fall into, but that fear. this word is not enough but it will have to do.

wonwoo ★ The Leash, Ada Limón

But sometimes, I swear I hear it, the wound closing like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move my living limbs into the world without too much pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight toward the pickup trucks break-necking down the road, because she thinks she loves them, because she’s sure, without a doubt, that the loud roaring things will love her back,

jihoon ★ You Do Not Have To Love Me, Leonard Cohen

I wrote all these songs for you I burned red and black candles shaped like a man and a woman I married the smoke of two pyramids of sandalwood I prayed for you I prayed that you would love me and that you would not love me

seokmin ★ Watching you talk on the phone, I consider the empty space around atoms–, Rhiannon McGavin

To make my birthday cake from scratch, you wouldn’t just plant strawberries: you’d create another universe. I wanted you

warm and close as fresh laundry and here we are, Tuesday. Of course you love me, you’re wearing one of my socks.

mingyu ★ O Small Sad Ecstasy of Love, Anne Carson

I did a road trip all over my mind and heart and there you were kneeling by the roadside with your little toolkit fixing something.

Give me a world, you have taken the world I was.

minghao ★ The Quiet World, Jeffrey McDaniel

Late at night, I call my long distance lover, proudly say I only used fifty-nine today. I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond, I know she’s used up all her words, so I slowly whisper I love you thirty-two and a third times.

seungkwan ★ A Walk Round the Park, Sandra Lim

We did not say much to each other but

we grinned, because this love was so good you sucked the

rib bones

and I licked my fingers like a cat.

Now I’m omniscient. I’m going to skip past

the hard

parts that go on for a very long time.

vernon ★ Guilty of Dust, Frank Bidart

the voice in my head said

LOVE IS THE DISTANCE BETWEEN YOU AND WHAT YOU LOVE

WHAT YOU LOVE IS YOUR FATE

chan ★ First Date, Megan Williams

I want the warmth of your gaze to convince me that living is worth the discomfort. That other people can like me. That the bottlenecked bridge full of squealing tires & suckers who can't merge is a small price to pay for a hand in mine.

#svt imagines #svt scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #once again: not much to tag since this is my personal little love letter for the boys 💌#poetry x svt circles how i love u so!!!#(🥡) notebook #(💎) page: svt

35 notes · View notes

skyrim-forever · 3 days ago

Text

WIP Wednesday

Hi everyone it's Wednesday <3 I'm excited so I'm just gonna start tagging: @theoneandonlysemla @pocket-vvardvark @dirty-bosmer @changelingsandothernonsense @bougainvillea-and-saltwater

@lucien-lachance @firefly-factory @scholarlyhermit @sheirukitriesfandom @umbracirrus @lillxart @ladytanithia

@sanza-17 @captain-of-silvenar

I'm working on some Theomar for Valentine's Day/Heart's Day so this snippet is explicit because it's them, it's the holiday for lovers of course they are going to smash <3 MDNI Under the cut for smut:

Placing the wine down, Ondolemar decides not to wait for her to push him to the brink. The hand on her thigh inches inward while his other cups the warm flesh of her breasts. As a small moan erupts from her, his lips begin dotting her neck in bitemarks in between the loose strands of hair falling from her braid. The fuller moan this earns him much more satisfying. As is the reddish hue emerging on her tanned skin from his handiwork, marking her in the shape of him.

“I know what you want, Theodora.” Despite her shallow breaths, the circles he traces on her inner thigh, his love finds the resolve to quip back. Denying the sensations are overwhelming her as he knows they are. Yet with slurred and shaken words, she speaks.

“And what is that?”

“You want my cock inside you, is that right?”

“Yes.” Neediness drips from her voice as the pretense is dropped. No longer tracing her inner thigh, his fingers have moved to her centre, running along the outline of her entrance. The view from this angle, steam rising off the exposed skin of breasts while the rest remains hidden beneath the bath, several of the flower petals stuck to them. Absolutely divine.

“Say it.” Perhaps it was cruel of him to bite her earlobe immediately following this request, any words she could have mustered turn into frustrated whines upon vocalization. “I do love the sounds you make but that’s not an answer.”

“Have I ever told you that you have an ego?” She groans. “Always so demanding.”

“I have it under good authority that you’re rather fond of those parts of me.” In fact she preferred it. “And I would not consider that to be a demand, Theodora. Although if you wish it to be one…” The blissful, grinning expression he can see glancing at the side of her face. More still how her hips buck into his hand greedy for him to offer her something, some touch to ease her arousal. His own becoming more difficult to ignore but it would be worth it in time. Clear that she wants a command, the former commander gives her one. “Beg.” One word, simple. “Do so well enough and I can be persuaded.”

Ondolemar had no intentions to withhold pleasure from her, this too was a part of their dance, enticing each other back and forth was almost as good as the act itself. Almost. He vowed never to deny her anything, already an unthinkable notion; it is utterly impossible with her response. Words not shaken as earlier, nor faint and breathy, no struggle found as he once again remembers one of the things he’s always liked about her. A quality he long appreciated before any of their deeper feelings were present; if ever such a time truly existed. Perhaps he was doomed that night. Heavily intoxicated, not unlike he is now, when he let himself behave as what he referred to as sloppily at the time. All that to say the trait was as present then as it is now:

Theodora knew what she wanted.

#wip wednesday #oc: theodora #theomar #nsft #tw: smut #ah them <3 #letting the lovers have a nice bath <3 #good for them #this has been helping me getting my writing mojo back #theomar will save me

35 notes · View notes

leclercskiesahead · 1 day ago

Text

Spanish Heat

You have been to Sardinia. You have been to Corsica. Mallorca is the same. The ocean is always cold at night.

I wrote this last year when @underthelightsblog kindly let me contribute to their C2 keychain companion booklet. If you ordered her keychains, you might have already read this! I didn't want to spoil it before she could send everyone their booklets, and then it felt a bit weird to post it in winter, so I'm sharing it now as a Valentines' post!

Charles is cold.

He is in Spain. In summer. It was perfectly hot and sunny in the morning, as he had expected, and his skin is already a bright pink that the internet will surely laugh about.

So why is it so cold??

Carlos is never cold. He is always nice and warm whenever Charles bumps into him as they compete in their silly challenge, searing hot when he traces his fingers down Charles’ arms in a way that means something different from teammates, blistering heat when he presses into Charles at night, and warm again when Charles curls up next to him as they drift off to sleep.

Carlos is always talking about his Spanish blood and oh I’m Latino I’m fire and how warm Spain is compared to Modena, where they work.

So Charles thought he would come to Spain and bake in the sun. Instead, he is going to freeze to death at night.

And he doesn’t have a warm Carlos to curl up with. Because Carlos is in Scotland for his friend’s birthday.

Charles shivers as he swipes through his phone. There’s a video of Carlos at his friend’s party, singing along and looking not at all cold in his simple sweater.

Doesn’t it always rain in Scotland? Carlos hates the rain. He loves his warm and sunny home country. But the one time Charles finally booked a trip there for summer break, Carlos had other plans.

It’s unfair.

Charles is cold. He is also impatient.

So he calls.

“Hola.”

“You didn’t tell me Spain is so cold.”

There is a laugh. Charles pouts even though Carlos can’t see how displeased he is. He is cold and freezing, and Carlos is laughing at him.

“Cabrón. You have been to Sardinia. You have been to Corsica. Mallorca is the same. The ocean is always cold at night, no? Did they teach you in school? Or you didn’t pay attention.”

And well, yeah. Charles hadn’t thought about that.

But he still has to make a point.

“I was very good at school,” he huffs. “I always got good marks and paid attention.”

Another chuckle comes through the phone. “Sure, love.”

He can hear Carlos rolling his eyes. So annoying. But the pet name still makes part of his chest feel a bit fuzzy. And now he’s a little warm.

But still not as warm as the real thing.

"When are you coming here," he whines. Not that he doesn't already know the answer —

"You know when, mate, you made me send you my itinerary."

— but maybe if he asks enough times, Carlos will get annoyed and join him sooner.

"Then hurry up, Carlos," he says, his accent thick around the 'r'.

The phone transmits a static noise that Charles figures is Carlos tsk-ing at him. "Always so bossy," is the reply he gets. Then more gently, "Just a few more days. I will be right there, love."

"I want you now." His brain knows that logically, Carlos can't just abandon his own friends like that. But his heart wants what it wants. And if it can't get what it wants, then he'll just be a bit whiny about it.

"You are in Spain, think about me everywhere."

"Yes, yes," Charles nods, as if he hasn't already stalled multiple times in a day because something sets him off daydreaming about his boyfriend. "You have to win the golf now, since you are making me wait."

"Of course," is Carlos' smug reply. "Please don't fall down or hit anyone while you are surfing or doing volleyball or anything else."

Annoying man and his annoying ability to play all sports.

———

They have a yacht day planned, and a good amount of their supplies for this segment are in Charles' room because he has the biggest room because he likes to treat himself during his summer break. Also because he had booked it with some wishful thinking that he could be bringing someone with him.

Anyway, he has to get all their stuff from his room while his friends go to the dock to prepare the yacht.

Joris follows him to his room to help.

“Jesus Christ, why is it so hot here? Have you not burnt enough outside?”

“It’s cold at night."

"It's not that cold."

"It is science, Joris. Did you pay attention in school?"

Joris doesn't answer. He stares at Charles. Sighs. Walks over to one of the bags and pulls out a white lump of clothing. Stuffs it into Charles' hands.

"What is..."

It's one of the Ferrari fashion sweaters. But Charles doesn't remember packing it for this trip (because it is summer and they are going to Spain, where it's supposed to be hot and sunny, why would he need a sweater?). And when he unfolds it, it looks a size bigger than what he wears.

"I found it in your room," Joris says. "Maybe it can keep you warm. Until..."

He waves a hand and makes a knowing face.

Right. Joris goes to nearly all the races now and has seen more of what Charles gets up to off track than he needs to, whether as a friend or personal assistant. That also means he knows Charles, and he knows how Charles is when it comes to things related to a certain other driver who shares his name.

Charles holds the sweater against his chest. He has the decorum not to press his nose to the fabric there and then, but if he focusses, he can still pick up the lingering trace of a familiar cologne.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"Yeah, don't mention it," his friend says, grabbing two large bags. Right, the rest of the group is probably waiting. He stops in the door. "It's not that cold, Charlie. Maybe only your bed."

He ducks out before Charles can smack him. He has the best friends. Really.

———

"Oh, it's windy, no?" Someone says while they all rest from a game on deck.

Charles turns to give Joris A Look. See? He's not the only one who feels cold.

"That's why we can't stay out too long. It's better in the water." And then they are all jumping in again.

Someone starts a swimming race. Bad idea. Because Charles can't not give his all in any sort of competition and because he trains the most out of all his friends — it comes with the job. He's going to win by a large margin.

It's also a bad idea because no one knows which marker they are using as the finish line, so everyone is paddling madly in all directions, and at some point, Charles realises he's ended up swimming away from everybody else. Which could be the large winning margin he wanted, but it's also possible that he's gone the wrong way and ended up further from the finish line. He can imagine everyone laughing at him, and the competitive racer inside him fumes.

Grim and determined, he starts paddling back, only for an air horn to snatch his attention.

A jet ski whizzes by, curving around and slowly circling towards him, like a shark. Or maybe a stingray, because Charles thinks his heart might have stopped. It's hard to see against the bright sun and with some saltwater in his eyes, but the figure on the jet ski is recognisable to Charles anyway.

Carlos rides up next to him with his perfect windswept hair and a sly smile.

"Hola," is all he says.

Charles is already grabbing his outstretched hand.

"Mate! You are early!"

"I told you I was coming today."

"You didn't say what time," Charles argues. "You sounded like —"

He tries to haul himself up the ski and nearly slips because he forgot his body is still dripping seawater.

"Ay, be careful," Carlos nags. Not that Charles really listens because he has two large, hot, searing hands on his waist as Carlos wrangles him onto the ski. A full view of a bare shoulder under a life vest.

Spain is very hot indeed.

"Good," Carlos mutters when Charles is finally settled on the ski. "How can I surprise you if I tell you exactly what time I'm arriving?"

Charles can't think of an argument. The breeze from earlier has returned, and he can feel goosebumps breaking out on his still-wet skin.

He presses into Carlos. The life vest is still in the way, but leaves enough exposed for Charles to feel the heat he has been craving this past week and a half.

He is wet and cold and feels Carlos' muscles jump at the initial contact.

"Ay, mate," he complains, but shifts to accommodate Charles anyway.

That's how Joris finds them later, tucked together on a deck chair as Carlos enjoys a beer and Charles enjoys Carlos' body heat.

———

"Mate, you are using the heater?" Carlos says when they retire to Charles' room — their room — for the night. He moves to turn it down with one hand while towelling his hair off with the other, freshly showered. Charles stares at the perfect dark locks sticking in all the right directions.

Tonight had not felt as chilly as the previous nights, but Charles had still turned the dial up out of habit when they had returned earlier.

"Is that mine? Ay, no wonder I couldn't find it."

Ah, yes, the sweater that he had stolen from Carlos at a race that Joris brought here for him. Laying across his lap.

"I was cold," is all he manages to say.

Carlos has a stupid grin on his face. Charles wants to kiss him.

So he does.

Charles is no longer cold.

#clairwrites #charlos

30 notes · View notes

blessedbucky · 2 days ago

Text

we tried the world, good god, it wasn't for us! (part 5.3)

pairing: autistic!satoru x suguru x autistic!reader

word count: 8.9k (this actually might be the shortest i've written to date)

summary: satoru has been naively thinking that his world hasn’t been on the edge of collapse for a long time.

tags: autistic!reader, autistic!satoru, not sure if it's suicidal ideation or what since suguru wants to die for what he did to reader, definitely probably some unhealthy codependency because everyone here is a teenager going through traumatic shit, uhhhh let me know if there's anything else but I think those are the big ones, hurt/like minimal amounts of comfort, gojo is disgustingly in love please help my boy he's struggling with his depressed s/o's

beautiful people who asked to be tagged 💕: @ichikanu, @iceheartsice, @anders-is-being-a-simp-again, @lexlibrary, @ziggy0stardust

author note: really wanted to write the fallout of the last chapter in satoru's pov, like how it goes in canon. not sure if it's my own depression on some fuck shit or a genuine struggle, but i got stuck in the middle of the chapter. i really hope it has the emotional impact that i was going for. i was channeling my depression here since my annual seasonal big sad is coming up. brains are great (:

chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 4.2, 5.1, 5.2, AO3

[YEAR THREE]

[PART THREE]

No, I don’t know who you are. Should I?

It’s stupid. You’re stupid. No, that’s mean and unfair. You don’t deserve that. Satoru is the stupid one. Him and his traitorous heart that had fluttered like some blushing maiden when you completely dismissed his identity up until that point, ignored his immense strength that anyone with a shred of cursed energy could feel, and treated him like an actual human. Do you even know how much time he spent hunting down an exact replica of those cheap sunglasses you offered up to him during that first meeting? After Suguru broke them when he was punching Satoru in the face?

Yeah, Satoru is a moron. Because he’s happy that he hadn’t learned Reverse Cursed Technique yet and that Shoko had been away long enough that his nose would never sit totally right ever again after it was broken. Just like your sunglasses, his crooked nose is another reminder that two country bumpkins have rocked his shit so wholly that it’s kind of insane.

That night had been embarrassing and confusing. He hadn’t been able to stop pressing against the tender bridge of his nose, making pain shoot across his face. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was Suguru standing over him with sharp, furious eyes and bloody fists. All he could feel were the phantom touches of your soft yet unflinchingly steady fingers on his cheeks and chin. Never an ounce of hesitation from either of you when it came to Satoru. He’d rocked against his mattress, coming way too many times for him to ever admit. The second time that he’d touched himself to the thoughts of you two.

People have always been terrified of Gojo Satoru and his unfathomable strength. Little do they know that he’s no longer the strongest sorcerer in the world. He hasn’t been since the morning after his seventeenth birthday when he woke up in the early dawn, your head weighing down his chest, Suguru’s breath warm against the skin of his neck, and Satoru thought, I love you. Because he worships the ground that you and Suguru stand on. If either of you came to him and asked him to burn the world down, he’d do it. The only thing that held him back from blowing up a room full of batshit crazy cult followers is because Suguru told him there’d be no meaning in it.

But Satoru is still the same boy god as he’s always been. Thinking that his strength alone will be enough to protect himself and everyone else from problems. Pretending that plastering a smile on his face and never taking anything seriously will be enough to infect everyone else. Forgetting that his childhood of being raised as a weapon has dulled his sense of what’s horrifying and what’s not.

Naively thinking that his world hasn’t been on the edge of collapse for a long time.

No. That’s not totally true, either. Because he’s noticed. He sees everything, right? He’s been with Suguru on his trips to buy cigarette packs, becoming increasingly frequent. Satoru’s wondered, more than once, if Suguru is smoking more than eating these days. The bags under Suguru’s eyes and yours are getting darker. The windows and doors of your rooms have been locked more than ever before, a silent warning that you’re not up for spending the night with anyone. Both your tempers are shorter, especially with each other. He doesn’t think you’ve ever shrugged off the touch of others as much as you are now.

In the back of his mind, Satoru has known for a long time that you and Suguru are not okay, but he looked away. That’s his biggest sin. Because he’s been afraid that if he accepts that, he’ll have to accept that it’s because you and Suguru are not cut out for the lives of sorcerers, and that would mean you’d have to walk away from this world.

You’d both have to walk away from him.

This has been his blue spring. That’s what the adults call it, isn’t it? At some point, his spring turned to autumn without his realizing it. Now, he faces the daunting reality of his love turning into a brutal, deadly winter.

“…huh?”

It’s the middle of the night and Satoru has literally just walked into his dorm room when Suguru calls.

He doesn’t understand, at first. It’s hard to when the connection is in and out. There’s so much static. And between all that, Suguru isn’t making any fucking sense. He’s incoherently babbling. And Satoru prays that he’s wrong, but it sounds like Suguru is crying. Satoru thinks that he hears your name in there somewhere, making his stomach twist. There aren’t many reasons why Suguru would be this upset, but Satoru is trying to make Suguru calm down enough to explain.

“…hurt…so much…blood…blood everywhere…sorry, so sorry…”

“Please…need you…Shoko…get here…”

“…Squid…dying…”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Satoru remembers the prefecture that Suguru mentioned he was going with you to. Sensei would have more specific information on the village in his office, right? A primal panic, one that he’s not felt since last year, fuels him to flicker across campus. If he can get near the village, he’ll be able to sense someone’s cursed energy. He tears Sensei’s office apart, trying to find where he keeps mission details.

As soon as he’s got the location, he’s honing on Shoko’s energy, and then he’s there. Next to her bed. She’s still awake, hunched over some medical textbook. She yelps when he snatches her by the upper arm. He’ll apologize later for the rough treatment, but all he can think is Sketch is dying, Sketch is dying, Sketch is fucking dying.

“Run Reverse Cursed Technique,” Satoru demands as he physically prepares himself for this trip.

“What? Why? Where did you even come from? Why are you in my room—”

“I haven’t teleported with anyone.” He’ll also apologize later for making her his first guinea pig. If it’s going to be someone, though, it’s good that it’s the person who can heal herself. “I haven’t even taken myself more than a prefecture away.” This is going to hurt.

Shoko’s voice pitches higher with panic. “What the fuck is going on, Gojo?!”

“Sketch is dying. Start healing yourself.”

Satoru doesn’t even give her the chance to start running it.

Those are Suguru’s residuals.

Wrong. That’s wrong.

Those are Suguru’s residuals.

For the first time in the course of the Gojo clan’s history, the Six Eyes are wrong.

Those are Suguru’s residuals.

They have to be wrong.

Or…Satoru is overthinking it.

There has to be another explanation for why, buried deep in the gash across your torso that’s almost a mirror image of Satoru’s own scar, Suguru’s residuals linger. Suguru is crying and drenched in your blood because he wasn’t able to help you in time. The cursed spirit that did that to you was absorbed by Suguru after the damage was done.

That’s not how that works.

“What happened?” Shoko asks in a tone that Satoru has never heard out of her before. He tries to find his voice, tell her to shut the fuck up, because he knows what she’s thinking. The way that she’s curled over Sketch’s body, body tense, cursed energy flaring with emotion gives her away. “Suguru!” Shoko shouts, trying to reach him through his tears. “Tell me what happened to her!”

“I’m sorry.” Suguru hunches over. Digs bloody fingers in the dirt. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Why are you sorry?”

Satoru knows the truth. He does. It’s the reason why it feels like the world is about to slip out from under his feet. He wants to shut Shoko up because he doesn’t want to hear the truth. When Suguru, through his tears, manages, “I didn’t mean to,” Satoru wants to cry with him. There’s no stopping it now.

“What didn’t you mean to do?”

Suguru’s next cry is gut-wrenching. Satoru is trembling, more terrified than he’d been staring down the sharp edge of Zen’in Toji’s blade. “I didn’t mean it, I swear. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. Please, believe me. I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

Shoko, the stone-faced judge, has no mercy for either of them. She demands the truth, no matter what hell it’ll bring. She says your name, knowing Suguru can’t deny you your justice. “Did you hurt her?”

Satoru, the unintentional jury, has to witness Suguru become his own executioner when he chokes out, “Yes.”

A crack splits Shoko’s indifferent mask. Twisting her body around, she stares at Satoru with wet and shining eyes. “Goddamn you, Gojo,” she curses before quickly turning back around toward you. She ducks her head, but he catches the stray tear roll down her cheek before her hair fully hides her face. “You didn’t even give me time to get my smokes.”

The more time that passes where Satoru is forced to stand there, unable to do a goddamn thing for you or anyone else here, the more that he has to wonder what the worth of his strength even is.

Because, right now, it’s nothing.

His eyes have never left you after Suguru’s confession. He doesn’t think that he can face the implications of that yet. It’s so slow, the rise and fall of your chest, but he can see how rapid your pulse is under the delicate skin of your throat. Even from his vantage point and in the low light, he knows your skin is clammy. And the gore. It’s not like he hasn’t ever seen the result of a cursed spirit attack. He thought he was desensitized to that. But…things are different when it’s like this.

Guess this is what people mean when they talk about things hitting close to home. Seeing you there, your skin all torn open, blood so red…it makes him sick. His stomach has never rolled quite like this, not even when he was blearily watching his own skin stitch itself back together after getting shredded apart himself. He’d been…detached before he was totally healed and then the overwhelming euphoria poured in.

There won’t be any of that for you, he realizes. If Satoru is on the end of the emotional spectrum where he struggles to pinpoint feelings—even in himself—then you’re on the other side where you get it all. Your heart is too big. Always bleeding. Sitting there on your fucking sleeve, getting stabbed at by everyone and everything. Is this what you feel like all the time? Satoru’s brain is struggling to comprehend it all.

Aah, this is what it feels like to be weak, he suddenly understands. And he remembers how he’d felt it when that spear pierced his Infinity, right before metal sunk into flesh and he had to focus on survival. There was nothing he could do then and there’s nothing he can do now. This sucks, he thinks with the corners of his eyes stinging. No wonder you’re always undermining yourself and saying you’re weak.

How can you think you’re strong when your heart is always bleeding?

Nails digging into the skin of his palms, blood trickling through his fingers, he tries to think about anything else. He doesn’t want to cry. He never wants to feel like this ever again. He never wants anyone to feel this way again, actually. If he could go another day without ever having to hear your gut-wrenching cries when you were in the morgue with Haibara’s body or hear Suguru tonight, then he’d trade his soul away. He’d give his strength away. He’d pluck his eyeballs out and throw them to the highest bidder.

How can he do that, though? Satoru could throw his Infinity around your bodies, but it won’t protect your hearts. The two of you would never let him whisk you away to Kyoto and hide you away from the world forever, as much as he desperately wants to do that right now. Part of the reason that Satoru and every-fucking-one else loves you idiots so much is because of how fucking kind you are.

For some reason, Satoru thinks about that day near the start of the term, under the cherry blossom tree. This just isn’t a sustainable system, you’d said. I wonder how many Special Grade sorcerers there have actually been, but they just couldn’t reach their full potential because old men sent them off to die.

If he can’t make your hearts stronger, then he has to make everyone else stronger.

Satoru knows what he needs to do now.

The settling of Shoko’s cursed energy has Satoru lifting his head. It’s taken a lot of strength out of her. The healthier you look, the worse Shoko does. “We need to get back to campus.” Her hands are trembling, and she drops back on her ass, trying to catch her breath before she’s forced to move. “She’s stable now and I can take care of those kids back at school. I need to eat before I do, get my calories up,” she adds. “You didn’t hurt me on the trip here. Do you think you will hurt us if we go as a group?”

Right. The kids. They were hidden in the bush when Satoru and Shoko got here, but seeing Shoko healing and Satoru’s inaction must’ve been enough to coax them back out. They’ve been beaten. Satoru wondered, briefly, if they were the catalyst for what set Suguru off.

One of them, the one with dark hair, whispers your name. “She’s gonna be okay now?”

“Yes,” Shoko answers softly. “And so will you when we get back to Tokyo.”

“You’re…you’re Miss Shoko…right?”

“That’s right. I guess she told you about us?” The girls nod. “You know our names. What are yours?”

“Mimiko,” the brunette answers.

The other, the blonde, steps beside her sister and takes her hand before introducing herself as, “Nanako.”

Shoko nods in acknowledgement, slowly rising to her feet. “Okay. Well, Satoru over there knows how to move between places,” she explains while pointing over at Satoru. “He’s going to take us back to the school we go to. For people like us.” The girls nod again, eyes alight with understanding. “Don’t be scared. You’re safe now.”

“We’re not,” Nanako mumbles. “She told us we didn’t have to be scared with Mister Suguru around.”

Suguru had calmed down, his sobs quieting to silent tears, but hearing the kid say that has him hunching back over and covering his face in shame.

Shoko watches him, lips pressing into a thin line. “Take those kids first, Gojo,” she orders lowly. A complete turnaround from her earlier decision for them all to go at once. “It’ll be less of a strain on your body and ours. Do it in batches.” It’s a bullshit excuse. Right now, he’s scared of her. Those healing hands of hers can so easily become weapons. He’s seen it before. And, sure, she normally wouldn’t be a threat to Suguru, but there’s no fight left in him. “Now.”

In the end, though, she’s still right. There was no strain on her on the trip here, but he sure as fuck felt it. While future trips tonight will be easier in the fact that he has the two landing points in his mind, adding more people would ramp up what reprieve that gives. It’s more cursed energy, more brain power, more finely tuned control to keep the other bodies all in one piece.

What other choice does he have?

Satoru leaves the kids in his room. It’s comfortable, you’ve told him as much. He marches to Nanami’s room, but he’s already opening the door of his room when Satoru gets there. Apparently, the sudden absence then reappearance of Satoru’s massive amount of cursed energy woke Nanamin up. Satoru is in a rush, so all he can do is demand Nanamin watch the girls while he goes to get you because you got hurt.

Then, between one blink and the next, he’s back with you, Suguru, and Shoko.

The only hint that something happened between Shoko and Suguru is a dark mark on Suguru’s cheek and his split lip. Also, she’s got a lit cigarette in hand—probably stolen from Suguru. Satoru has never given thought to smoking. He’s never really seen the appeal, but he thinks he does now. Especially when Shoko beckons him over and he knows that he’s going to have to carry you on the second trip back to campus.

Bile rises to the back of his throat when he carefully lifts you up in his arms. He’s never been squeamish until he’s had to touch your blood-soaked clothes before. It’s disgusting and now, it’s sinking into his clothes. Satoru hates that. He knows you hate it, too. Wet clothes. You hate being sticky even more. It’s why you’re always so careful when you eat desserts with him. He hopes you blacked out as soon as you were hurt. He doesn’t want to think about you having to lay there, pained by more than the gashes themselves.

“Gojo will be back, Geto,” Shoko explains as she grabs Satoru’s upper arm since he can’t hold on to her right now. “Don’t you dare try to run. If I found out you tried, I’ll do a lot worse than punching you in the face.” To Satoru, she says, “Drop us off at my room.”

When they land and Satoru has gently placed you on Shoko’s bed, he collapses next to it, needing to catch his breath and run his own Reverse Cursed Technique. Not only has he gone the furthest he’s ever warped, but he’s done more trips than ever before, too. There’s still one more round-trip that he’s got to make. There’s a strain on his muscles that he’s never felt before. There’s a blossoming pain behind one of his eyes.

Shoko starts rummaging around in her pantry for something to eat. “I have some protein bars. You should eat one, too.” She throws one over her shoulder when she finds the box and he catches it without looking and pockets it. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have the stomach for much right now. “Clean him up when you get back. Burn his clothes. We need to hide the evidence.”

Satoru bristles. “Stop treating him like a criminal.”

“Take off the rose-colored glasses and stop being naïve,” she snaps back. “You heard him.”

“Yeah, and he said he didn’t mean to. It was an accident—”

“Hurting her? Yeah, I believe that. It’s what led up to it that’s the problem.”

He stumbles to his feet, still glaring at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Geto just doesn’t lose control like that,” Shoko hisses before pointing at you. “She wouldn’t be hurt by one of his spirits unless he wanted it. He has to give them specific orders, you know that as well as I do. Maybe he didn’t intentionally have it attack him, but if he was pissed off enough, if he wasn’t careful enough with his order, then a spirit would consider her a threat.”

“Shut up.” Satoru wants to put his hands over his ears like a child. He’s in denial. She’s making sense, but he doesn’t want to admit that because it feels like acceptance. If what she’s saying is true, it doesn’t matter if he accidentally hurt you or not. If he was acting out of anger towards someone else, he’d be branded a curse user and there’s only one person strong enough to kill Suguru. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking about? The guy always riding on his moral high horse?”

“Stop pretending you’re both the same people after last year.” She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes. “Just leave me alone. I can’t deal with you right now. I’m saying that we don’t know, but you need to be a fucking adult and think about all the possibilities here. Also, you’re such a selfish asshole. Do you think I want to think about this? No. That’s why we’re hiding the evidence from Yaga.” She whispers your name. “If we had Suguru declared a curse user before she’s awake, it’d push her over the edge.”

Satoru feels less…panicky than before. He backs down. Glances at you while he asks Shoko, “What’s the story?”

“My residuals have covered up evidence of his on her,” she whispers. “Suguru got there too late. It’s why he keeps blaming himself. Any idiot at headquarters knows how close they are, so it won’t be hard to convince them that their relationship is what’s got him so hysterical.”

“Okay,” Satoru answers as quietly. “What—” his voice cracks. “What do we do if she wakes up blaming him?”

“That’s not something we can answer for each other, Gojo.”

“Explain yourself, Suguru.”

Just like Shoko said, Gojo Satoru is a selfish asshole. Somewhere between Shoko’s room and here, with Suguru, rage overcame Satoru. Because Suguru ruined everything. Instead of trusting Satoru or even you enough to talk about the things bothering him, Suguru let everything fester.

(But you didn’t, either, a nastier part of his brain reminds him.

Is there something wrong with Satoru?)

Suguru hasn’t moved. He’s still there, on his knees, staring blankly at your blood left behind in the grass. It’s like Satoru doesn’t even exist. It pisses him off more. What? Does Suguru think he can give up? He thinks he can sit around, crying over what he did to you, while everyone else has to clean up his mess? No way. Fuck that.

“Why?”

“Huh?!”

Suguru still hasn’t looked away from the place your body had been. “Why does it matter? I hurt a fellow sorcerer. That’s all you need to know, isn’t it?”

Satoru grits his teeth. “Why the hell are you being so vague now? Ten minutes ago, you were apologizing for hurting her!”

While saying your name hoarsely, Suguru reaches out to dig his fingers in the bloody grass. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t. But those…those goddamn monkeys…that’s who I wanted to hurt.” He squeezes his eyes shut, tears falling no matter how hard he tries to keep them from doing it. “I hate them, Satoru. All our suffering is because of them. They create curses. We exorcise them. Over and over until sorcerers die. First, it was Riko. Then, Haibara. When will it be you? When’s it going to be her on a metal slab?”

Under the weight of all this suffering, the anger quickly rushes out of Satoru. No, it’s still there, but he’s so stupid mad at himself for not seeing how bad things have gotten. He pretended that everyone else could separate themselves from their pain like Satoru has always done. He loves you. He loves Suguru. Why couldn’t he just see how much you two have been hurting?

Satoru doesn’t know what to do with all this sadness. He sprints forward, dropping and sliding in on his knees right in front of Suguru. He throws his arms around Suguru’s shoulders and Suguru seems to almost resist. He clenches his fists around the fabric of Satoru’s shirt. Then, he ducks his head down, pressing his head against Satoru’s sternum, trembling and giving another one of those sobs that’s just a gut punch.

“I wanted them dead. It was all I could think. I want them all dead. I want us to have a better world. I would start here. But I made the order too vague when I summoned them. I wanted to kill all the monkeys in this goddamned village and anyone that tried to stop me. She wasn’t even in the way. She said my name. She said, ‘Suguru, stop,’ and that was enough. They knew her because I know her, but I was so blinded by my rage. It was like nothing else existed but that.”

“It was an accident.” Satoru cups Suguru’s face with his hands, trying to get Suguru to look at him, but Suguru won’t budge. “It was an accident, Suguru. It’s okay. Look at me. Just look at me. It’s gonna be okay. We’re already figuring out how we can cover it up.”

Suguru just cries harder. “I can’t live like this, Satoru. Exorcise. Absorb. Exorcise. Absorb. Swallowing their shit. I want a better world, but I can’t do that, either. Because the people at the end of that road, standing in my way…it’s gonna be you and her.” He gives one sharp, hysterical laugh. “The people that I’d be doing it for, the only two fucking people that I love enough to make the world better for are the people that I’d need to hurt to get that utopia. How fucked up is that?”

“We’ll fix it,” Satoru whispers desperately. “It’s okay. We’ll figure out a way to fix it. The three of us, we can make this world better together.”

“Kill me, Satoru. Put me down. I’m begging you. I can’t live in this cycle anymore.”

“Stop! Stop it. Don’t you fucking ask me to do that.” Suguru finally loses the strength to fight Satoru’s hands. When Satoru lifts his face up, he goes. “Just listen to me. We’ll come up with a plan. We can make this world better together the right way. But you can’t give up on us. Me and Sketch, we can’t lose you. We can’t.”

“You don’t need me.” Satoru’s heart skitters in his chest when Suguru reaches out himself, hand on Satoru’s cheek. “I’m not good for either of you anymore. I can’t go back to being the person I was before.” Satoru shakes his head. He refuses to accept that. Suguru is the one holding Satoru’s face in his hands now, trying to make Satoru see his light. “You’re the best for her. I know you love her as much as I do. Take care of her. You can forget me and live a happy life together.”

“I can’t. I’d never be able to forget you. The only future I can see is one with Sketch and Suguru.”

“I don’t have a future anymore. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t accept that and neither will she.”

Suguru laughs bitterly, pulling away from Satoru completely. “Even now, after everything that’s happened, you’re still so damn arrogant, Satoru. What are you going to do if she wakes up condemning me? What will you do, then? Is the strongest sorcerer going to impose his will on her, too?”

“No! I’d never do that!”

“So, if she asked you to, will you kill me?”

“She wouldn’t!”

“I betrayed her,” Suguru whispers. “Weren’t you listening to those girls? I heard her say it myself. You never have to be afraid when Suguru’s around. Suguru is going to protect us all. She’s always trusted me. She wanted to leave all this pain behind, and I asked her to stay. I’ve been actively drowning her, but she couldn’t see it.” There’s a defeated slump in Suguru’s shoulders. “And neither can you, Satoru.”

Satoru doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been good with words. Not like you. But he does know that when you wake up, you’ll understand what Satoru does. You’ll say something along the same line as Satoru when he tells Suguru, “You’re hurting.”

“My pain doesn’t matter. I did what I did, and I need to be punished for it. I still believe in that. Justice.” Suguru stares Satoru dead in the eye before declaring, “I’m going to confess.” His features soften. “I know you’ve got a gentle heart, Satoru. You don’t need to worry. I’ll stick my neck out willingly so that you’ll never have to choose between me and her.”

When Suguru leans forward to press a chaste kiss against Satoru’s forehead, right over that tiny scar left behind last year, Satoru realizes that, yeah, maybe he is a little gentle. Because that gesture alone is enough to break him.

Satoru didn’t know what else to do with himself after everyone kicked him out—Shoko, so she could wipe away the blood and re-dress you, and Sensei, who needed to talk with Suguru about the details of what happened. He showered, desperate to be clean, but it’s like your blood left a stain on him even when he’d rubbed his skin raw. He put on one of Suguru’s hoodies because he’s broader than Satoru and the sleeves will cover his hands. He can’t look at them right now.

The sun is rising when Sensei tracks him down where he’s sprawled out on a staircase. He’s got a lit cigarette in one hand. Sensei has always been pretty good on keeping his habit on the low, wanting to be an excellent role model for his students, but even he has his limits, Satoru guesses.

“Suguru asked to be put in one of the cells.”

Figures, Satoru thinks bitterly.

“Should I?”

“You’re actually asking me that?” Satoru mumbles, no energy left to put any heat behind it.

Sensei sighs, as mentally exhausted as Satoru is. “My bad.”

Satoru straightens from where he’s been hunched over. After everything tonight—last night…something opened up in him. He’s got to stretch himself beyond the little world he’s cultivated. It shouldn’t have come to this, but he’s got a really shitty personality. He’ll always have one, probably. But he’s willing to learn now. It can’t be about him anymore.

“Sensei, I’m strong, right?”

“Yeah, brazenly so.”

“But apparently, it’s not good enough for just me to be strong.” Sensei’s a good dude. He listens. Doesn’t tell Satoru that he’s a dipshit for not realizing this sooner. Satoru throws Sensei a bone and says it for him. “Sorry, old man, for being a dumbass and not listening sooner.”

Sensei takes a drag of his smoke. “Don’t apologize to me for being a teenager. If anyone’s at fault, it’s us. The adults. The weight of the world shouldn’t be on your shoulders.”

“Not only on mine, though, is it?”

“No,” Sensei admits quietly. “Adults are forgetful. Not only do our days pile up, but so do our regrets and fears. With all that, it’s hard to remember that there was a time when we weren’t used to the weight of others’ lives on our shoulders. It’s just another one of those burdens that we carry.” He finally stoops down to sit next to Satoru. “At the end of the day, you’re all children. And to a child, it really is like having the world on your shoulders.”

“I know my shoulders can handle it, but…that’s only those of us that are born into it. Most of the school’s enrollment comes from scouting, doesn’t it?” It’s not only your face and Suguru’s that flash across his mind. It’s Nanami, too. Haibara. “We’re not giving anyone else the time to strengthen their shoulders, y’know? There’s not much fostering going on here. And that’s not a diss on you. No offense or anything, but you just don’t have the strength to keep us all safe enough to get that thick skin.”

Sensei exhales a cloud of smoke. “I know I don’t.”

“It’s not like we can add more teachers, though. Not enough out in the field to spare. But…hey, you ever read Fullmetal Alchemist? Nah, probably not. What about an ouroboros? Heard of that? It’s like this snake that eats its own tail. That’s us right now. Kids enlist and get thrown to the wolves before they can fend for themselves. Most of them die, so there’s few to go out in the world. Even fewer to stick around and teach. And that cycle goes on and on.”

“I agree.”

“We gotta break it.”

“I know we do, but how?” Satoru turns to stare at Sensei who is, in turn, studying Satoru in the same way. There’s this familiar spark in his eyes. Satoru thinks he’s seen it before. “You said it yourself. There’s not enough of us.” Oh. Wait. Yeah, Sensei is asking these pointed questions because he knows the answer already. He’s waiting on Satoru to figure it out himself. “How do we change things?”

Satoru knows what he needs to do. Last night, he knew that he needed to change things. But he understands how he’s going to do that now. “Make someone like me a teacher.”

A large hand suddenly drops on top of his head. “You’re going to be terrible at it,” Sensei whispers. He’s no longer looking over at Satoru, but he ruffles Satoru’s hair. “I look forward to working with you in the future, Satoru.”

***

Shoko crashes when everyone’s healed. Took those kids with her to bed.

Suguru…he’s holed up in his room when Sensei refused to put him in a cell, no matter how bad Suguru wanted it. The old man said that until you, the victim, corroborate Suguru’s story, there’ll be no imprisonment. Satoru asked Nanami to keep an eye on Suguru. Not that Satoru thinks he’s going anywhere. It’s like the fight left Suguru as soon as Sensei denied his request.

Nothing else for Satoru to do but keep vigil at your side. He’s seated on the floor next to your bed, cheek pressed against the mattress. He doesn’t do anything else. He doesn’t think he could focus on a game or manga or anime right now. Shoko’s always told him that Reverse Cursed Technique can do a lot, but it can’t wipe away the emotional weight of an experience. He can refresh his brain all he wants, but not his memories.

Before she went to bed herself, Shoko warned Satoru that this could break you in a way that you can never come back from. If they thought it was bad after Haibara’s death, this’ll be worse. Because it’s piled on for you. The incident with the Zen’in, the death that you blame yourself for, and even if Suguru didn’t hurt you, this is the closest you’ve come to death.

You can’t do what Satoru does—disassociate from the trauma. There’s no Infinity for you to keep people at bay when they start to close in on him the way all those fly heads had. If you’re scared the things that haunt your dreams, you’ll have to face it because you can’t wipe away the need to sleep with a technique. For the last two weeks, he’s watched you try to train yourself to smile, to try and distract yourself away from the thought constantly pressing in, but you’re not built for that like he is.

With every passing second, it gets harder and harder for Satoru to resist the urge to grab you and Suguru and flee to Kyoto. All he wants to do is protect you both. More than anything, he wants you to be happy. Neither of you have to be sorcerers anymore, he’d make sure of it. It doesn’t wear him down like it does you and Suguru. Or…maybe it does, but you two make it better.

It doesn’t take much for Satoru to be happy. For him, it’s as simple as the scratching of your pencil against paper. It’s the slide of Suguru’s fingers against the pages of his books before he flips them. It’s a gentle breeze that floats through your room when you open the window to get better lighting, carrying away the smoke of Suguru’s cigarettes. It’s the sunlight on his face and the press of your shoulders against his as you all lay on a blanket in the park.

Satoru doesn’t want to be lonely anymore.

As if between one blink and the next, the press of a hand on his cheek is pulling him from his doze. His vision is blurred when he opens his eyes, and your thumb is wiping away one of his stray tears.

You’ve rolled on your side to face him. There’s nothing on your face. Nothing in your eyes. It’s like your body is moving on autopilot. And none of that changes when he reaches up to return your gesture except that the breath in your chest shudders before tears roll down your own cheeks.

Satoru sees it for what it is. A war inside yourself—one side desperately trying to flee from the memories and emotions that come with them. Your body betrays you, though. Tear after tear slips from your eyes and soon, your bottom lip wobbles. You squeeze your eyes shut. Wordlessly, your hand moves down, fisting the fabric of his shirt, and you start tugging while shifting back on the bed to make more room.

“In the bed?” Satoru checks quietly.

You nod fervently in answer.

Satoru crawls up into bed with you. Your hands are greedier than they’ve ever been. He tries to be careful to not overwhelm you with touch, but you yank his arm to drape it over your waist so you can press yourself fully against him. You tremble in his arms, on the edge of collapse.

Right before you bite his shirt to muffle your gasps, you confirm what he’s known all along.

“Suguru hurt me.”

***

“Come again?”

You don’t repeat yourself, instead staring at Sensei with those lifeless eyes.

Sensei stares you down, waiting for words that aren’t going to come. He glances over at Shoko and, when she looks away, he then moves to Satoru. All Satoru can do is shrug helplessly. It’s not like either of them can make you talk. Satoru wouldn’t want to, anyway. He’s shocked you’re talking at all. This is the most you’ve spoken since you woke up two days ago. You haven’t had the energy for it…

Or anything else, for that matter. It’s been keeping Satoru up at night, stealing what little sleep he was getting before. It’s worse than it was after Haibara. You’d been a shell of yourself, but…you ate. A little. Once a day. Now…it’s like you’re a ghost. Shoko had threatened to pour some toxic sludge posing as a protein shake down your throat. She’d been so frustrated with you that she grabbed your chin, and you just gave her the same look as now. Not defiant. Not upset. Just…nothingness.

There’s not supposed to be smoking in the dorms, but Sensei lights one, anyway. “Explain what happened, then.”

“I wasn’t ready.” Your voice cracks from disuse. “The Grade 1 hurt me.”

“Suguru said it was under his control.”

“Not before it hurt me.”

Sensei presses a hand against his forehead, sighing. “Why would Suguru confess to something so serious?”

“Because it’s who he is. He’s upset he didn’t get there fast enough.”

For a long time, Sensei stares at you. “I need you to understand that our laws aren’t like normal ones. There’s no decision on whether or not to press charges against someone for a crime against you. If he hurt you, jujutsu law requires you to report that. If the official investigation results find that you lied to cover for him, you’d be charged as an accomplice and sentenced to death alongside him,” he explains carefully.

“I understand.”

“Good. So, knowing that, do you want to change your answer?”

“No,” you reply with no hesitation whatsoever. “Suguru didn’t hurt me.”

“There’s most likely going to be an official investigation.” Sensei is trying to get you to change your mind because he thinks it’s going to save your life. He knows you’re lying. Everyone that knows you and knows Suguru knows you’re lying. Suguru would never confess to something like this unless he actually did it. “I won’t be allowed to interfere.”

“Suguru didn’t hurt me,” you declare with an air of finality.

***

It’s a few days after you told Sensei your side of the story. Privately, Sensei confirms to Satoru what they all knew would happen. There’s going to be an official investigation. There’s no way they’d let something like this slide. The higher-ups are terrified of Suguru. Maybe more than Satoru. Satoru is a familiar threat. He’s a one-man army. But Suguru…as long as he’s alive, there’s no limit to how many strong his army can be. So, if there’s a chance that he’s gone off the rails, they’ll put him down. And you’ll just be collateral damage. You were always replaceable. A pet project. Nothing more.

“For the time being, you’re off assignments,” Sensei says to Satoru when he’s on his way out the door. Satoru glances over his shoulder at Sensei. He’s looking away. “You’re to keep your eyes on Suguru until the investigation is over.”

Satoru scoffs bitterly before leaving Sensei’s office without another word.

Shockingly, you’re not in your room when Satoru goes looking for you. You’re at the edge of the forest that they use for the Goodwill Event. Just sitting down in the grass, legs crossed, staring intently at some low-level cursed spirits who’d been lured to the tree line by your presence. He plops down next to you, ready to do the same thing he’s done since you woke up which is to be a steady presence.

“What do you see when I use my technique?”

Satoru is so startled by the sound of your voice that it makes him jump in place a little. His head snaps in your direction, but you never look away from the forest. “Uh…what?”

“Last year, when I influenced that old man…you said it was like there were two of me. It was like it was something you’d never seen me do before. But how was that different than what I do with a cursed spirit?”

It’s a weird thing for you to ask, but he’s desperate to hear more of your voice, so he tries to explain it. “Oh. It’s…normally, it’s kinda like…eh, a blanket? Yeah. When you pacify spirits, it’s like a blanket getting put over them. More than Suguru’s contract that looks like chains on them. With that geezer…” He hums. It was close to the blanket, is the thing. “It was like an infection, I guess. It was like there was this shot of your energy through his brain and it seeped through everything else. Does that make any sense?”

Your brows are knitted together in thought. “Yes,” you whisper after digesting all that. “Why is it different, though? What is my pacification but just another way to order a spirit around?”

“Maybe because the pathways are all different?” He crosses his arms over his chest, thinking about this harder now. “Spirits are just huge lumps of cursed energy. Cursed energy in sorcerers has a whole network to go through. Yeah, if you think about the shape of it, that might actually be why. Blanket for the lumps, an infection of sorts for sorcerers.”

You nod slowly. “Why do you think I didn’t have a brain bleed when I influenced Zen’in Ogi?”

“It could be a few different reasons, but the main one is probably time. The point behind this school is to hone your technique, y’know. They don’t really have a Sorcerer Biology 101 class, but our power grows as we do. You kind of peak after your body is done growing. Everyone, though, has this explosive burst of power when they hit puberty that lasts through the rest of your body’s development.”

“I’m still in sorcerer puberty?”

Satoru laughs a little. “Yeah, I guess that’s the best way to put it. It’s like your body is in the home stretch. C’mon, Sketch, I know you’re not dumb. You’ve noticed that your technique has developed over time, right? Why’re you asking such an obvious question?”

“But you said there were other reasons,” you remind him.

“It’s not obvious? C’mon, think about the basics here. How emotional were you? You were the angriest I’d ever seen you when you broke that geezer’s hip. How were you with Zen’in? Also, Zen’in Ogi loves to act like he’s hot shit, but he’s nowhere near as strong as he thinks he is. That guy never would’ve cut it as the head of the Zen’in. That higher-up is the stronger of the two.”

“But…you’re stronger than all the higher-ups combined, right?”

“Duh.”

“Do you think the action itself can cause more strain on me?”

“Huh?”

“Does it expend more energy for me to force an action than force a thought?”

“Oh. Probably, yeah. The Inumaki clan are like that. The more damage they cause to their opponent with their cursed speech, the bigger the blowback on the sorcerer themselves. It’s all about balance in sorcery.”

“Right.” You sigh softly. “I wish I had as much cursed energy as you.”

He rubs his ear absentmindedly. “You’re already halfway there. Once you pierce that barrier inside them, it’s really just a waiting game from there. You just need to finish letting your cursed energy flow through them.”

“Easier said than done. That’s probably where most of my energy is burnt up. If only there was a way to infect them faster…”

“Too bad you’re not like a snake or a spider and can just inject yourself in their veins, huh?” You don’t respond to that. You duck your head, staring down at your hands in your lap. Satoru doesn’t want you getting lost inside your head, so he tries to redirect the conversation. “How’d you like my explanations? Good? I’m gonna be a teacher, so I have to start working on that kinda stuff, right?”

You raise your head, turning to him with raised brows. “A teacher?”

“I’m gonna change things,” he swears. “Last year, when you said this system isn’t working, you were right. But there’s never been anyone strong enough to shake things up, not until me. What if that’s because of what you said? They were never allowed to grow before they died. The future needs someone strong enough to protect them, to let them grow. I’m gonna be that person.” He nods to himself. “I’m never letting anything like this happen ever again.”

For the first time in a really long time, you smile. It’s that small, genuine one that does what it’s always done—make his heart skip a beat. “You won’t be alone.” The back of his neck is getting warm. Why didn’t he bring his stupid sunglasses so he can obviously look away from you? Why can’t he stop blushing, damn it? “Let me be your spy on the inside. They’ll probably ask me to work at headquarters. I want to help you, too.”

As much as you hate dealing with people, that’d be the best course of action for you. It keeps you in this world, but you’re out of the line of fire. And…he doesn’t think you could cut it as a teacher. Kids are still going to die. Not as many as now, he hopes, but he knows the higher-ups won’t be happy with him. They’ll work to keep things the way they are. He can try his hardest, but he can’t be everywhere at once. You’d get too attached to the students. It’d break you.

“I’m going to make things right, Satoru,” you insist.

“You make it sound like it’s your fault.” Satoru leans sideways, his head butting against the top of yours. “Besides, the one in charge of fixing everything is me, isn’t it? It’s alright, Sketch. You don’t have to worry about things right now. I’m gonna figure something out. I promise that nothing else happens to either of you anymore, okay?”

***

The evening before the unofficial trial, when the sun is setting, you ask Satoru and Suguru to meet up with you. It’s at your favorite koi pond. The one where him, you, and Suguru named each fish. There’s a stone bench that you’re already seated at, posture straight and stiff, facing away from the pond. There’s a determination in your eyes that he’s been watching grow from an ember to an inferno over the past week. With that fire, though, is an edge.

“I know I don’t have any right, but…I’m glad you reached out,” Suguru admits softly. “I wanted to see you,” he adds again, even quieter than before. “Just one more time.”

There’s a bitter twist to your mouth. Before you rise to your feet, Satoru watches with a sinking stomach as that iciness forms in your gaze. Suguru flinches backward. Satoru resists the urge to do the same. No matter how mad you’ve been at them, you’ve always forgiven them. Were you finally pushed too far? Is what Suguru did unforgiveable to you?

“We both go, or we both stay. You remember when you said that, right?”

Suguru ducks his head. His shame never lets him keep it high anymore. “I do.”

“You’re as selfish now as you were then.” It’s not said as an accusation, no anger behind it, but it’s got Suguru hunching in on himself, anyway. “I keep finding myself here. Having to decide your future. If there’s anything I resent you for, it’s that. It’s worse now because it truly is life and death.”

“I’m sorry. I know it means nothing, but I am.”

“What about you, Suguru? Is there anything you resent me for?”

Satoru knows the answer even before Suguru confirms it with, “No. Nothing.”

“You will,” you whisper cryptically. “Do you remember the rest of that day? What happened when we made up? I told you what scared me most about coming to Tokyo. I don’t want you to leave me behind when we get there. Remember that?”

“I’m breaking that promise, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Your words sharpen. “You keep saying that, but you begged me the other night to change my mind. You keep doing that. Wasn’t it enough hearing the first time that I didn’t blame you? Do you care that little about me? I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

Suguru sighs your name. “I need to be punished.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one to decide that?”

“You don’t want to punish me. That’s the problem.”

“Who says I don’t?”

The tension in Suguru’s shoulders loosens and there’s relief on his face for a moment before he straightens to his full height. He’s serious about receiving your punishment. He’s happy, too. Satoru feels stuck between you two. This…it’s your right, but…but he’s scared to lose you both.

“What is it? I’ll do anything.”

“Live.”

Suguru’s brows furrow. “What?”

“I’m making you do the thing that you clearly don’t want to do. I’m forcing you to live. You’re going to live with what you’ve done and you’re going to learn to live with non-sorcerers. I won’t make you stay a sorcerer, but I’m not letting you die. I’m not living in a world without you in it.”

He barks out a sharp, harsh laugh. “You can’t guarantee that, Squid.”

“I already have.” You raise a hand. Satoru had noticed a bandage wrapped around your palm last night, but you’d brushed him off like it was no big deal. That bandage is gone, showing a jagged gash. “I’ve already influenced them.”

Satoru’s stomach drops. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should’ve asked more questions when you came back so exhausted from headquarters after they called you in to give your official statement. You’d told him that you wanted to study some cursed spirits, clear your head doing something you like. “What did you do?”

“It was easier than I thought it would be,” you start slowly. “All it took was a cup of tea. They trusted me too much. They trust us all too much, honestly. They left the kettle unattended. They didn’t look at the water before they let their tea steep. None of them noticed my blood in the water.”

“Blood?” Suguru repeats incredulously. “What?”

“I needed a quicker way to get my cursed energy flowing through them. I’d already tested it on the pencil pusher that drove me to headquarters. Coffee hides the taste better. It was harder with him than it was the higher-ups. Orders require more energy. It was just suggestions with the higher-ups. It took, though. They agreed.”

“Agreed to what?” Suguru asks hoarsely.

“You and I are going to make a binding vow. If a non-sorcerer should ever die by your hand, I die with them.” That look of horror on Suguru’s face is mirrored on Satoru’s own, he knows. “Even if they eventually realize that I influenced them, I doubt they’ll do anything. It’s a perfect deal. I’m a hostage. Neither of you would risk my life.” You pause. “That’s if you agree to the deal, of course.”

“I won’t,” Suguru spits.

“You will. Because if you don’t, I’ll tell them what I did. I’m an accomplice now. Binding vow or not, if you die then I die. You forced my hand.”

Suguru’s hands slowly ball up into fists. They’re clenched so hard that he shakes. You’ve trapped him. You’ve saved his life and he’s furious about it. This was the best possible outcome and Suguru has never looked so betrayed. “I will never wear a heartfelt smile in this world.”

“And I can never live in a world without you in it,” you state just as bluntly.

Tears well up in Suguru’s eyes. “For as long as we both live, I won’t forgive you.”

“I know. I’m doing what you wanted me to. I’m deciding what to do with your life. But I understand. I’ve accepted the risk. I’d rather you resent me for the rest of our lives than watch you die.”

“You’re cruel.”

“No crueler than you.”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #anime #jjk fic #satosugu x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #jjk gojo #jjk geto #gojo satoru #geto suguru #my fic #jjk angst

48 notes · View notes