#the mood whiplash is just a thing with me

[nephynes]

You thought things would calm down after the confessions, the crying, the sex. After fists were thrown and secrets dragged out into the open. But Jake is still mean, Sunghoon is still quiet, and now you're still stuck somewhere in the middle—aching for something that feels like love but tastes like possession.

• minors do not interact

• pairing: sunghoon x afab reader x jake

• part one here

• wc: 45k (yikes)

• content tags: SMUT, polyamory, angst, found family vibes, messy relationship dynamics, emotional hurt/comfort, intense group drama, mention of cheating, heavy emotional themes, jealousy, slut shaming, verbal degradation, crying, physical altercation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, complex feelings, mentions of sexuality, power imbalance, reader calls the boys hoonie and yunnie sometimes, mentions of enhypen’s jay, jungwon and heeseung and lesserafim’s yunjin and chaewon. not proofread.

WARNINGS: emotional whiplash, heavy angst, themes of cheating, heartbreak, yelling, crying, drinking, graphic, talks of weight loss/gain, depictions of sex, slut-shaming (called out), toxic relationships, emotional manipulation, intense emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort, slow burn healing. please read with care 💕, also i need everyone to remember that this is FICTION!

• a/n: yes i know it took me forever to write this, yes it nearly emotionally destroyed me in the process and yes, i hope it emotionally destroys you too enjoy the chaos, again and the crying, and the filthy ass smut.

• story edit by @yujinoot

• nsfw warnings under the cut

threesome (mfm), established relationship, emotionally charged sex, oral (f and m receiving), praise kink, slight breeding kink, slight dacryphilia (crying during sex), anal, slight hair pulling, face sitting, spanking, themes of voyeurism, squirting, possession/claiming, lots of kissing and touching, switch!jake and dom!sunghoon, sub!reader, double the aftercare, shared bed, reader is doted on completely, lots of “mine” and “ours,” intense eye contact, and deep emotional intimacy wrapped in filth. let me know if i missed any.

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You weren't even supposed to come tonight. Again. You'd said as much when Sunghoon offered to pick you up, voice hushed over the phone, socked feet curled under you on the couch, saying, "I don't think I'm in a party mood." He didn't push. He never really does. He just said, "You'll be with us," like it was that simple. "It's someone's birthday, right?" you asked after a beat. "I don't even know the birthday boy."

"Jungwon won't mind." You blinked. "Who even is Jungwon?" And then, faintly, over the phone, not even on the call with you, Jake's voice rang out in the background like a war cry. "Ugh! Just come, Y/N!!"

So now you're here. Three drinks in and sunk into a velvet-cornered couch, nursing a half-empty cup while Jake makes eyes at you from across the room, he probably thinks you've been talking to Yunjin for too long now. You didn't even know she'd be here tonight. You're trying so desperately trying to listen to what she's saying, something about how things have changed with Heeseung, how he's not the same, how you’ve barely been at your apartment, but it's hard to when Jake's stare is making heat crawl up your spine. It's different now with you and him, with you and them. There's no official label, no posts or promises. Just this unspoken closeness, a quiet claiming that's bled into everything. It sits under your skin like warmth after a fever. You're still you, still the girl who people-watches from corners, still awkward when they touch you too long, but now, when Jake calls you pretty, you roll your eyes and tell him to shut up instead of looking away.

And he lives for it, he watches you the way you watch people, he notices you. Notices when you excuse yourself from Yunjin's presence and head to the kitchen. "You staring again, sweetheart?" Jake's voice cuts through the low music, dragging your attention away from the stranger in the corner who's been arguing with a girl in black boots for the past fifteen minutes. You blink up at him. He's leaning against the wall beside you now, eyes lazy, lips pink from whatever cocktail someone handed him earlier. His shirt is half-unbuttoned already.

"I wasn't staring," you mumble, even though you were. "I was observing." Jake laughs, that boyish little tilt of his head when he knows he's caught you in a lie. "Mm. Observing. Right." He reaches for your cup and takes a sip without asking, then makes a face. "What is that?"

"I don't know. Someone handed it to me and said it tasted like juice." Jake hums, leaning closer. "It tastes like trauma.” You hear Sunghoon snort as he approaches both of you and it makes your cheeks warm, not just from Jake's teasing, "I was watching that couple over there," you mutter, nodding toward the argument in the corner. Jake follows your gaze. "Oof. Been there." "You're so mean," you say, sipping from your cup just to have something to do with your hands. "I'm honest," he counters, brushing your hair out of your face. "You think he cheated?" Your eyes flick back to the couple. The girl's arms are crossed, the guy's face twisted in the kind of guilt you can't fake. "Definitely. He looks like he left his phone face-down one too many times." Jake hums in agreement, and then—"You know who else used to leave her phone face-down?" You glance at him, slow. "Who?" Jake's grin sharpens. "You." Your mouth parts, ready to protest, but he just winks, smug and playful, and says, "It's okay, baby. We already know you're the heartbreaker now."

"I am not—" you start, but you don't get to finish. Because Sunghoon, who's been silent the entire time, watching the exchange with a faint smirk, suddenly pulls you to his side and plants a kiss to the side of your head. You gasp, caught off guard, hand flying up to steady yourself against his chest. "You're letting him get cocky," Sunghoon murmurs near your ear. His voice is quiet and casual, but it melts down your spine. "He's gonna think you like him."

"I don't," you say, but it's breathless and Jake's grin widens like he knows better. "You so do," he says, brushing his fingers along the rim of your cup. "Admit it." Your face burns. Sunghoon chuckles beside you—a rare, genuine sound. "Let her breathe, Jaeyun. You're scaring her." "She likes when I scare her."

"I like when you shut up," you snap, heart thumping too fast—and both of them freeze. And then Jake's mouth drops open, affronted. "Oh, you've changed."

"I told you," Sunghoon murmurs, dragging his hand over the small of your back. It's new—all of it. The teasing, the way you don't fold under their attention anymore, not as easily. The way you lean into Sunghoon's chest like you belong there. Like you've finally accepted that, in some strange, broken way, you do. The music starts to shift to something bass-heavy and dark, pouring in from the open sliding doors that lead to the patio. You barely notice when Sunghoon moves. He's smooth like that, so quiet, so deliberate in the way he pulls you deeper into the house, away from the center of noise and heat. His palm stays at your lower back, anchoring you like a leash.

It's only when you blink and glance around that you realize the people around you have thinned. This side of the house is dimmer, quieter. A hallway leads off to what you assume is a guest bedroom, but you're tucked into a low couch that's slightly hidden by tall shelving and shadow. The music still thrums through the walls, but here, it's softer. Private. Sunghoon pulls you into his lap sideways—your legs draping across his thighs as he settles back, one arm slung across the back of the couch behind you, the other resting possessively on your outer thigh.

Jake flops down beside him, his knee bumping against yours, completely unfazed by the way you're curled into Sunghoon's body like a second skin. You feel dizzy, not from alcohol, but from the shift in atmosphere. From how real this feels. Jake's fingers trail lazily down your shin before they reach your ankle, his expression curious. "When'd you get these?" he asks, tone unreadable. You glance at him, confused. "You bought them." Jake's eyes lift. "I did?"

"Last week." He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he's somewhere between amused and disturbed. "Was I blacked out?"

"No," you say quietly, "you were just... distracted." Sunghoon exhales through his nose. You feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back. The silence that follows feels weighted. "I should introduce you to Jungwon," Sunghoon murmurs then, his voice almost lost in the thrum of the music spilling from the other end of the house. His hand slides higher up your thigh, not rushed, just steady. Intimate. Your fingers curl around his wrist. "Stop—people will see."

"So?"

"Yunjin might walk in."

Jake's jaw twitches. He leans forward, casually prying your hand off Sunghoon's like he's done it a hundred times. "Who gives a fuck about Yunjin," he mutters, eyes still on your foot, thumb brushing a slow line up your calf. "She always shows up uninvited anyway." The bitterness in his voice is quiet but undeniable. It slithers into your chest like smoke. "I don't want to meet Jungwon," you say, not even sure why. Jake shrugs. "He's harmless."

"He's also Jake's golden boy," Sunghoon adds. "Little too sweet. Makes me uncomfortable." You don't even have time to fully process what that means before Jake scoffs, fingers tightening a fraction where they're brushing your calf. "Says the one who fucked him," he mutters, not even looking up. You blink. "What?" The word slips out of you in a gasp before you can stop it. Your voice isn't loud, but it cuts straight through the air between all three of you. Sunghoon doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Just tilts his head slightly like the memory is irrelevant now. Jake finally meets your eyes. "Yeah. That's how it works with Hoon, baby. He breaks them in, and gets bored of them."

It's a joke. But not really. You glance at Sunghoon, expecting something—denial, annoyance, anything. But he just shrugs one shoulder, casual. "He was curious," he says simply, like he's talking about something as mundane as loaning someone a lighter. Jake snorts. "He was obsessed with you for weeks."

"And then he wasn't." Silence settles again. You sit there stunned, a little breathless, wrapped in Sunghoon's lap and Jake's stare, while this entire new side of their past unfurls around you. And now Jungwon is walking toward you, pretty and bright and completely unaware that you just found out both the man beneath you has slept with him. You don't know what shocks you more—the reveal, or how unbothered they are by it. "He's a literal angel," Jake says, annoyed. "And he's been asking about her." Before you can respond, someone steps into view. You glance up—startled by how young the boy looks. Pretty. Too clean. Too bright for the shadowed space you're in. Jake doesn't even look surprised. "Hi, birthday boy." Jungwon stops short when he sees you. And you see it. The shift. "Oh," he says, his voice soft with wonder. "Are you...Y/N?" The way he says your name, like he already knows it. Like he's said it before, makes you stiffen slightly.

Jake smiles, slow. "Told you she was real." Jungwon looks at you like you're unreal anyway. "I've... heard a lot about you," he says gently. Sunghoon hasn't said a word. But his hand is still on your thigh. His fingers tap twice—almost like a warning. You try to remember how to breathe. "Happy birthday," you say finally, voice small. Jungwon smiles. "This might be the best part of it." You don't know what to say to that. You don't look at Jake and you don't dare look at Sunghoon. It hits you all at once—how this thing between the three of you lives just under the surface. Like a current humming in the walls. Invisible, but undeniable. And Jungwon, for all his innocence, is standing at the edge of it. Jake lets out a small sound. Not quite a laugh. "C'mon, Wonnie. Don't be creepy." Jungwon scratches the back of his neck, flushed. "Sorry. Just... surprised."

You nod, almost imperceptibly. You feel like a surprise too. An anomaly in this world you're still not sure you belong in. But they keep pulling you deeper, neither of them ever ask if you're ready. You're starting to think they don't care. Jungwon fits in too easily, you think. He stays after the introductions, laughter light in his voice and gaze too warm when it lands on Jake. The way he leans closer when Jake talks, how he seems to know exactly how to make him laugh. Their rhythm is natural, almost flirtatious but familiar and you're not sure what that says about anything. It's not just the ease between them, it's the way Jungwon looks at you sometimes, asking questions like he genuinely wants to know the answers. You can't meet his eyes when he does, you kind of just stare just past his shoulder, nod a little too much, sip your drink like it'll save you. Sunghoon notices. His palm smooths up your side, and he leans in, his lips brushing your ear when he murmurs, "Why won't you look at him?" You hesitate, maybe you'll lie or tell the truth. But then you see it—just beyond Sunghoon's shoulder, in the dim-lit corner of the living room.

Yunjin. Arguing with Heeseung. They're too far for you to hear anything, but her hands are moving fast, her expression sharp with something that doesn't belong at a birthday party. Heeseung's jaw is tight, head ducked, like he's trying to keep things quiet. You shift, body twitching in instinct. Sunghoon's lap suddenly feels like too much. You move to rise, but his hand presses against your thigh, holding you there like a lock. "Don't," he says lowly. Your breath catches. "I just—" But it's too late, Yunjin's eyes snap in your direction. You feel it before you see it—the freeze, the flicker of disdain that crosses her face. She's still mid-sentence with Heeseung, but her attention splinters, zeroing in on you, not just you, but you nestled in Sunghoon's lap like it's second nature, while Jake absentmindedly rubs circles into the arch of your foot, his fingers tangled around the heel he just remembered buying you. She looks at you like she's witnessing something sordid. Her lip curls before she catches herself.

Jake follows your gaze, eyes flicking to Yunjin. "Tch," he breathes out, a wry smirk forming. "Oh no. She's short-circuiting." Sunghoon doesn't say anything. He just tugs you a little closer, turning your body inward, his hand resting between your legs like it belongs there. You feel exposed. Not just physically, emotionally, like someone's cracked the glass and now everyone can see the dirt beneath. "She's gonna say something," you whisper. "Let her," Jake says, not even looking away from the way his fingers trace the shape of your ankle. "She was never good at behaving herself anyway." You don't know what he means by that, but you don't get the chance to ask. Because Yunjin is already making her way toward you, and Sunghoon hasn't let go of your thigh. And suddenly you remember why you never liked parties in the first place. She walks up like a storm that forgot how to be subtle, heels sharp against the marble as her eyes fix on you with a kind of disbelief that makes your stomach churn.

"What's this?" Yunjin demands, voice cutting clean through the music and conversation like it was always meant to be heard. "I'm sorry, I'm just—confused." You blink at her, already shrinking in Sunghoon's lap, but he doesn't let you move. His hand on your thigh tightens just slightly. "I mean..." She gestures vaguely, like the sight of you is something foul. "Weren't they—harassing you? Not that long ago? And now you're perched on him like some little—"

She falters. Her jaw clenches and you brace. "...Whore."

It's not even yelled. It's worse—it's quiet, mean and even measured. You gasp, feeling you whole body go cold all over, your mouth parting in shock. She's never spoken to you like that. Not in all your life. Not even when you fought as kids and now you don't even know what to say.

Sunghoon does. "Be careful," he says flatly, but the threat is unmistakable beneath his calm. Yunjin's head snaps toward him, fury building in the curve of her brow. "What is this? Huh?" She scoffs bitterly. "Are you fucking my cousin?" She says it loud enough for the room to tilt. Jake, who'd been lazily toying with the buckle on your heel, leans back on one elbow and smirks. "Why do you care so much?" It hits a nerve. You see it happen—Yunjin's entire body stills for a half-second, her expression shifting just enough that something unsettles in your chest. Like there's a history here you don't know, a door you've never been allowed to open. She covers quickly. "Because Heeseung will kill you," she says, pointing toward Sunghoon. "You know he will. If he finds out." Sunghoon's gaze drifts, slow and unfazed, to where Heeseung still stands where she left him, hands in his pockets, eyes watching but unreadable. "Hm," he hums. "He doesn't really look like he cares." Jake snorts. "Yeah, we were thinking the same. Pretty sure there's something else he'd actually care about." He says it at the exact moment Heeseung begins walking over. You feel it happen in slow motion—the drop in Yunjin's shoulders, the way her breath stalls, the look she throws Jake like he just put a loaded gun on the table and dared someone to pull the trigger.

You glance around. Jungwon, who had been sitting nearby, freezes where he is. His eyes flick between everyone, between you, Jake, Sunghoon, Yunjin, then down to his drink like it might explain what the fuck he just walked into. He's the only other person, besides you, not folded into whatever war is quietly being waged in plain sight.

Yunjin's voice is thin now. "Don't."

Heeseung's steps are slow and Jake's still smirking, but Sunghoon has gone still beneath you, like a predator who sees the snare coming. And you? You can feel your pulse in your throat, making you feel like something is about to break. Heeseung walks up like he didn't just argue with Yunjin in the hallway moments ago, like he didn't nearly rip his watch strap off adjusting it too tightly, jaw still twitching beneath the calm. "Hey," he greets, nodding at the three of you. His voice is level, his tone careful—too casual for the way his eyes keep flicking between where you're curled in Sunghoon's lap and where Jake is still playing idly with the ankle strap of your heel. Sunghoon speaks before anyone else can. "Heeseung," he says, calm as a lake, one hand sliding leisurely up your hip. "I'm kind of with Y/N now. Is that okay?" And then, he thrusts his hips up, enough to jostle you in his lap, enough to make a surprised squeak escape your lips. The sheer shamelessness of it makes Jake bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the couch.

Heeseung blinks. Once. A breath passes. Then, slowly, his brows lift—not in outrage, not in disapproval, but with a vague kind of curiosity. "Uh... sure?" He shrugs, as if that was all it took. "Yeah. Congrats or whatever.” Yunjin's face crumbles. She whirls to face him. "Are you serious right now?" Jake tilts his head, all mock-innocence. "See, Yunjin?" he says. "He doesn't care. So why do you?" That's the final nail. You can see it hit her all at once—the humiliation, the realization that whatever reaction she thought she could provoke just isn't coming. Not from Heeseung or any of them.

She doesn't say a word. Just spins on her heel and storms off, shoving through the crowd like she can disappear if she moves fast enough. You jolt, instinct kicking in. "I should—"

"No," Sunghoon says simply, tightening his hold. "You're not chasing after someone who just called you a whore." You freeze. He says it so calmly, like it's fact, like it's beneath even arguing about. Jake lets out a low hum beside you, fingers now trailing soft circles along the arch of your foot. "Sunghoon's right," he murmurs. "She said what she said." You exhale shakily. But then—Heeseung shifts, shoves his hands in his pockets and gives Sunghoon a look. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Sunghoon doesn't even hesitate. He lifts you without a word and places you in Jake's lap like you weigh nothing, like it's second nature. Jake grins, catching you easily, one arm looping around your waist. Heeseung doesn't even look twice. Not at the transfer, at you or at the soft gasp you let out when Jake's hand settles over the front of your stomach like it belongs there. He just turns and walks off, Sunghoon falling into step beside him. The second they're gone, Jake presses a kiss behind your ear. You don't even realize you're still tense until he speaks—low, warm, curling through you. "You okay, baby?" You nod, even though your chest feels tight, nerves still rattled. Jake pinches your inner thigh lightly. "You didn't even notice Jungwon's gone, huh?"

You glance at him. "What?" You blink, gaze flicking around. It's true. You hadn't even noticed him leave. Jake grins, sharp and too pleased with himself. "You've been too busy dripping all over Sunghoon's jeans to notice anything." You start to protest, but then his voice drops, low and filthy against your ear. "I know you're soaked. I could see it every time he moved his hand. You were clenching your thighs so tight for what, baby? You think we're not gonna take care of that the second we get you home?" Your breath hitches as you feel his smirk against your cheek. "Yeah. That's what I thought." Your breath stutters, lips parting like maybe you'll deny it or maybe beg, but Jake doesn't give you the chance. His hand trails from your thigh up, up, and then he slips his fingers between your legs.

Right there in his lap, under the sheer fabric of your dress, his fingertips press against your panties, soaked through, warm and slick with want. You jolt, eyes widening. Jake just hums, like he's satisfied with himself. His fingers don't linger. He gives one slow stroke and pulls away, eyes dark as he raises his hand up to show you the dampness on his fingers. "You don't even know what you do to us," he says softly. "Look at this. Fuck." You flush so hard it burns, mouth open but no words coming out. Jake leans in, brushing his lips to the shell of your ear, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. "Think Sunghoon felt this too when you were grinding all over him like that?" He presses a kiss to your cheek. "You're lucky we're in public, baby."

Jake's fingers still glisten when he lifts them and you know what he's about to do before he even does it. You shake your head, weakly, breath caught somewhere between protest and anticipation. But he's already slipping his fingers into his mouth, eyes never leaving yours. His lips close around them with slow deliberation, tongue curling, sucking your taste off with a soft pop when he pulls them out again. He looks wrecked—pupils blown, lips parted, smiling like he's just won something. You're barely holding on, heart thudding in your throat, when a shadow falls over the two of you.

"Wanna head out?" Sunghoon's voice cuts in smoothly, low and direct, like he didn't just interrupt something that was about to spiral. "I've got something to handle with Heeseung, but I'll meet you at home." Jake answers before you can even breathe. "Yes," he says quickly, hand already sliding possessively over your knee. "We're going." But you hesitate, glancing up at Sunghoon, eyes searching his unreadable expression. Something about the way he said handle something makes your stomach twist. And maybe you don't realize it, but you're biting your lip, worried. Sunghoon notices. His features soften almost imperceptibly as he leans down just a bit, voice dipping into something only you'll catch.

"It's alright, baby," he murmurs. "Go with Jake. I'll meet you at home." He presses a kiss to your temple, warm, reassuring and final, he straightens, already walking off before you can argue. Jake's hand slides up your back and pulls you in closer.

"You worry too much," he mutters, almost smug again now that Sunghoon's gone. "C'mon. I already need you again." And just like that, the air shifts again. The front door clicks shut behind you and Jake doesn't waste a second. His hand wraps around your wrist firmly, leading you out of the house like you're on borrowed time. You cast one last glance over your shoulder. The house is still humming behind you. Music bleeding into the night air. Voices echoing off the brick. But Sunghoon's already gone, disappeared somewhere deeper inside with Heeseung, and the absence of him makes everything around you feel a little too loud. A little too chaotic.

Jake doesn't say a word until you're outside. He unlocks his blue Jeep Wrangler with one sharp click, opens the passenger side for you, and ushers you in with a look that borders on don't test me. You scramble in, clutching the hem of your dress when it rides up, only to feel Jake's hand on your thigh again the moment he slides into the driver's seat. He doesn't start the car right away. You feel his eyes on you first, burning, frustrated, reverent. Then his hand slides higher, then higher, until his knuckles brush just beneath your dress. "You're still wet," he mutters, more to himself than to you. You nod before you even realize it.

His head thumps back against the headrest and he groans. "Fuck, I can't—Hoon’s so fucking slow about everything. I don't know how he does it. You were in my lap for two seconds and I almost lost it." You try to tease him, "You always almost lose it." But he's not laughing. He leans in suddenly, hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss that's messy and rushed and a little too hot for the passenger seat of his car. You whimper into his mouth and Jake swears against your lips. "I was about to fuck you right there in front of him." Your breath catches. "He just sits there. Like composed. Like he didn't watch me taste you with his fingers in your mouth last week—like he doesn't know." He shakes his head, pulling back only slightly, thumb dragging along your bottom lip.

"I'm not like him, you know?" he says, quieter now. "I don't do that... waiting shit. I want you now." The engine roars to life under his hand. "Seatbelt," he adds, but it sounds more like a growl than a reminder. You barely manage to click it in before he's backing out of the driveway, one hand on the wheel, the other firmly gripping your thigh. Streetlights flicker across his face as he speeds down the empty road, and you catch the way his jaw clenches—tight, impatient. Jake is chaos, restless, always on the verge of something dangerous, Sunghoon is a storm you never see coming. And you’re stuck in the middle as the fuse between them.

Jake doesn't even bother locking the Jeep when you arrive. He's out and rounding the car before you've even reached for the handle, pulling your door open with one hand and tugging you toward the building with the other. There's urgency in everything he does—his pace, his touch, the way his fingers keep twitching against your wrist like he's resisting the urge to stop and press you up against the elevator wall. The second the door to their apartment swings open, it hits the wall with a thud. Jake doesn't care. He's already kissing you. Clumsy. Messy. His mouth finds yours the moment you're inside, and he moans into it like he's already losing control. It's not a soft sound. It's greedy, almost needy. You can feel how badly he wants it, how wrecked he already is just from kissing you. He's all hands—up your sides, over your hips, under your dress. You barely get a word in before your feet leave the ground.

"Jake—" you gasp, arms winding around his neck as he lifts you. "I got you," he breathes, kissing along your jaw now, stumbling toward the hallway. "Fuck—I got you, baby." The walk through the apartment is clumsy at best. Jake's grip on your waist is iron-tight, his mouth never straying far from your neck, pressing wet kisses under your ear, murmuring things that don't even make sense, just sounds of want, of need, of everything he's been holding in all night. His fingers fumble with the zipper of your dress, like he doesn't know whether to undress you here in the hallway or wait until the bedroom.

"Why are you so—fuck—soft everywhere?" he mutters against your throat, and it's half accusation, half worship. "You know I can't handle it." He kicks the bedroom door open, not even his own, you realize hazily, as your back hits the edge of Sunghoon's bed. Your breath catches in your throat, but Jake doesn't notice. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn't care.

His hands are already dragging your dress up your thighs. "You wore this for me, didn't you?" he breathes, like he needs to believe it. "Tell me you did."

Your lips part, but the words come out soft. "I did."

Jake stares at you in awe like you just handed him the heavens and the earth. "I fucking love you." You can't even respond before his mouth is back on yours, his hands sliding down the backs of your thighs, gripping tight. He groans as he lifts you and lays you back on the bed, one knee braced between yours, nudging your legs apart. He hovers above you, forehead to forehead, breathing heavy. His eyes are blown out with want, but he's not moving fast now, not anymore. Now, he's just looking at you. "Do you even know," he says, "how fucking pretty you are when you let me in like this?"

He runs a palm down your side, slow and firm, until his fingers skim the hem of your panties. He doesn't yank them off, not yet, just traces the edge, pressing the lightest touch where you ache most. You jerk under his touch. Jake moans at your reaction. "Shit. That's all it takes, huh?"

He dips his fingers under the fabric and slides them between your folds, slow, testing, and groans when he feels the wetness pooling there. "Oh my God." The groan that leaves him is obscene. "Sunghoon's gonna kill me," he mutters, half-laughing as he leans down and kisses your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone. "But I don't care. I can't wait anymore. Can't." He's talking more to himself now, barely coherent. Then he's falling back onto the bed, eyes glassy, lips red, his voice lower now, almost pleading. "Come here." He tugs you closer by your hips. "Sit on my face."

You blink. "What?" Jake lets out a breathless laugh, voice curling into a grin even as his eyes burn serious. "You heard me. Don't act shy now, not after the way you were whispering in Hoon's ear with his hand on your thigh like that." You feel your heart pound, legs unsteady. "Jake—"

"I wanna make you feel good," he says. "Need to. Don't you get it? I'll lose my mind if I don't taste you right now." He's so eager. So sincere in the worst way. You try to keep your balance as he pulls you up over him, backlit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Jake's hands never leave your body, dragging you gently forward until your knees are planted beside his head, thighs trembling with anticipation. He looks up at you like you're everything he's ever wanted. "Please," he whispers, eyes locking with yours. "Be good for me."

Your breath catches as you lower yourself slowly onto him, and Jake groans the moment your heat grazes his tongue, hands gripping your thighs like you're divine, like he's anchoring himself to reality through you alone. Jake looks up at you from below like he's been waiting for this, like nothing else truly matters. His fingers trail up the back of your thighs slowly, not rushing, not even speaking. Just waiting for you to settle into place. The warmth of his breath against your skin makes your stomach flutter, nerves tight and trembling. You lower yourself gradually, hesitant, but he doesn't pull—just holds you steady, his hands open and patient on your hips. The moment your pussy brushes his lips, he exhales like he's been holding his breath for minutes.

You're not sure when your hands found his hair, but they do, threading in soft, slow strokes through the strands as his mouth opens against you. At first, it's light, just the gentle press of his lips and the lazy flick of his tongue, almost like he's memorizing. His grip tightens, grounding you with just enough pressure to keep you still. "Ah!—Ja—"

He groans lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin, and it makes your entire body shudder. His hands flex at your hips, encouraging you to move, more, deeper, harder. "Yeah, that's it," he murmurs, breathless against you. "Just like that... come on." Your thighs tighten around his head as you grind down again, unable to help the shaky moan that slips from your lips. "Jake! Please!" He doesn't let up. If anything, he holds you tighter, more devoted in the way he pulls you closer, like he can't bear even an inch of distance between his mouth and the warm pulse of your body. Every breath is shaky, every movement desperate. Your legs tense. You can't help the way you shift forward, barely grinding down into his mouth, and he responds with a hum so soft you almost miss it. His arms wrap fully around your waist now, anchoring you closer. He starts to move you, slow and controlled, as if he's savoring the weight of you, the way you tremble. There's a quiet desperation in the way he works his mouth against you—never frantic, but focused. His eyes flutter shut, brow creasing in concentration. The kind of devotion he shows you in this moment feels dangerous. Like he's addicted, like nothing else could ever be enough.

Your breathing hitches as your hips move again, your choice this time, and his hands slide further, brushing up your back, fingers pressing lightly between your shoulder blades. The gesture is tender, grounding. He doesn't say anything else, but the look in his eyes when they open again is a plea. You grip tighter to his hair, tilting his head just so. You whisper something—his name, maybe, or just a broken sound—and his mouth chases the movement of your body like instinct. "Jakey! Uh uhn," you gasp, "I'm—I'm so close," you whisper, arching as the pressure builds. His palms smooth up your spine in a steady rhythm, anchoring you, calming and arousing all at once. And when you shake in his hold, trembling, he just tilts his face up, unbothered and patient, and takes every last ounce of you with a quiet, satisfied hum, not even flinching when you press down and shudder through it, clutching at.

You barely realize he hasn't taken a breath until he finally exhales, lips still brushing warm against your skin, his fingers still stroking softly at your waist like he's in no rush to let you go. "Jaeyun—" you breathe, already trembling from the comedown, but he doesn't stop. His hand stays right there, coaxing another slow rise from you, pulling your pleasure taut again. "I'm not done," he murmurs, voice rough and hungry. He kisses up your thigh as you lift off him slightly, still panting, still dazed. He's flushed, lips wet, eyes darker than you've ever seen them. "C'mere," he says, guiding you down to straddle his lap this time, pulling you into a deep, messy kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, feel the eager pull of his hands under your thighs as he ruts up slowly against you, still fully clothed.

That's when the door opens, making the air shift instantly. Jake doesn't stop kissing you, not at first. He moans into your mouth, lost in it, until he hears the soft click of the door closing again behind whoever walked in. And then a quiet voice breaks the haze, "So this is what I come home to?" You jolt, your head turning, lips still slick from Jake's mouth, and your eyes meet Sunghoon's. He's leaning against the wall like he's been standing there longer than you realized. His eyes are dark, unreadable, drifting slowly from your flushed face to the way Jake's hands are gripping your waist. You suddenly feel everything, the sticky mess between your thighs, the sharp press of Jake's belt buckle under you, the faint tremble in your knees.

Jake sighs against your shoulder, lazy and smug. "You said to take her home." Sunghoon hums, not in amusement or anger, but something in between, something sharp and quiet. "I didn't say ruin her in my bed." You feel Jake's fingers flex where they rest on your hips, but he doesn't argue. He just grins. "You're the one who said she looked pretty tonight," Jake says, his voice low. "You should've known better."

There's a pause. You can't look at either of them. Then, "Did she cum?" Sunghoon asks. The question makes your stomach tighten, shame blooming in your chest. But Jake only chuckles, tilting his head to look up at you, brushing his thumb over the curve of your cheek. "She did," he says softly. "But I think she could do it again, don't you?" Sunghoon pushes off the wall. The way he walks over is unhurried. The way he looks at you is careful, like he's deciding what to do with you now. His hand brushes your arm, fingers skating up the side of your neck until he tilts your chin toward him. Jake doesn't move, he just watches, eyes half-lidded, breath slowing. "You okay?" Sunghoon asks you.

You nod.

"Words."

"Yes." He studies you for a second longer. Then he leans in, not to kiss you, but to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. Gentle and possessive. "Good," he murmurs. "Now get off him." Jake lets out a frustrated breath, but he doesn't fight it cause he knows Sunghoon is in control now. His hands don't leave your waist though. You feel the way he twitches beneath you, the faint roll of his hips like he's chasing friction, even now. He wants you, he always wants you, but it's Sunghoon's presence that stills him. That centers the room again. Sunghoon stands just behind, one hand sliding into his pocket, his other resting lightly on the edge of the bedframe. "Were you going to make her ride you?" he asks Jake quietly. Jake glances up at you, then back to Sunghoon. There's no guilt, just honesty. "Yeah."

Sunghoon hums, slow and deep. His gaze cuts to you.

"She looks tired." You blink. "I'm not—"

"Shh," he interrupts, not unkindly, and brings a finger to his lips. "I didn't ask." Jake watches you with blown pupils, his chest rising and falling like he's just run a mile. He doesn't say anything, just waits. Sunghoon's voice dips a little lower. "Do it right, Jaeyun." Jake groans at that, like the words alone are a reward. He sits up just slightly, lips brushing your collarbone, eyes fluttering closed at the praise. "Yes, sir," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"And be gentle with her. Okay?" You feel the flush race up your chest, spreading over your neck, your ears. Jake presses his mouth to your shoulder like he's trying to calm himself down, whispering soft nothings between the kisses. "I can ride him, Hoonie" you say quietly, voice shaky but sincere. "I want to. I'm not—"

Sunghoon tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing just slightly as he moves closer. His fingers brush your chin again, thumb pressing against your bottom lip this time. "No," he murmurs. "Not this time." He leans down, mouth nearly grazing your ear. "Let Jake take care of you, hm?"

Your breath catches, knees tightening on either side of Jake's hips. Jake notices. He grins and cups the back of your thigh, fingers slipping higher. "Lay back, baby," Jake says, voice still rough from earlier. "Let me take care of you." You're melting into it before you even know it, back arching, thighs trembling, the room closing in around just the three of you. Sunghoon still hasn't sat down, still hasn't touched beyond your face, but you can feel the weight of his presence like a second heat. Jake guides you down with gentle hands and even gentler eyes, and you hear him whisper against your neck, "Perfect girl." And behind him, Sunghoon finally speaks again, quiet and unwavering.

"Don't stop until she cries."

Jake settles over you like a promise, warm, flushed, breathing heavily as he kisses his way down your jaw. You feel every bit of him, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the roughness of his voice murmuring in your ear as his fingers trail over your waist. "So fucking soft," he breathes, kissing down your throat. Across the room, the old leather chair creaks. You tilt your head just enough to catch a glimpse of Sunghoon lowering himself into it, one long leg crossing over the other, fingers laced loosely in his lap. He doesn't say anything, you know he doesn't need to. The atmosphere changes the moment he sits down. Jake feels it too, you can tell by the way his hands still on your body for just a second, by the deep breath he takes against your shoulder before looking over his shoulder and locking eyes with Sunghoon.

Then he turns back to you, slower now. "Look at me," he says softly. His fingers brush your cheek. "You with me, baby?" You nod. "Good girl." He kisses you, open-mouthed and heady, and as he shifts down between your legs again, he parts them with careful hands like he's opening a gift. His cock rubs between your folds, and he groans, low and ragged. "Fuck, so wet," he murmurs, dragging himself through the mess he already made earlier, and glancing back toward Sunghoon again. "She's dripping." Sunghoon gives a slow nod. "She should be." Jake doesn't need more instruction than that. He lines himself up and rests his weight on one forearm, his free hand still petting your thigh, brushing hair from your face. His lips ghost over your ear. "Tell me if it's too much," he says.

You nod again, voice gone somewhere too far to reach. He pushes in slowly, so slowly, keeping eye contact with you until you gasp and clutch his shoulders. "Fuck—" Jake moans, lips parting as he bottoms out, hips shaking just a little. "You feel unreal. So warm, so tight—fuck." You hear the leather shift again. Sunghoon's watching. You know he is, but he hasn't said anotner word. Jake pulls back, then rocks in again, shallow, precise thrusts that make your legs tighten around his waist.

His voice breaks again. "Taking me so good, princess. So good. You were made for this, you know that? This pussy—fuck, it's ours." He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "I need you," he whispers. "So bad. Always do." His pace is unhurried but deep, dragging every inch of himself through you, letting you feel everything. One of his hands slips between your bodies, finding your clit, pressing soft, slow circles. You gasp, hips jumping. "Oh shit!"

"That's it," he pants. "Let me make you cum. Come on, pretty girl. Just for me." You cry out softly, fingers digging into his back, and behind him, he knows you're close and he moans like he's proud, like it's the highest compliment he's ever received. He kisses you hard. "You're so good for me. You gonna cum, baby? Gonna soak me?" You nod frantically, the build-up sharp and fast, pressure mounting under his hand, under his hips. The moment's stretching, tightening, ready to snap. And as it does, Jake groans your name, holding you through it as your legs shake and your eyes squeeze shut.

But through your moans and breathless whimpers, you still hear Sunghoon, steady, observant, and controlled.

"Think you can give him another one?" Jake's body is already moving, hips rolling into you with a steady, deliberate rhythm, but now his eyes keep straying, flicking toward the chair in the corner where Sunghoon sits, silent and composed. The man hasn't said anotner word, but he doesn't really have to. Just being there changes the way Jake touches you, the way he moves inside you.

At first, it had been about you, about the way your lips parted, the way you whispered his name in breathless moans. But now Jake's losing focus. His breath stutters every time he feels Sunghoon's gaze on him, burning low and unreadable. Jake starts fucking you harder without realizing it, like he's performing now, or proving something. The weight of Sunghoon's silence makes him want to impress. You notice the shift too, how Jake goes deeper, the way he grits his teeth. His hand wraps tighter around your thigh. He's chasing something, and it's not just your second orgasm. He groans again, forehead brushing against yours, and you feel how wound up he is. It's not just need, there's reverence there.

Jake had never considered himself submissive, well that was until he met Sunghoon. To Jake, there just seemed to be something about Sunghoon that made him want to be that way for him, made him want to do everything Sunghoon said, even before he said it. If Jake believed in religion, Sunghoon would be his god, maybe that would explain why he's currently fucking his cock into you but his mind is elsewhere. His mind is entirely on Sunghoon in particular, where he's sat across the bed from you two. Jake is moaning like it hurts, he's starving for praise like that might be the only thing keeping him alive.

"Sunghoon," he gasps, hips rocking into you with enough force to jolt the headboard, "fuck—look at me. Please—please look at me." Sunghoon doesn't flinch. He's still. Unbothered. Sitting in the corner chair like he's been there forever, long legs spread now, jaw in his hand, eyes flicking lazily across the room—but not to Jake. Never to Jake. Jake whines, desperate and pretty, breath fanning across your collarbone as he buries himself deeper, chasing something he'll never get from the man who made him this way. "Am I doing it right?" he pants, fucking you harder. "Tell me I'm doing it right—tell me I'm good—please—"

Sunghoon hums. His gaze lands on you this time. Controlled. Careful. "You're such a slut for praise, Jake," he says, voice low and faintly amused. "Shouldn't you be asking her that?" And Jake does. So fast. So broken. "Baby—" His voice cracks. "Am I good? Am I making you feel good?" You try to answer, lips parting on a moan—but Sunghoon stops you before a sound can fall. "Don't answer him." Your body tightens under Jake's, your back arching instinctively toward the voice that denies and commands you.

And Jake feels it. "Fuck," he grits, pulling back to look at your face, but you're already looking past him. Already whining for someone else.

It doesn't matter that Jake had already pulled two orgasms out of you, with his mouth, with his words, with the frantic way his fingers curled like he was searching for something only Sunghoon could name. It doesn't matter that you're still trembling underneath him, that your skin is hot and your limbs boneless from how hard you came the last time.

Because now Sunghoon is here. Watching. And somehow that makes everything feel different. Jake feels it too, the shift in the air, the weight of Sunghoon's presence behind every stroke. He's still buried deep inside you, his chest slick and flushed, and his pace is no longer thoughtful or controlled. It's gone, whatever composure he had left. His thrusts are rough now, fast and unforgiving, like he's trying to chase something only Sunghoon can give him permission to have. "Jake," you breathe, nails dragging lightly down his back as he keeps rutting into you. "Wait—" You whimper again, barely able to breathe through the rhythm, your body rocked back into the bed with every movement. "Slow down, please—" But he doesn't, he probably doesn't even hear you.

His hand fists the sheets beside your head, and his other grabs your thigh and hikes it higher like he needs more of you, like he could crawl inside you and still not get enough. That's when your head tilts, eyes catching the one person who always sees everything. Sunghoon hasn't moved from the chair. His elbows are on the armrests now, fingers steepled under his chin. He looks calm, maddeningly calm, but you know better.

Your eyes plead with him silently, lips parted, breath shaky. One more thrust from Jake and you gasp, "Hoon—" It's barely a whisper. But it's all he really needs.

In an instant, Sunghoon is up. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't even look at Jake at first. He comes to your side, brushing his knuckles softly over your cheek, grounding you before turning his head to the man still buried inside you. "That's enough," he says, voice low but firm. Controlled. Jake stills. It's like a switch flips in him—his hips freezing, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, but his eyes glassy as they lock onto Sunghoon like he's been waiting for that command all along. "I didn't mean to," Jake mumbles, his voice hoarse and desperate. "I know," Sunghoon replies, cool and quiet, like he's the only one in the room who understands Jake completely. He slips his hand down, gentle where Jake was frenzied, fingers brushing over your thigh and easing it down. "But she asked you to slow down. Didn't she?"

Jake swallows hard, nodding like a reprimanded boy.

Sunghoon's hand lingers on your knee. "You alright, love?" You nod back, heart thudding, already calmer just from his presence. Jake's still inside you, but now he isn't moving, he’s waiting, watching Sunghoon like he needs permission to breathe. That's when it becomes clear to you like it always does—Jake might be the one fucking you, but it's Sunghoon who hold all the power. And he always has been.

"I can keep going," you whisper, still catching your breath, voice fragile but filled with certainty. "I want to." Jake exhales like he's been given permission to live again, but you're not looking at him. Your eyes are locked on Sunghoon. "I want you to touch me too," you say, barely above a breath. Your fingers curl at the sheets, as if grounding yourself to keep from pulling him in by force. "Please."

It's the only word that finally breaks him. You see the moment his composure wavers, his eyes flinch, his jaw tightens, and for the first time tonight, Sunghoon hesitates. He's never been able to deny you anything. Not when you ask like that. Not when your voice sounds that soft, that raw. A long silence stretches between the three of you, thick with your need, Jake's restless grip still holding your hips in place, and Sunghoon's stare flickering across your face, from your eyes, to your swollen lips, to the soft, quivering part of you that just begged for him.

Then, finally, Sunghoon gives a quiet nod. "Get on top," he murmurs, voice steady again, but you can feel the shift underneath it. Jake nearly groans in relief as you move, lifting your legs and sliding up to straddle him. His hands find your thighs immediately, squeezing like he's been starving, but it's your eyes on Sunghoon again, watching him sit at the edge of the bed now, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss.

And so he does. The first press of his mouth to yours makes your whole body flinch, not in surprise, but in something sharper. His lips are slow, claiming, so deep that you feel your toes curl as your hips rock down on Jake. Jake's moans muffle in your throat as Sunghoon kisses you again. And again. Every time you roll your hips forward on Jake, Sunghoon meets you with his mouth. His tongue slides past your lips like he's determined to keep you tethered to him no matter who's inside of you. The heat of Jake's hands, the way he moves beneath you, it all melts together in the haze of Sunghoon's kiss.

You try to reach for more of him, hands desperate at the hem of his shirt, tugging, frustrated that he's still fully clothed while you're bare, being touched and watched and used. Your fingertips find the warm skin under the fabric, sliding under his shirt, desperate to feel more. Sunghoon doesn't stop you. He lets you feel. Lets you explore. Even if he hasn't moved to undress, even if he's holding back, you aren't. And your hips don't stop moving. Not once. You ride Jake slow, languid, your rhythm set by the rise and fall of Sunghoon's mouth on yours, the ebb and flow of his tongue pulling you under like a tide. It makes you dizzy, being loved like this by one man while kissing the other, being watched and touched and given the space to want everything.

And god, you want everything.

Jake pants beneath you, clutching at your thighs like he might fall through the mattress, and you never break the kiss, not even as you start to tremble again, not even as Sunghoon finally whispers, voice low against your lips, "Just like that, princess." You barely realize how fast it's building again until your thighs begin to shake. Jake's grip on you has turned possessive, hands gripping your hips like he's guiding you through the end of the world. He's a mess beneath you, all panting breaths and ruined whimpers, his head thrown back against the pillow as he mouths your name like a prayer he's barely worthy of.

And you, you're still tangled in Sunghoon. His lips trail slow and steady along your jaw now, your neck, your shoulder, mouth warm and coaxing even as his hands stay maddeningly still on your thighs, letting Jake have you while he simply watches. Letting you ache for more of him, and only giving you his voice in return. "You're so perfect," he murmurs against your skin. "So, so pretty when you take it like this." Jake's moan cuts through the room high, broken. “Nghh—I—M’gonna cum!” You can feel the tension coil in him, that telltale snap of his rhythm turning erratic beneath you. He's close. You know it. Sunghoon knows it too.

"Look at him," Sunghoon murmurs in your ear, dragging his lips just below it, "he's already breaking." And Jake is, shaking, crying out, hips jolting up once, twice, a third time before he completely breaks under you, spilling inside with a noise so wrecked it makes your head spin. His arms wrap tight around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest, as if he doesn't know what else to cling to but you. That's when it happens. As Jake's high crashes into him and his body goes slack, his hand slides blindly out, not even looking, just reaching and palms over Sunghoon's clothed cock. Just once. Just a rough, mindless squeeze like instinct, like habit. Sunghoon finally breathes like it hurt. His hand shoots out to Jake's wrist, gripping it tight.

"Jake." It's a warning. Low and dangerous. But Jake only smiles, breathless and utterly undone. He nuzzles your chest like he doesn't have a single thought in his head, eyes glazed, body limp beneath you. "Sorry," he murmurs, eyes fluttering open just barely as he looks up at Sunghoon. "Couldn't help it." You're still catching your breath when you look at Sunghoon, and the heat you find there steals whatever air you had left. Jake's chest rises and falls beneath you in exhausted waves, his eyes barely open as he blinks up at the ceiling, dazed. Your body's still trembling faintly, skin damp and flushed, caught somewhere between overstimulation and deep, floating warmth. But it's Sunghoon's hands that ground you again, firm at your waist, lifting you before you can even register the shift.

You gasp softly, clinging on instinct. Your arms loop around his shoulders. Your legs wrap around his waist. And he catches all of you like he was always meant to.

He doesn't flinch when he feels it, the wetness between your thighs painting into the front of his clothes. Jake's cum, still leaking, smearing onto him with every shift of your weight. Sunghoon doesn't even blink. He only adjusts you a little higher in his arms, one hand cupping the back of your thigh, the other firm at the base of your spine, keeping you close. "Come on," he says, glancing at Jake without stopping his stride. His voice is quiet, but it leaves no room for negotiation. "You too." Jake groans but pushes himself up slowly, limbs still boneless as he stumbles to follow. And Sunghoon, ever composed and in control, carries you straight to the bathroom, never once loosening his grip. Never once looking away. Because you're done for now, yes.

The water is long gone now, turned off with soft, sluggish movements, steam lingering in the air. Towels exchanged between fingers like unspoken reassurances. No words needed. Not yet. You're clean, finally. A little sore. A little dizzy. But warm. Sunghoon's hoodie is draped over your shoulders, sleeves long enough to swallow your fingers. Jake had laughed watching you tug it on, muttering that Sunghoon always brings out your bratty side, but his voice was half-asleep even then, eyes puffy and red around the edges.

So now here you are. Tucked in Jake's bed instead of Sunghoon's, a rare deviation none of you had energy to question. The sheets still carry Jake's detergent, softer, citrusy, a little too clean for how he usually acts and your limbs are caught in a tangle of body heat.

Sunghoon lies on his back beside you, one arm folded under his head, the other stretched along the curve of your side. You're tucked in close, nose nearly brushing his shoulder as you breathe him in. His pulse is slow under your cheek. His fingers lightly drag up and down your spine, rhythmic, gentle, like he's drawing shapes just for himself. Jake, meanwhile, is curled up on the other side of you, head heavy on your stomach, cheek pressed to your bare skin. You're stroking his hair without even realizing it, combing the strands back gently as his breathing deepens, softer and slower with each pass. The room is quiet. The kind of quiet where the world feels far away. Just three of you, bodies finally settled, the ache of heat and noise replaced with something heavier and tender.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then at Sunghoon. "Can I ask something?" His fingers pause for a split second before continuing, slower now. "Mm."

"The thing earlier," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. "With Yunjin. What was that?" There's a pause. A very long one. You feel the shift in his breath before you hear the words. "It's nothing," he says finally, calm. Even. "I'll tell you later." But something in the way he says it makes your stomach turn. Sunghoon never lies, but he does withhold. And this doesn't feel like nothing. Not when his jaw ticks like that. Not when his hand drifts up your spine again, a little tighter, like he's grounding himself. Not when he won't look at you, even now.

You nod, because you don't want to push. But you don't miss how Jake stirs slightly at the sound, how he snuggles closer, pressing a kiss to your skin without even lifting his head. He's already halfway into sleep, and you know he won't remember it. But it's comfort. His way of keeping you close. So you let it go. For now.

Even if the silence feels heavier this time. Even as Sunghoon's fingers slide higher and rest at the nape of your neck. Even as you try to believe him. Even as the weight of that later starts to hang in the air between you.

The first thing you hear is the quiet hum of Jake's voice, muffled, amused, talking shit over his headset somewhere in the living room. You recognize the cadence of it, the rise and fall of his tone, the clack of his controller buttons, the way he leans into his game with too much energy for this hour. The second thing you feel is warmth. Heavy, slow warmth. Sunghoon. You're tucked into his chest, half-under the covers, skin against skin, the room still dim and quiet. The sunlight is creeping in just enough to make his collarbones glow. His breathing is steady and warm at your nape. One of his legs is thrown over both of yours. His arm is firm around your middle, too firm, actually. You shift slowly, turning your face into his chest before you lift your head just slightly, blinking your eyes open. There's a moment where you forget everything else. Your body is still sore in a pleasant way. Your mind is fogged with sleep. There's no urgency.

You stretch, or at least, you try to. You start to lift your arm, shift your hips to sit up and that's when you feel his arm tightens around you like a vice. His hand flattens against your side, keeping you exactly where you are. "Sunghoon?" you whisper, voice thick with sleep. "Don't go yet." His voice is rough and quiet. "Just for a little longer." You glance up and he's already awake, eyes barely open, lashes low and heavy. His mouth is slack and soft from sleep, but the grip he has on you is anything but. You try to smile. "I was just gonna brush my teeth."

"I don't care."

"Okay..."

"Talk to me," he says next, a little firmer. "Anything."

You pause. The tone is familiar, the softness threaded under something else. A kind of vulnerability he rarely shows unless it's quiet like this, unless you're alone.

You hum. "Like...about what?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Why?" He exhales. Shifts just enough to bury his nose in your hair. "You already know," he says quietly. "Your voice calms me." And he's right. You do know. This isn't new. It's happened more than a few times, after hard days, after silence-filled dinners, after that one fight with his father where he didn't even speak for hours. You remember the first time, when he told you in a low voice that your talking about anything, about everything, made him feel like the world wasn't closing in. You'd said you were honored. You still are. So you relax back into him, shifting your head slightly against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. You let your eyes close again.

And then you speak.

"You always say that," you whisper, voice low as you rest your hand against Sunghoon's chest, just over his heart. His eyes are closed again now, and his lashes twitch a little when you brush your thumb across his skin. "That my voice calms you." Your lips quirk slightly as you exhale a fond breath. "But you never tell me why. Is it the tone? The dumb things I say? Or just because I don't shut up when you need a distraction? You smile to yourself when he makes a quiet hum something between agreement and a dozing sigh. "I could talk about the weather, you know," you say lightly. "Like, it's supposed to rain today. Probably later. Jake's gonna forget he left the top of his Jeep down and get mad about it and pretend it wasn't his fault."

You feel the faintest breath of amusement in Sunghoon's chest, even as his grip slackens just a little. "Or I could tell you about the list of groceries we forgot to buy again. Or how Jake definitely used my shampoo even though he swore he didn't." You brush a gentle hand over Sunghoon's hair. "Or how we really need to wash your sheets after last night but we're all too lazy. Or how..." you trail off softly, your voice thinning as his breathing deepens. You pause to look up at him eyes closed, jaw relaxed, the smallest crease between his brows finally softening. You press a kiss just below his collarbone. "I'll still be here," you whisper. "Always."

And then carefully, slowly, you untangle yourself from his limbs. He stirs for a second, brows furrowing as if his body knows you're leaving even if he doesn't fully wake. But you hush him softly, running your fingers through his hair once more. "I'll be right back." Then you slip out from under the blanket, padding quietly across the cool floor, and make your way down the hall toward the soft noise of game chatter and clicking buttons. Just as you suspected, Jake is curled up on the couch in the living room, headset askew, legs sprawled wide and controller in hand. He's in a hoodie and boxers, hair still messy from sleep, and the moment he sees you, his whole face lights up.

"There's my girl," he beams, dropping the controller to the side and opening his arms. You don't even hesitate, you crawl straight into his lap, straddling him in a tight hug as he wraps you up with both arms. He smells like your body wash and leftover cologne, and you breathe him in as he peppers kisses along your cheeks. "Hi, hi, hi," he murmurs between kisses. "God, you're warm. You sleep okay, baby? You sore?" You nod into his shoulder, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck. "A little sore," you admit softly. "But good sore." Jake grins against your cheek and pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands. "Yeah?" he says, tilting his head. "You need me to kiss it better?" You laugh softly, tapping his chest.

"Maybe later," you say. "Sunghoon's still asleep."

Jake gives you a look like when is he not? “We should make breakfast.” You say, but instantly almost regret saying we.

The kitchen is quiet at first, just the low clatter of pans and the hum of the fridge. You're barefoot as you move around the space with practiced ease, cracking eggs and flipping pancakes with a gentle rhythm.Jake's at your side, or more accurately, in your way. "Wait, wait, baby—should I stir this?" he asks, already grabbing the whisk in a bowl you very much do not need stirred. "No—Jake, that's pancake batter, it's done."

"Oh," he says, sheepish, setting the whisk down like it's fragile. "Well, what about the toast? Should I flip that?"

You pause. "You don't flip toast, Jake."

"Oh." You shoot him a look over your shoulder, and he holds his hands up in surrender, grinning like he's already planning his next move. "I'm helping."

"You're talking," you counter. "Very loudly. While putting things in the wrong place. Which is... the opposite of helping." Jake leans into the counter with a whine. "I'm moral support."

"Sure you are."

"You're bossy when you cook," he says with a smug tilt of his lips. "It kinda turns me on." You shoot him a flat stare, eyebrows raised. "Oh my god," you mutter, jabbing a finger toward the stool behind him. "Sit. Down. Don't touch anything else." His eyes gleam like he's just been handed the best gift of his life. "Yes, chef." He drops into the seat with exaggerated obedience, resting his chin in his hands, staring at you with something between adoration and mischief. "Tell me what to do next, I'll be so good." You roll your eyes and smirk as you turn back to the stove. "You're such a sub." Jake laughs, then pushes up to his feet just long enough to wrap his arms around your waist and kiss the corner of your mouth. "Only for you." “And Sunghoon.”

The moment is cut short by the sound of a low, groggy voice from the hallway. "It's way too early for you to be turned on, Jake," Sunghoon grumbles, padding into the kitchen with hair still messy from sleep. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand and leans over to kiss you, a slow, languid kiss that tastes like morning and comfort. Then he tilts his head and breathes in, eyes fluttering half open. "Smells good." Before you can respond, he slips his arms around your waist and lifts you off the ground, placing you on the counter like you weigh nothing. The kiss that follows is just as effortless slow and soft, his hands firm at your hips, lips brushing yours again and again until you sigh into his mouth.

Jake lets out a dramatic sigh. Sunghoon turns without missing a beat, leans in, and kisses Jake too. Just a soft press of lips, but it's affectionate and familiar and Jake grins like it's nothing new. "Hi," Sunghoon murmurs, then turns back to you, gently grabbing your foot and rubbing it in his hand. "You sore?" The question is quiet, spoken like he already knows the answer. You nod just slightly, and his thumb brushes over your ankle, kneading a spot there as Jake scoots closer to run his hand down your thigh. "You both asked the same thing," you say with a sleepy smile, watching them move around you like you're the center of gravity.

Jake beams. "Team effort." You lean your head back against the cabinet and breathe in the warmth of it all, the scent of eggs and pancakes, the press of Sunghoon's palm on your skin, the sound of Jake humming some off-key tune as he steals a piece of fruit from the cutting board. It's so domestic. So easy and so far from where you started. The three of you tucked in the glow of the morning—half-eaten pancakes on the counter, music playing low from Jake's phone, and your legs swinging gently where Sunghoon set you on the kitchen island. But eventually, the thought creeps in. You should go back to your place. You don't really want to—not when the air here feels like something warm and worn-in. Not when Jake keeps grazing your waist when he passes, or when Sunghoon's fingers are still loosely wrapped around your ankle, absently rubbing. Still, your laundry's piling up, your textbooks are somewhere under your bed, and you haven't touched your own skincare in four days. You shift on the counter. "I should head back for a bit," you say quietly. Jake stops mid-chew and frowns. "Now?"

"Just for a while," you shrug, playing with the hem of the oversized hoodie you'd slept in. "I need more clothes. And my laptop." There's a pause. You don't say it out loud, but you're both thinking it—Yunjin might be there. Jake is the first to break the silence. "I'll go with you." You glance over at him. He's already standing up, wiping his hands on a paper towel, as if it's already decided.

"You don't have to," you say gently, not wanting to seem cold, but knowing how much heavier it'll feel if he's there, how much more obvious your tension with Yunjin will be with him watching. "Really. I'll be fine."

Jake frowns, but you can tell it's not from offense, it's from concern. Sunghoon finally speaks, voice quiet as always. "Let him drive you." You turn your head. He's not looking at you, just brushing the crumbs off his hands and walking to the sink, like it's a casual suggestion — but it isn't. You know Sunghoon too well to miss the weight behind his words.

"I'll be okay," you repeat. He dries his hands and finally meets your eyes. "I know. But you shouldn't have to be." That lands heavier than you expect. It silences you for a beat. Jake doesn't gloat. Doesn't push. He just rests his hand on your thigh and says, softer this time, "Let me take you. Just the ride, yeah? I won't come up." And the way he says it, not begging or pleading, just offering, makes it impossible to say no.

You nod. "Okay." Jake grins. "Cool. I'll grab my keys."

As he disappears into the hallway, you feel Sunghoon step close again. He tilts your chin up with one finger, expression unreadable, the way it always is when he's being careful with his words. "Don't let her get under your skin," he says quietly.

"I'm not—"

"I know you," he interrupts, brushing his thumb against your cheek. "And I know how much space you make for people, even the ones who don't deserve it."

Your throat tightens. "You should go back cause you want to," he adds. "Not just because you feel like you have to." You lean into his touch for a second longer, just until you hear Jake's footsteps returning. Sunghoon drops his hand, presses a kiss to your temple, and steps away.

The car is warm, the windows slightly cracked as the wind hums in soft bursts. You’d reminded him to put the top back on and now he’s got one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing animatedly as he tells you some story about a mutual friend from class, something about a failed group project and a spilled drink, but your eyes aren't really on him. You're watching the road blur past. Listening, but not really.

The smile on your face is faint, polite, not the kind Jake's used to pulling from you. He's halfway through a joke when you finally cut in, voice gentle, almost unsure. "What did you mean... back at the party," you start slowly, "when you said Yunjin doesn't behave herself?" His hand stills on the wheel. You see the way his jaw tightens, barely noticeable, but you catch it.

He exhales through his nose, gaze fixed on the road. "Did you ask Sunghoon?" You hesitate, thinking maybe you should lie. Then, quietly, "I did." Jake hums once, like he's not surprised. "What'd he say?" You shake your head a little, turning to face him more. "He said it was nothing. Or that he'd tell me later." Jake chuckles dryly, shifting gears at a light. "That sounds like him."

"Is it nothing?" There's a pause. Jake finally glances at you, just for a second, then looks back at the road. "You should listen to Sunghoon," he says, not unkindly. "It's not a big deal." But the way he says it, almost rehearsed. Like he's been told to say that before. You turn back to the window, chewing on your lip, silence slipping between you two again. Jake drums his fingers on the steering wheel, probably trying to think of something else to talk about. Something easier. But the question still lingers between you both. It still doesn't feel like nothing, and you can tell he knows that. You can’t really say much, especially when he’s already pulling up to your building and parking, leaving over to kiss you and tell you not too take too long.

You shut the door of your apartment quietly behind you, already feeling the weight of the air inside your apartment. Yunjin's sitting on the couch, just as you expected, arms crossed and eyes glued to her phone, but it's the tension in her shoulders that tells you everything. "Hey," you say softly, setting your bag down. No response. You glance at her again. "Yunjin." She finally looks up, expression unreadable. "Oh. You're back." You stop, taken aback by the tone. "Yeah... just came to grab a few things." She nods slowly, like she's pretending to think about that. "Right. Cause you live at Sunghoon and Jake's now." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Or maybe you're still trying to decide which bed you like more."

That lands hard. You pause in place, uncertain if you heard her right. "What?" She stands up, folding her arms. "Don't look so shocked. People talk, you know? And I'm not blind. You're staying over there constantly. You walk around campus like it's normal—like it's fine."

"Yunjin—"

"Are you sleeping with both of them?" she snaps, making you go stiff. "What—what kind of question is that?" you ask, trying to keep your voice level. "It's not a question," she says coolly. "It's what everyone already thinks. Don't act like you're some innocent victim here. You know what you're doing."

You stare at her, heart pounding. "Why are you saying this to me?"

"Because I'm your cousin, basically your sister," she spits. "And you clearly need someone to knock some sense into you." The silence afterward is awful. Heavy and bitter. She doesn't back down, doesn't blink, doesn't seem to notice how much she's just hurt you. You open your mouth even though nothing comes out. But then door opens with a clean, sharp sound that cuts right through the silence. You and Yunjin both turn your heads toward it, startled. Jake steps in casually, holding your phone between two fingers like he's done nothing but walk into a peaceful room. His face, though, says otherwise. His eyes lock on Yunjin's instantly—calm but tight around the edges, like a lit match held too close to something flammable.

"You forgot this," he says, voice low as he looks to you. He holds the phone out gently, not breaking eye contact with Yunjin until you reach to take it.

"Jake—" you start, confused, because you'd watched him drive off. He had class, he told you he did. He cuts you off, gaze still fixed on Yunjin. "This conversation? Not your business," he says quietly, but the threat in his tone is unmistakable. "And the way you're talking to her? You're crossing a line you don't want to cross."

Yunjin blinks like she can't believe what she's hearing. "Is that a threat?" Jake raises a brow. "It's a warning. You don't get to speak to her like that. Not anymore."

"Oh, I'm so scared," she snaps, arms folding. "What are you gonna do? Have Sunghoon glower at me until I cry?" It's meant to be biting. But Jake doesn't even flinch. He tilts his head just slightly, his tone flat. "You think this is about me and Sunghoon?" He looks down at you then, eyes softening just a little. His voice drops, quieter now. "I was already driving off when I noticed your phone. But something told me to come up anyway." He looks at Yunjin again, no longer trying to hide the coldness in his stare. "Guess I figured right."

You're still frozen, unsure what just shifted. Jake's still Jake—but this edge to him? The steel behind the softness? It's disorienting, like watching something gentle catch fire.

Yunjin stares at him, and for the first time—she doesn't have anything to say. And you're left even more confused than before. Because none of this feels random, none of this feels new to them. Jake doesn't say anything at first. He just steps inside and closes the door behind him, the sound oddly calm despite the storm in his expression. His eyes flick to you, then to Yunjin. You watch the shift in his face as he registers how stiff you look, how shaken. "Go grab your things," he says, eyes still on your cousin. You hesitate. "Jake—"

He turns his head slowly and looks at you—really looks. And the intensity there, the weight behind it, makes your mouth go dry. "Y/n." That's all it takes.

You move, legs shaky as you head down the hallway toward your room, but you can hear them behind you. Muffled voices, low but clipped. You pause just past the corner, just out of view. The voices sharpen. "I'm warning you," Yunjin snaps. "You wouldn't dare—"

"Just fucking try me, I’m begging you." Jake's voice is all grit and steel, low enough to be a growl, and for a moment you don't recognize him. You can't make out what Yunjin says after that because Jake's footsteps are suddenly coming down the hall. You dart into your room and pretend to be mid-pack when he walks in, though your fingers are barely curled around the strap of your duffle. He doesn't speak right away. Just stands there, jaw clenched, pulling his phone from his back pocket and dialing. "Yeah, it's me," he says as soon as the line connects. His eyes don't leave yours. "She's coming back now. Yunjin opened her fucking mouth."

A pause. You can faintly hear Sunghoon on the other end, but you're too disoriented to register the words.

Jake drags a hand through his hair and exhales harshly. "Yeah. In a bit." He hangs up and lowers the phone, finally glancing at your duffle. "You're so slow sometimes," he mutters, stepping closer. "Sit down."

You blink. "What—"

"Sit," he repeats, already prying the bag from your grip.

You lower yourself to the edge of your bed as he starts grabbing clothes. No rhyme or reason to it. Shirts, hoodies, underwear, shorts, your phone charger. You watch him shove them all into the bag. He grabs a pair of your panties off the floor near your laundry basket and pauses. You watch his gaze drag slowly over them, then flick up to meet your eyes. A smirk curves at his lips, playful and a little wicked. "These are mine now." You stare at him in disbelief. He slips them into his pocket and grabs your wrist with zero shame. "Let's go, baby."

"Jake, wait—"

"No," he cuts in quickly, jaw set, hand still wrapped around your wrist. "You don't need to see her again right now." Your feet scramble to keep up as he leads you down the hall, the bag slung over his shoulder, his grip unwavering. You pass the living room, the couch, the kitchen, but Yunjin isn't there. Or maybe she is and she's just gone silent again—but you don't dare look.

Jake doesn't stop. He pulls open the door, steps out, and keeps going, guiding you down the stairs like every second you spend in that apartment is dangerous. Like something might snap if you linger any longer. You barely remember locking the door. You barely remember making it down the last step before he's helping you into the passenger seat, shutting the door behind you, circling the car to the driver's side.

It's not until he throws the duffle in the back seat and starts the engine that you finally speak.

"I didn't... I didn't know she could speak to me like that…ever." Jake looks straight ahead as he pulls onto the street, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "Neither did I."

Jake's car pulling into the student lot like it owns the pavement isn’t anything new. The late morning sun always glints off the blue of the hood, windows rolled down, your laughter blending with Jake's dramatics. He's in the middle of reenacting a scene you half-remember from four months ago—something he'd called you, something filthy and ridiculous, and something that still makes your stomach twist in the best way now. "'She’s a free use toy now, remember?'" you repeat in his voice, pitching it low and overly serious. "'That's what you said, baby.'" You slap his arm, your face flushed, the both of you nearly wheezing with laughter now. Jake grins like an idiot behind the wheel, almost pleased with himself. "I don’t even know why I said that! You looked so sad, my heart clenched." He pouts.

"Mine too," Sunghoon chimes dryly from the back seat. His tone is flat, but there's a hint of amusement there—just enough to make you glance back at him with a small smile. "Yeah, yeah," Jake mutters, shifting into park as the three of you pull into a spot. "Let’s just think of it like post sex dirty talk."

“What!?”

"I don't need dirty talk," Sunghoon replies as he opens the door. "You two are loud enough for all three of us." The car shuts off. Jake practically bounds out, his words already flowing again, this time about the stats class he’s trying not to fail. You reach for the door handle but don't get far—Sunghoon is already there, pulling it open, steadying your hand with his. "Careful," he murmurs, not for show. His fingers smooth the hem of your skirt, and it's automatic, the way he does it. The way his hand lingers at your hip for a second too long. You barely notice. Or rather, you're used to it now. Jake's still talking, walking ahead, phone in hand, gesturing like someone gave him a stage.

And then something quieter and sharper hits you. You glance up and realize...people are staring. Not just glancing. Staring. A pair of girls by the outdoor vending machine pause mid conversation. A guy you recognize from your elective class does a double take. You catch a couple seated at the stone benches near the quad, both turning their heads as the three of you walk by. And suddenly nothing is funny anymore. Suddenly, you're aware of how close you're standing to Sunghoon, how his hand is still faintly at your lower back. You think about the night before, about the way Jake's voice sounded when he was spilling himself inside you while Sunghoon kissed your mouth shut. You think about how many times this week you've stayed over and how you barely even sleep at your own place anymore. You hear Yunjin's voice like she's walking beside you. People talk, you know?

You're not sure what they're saying, but they're saying something. Your stomach tightens as your face goes hot. Sunghoon's arm starts to rise, curling over your shoulders like it always does, and you react before you can think. You shrug him off. Not so gently that it makes him pause mid-step. Jake even stops talking. It's a blink, a beat, but the air shifts instantly. You can feel both of them watching you. Sunghoon's brows draw in the tiniest amount and Jake's confusion is very obvious. You swallow and force your eyes ahead, tucking your hair behind your ear like that'll explain everything. "Sorry," you mumble. "It's just hot." But even you don't sound convinced. Neither of them says anything right away. You all keep walking and you don't dare look back.

It suddenly feels like you're very, very alone, as the crowd thickens the closer you get to the central quad. Jake has started chattering beside you again, walking a step ahead just so he can turn and face you with that boyish grin. "So then I was thinking—after your econ class, you come back with us. We'll order from that place you like. The one with the overpriced pasta. Sunghoon's paying."

"Am I?" Sunghoon says flatly from your other side, barely looking up from his phone. "Yes, because I paid last time and I don’t even think she’s seen her credit card in a hot minute." He points his thumb at you. “Hey!” You shove at his shoulder, “It’s okay, princess. We like spending our money on you.” You offer a weak smile, eyes flicking around again. You can feel people staring, you're not imagining it this time. It's in the way they don't just glance, they linger. A few of them lean into each other to whisper. You almost think you hear your name, or maybe you don't. You wrap your arms around yourself, stepping slightly out of Jake's reach when he goes to grab your arm. He doesn't catch the shift at first. But he does the second time you do it.

He stops mid-sentence. Frowns. "Hey..." His voice softens just slightly. "What's going on?"

You don't answer right away. You feel both their eyes on you now. Jake reaches for your hand this time, slower, gentler—and you hesitate before you let him take it. Only for a second. You pull it away under the pretense of adjusting your bag strap. You look at them both, then down at your shoes and then up again. "They're staring," you finally say. The words are small. Almost swallowed. "People are...looking." Jake blinks at you, like he's trying to understand something that doesn't make any sense. "So?" His voice is light but it holds something sharper underneath. A note of come on threaded through. "So," you repeat, eyes flashing up to him, "it's not just glances, Jake. It's—people are probably saying things. About me. About...us."

Jake exhales. Not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. "Okay? Let them. Who gives a shit?"

"Jake," Sunghoon warns, quiet and even. Jake looks between you two, his jaw ticking. "What? I'm serious. We’re not doing anything wrong."

"That doesn't mean it's easy for her," Sunghoon says, more to Jake than to you. "She's clearly struggling. Let's talk about it tonight." He steps closer to you, brushing his knuckles against your cheek in a way that makes you want to close your eyes, if only for a second. "You're okay," he murmurs. "Alright? We'll figure it out." Then he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. You don't push him away this time. You let him. Jake still looks tense. Like he's trying to hold back a million things he wants to say. But he keeps quiet, watching you carefully as you shift your weight on your feet, hands tucked in the sleeves of your sweater now.

You give a small nod. "I'll see you guys later," you say, already backing away toward the path that leads to your building. "Text me when you're out," Sunghoon says. Jake doesn't say anything. You turn around to walk away. Two steps away, just as you're passing a line of trees along the sidewalk, you feel a sharp little pinch right where your skirt ends. You nearly jump. You spin around and Jake's already grinning like he didn't just grope you in public.

"Mine," he mouths, poking at his chest. You flush instantly, whipping back around, and walking fast—heat rising up your neck, and somehow, a little lighter than before.

The rest of your day unspools in a blur. Your econ class dragged on longer than it had any right to, the professor's voice somehow more monotone than usual, each slide heavier with graphs you couldn't focus on. You kept blinking at the same sentence in your notes, rereading it until the words lost meaning entirely. Yunjin still hadn't replied to any of your messages. Not even the short one you sent during your break, Can we talk later? Just us. It stayed marked as delivered. The silence sat with you all day like a knot behind your ribs.

Jake, on the other hand, had sent you seven messages before your class even ended. “hey pretty” “people suck” “but i love you” “sunghoon says i'm being annoying” “but he's cranky, maybe he's hungry” “i miss you rn” “you miss me?” Meanwhile, Sunghoon had sent one. “You okay?”

That was it. Just two words. But you stared at the message for a while, and somehow it made your chest ache in a different way.

And now here you are, exactly where you knew you’d end up again today—melted into the center of Jake and Sunghoon's couch, Jake sprawled entirely on top of you like a human-sized heat pack, half-crushing your lungs while he scrolls through videos with the volume too high. His chin is resting on your chest, legs tangled with yours, one arm wrapped lazily under your back like he never intends to move again. "I'm going to suffocate," you murmur, voice muffled against his shoulder. "No you're not," Jake replies without looking up. "You love this." You do. You hate how much you do. Sunghoon's voice drifts in from the kitchen. "Jaeyun, get off her. You're going to fold her in half."

"I’m like her weighted blanket," Jake replies, one leg tightening around you like a boa constrictor. Sunghoon sighs but doesn't argue further. "I'm ordering," he says over his shoulder. "Same thing as last time?"

"Yes," you say. "Please." He glances over at you, eyes scanning from where your arms are wrapped tightly around Jake's back to the way your ankles hook around his hips. He shakes his head once. Jake grins and kisses your chin, finally looking up. You smile faintly. "You're heavy."

"And warm," he adds. "And comforting. And sweet. And sexy."

"I didn't even say any of that." You roll your eyes and bury your nose into the soft fabric of his shirt, ignoring the fact that the last twenty-four hours felt like emotional whiplash. Right now, right here, you're okay. Sandwiched between chaos and calm, with Jake's weight grounding you and Sunghoon's voice surrounding the space you’re in. You let yourself breathe.

The food arrives with a knock at the door and a soft "thank you" from Sunghoon as he takes the bags. You and Jake are still tangled up on the couch until the smell of your favorite order drifts into the room, and you already know what's about to happen. You feel it in the way Sunghoon lingers a little too long in the kitchen—organizing containers, silently placing utensils beside napkins. He's thinking about what to say. He's going to ask. He's going to start that conversation.

So you beat him to it. "What's the deal with Yunjin?" you ask suddenly, sitting up straighter, brushing Jake's hair from your face. Jake pauses—his entire body freezing like someone hit pause on the app he was scrolling through. He lifts himself off you slowly, sitting up beside you now, looking over at Sunghoon like he's waiting too. Like this part isn't his to answer. Sunghoon doesn't look surprised. He sighs, quiet and composed as always, reaching for one of the containers and placing it in front of you. "Don't worry about her," he says evenly, sliding a fork into your hand. "It's not important." Jake nods like that's final. "Seriously. She's not a problem."

"She kind of was yesterday," you say gently. "And no one's telling me why." Sunghoon's eyes flicker to Jake's, something unspoken passing between them, but neither of them says anything else. It's like hitting a wall. One you didn't know was there until you crashed into it. So you nod once, deciding to let it go for now. But it turns out you can't let go of everything. Because Jake, still trying to smooth the air, says softly, "About earlier—when you said people were staring."

"I just—" you start, but it's like the dam breaks before you can control it. "What is this?" Both of them look at you. Jake stops mid-bite, brows furrowing. Sunghoon sets his drink down, posture straightening slightly like he already knows where you're going. "What are we doing?" you continue. "Like, what is this even supposed to be? Am I...your girlfriend? Am I both your girlfriends? Are you my boyfriends?" Sunghoon blinks slowly, lips parting—but nothing comes out just yet.

"Because sometimes it feels like I'm a pet or something," you say quickly, before either of them can answer. "Like, you feed me and you cuddle me and you both say you want me—but no one's saying what this actually is. And I get it, I do, this started as a mess—but I just need to know."

"Pet?" Sunghoon repeats under his breath, tone unreadable. Jake makes a small, soft noise beside you. Almost like a laugh, but not quite. There's something guilty in it. "Like I'm just something cute you feed and play with and keep around for your convenience," you say, voice shaking a little. "I don't know what I'm allowed to call this. What I'm allowed to feel. You both keep—fucking me, touching me, taking care of me but not saying anything. And I've just been going along with it, but now people are talking and I don't even know what to say to myself, let alone anyone else." Jake raises both his hands a little, a weak smile pulling at his mouth. "Well, you fuck us too, baby."

You whip your head toward him. The glare you give is cold enough to shut him up immediately. Jake winces. "Okay. Bad timing." You blink hard, trying not to cry. "I'm serious." Sunghoon steps in gently, always calm, always composed. "We know." Jake shifts uncomfortably. "She's right. We should've said something. We've been...we've been enjoying it too much to pause and check in. That's on us."

"I need to know," you whisper. "Before this goes any deeper than it already has." Sunghoon reaches across the table, brushing your knuckles with his fingers. "You're not a pet. You're not some thing we keep around. You're someone we care about. Deeply."

Jake's voice comes in low, sincere. "And if you need it defined, then yeah. You're our girlfriend. Mine. Sunghoon's too.” He looks at Sunghoon, who nods once, no hesitation. "You're ours. And we're yours," Sunghoon says simply. "If you want that." Jake leans in again, resting his chin on your shoulder, quieter this time. "And if anyone gives you shit about it...let us handle it." The silence that follows feels different now. Like an exhale. You're still unsure, still scared—but at least you're not alone in it. Jake notices you starting to crumble again, your arms still wrapped around your legs like a shield, your forehead resting on your knee like you're trying to disappear. You've stopped talking, but your eyes are wet, and the silence is loud. So he does what Jake always does when emotions get too raw—he leans in with a grin and says something that makes you want to both kiss and strangle him.

"Okay, but if you were just our pet or our toy or whatever—would we let you ride us like that?" You blink. "Jake—"

"I'm serious," he grins, full of teeth now. "The way you get on top? That shit's not recreational. That's religious. Cowgirl of the century. If we were just using you, you'd be flat on your back all the time."

"Jake," Sunghoon says, without looking up from his container. "Read the room."

"I am reading the room," Jake shrugs, nudging you again. "It's tense. I'm easing it." You shoot him a look that's somewhere between exasperated and fond. "And the way you moan?" he keeps going, ignoring Sunghoon's sigh. "Half the building probably thinks we're filming amateur porn. And I'm not even mad."

Your cheeks flush instantly. Then Sunghoon finally glances up, chewing slowly. "You done?" Jake looks over at him, unbothered. "Not even close.” But when he sees the heat rising in your cheeks—your breath caught in your throat, lips parted but silent—he backs off just a little, gaze softening as he runs his thumb over the spot he touched.

"I'm just saying," he says, a bit quieter now. "Don't say we're using you when you fuck us like you own us."

You look at him. Then Sunghoon adds, so dry it's almost funny, "And you call me possessive." Jake just smirks and shrugs. "She started it." You're sit there, stunned and blushing, legs curled up beneath you as Jake licks his lips like he didn't just casually obliterate your emotional stability with his mouth. Sunghoon's watching you both now, quiet but not in that unreadable way he always does, he's leaned back with one arm thrown over the back of the couch, chewing slowly as if he's giving you space to recover. But his eyes don't leave you. You don't even realize you're staring into your lap until Jake shifts again beside you. The warmth of his hand on your lower back is grounding this time, not teasing. When he speaks again, his tone is lighter. Not softer exactly—but easier.

"Okay. Let's change the subject before Sunghoon murders me." Sunghoon just lifts a brow. Jake grins at him, then turns back to you. "What do you think about us going away next month?" You blink. "What?"

"For Sunghoon's birthday," he clarifies. "It's just after midterms. I figured we could do something—just us. Like, leave the city. Rent a cabin. Go up north. Or maybe a beach town if the weather isn't shit." You turn your head slowly. "It's your birthday next month?"

Sunghoon nods as he chews, like it's not a big deal. Jake scoffs. "See? He wasn't even going to say anything. He never does. He hates celebrating, but I think that's mostly because no one's ever done it right." Your eyes linger on Sunghoon. He's looking at the coffee table now, suddenly preoccupied with peeling a label off the water bottle he hasn't even opened. There's the faintest tightness around his mouth. You realize with a quiet kind of ache that Jake's probably right. "I didn't know," you say, quiet.

Sunghoon shrugs. "It's not important." Jake mutters, "It is to me." There's a pause. Jake leans forward slightly, voice losing its usual lilt. "It should be to you too." Your chest tightens. "Of course it is. I didn't mean—" You stop. Breathe. "I just didn't know." Sunghoon nods once. "Now you do." Jake leans back, brushing his hair out of his face. "So? What do you think? We go away for a few days, just the three of us. No classes. No campus. No one watching us like we're weird."

You nod before you can talk yourself out of it. "Yeah. I'd like that." Sunghoon doesn't say anything at first. Then he murmurs, "We'll see how midterms go." Jake rolls his eyes. "Don't act like you're not already ahead in every class."

"I'm not failing," Sunghoon allows, glancing at you now. "You?"

"I'm managing," you say, and it's true—but just barely. It's hard to focus with everything going on. Yunjin's silence. Campus whispers. The heaviness that lingers even when you're safe on their couch, fed and warm and wanted. Jake nudges your side gently. "Then we're going. You need a break, birthday boy needs attention, and I—" He grins. "I'm just trying to see you in a bikini." Sunghoon scoffs, but you catch the way his mouth twitches. Jake keeps going. "We'll get a place with a hot tub. Or one of those outdoor tubs. Imagine the three of us in that. Steam. Moonlight. Maybe a bottle of wine."

You raise a brow. "Who's bringing the wine?"

"I'm twenty-two," Jake says, smug. "I can get alcohol."

You snort despite yourself. Sunghoon finally smirks.

And for a second, it's just quiet again. Easy. You settle back into the couch. Jake picks up a fry. Sunghoon pulls the food containers closer. And for the first time all day, the weight in your chest feels a little lighter.

You don't know what you are to them. Not yet. But you know they want you here, they're not letting go, and maybe for now, that's enough. Jake starts going on about beach towns and hot tubs and "aesthetically pleasing coastal interiors," but his excitement is infectious. The way he grins as he talks about planning something for Sunghoon—for the three of you—makes you feel warmer than the wine in your glass. Sunghoon's leaned back into the couch cushion beside you, watching Jake with that quiet fondness of his. Your bare knee brushes against his thigh when you shift, and he doesn't move away. "I want to show you something," he says suddenly, voice low but certain.

You look at him, curious. "Right now?"

He stands. "Yeah. Come." Jake raises an eyebrow. "Are we about to witness a murder or a surprise?" You follow Sunghoon anyway, trailing behind him through the apartment with Jake padding along behind you, still chewing on the last of a chocolate-covered strawberry like this is some late-night drama reveal.

It feels a little strange, walking into Sunghoon's room again. You haven't been in here since the three of you had sex on that very bed two nights ago. The room looks the same at first glance, neat and clean, the sheets are changed now, curtains drawn halfway and his nightstand exactly as minimal as you remembered. But then you see it. Against the far wall, in the corner that used to be empty, right next to his bed, stands a newly assembled vanity mirror. Soft, diffused bulbs line the frame. The surface gleams. And on top of it—your favorite skincare bottles, your foundation and lip oils, the mascara you lost weeks ago. There's even a small gold dish with your rings and earrings placed just right.

You take a slow step closer, stunned. Jake leans against the doorframe behind you. "He made me go with him to pick out that mirror. Swore the first one was 'too cheap-looking.' We've been hiding this for, like, two days." Sunghoon, still behind you, shifts a little awkwardly. "It's for... when you're getting ready here. Or, I don't know. If you wanna leave your stuff. Or—"

"Or if you just wanna live here," Jake finishes easily. "With us." You blink. "Wait—what?" He shrugs. "This is us being emotionally responsible adults. You already stay over like five nights a week, baby." Sunghoon nods, but he's quieter. "You haven't been in my room since...that night. So we figured if you did come back in, we wanted it to feel like yours too." Your throat tightens. You look back at the vanity—at how thoughtful it is. How deliberate. "I don't even have a drawer here," you mumble, a little breathless.

Jake laughs. "Yes, you do. Sunghoon emptied half his closet for you." Sunghoon shrugs like it's nothing, but his ears are a little pink. You turn toward them, voice soft. "You guys did this in two days?"

"We would've done it in one," Jake says, "but someone had to rearrange the lighting three times."

"I wanted it to look good," Sunghoon mutters. You don't realize your eyes are glassy until you blink down and one tear slides to your cheek. It's not sadness, not exactly—just that unbearable feeling when people love you with more care than you know how to process in the moment. Jake's already stepping forward. "Hey—hey. You crying?" You wipe at your face quickly, laughing through it. "No. Yes. I'm fine. It's just—this is really... a lot."

"It's okay," Sunghoon says, stepping closer too. "It's meant to be." He reaches up to tuck your hair gently behind your ear. You lean into the touch before you can stop yourself. Jake wraps an arm around your waist from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. "So? Wanna move in, baby?" You look at them—your quiet, steady Sunghoon. Your chaotic, tender Jake. The mirror. The space. Your heart answers before your mouth can. "Yeah," you whisper. "Yeah. I do."

Jake's arm stays wrapped around your waist, fingers tapping lightly like he's buzzing with unused energy, when he pulls back just slightly to grin at you. "So," he says, dragging out the word. "Who wants to shower with me?" You open your mouth, ready to tease him for being predictably himself, when Sunghoon's phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks the screen, and for a split second, something shifts in his expression, a subtle flicker of recognition that tightens his jaw just a bit. "I'll be back," he says quietly, already turning away as he answers the call. "Hey, Heeseung." It's faint, but you catch the way he murmurs the name low under his breath like he didn't mean for you to hear. He walks out of the room with the phone pressed to his ear, voice dipping even softer as he disappears into the hallway. Your brows knit together for just a second. Heeseung?

But before you can dwell on it, you feel Jake's hands slip under your thighs, and with a sudden lurch, he's thrown you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

"Jake—!" you squeal, laughing as the blood rushes to your head. "Put me down!"

"Nope," he says, marching toward the bathroom with all the determination of someone carrying a trophy. "You're showering with me. You cried a little and now I have to bathe you like a princess."

"Is that the rule?" you protest, squirming as he smacks your thigh playfully. He hums, nonchalant. "That's my rule. Plus, you smell like strawberry body lotion and decision-making fatigue." He kicks the bathroom door open and steps inside, still holding you like a sack of sugar and setting you down gently on the countertop. His eyes scan over you with a rare kind of softness. "You okay?" he asks, voice quieter now, thumb brushing over your knee. "Really okay?" You nod, the earlier emotion still lingering like warmth in your chest. "Yeah. I am."

"Good," he murmurs, already reaching behind you to turn on the shower. "Let me take care of you a little."

There's a beat, a quiet moment between the sound of water filling the tub and the faint echo of Sunghoon's voice somewhere deeper in the apartment, still on that call. And you can't help but wonder. What was that about? But right now, Jake is tugging at the hem of your shirt with that boyish grin he always gets when he's about to undress you like it's a present he's unwrapping. And for now, you let the questions go and step into the tub holding Jake’s hand. The water is warm, scented faintly with eucalyptus and something sweeter, probably one of the overpriced oils Jake had tossed into the basket when he dragged you through the skincare aisle last week. You didn't expect to use it like this, not tonight, not like this, not with Jake pressed up behind you in the oversized bathtub, your spine resting against his chest and his arms looped around your waist like he's anchoring you there.

He hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your back as he presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder. You feel his fingers skim across your arms and settle over your hands, gently guiding them to float over the surface of the water. "Relax," he says, softly. "You've been tense all day."

"I've had a weird couple of weeks," you murmur, voice dry. "I think I'm allowed to be tense." Jake chuckles behind you, his nose brushing against your neck before he plants another kiss there. "Fair." His fingers interlace with yours underwater, and for a long minute, neither of you says anything. He just holds your hands in his and lets the water cradle you both, his thumbs brushing slow, thoughtful circles against your knuckles. "Hey," you ask after a while, voice quiet. "How do you guys even afford this place?" Jake doesn't answer right away. He exhales slowly, his chin resting on your shoulder. "Sunghoon's dad bought it for him. His 21st birthday gift. He actually owns the whole place." Your eyes widen a little. "Wait, he owns it?"

"Mhm," Jake hums. "Straight up. Title deed and all. I just moved in junior year because my last apartment had a black mold problem and I was too lazy to apartment hunt."

"Of course you were," you mutter.

"Hey," he says, laughing as he splashes water against your side. "It was life or death. I was being slowly poisoned." You lean back against him, more relaxed than you've felt all day. He keeps kissing your neck in quiet intervals, like he's reminding himself you're real and here and his. "Okay," you ask again, slower now, "How did you and Sunghoon... start?" Jake's hands pause just slightly, but then he resumes the soft movements, this time sliding his palms up your arms in long, comforting strokes. "Freshman year," he says. "We were in the same dorm building. Total strangers. I thought he was an asshole at first—he barely talked, always wore headphones."

"Sounds like him."

Jake grins. "Yeah. He caught me making out with someone in the stairwell and said something like, 'You know the walls are thin, right?' Thought he was judging me. Then two nights later, he kissed me at a party." You blink. "Wait—he made the first move?"

"Surprised?" Jake says, tilting his head.

"Yes?" Jake laughs again, pressing a hand to your stomach and gently pulling you closer to him in the water. "Yeah, he kissed me first. I think he was just curious, honestly. But it wasn't a one-time thing. It turned into more." You stay quiet for a second. "Do your parents know?"

"Mine don't ask questions," Jake says, tone losing some of its earlier playfulness. "I don't think they'd care much as long as I keep up appearances. Sunghoon's... kind of complicated. His dad is—well. He wouldn't be thrilled." You frown at that, looking down at where your hands are still tangled in his beneath the water. Your chest tightens just slightly. You tilt your head back a little more, resting it against his collarbone. His skin is warm, and his breath stays steady against your neck, like he's completely at peace.

"You said it started freshman year," you murmur. "Just the two of you. So when did you start... inviting girls into your bed?" Jake's fingers still on your waist for just a moment. Then he smiles softly against your skin. "Not just girls, baby," he murmurs. "Guys too."

You blink, surprised. "Oh...right. Sorry."

"No need to be sorry," he says gently, reaching for your hand under the water again. He's tracing along your knuckles now, thumb moving slow. "It's not something we talked about at first. It kind of...happened. One time at a party, it always starts at a fucking party, we found out this girl was flirting with both of us at the same time."

"And you didn't mind?" you ask.

Jake huffs out a laugh. "Nope. If anything, it kind of turned us on? We realized we didn't care about sharing. At least not like that. So it became a thing — a little game." You're quiet, processing that. You think about how they are with you, all teasing, overwhelming, indulgent. But also careful. Also...real.

Jake nudges your chin with his nose, coaxing you back into the present. "You okay?" he asks. You nod slowly. "Yeah. Just... it makes sense. I guess I never really thought about it." He's quiet for a beat. "We weren't looking for anything serious," he says, voice softer now. "Not until you." Your chest stutters a little at that.

"And you're both...?"

"I'm pansexual," Jake says easily. "And Hoonie’s bi."

You chew on that for a moment, staring down at the water, the way it ripples with the movement of your legs still loosely tangled with Jake's. He doesn't press you. Just kisses your shoulder again and waits. "Have you ever thought about being with a girl?" he asks finally, tone light but curious. "Like, would you ever—?"

"My first kiss was with a girl," you say before you can stop yourself. Jake jerks slightly behind you. "Wait. What?"

You laugh a little, shrinking down in the water. "It was in middle school. Truth or dare. We were twelve."

"Oh my god." Jake sounds absolutely delighted. "Why is this the first I'm hearing of this?"

"Because it's not a big deal!" you say quickly, cheeks warming. "It was just a kiss."

"Still," Jake says, turning your face toward his. He's grinning like you just told him the most interesting thing in the world. "I feel like this changes everything."

You roll your eyes. "It really doesn't." Jake leans in and kisses your cheek anyway. "Tell me everything," he says, still smiling. "Name, zodiac sign, where is she now—" You splash water at him and he yelps, laughing, pulling you closer again like he can't help himself.

You sigh, content and warm against him, the water lapping gently against your skin. His arms are lazily wrapped around your waist, one hand trailing idle circles over your stomach as the other continues to play with your fingers underwater. "Can I tell you something kinda embarrassing?" you murmur. Jake hums, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Always."

"I used to hear all these rumors about you and Sunghoon on campus...before I even knew either of you." That perks him up. You can sense his smirk forming before you even glance back. "Oh yeah?" he says, already amused. "Like what?" You grin. "Like how you two were rich and lived in some crazy off-campus apartment with a private elevator and heated floors."

Jake snorts. "Okay, yeah, it’s just an elevator. Heated floors, though... only in the bathrooms." You giggle a little. "I still can’t believe he got an apartment for his birthday?" Jake nods like it's normal. "He wanted a Ducati. His dad said no. So, apartment." You blink. "That's...not how my parents work." He chuckles. "Same." You nudge his thigh with yours, warming up. "And they said you drive a Jeep Wrangler—red—with custom rims. Supposedly a reward for agreeing to study business." Jake actually throws his head back and laughs at that.

"I wish," he says through laughter. "I do drive a Wrangler, but it's clearly blue. And I got it for my high school graduation, not because of some lame agreement. My parents still think I'm gonna take over my dad's law firm one day." You grin. "So the business degree is...?"

"Mostly for show," he shrugs. "And to keep them off my ass." You turn your head a little, looking up at him. "Okay, but there was also this one rumor about how you and Sunghoon were like...always hooking up with people. Together. Like some weird team." Jake pauses. Then slowly raises a brow. "I mean... that one's not entirely false." You lean your head back again, smiling up at the ceiling. "Okay, wait, there were so many."

Jake chuckles behind you, arms still snug around your waist. "I'm listening." You start ticking them off on your fingers. "There was one that said you and Sunghoon had a no-dating policy because you didn't want to catch feelings and ruin the—quote—dynamic."

Jake laughs low in your ear. "Okay, that's dramatic. We just didn't want to deal with drama. If someone got clingy, it was a hard no. But no official policy. We're not a corporation." You hum. "Someone once told me Sunghoon broke up a couple because the girl hooked up with him and her boyfriend got jealous." Jake snorts. "That one's true. Not even Hoon's fault though. She lied. Said she was single." Your jaw drops. "He broke up a whole relationship?!"

Jake shrugs. "To be fair, the guy should've been mad at her, not us. Hoon didn't even remember her name the next day." You giggle, letting the warm water slosh a little as you shift. "There was this insane rumor that you—you—ran a finsta where you used to post thirst traps for Sunghoon just to mess with people." Jake breaks into a full grin. "Okay. That one's only a little true."

"WHAT."

He laughs, smug. "I didn't run a finsta, but I did post some stupid clips of Hoon dancing or shirtless after the gym. Just for fun. Girls in the comments used to fight over him. He hated it."

You gasp, delighted. "That's evil." He kisses the side of your neck, smirking. "I'm misunderstood." You continue, "Someone said you two once threw a party where you only let people in if they were hot enough, and you made out with two different people at the same time on the couch." Jake's shoulders shake with laughter behind you. "That party was a disaster. Sunghoon got drunk and made everyone leave because someone puked in his room. And that three-way kiss wasn't planned. They just... went for it."

Jake tilts his head, grinning at you. "What else did they say, hmm?" You bite your lip, pretending to think. "That you only ever go for people you can't have."

He quiets for a beat. His arms tighten slightly around your waist, and when he speaks next, it's softer. "Guess I broke that one too."

"Okay, but this one? Someone told me you guys had a third roommate that no one ever saw but was apparently just there for sex. Like, they called her your house pet." Jake nearly chokes. "Oh my god—what?! That's so fucked up."

"You're not denying it fast enough."

"I'm laughing too hard to defend myself!" he said, voice still warm with amusement. "That's complete bullshit. We didn't even have a third roommate, let alone a pet girl. Sunghoon would never let just anyone into his space like that. What do they think we were doing—running a harem out of a student housing lease?"

You tilted your head, smirking. "I mean..." He lightly bit your shoulder and you squealed. Jake grinned into your neck. "Don't get smart, baby. You're not a pet in this house now, remember?" Your stomach fluttered. "That...somehow doesn't make it better."

"Admit it," he said, voice lower, more teasing, "you'd have believed it if I hadn't told you otherwise."

You turned your face toward his. "Oh, I totally believed it." His grin was shameless. "You still do." You didn't answer, and instead just let your fingers float in the water—because maybe you did. Just a little. Because now that you were here, inside this impossibly expensive, stupidly sexy apartment, with Jake all over you and Sunghoon's voice faint in the hallway...none of it really felt like a rumor anymore. It felt real, cause you were in it now, and you knew they wanted you to stay.

You’re trying to hold back a grin as you continue talking. "There was another one that said you both had fake names on Tinder and used to catfish freshmen just for fun." Jake raises his hands like he's offended. "Now that is slander. I didn't even use dating apps. That was always Hoon's department." You snort. "Oh yeah? Cause I heard Sunghoon only swiped right on people who had either modeling portfolios or mutuals at Ivy Leagues."

Jake pauses. "Okay. That one might be true." You both break into laughter. "Someone said you once skipped a midterm because you got invited to Cannes."

Jake stretches lazily behind you. "Nah, it was the Canary islands. And it wasn’t like we were randomly invited. It was my brothers wedding." “Plus it was after midterms”

"Okay. Well that makes more sense"

"Exactly." You blink, turning to glance at him again—but just then, the bathroom door opens.

Sunghoon walks in, without a word, dropping onto the closed toilet seat, thighs spreading as he rests his elbows on them. The motion draws your eyes before you can stop yourself, gaze dragging to the vee of his hips and the way his muscles flex under his skin. He notices. He always notices.

"Do you guys ever use your bathroom?" he asks casually, voice low and warm with amusement. Jake doesn't look away from you, but he grins. "Yours is bigger."

"Mm," Sunghoon hums, eyes flicking to you now. "That why she always ends up in here looking like this?"

You swallow, cheeks hot again. You feel Jake's smile against your shoulder. Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees now. His eyes drag over your bare shoulders, your wet hair clinging to your collarbone, the way you're pressed against Jake's chest in the water like you're trying to disappear—but not really. "You're so fucking beautiful," he says it like a whisper, like it's not the first time he's thought it today. Or the fifth. Your breath stutters in your throat.

You try to look away but you can’t and neither does he.

Jake's arms tighten around you, a little possessive. A little indulgent. His voice is softer when he speaks, like he already knows what Sunghoon's words did to you.

"She is," Jake murmurs, brushing a kiss behind your ear, and then down the slope of your neck. "So perfect." And the air shifts—warm steam and something heavier threading between all three of you. The kind of quiet where want lives, curling slow and inevitable at the base of your spine. You can feel the weight of Sunghoon's gaze like fingertips against your skin, almost like a promise. You're still flushed from Sunghoon's compliment when you hear the faint sound of fabric being peeled away—the unmistakable rustle of clothes hitting the floor.

You glance up and Sunghoon's undressing, slow and unrushed, pulling his shirt over his head like it's no big deal that you're both watching, because it isn’t. He tosses it to the side before pushing his sweats down, stepping out of them with a calm, practiced ease. And then he heads toward the standing shower opposite the tub like this is the most natural thing in the world. Jake kisses your cheek as if he didn't just tighten his hold on you again. Your eyes follow Sunghoon shamelessly—the strong line of his back, the clean muscles of his thighs, the way he turns the water on and steps under the spray without even glancing back.

"Do you guys ever fight over dick size?" you blurt, half-giddy, half-curious. There's a beat of stunned silence. And then Sunghoon barks out a laugh. Like, actually laughs. Full-bodied, head tilted back, water pouring down his chest as he scrubs body wash into his skin. Even Jake snorts behind you, chin resting on your shoulder. "Oh my god," Sunghoon says between little breathless huffs, rubbing his hand down his face like he's trying to compose himself, "what the fuck, why would you ask that?"

You're giggling now, hands covering your burning face. "I don't know! You guys are both hot and stupidly confident. It's a valid question!" Jake chuckles against your ear. "We haven't fought about it, no," he says with faux solemnity. "We've definitely compared, though."

Sunghoon hums, lifting his brows under the spray. "Weird way of saying I won."

"Please," Jake scoffs. "We're basically the same size."

"Exactly," Sunghoon replies smoothly, rinsing his chest, "and I'm taller, so it looks bigger." That earns another laugh from you, and Jake presses his face into your neck with an affectionate groan like this is his life now.

The water's still a little warm when Sunghoon reaches out a hand for you. "C'mere," he murmurs, voice low and gentle. You let him help you out of the tub, fingers curling around his forearm for balance as he steadies you. Jake's already in the shower by the time your feet touch the floor, letting the spray soak through his hair. He reaches for you the second you're close enough, tugging you under the water between them. It's quiet, almost tender—the rinse off. Just soft hands gliding over your skin, fingers brushing your shoulders, your waist. Sunghoon kisses your forehead at one point. Jake rubs shampoo into your scalp with the gentlest touch, humming something low while water slicks down your back. Afterward, Jake wraps a thick towel around you like it's second nature, tugging it snug and pressing a kiss to your cheek with a little "you did good, baby," like you just ran a marathon instead of... taking a bath.

By the time you're settled in front of the new vanity, in Jake's oversized shirt that hangs halfway down your thighs and Sunghoon's boxers peeking out beneath, you feel extra warm in more ways than one. "This is still crazy," you mumble, eyes sweeping over the glossy surface, the perfect lighting, the neat rows of your favorite products already set out like you've lived here forever. "I didn't even know you two noticed what I use." Jake's sprawled out on the bed beside you, chin resting on his forearm, watching you like he's studying a piece in a museum. He reaches lazily for a bottle near your elbow. "What's this one?" he asks, holding it up to the light. "Retinol," you mumble through a layer of moisturizer.

"What's that do?"

"Helps with texture, aging, breakouts..." Jake squints at the label, then back at you. "You don't need it. Your skin's already perfect."

You roll your eyes, smiling as Sunghoon strolls in from the en-suite bathroom with his iPad in hand, his hair still damp from the shower and slightly curled at the ends. "So," he says, casual but decisive, "if we're doing the trip for my birthday, we need to start looking now. Summer houses go fast—especially the good ones."

You glance at him in the mirror. "Should I pitch in?"

Jake doesn't even let you finish the sentence before he lets out this loud, incredulous laugh—one of those half-snorted ones where he buries his face in the bedspread like he can't believe what he's hearing. "Oh my god," he wheezes. You blink. "What?" Jake props himself up on one elbow, smirking at you with faux seriousness. "Baby. Sunghoon would rather die. Like, full-stop, cease to exist rather than let you drop a cent on something." Sunghoon doesn't even deny it. He just stands there, arms crossed, and lifts a brow like, obviously. You narrow your eyes, trying to fight back a smile. "That's not really fair—"

"It's not about fair," Sunghoon says calmly. "It's my birthday. My trip. And I want to pay for it." Jake nods solemnly behind you. "He's been rich and repressed since birth, princess. Let him use his trauma the way he wants." You giggle despite yourself. "But I can contribute—"

"No," Sunghoon interrupts, voice a touch firmer, but his gaze is soft. "You don't have to. That's the whole point." Jake whistles low under his breath. "You're not gonna win this one. He's gonna book some insane beach mansion with like...six bedrooms, two hot tubs, and a private chef, and you're just gonna have to sit there looking pretty and being spoiled." He grins like he lives for that visual. Sunghoon meets your eyes through the mirror, tilting his head. "Exactly."

And yeah, it's hard to keep arguing when they both look at you like you're the best part of every plan they've ever made.

The warm light glows softly against your skin as you sit at the vanity, carefully patting essence into your cheeks, lips slightly parted in focus again. Sunghoon is now pacing slowly across the room with his iPad in one hand, thumb scrolling as he mumbles something about beach rentals and peak season prices. You're only half-listening to Jake's little rant about why citrus scents are superior to woody ones in candles when the thought blurts out of you, calm and curious. "What's your body count?" Jake groans like he's been wounded, falling back onto the mattress with a dramatic flail. "Jesus, baby. You've been on a roll with these questions tonight."

Sunghoon just looks up from his iPad, lips quirking into a small smile. He doesn't speak right away, just watches you for a second, like he's unsure if you're being serious or poking at them again. "I'm just curious," you hum, flipping open your lip mask container, totally nonchalant. Jake shifts onto his side, watching you. "You curious or you looking for a reason to judge us?" You smirk at his tone, deliberately slow as you apply the lip mask. "Why would I judge? I already know you were a menace." Sunghoon makes a soft snorting sound behind you.

You glance over your shoulder at him. "Well?"

"I think I liked it better when you asked if we ever fought over dick size," he replies dryly, eyes back on the iPad but the edge of his mouth betrays a smile.

Jake's still watching you, lips twitching up but still withholding the answer. You roll your eyes and pout at the mirror. "Fine. Mine's three."

The room goes silent. You glance back just in time to watch Jake's face fall. His smile slips first, just a twitch of confusion that spreads into something heavier. His brows draw together, mouth parting. Sunghoon doesn't even move at first, doesn't blink—he's frozen mid-scroll, his eyes flicking up to you.

Jake is the first to speak. Quiet, disbelieving. "Th—Three?" And Sunghoon, voice low, strained, "Who was the third?" You stare at them both, blankly for a second, before, "Oh my god," you burst out, laughing as you spin around on the stool. "I'm joking!"

Jake exhales so hard he practically deflates, his palm dragging down his face. "You—holy shit, that's not funny." Sunghoon finally sets the iPad down, closing his eyes with a visible exhale of tension. "Don't do that." You're still giggling, covering your mouth. "You should've seen your faces. I've never seen you two panic that fast." Jake groans again. "Don't say three like that. You really scared me."

"Well, I didn't know you cared," you tease, stretching your foot to where Jake is on the bed and he grabs it, just like you knew he would. Sunghoon walks past the end of the bed toward the mini-fridge in the corner, murmuring, "It's not about caring. It's about...statistics."

"Statistics?" you echo, raising a brow. "Yeah," Jake mutters beside you, eyes closed as he drops back again. "Statistically, if there was a third, one of us missed something big." You lean your chin into your hand, watching them both fondly. "You guys are—I don’t even know." Sunghoon returns to his pacing, water bottle in one hand, iPad in the other, and then suddenly turns on his heel. "Okay, what do we think of this one?" he asks, stepping toward the bed. He walks over to you and Jake and crouches just enough to tilt the screen toward you both. On display is a photo of a stunning beach house—sleek, modern, with huge windows and a private pool overlooking the ocean. The kind of place that makes you instinctively lean forward and say, "Wait, what?"

Your eyes widen, immediately suspicious. "This is gorgeous. But..." You squint at the corner of the screen, where Sunghoon's finger is very deliberately planted. "Why is your finger covering the price?" Jake lets out a low chuckle beside you, already sensing where this is going. Sunghoon's mouth pulls into a faint, sly smile. "Do you like it or not?"

"Sunghoon."

"I'm serious. Just say if you like it."

"I do, but—how much is it?"

"That's not relevant." Jake actually laughs this time, dropping his head back on the mattress with a soft thud. "Oh, he's doing that thing again." You glance between them. "What thing?" Jake lifts a hand toward Sunghoon, still chuckling. "The thing where he hides the cost because he knows if you see it, you'll freak out and say no, and he'd rather just book it and deal with your protests later." Sunghoon doesn't deny it. He just gives you a long, measured look. "It's a nice house. Very private. Ocean access. You won't have to see a single stranger all weekend unless you want to."

"But how—"

"Do you like it or not," he repeats, firmer this time but still calm. You gape at him, baffled and kind of impressed by the level of audacity. "I mean, yeah, it's beautiful, but—Sunghoon, seriously, how much is it?"

He just blinks, completely unfazed. "Would you rather stay in a motel with sand in the sheets and a rusty AC unit?" Jake raises a hand in mock surrender. "He's got a point." You shoot Jake a half-hearted glare, but he just grins at you lazily, clearly enjoying the whole exchange. Sunghoon finally relents with a small smirk, standing back up. "Look. If you hate it, we'll find something else. But I want you to relax. This trip is supposed to be good for us." Jake hums in agreement, nudging your ankle with his foot. "Yeah, no stress. Let richie rich do his thing." You narrow your eyes. "I feel like I'm being manipulated." Sunghoon leans down just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head as he murmurs, "You are. Now pick out a swimsuit or something." Jake snorts into his arm. "She's not even packed yet and you're telling her to pick out swimwear." Sunghoon shrugs, walking back toward the desk. "Manifesting." Jake shifts a little closer on the bed, pulling out his phone with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Alright," he says, unlocking it, "if Hoon's gonna bully us into luxury accommodations, I think it's only fair I get to pick your bikinis."

You blink. "My bikinis?" He smirks. "For the trip. You're gonna need some new ones, right?" Before you can protest, he's already scrolling through some sleek, minimalist swimwear site—gorgeous models, sun-drenched beaches, and little strings that don't look like they'd cover much more than a scrunchie. You sigh but lean in anyway, your shoulder brushing his, your chin nearly on his shoulder as you settle beside him. "Okay fine," you murmur, cozy, the back of your hand skimming his thigh as you try to keep up with the screen. Jake grins when he feels you cuddle into him. "I knew that'd get you." He scrolls a bit more, swiping through a few options until one catches his eye—a baby blue bikini, simple but flattering, with gold rings on the sides. "Ooh, this one would look good on you—what's your favorite color, by the way?" He raises his voice slightly. "Hoonie, come check this one out." From the desk, Sunghoon glances up briefly, mildly curious but still scrolling. "Send it to me."

Jake doesn't get the chance. Because you go very still beside him, eyes narrowing at the price listed under the bikini set. "Jake," you say flatly. "Why are the bikinis two hundred and fifty dollars?" Jake pauses mid-scroll. "Huh?" You reach over and point, jabbing the screen. "That. Right there. That's the top. Just the top. It's one hundred and thirty-two before taxes." Jake blinks, then slowly turns his head to you with a sheepish little grin. "Should I have hidden the prices too?" You gape. "What do you mean too?!"

Sunghoon, without even turning around, mutters, "I warned you." You groan and drop your head into Jake's shoulder. "You guys live in an alternate reality."

Jake laughs, deep and warm, sliding his arm around your waist to tug you closer. "Yeah, well, welcome to it." You shake your head, still appalled. "Two hundred fifty dollars for something that covers maybe three square inches."

Jake grins. "Two inches if I'm lucky."

"Jake."

"I'm just saying." He holds the phone up again, brows raised. "So... you like the blue one or should I keep scrolling?" You sigh but nuzzle deeper into his side, warm and soft against him. "Keep scrolling." Sunghoon finally gets up and walks over, standing behind the two of you. "Get her the black one," he says casually, pointing. "It'll look better with her skin tone."

You look up at him. "Do I get a say in this?"

"No," they both say at the same time. You groan again but it's drowned by Jake's quiet chuckle and the gentle way Sunghoon's fingers come down to brush your jaw for a moment, his voice a little softer now, "It's gonna be a good trip."

Midterms came and went in a whirlwind of caffeine, group study sessions, and the constant shuffle of flashcards and highlighters. The apartment felt more like a war zone than a shared living space with Sunghoon's untouched protein shakes gathering condensation beside his laptop while he grumbled over math formulas, and Jake flopped dramatically on the living room rug muttering, "If I get a single A this semester, that'll be my miracle."

When results finally came in, Jake stared at his laptop in disbelief for a good ten seconds before deadpanning, "I think I actually got Cs on all of them. Which is kind of impressive, in a way." He was mostly kidding, he passed everything, but not by the margins his parents would've hoped for. He celebrated anyway, calling himself a smarty pants while Sunghoon shushed him from across the room.

Yunjin still wasn't speaking to you. Not when you passed her in the library. Not when you held the elevator for her. Not even when you sent her a short, cautious message letting her know you'd be out of town for a few days. She'd read it, left you on delivered for a day and then read, but never replied. And maybe that was fine. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, there wasn't time to sit with it for too long.

The week passed quickly, and then suddenly, it was Thursday. The morning of the trip bloomed early and bright. You packed the last of your things before sunrise, half-listening to Jake and Sunghoon move around the apartment like shadows. There was laughter, a few yells about someone forgetting the charger or where the sunscreen was packed, and a loud debate about whether to bring the little Bluetooth speaker. You left just after 10 a.m. Jake's Jeep Wrangler waited outside like something out of a summer movie—top off, back loaded with bags and coolers, Sunghoon's sunglasses already perched on his nose as he leaned against the passenger door checking the GPS. Jake wore a sleeveless white tank and black cargos, all golden skin and lazy smiles as he helped you into the front seat like it was some kind of ritual. Your dress—a soft, floaty sundress with thin straps and a neckline that made Jake do a double take—billowed slightly in the breeze.

"Got everything?" he asked, sliding into the driver's seat. "Yep," you nodded, adjusting your sunglasses.

"You look like trouble," he grinned, and when you rolled your eyes, he added under his breath, "The best kind." The road stretched out endlessly ahead, smooth and wide and sun-warmed. You passed gas stations and tiny roadside diners, the hum of tires and the low thrum of music from the speakers wrapping around you like a slow lullaby. It was loud sometimes—Jake drumming on the steering wheel, Sunghoon reading out Yelp reviews for lunch spots in voices that made you giggle—but there were soft moments too. Fingers brushing your knee. Jake tilting his head back to soak in the wind. Sunghoon stretching out his arm to rest over the backseat casually, turning to look at you both when he thought you weren't paying attention.

Three hours in, you stopped for gas and iced coffee. Sunghoon traded places with Jake—who immediately beelined for the passenger seat and pulled you with him. You were still blinking sleepily from the lull of the drive, half-curled into the corner of the front seat when Jake caught your wrist gently and tugged you down.

"C'mere, baby," he murmured, spreading his legs slightly and settling you between them. His shirt was bunched behind your back now, arms wrapped around your waist like a seatbelt as he got you comfortable in his lap. "Shouldn't I be wearing a seatbelt?" you mumbled, nose brushing his throat. "Nah," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss just behind your ear, "I've got you." He smelled like sunscreen and leather and the faint citrus of whatever body wash he used, and you sighed into him as the Jeep started moving again, the road stretching farther and the sun tilting golden through your sunglasses. Wind tangled your hair. Jake's hand smoothed over your thigh lazily, his other arm looped around your waist as he hummed to the music. You dozed like that for a while, safe and warm in his arms, your sundress brushing the edge of his shorts, your head tucked under his chin, Sunghoon's voice a calm rhythm in the background as he drove.

And just like that, the weekend had begun. Sunghoon's birthday was only two days away. The vacation was waiting. The waves. The slow, decadent hours that would stretch between now and Monday. You didn't know what was coming yet. But for now, in that Jeep, sun-soaked and held like something precious, everything was still whole. The house was huge, washed in soft ivory paint and modern wood accents with high windows that opened to a view of the ocean so blue it looked stunning. It sat perched on a soft cliffside, where a private wooden path led down to the sand. Inside, the space was open and breezy, clean, modern, but cozy too. You all wandered room to room, calling dibs and tossing bags around, the boys marveling at the sound system and built-in grill while you gasped at the oversized bathroom mirror.

Thursday evening passed lazily. You all sat out on the back patio with drinks and takeout from the only decent place you could find nearby. Jake turned on music from his phone and danced around with a glass of Coke while Sunghoon grilled shrimp skewers and told you both to stop acting like children. You stayed up past midnight, bare-faced, barefoot, skin glowing from the salty breeze, and not a care in the world. Now it was Friday afternoon, and your vibe was completely different. You were standing in front of the mirror, a bright green bikini top clinging to your chest like a second skin. It was cuteor it would've been if it fit properly. But it was a full two sizes too small. You'd only just now realized that the sizes on the site had been in European metrics. All of them. Every single one Jake had ordered with you. The bottoms were worse—low rise and barely-there, and the top? Let's just say one good wave and you were going to be the entertainment for the whole beach.

Downstairs, you could hear the impatient tapping of flip-flops and Jake's familiar voice calling out, "Baby? Seriously? The sun's gonna set before we get there if you don't hurry." You panicked. "Can you guys come up here?" your voice carried, laced with confusion and mild distress. A beat passed before the footsteps and then Jake's voice again. "Why? What's—oh. Oh." He stopped in the doorway. You turned around slowly, crossing your arms over your chest instinctively. "They're all like this," you muttered. "All the bikinis. Every single one is...I don't even know how." Jake blinked at you like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or melt into the ground. "I—okay. Wait. Wait. Let me see."

"Jake—"

"No, seriously. I just...I need a second." He stepped in fully, eyes wide, gaze raking over you, then darting away. "Oh fuck." At that moment, Sunghoon appeared in the doorway too. "What's taking so—" His words cut off the second he laid eyes on you and he visibly froze.

His hand tightened on the frame of the door, and his brows lifted just slightly before he glanced at Jake and then back at you. "Is that the one I picked?" he asked carefully. You blinked. "They're all like this." A long silence passed. Then, Sunghoon, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smirk, looked straight at Jake and deadpanned, "Did you do this on purpose?" Jake barked a laugh. "No! Obviously not. Do you think I want her to get heat stroke because her ass is basically out?"

"You don't seem that mad about it," you said, narrowing your eyes. "I'm not mad about how it looks," Jake said shamelessly. "I'm mad we're going to be late because now I'm thinking about pushing the whole beach day back until tomorrow." Sunghoon walked in slowly now, finally getting his composure back, though his eyes still lingered. "You're not wearing that out there," he murmured, reaching forward to tug one of the straps gently, watching it snap back into place with a disapproving shake of his head. "You'll be on some guy's Snapchat story before you even touch the sand."

"But we don't have anything else," you groaned. "And the stores here are so overpriced—" Jake was already pulling out his phone. "We can order you something express. Overnight delivery. Worst case, we drive into the town in the morning." Sunghoon exhaled and nodded. "For today...you can wear one of our shirts and your shorts to the beach. That way you still get sun, and you don't have to worry about this whole wardrobe malfunction thing." You huffed. "I was supposed to be hot today." Jake leaned down, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder. "You are hot today." Sunghoon's voice, quiet and amused, "Too hot, actually." Jake sighed dramatically. "Okay, beach. Let's move.

The beach was almost eerily perfect, in a way that made you feel like you were dreaming, it was secluded, sun-drenched, and quiet save for the gentle lap of waves and the occasional distant laugh from another couple several cabanas down. The air smelled like coconut sunscreen and salt, and the sand was warm enough to sink your toes into without flinching. Sunghoon had splurged on the fanciest cabana available, of course—sleek wooden framing, gauzy white curtains, plush daybeds. It looked like something out of a magazine editorial, and Jake had immediately stretched out on one of the loungers like he owned the place. You'd barely set your tote down before Jake grinned and took off running. "Jake—!" You blinked, startled, before chasing after him barefoot through the sand, laughing as you ran. Sunghoon didn't say a word, just shook his head with a rare, fond smile and then took off behind you both, his long legs easily overtaking yours. Jake was first and Sunghoon let you win.

You all collapsed on the sand, breathless and red-faced from laughter. You caught a glimpse of Sunghoon genuinely laughing, his head tipped back, hair messy from the ocean breeze, and your heart hurt a little. You didn't realize how rare it was for you to see him like that. "I don't run unless I'm getting paid," he muttered, sand stuck to his chest and forearms. You eventually made your way to the water. Sunghoon didn't wait, he came up behind you, arms around your waist, and with an effortless lift, carried you into the ocean. Your legs instinctively wrapped around him, and he grinned, saltwater dripping from his lashes.

"This is cheating," you whispered breathlessly, hands tangled in his wet hair. He kissed you once, then again—slow, easy, like you weren't waist-deep in ocean water. When you pulled back, dazed, you noticed Jake watching from a few feet away, not with jealousy or anything of the sort, but with admiration. He looked like he was thanking every god for this getaway and it drew you to him, kissing him too, this one more playful, mouths smiling into each other, noses bumping. His hands were warm on your back despite the chill of the ocean. It didn't take long before both boys were getting competitive again, scooping sand in their palms and chasing you up the beach with it. You shrieked, half-laughing, half-running, but they were faster, and grinning so evil when they caught up. Two sandy handprints landed square on your ass, one slightly higher than the other. "Seriously?" you gasped.

"Matching set," Jake grinned, brushing more sand onto the curve of your hip for symmetry. Later, you found out Jake had posted a picture on his private Instagram story—just your back, bikini bottoms, and two very clear sandy handprints with no caption. The sun was setting when the three of you made your way back up the private trail to the beach house on foot, flip-flops dangling from your fingers, towels wrapped lazily around your waists. You were sandy and soaked and sun-drunk. The sky was pink now. Sunghoon opened the door for you, but you were already tugging your bikini straps down under Jake's shirt before you even crossed the threshold. "I am not getting sand all over this house," you muttered, stepping out of your bottoms and shaking them out before dropping them by the door. Jake laughed from behind you, watching you shimmy out of your bikini top, wearing nothing but his oversized shirt from earlier in the day.

"Hmm," he hummed, walking up behind you. You barely had time to register the heat in his voice before his hands were on your waist, pulling you back against him. Sunghoon lingered in the corner, towel slung over one shoulder, watching quietly, but his eyes were dark, tracking the way Jake kissed down your neck, how you arched a little when Jake's hands slipped under the hem of his own shirt. "You're really just—doing this right here?" Sunghoon asked, but his voice was low, interested, not judging.

Jake glanced back at him, smirking. "What, you're shy now?" He asked as he drags you to the couch, and pressing you there, it's deliberate with his knee between your legs and his hands in your hair. His lips are warm and persistent, tongue sliding against yours like he's coaxing you open for him, like he has all the time in the world and he's planning to use it. Sunghoon's still nearby. You feel his presence before you feel his touch, his arm brushing against yours as he settles in behind you. His hand finds your bare thigh, warm and steady, sliding up just enough to make you breathe a little harder. Jake breaks the kiss to look at him. "You're just gonna sit there?" Sunghoon smirks a little. "You were busy."

"She's not just mine, you know?" Jake says, turning back to you, his mouth already hovering close again. "Let him kiss you, baby." You blink up at him, flushed, and then turn your head to Sunghoon. He doesn't ask. Just leans in and kisses you, slower than Jake, deeper, like he's learning you all over again. His hand rests on your cheek, fingers brushing your jaw. When Jake's hand slides under his shirt, teasing your nipples, Sunghoon deepens the kiss, swallowing the sound you make in your throat. Jake laughs quietly. "So obedient," he murmurs against your neck, biting gently. "You always let him kiss you like that when I'm watching?" You can't even answer. Their hands are everywhere now, Jake is palming your breast, Sunghoon's thumb stroking your thigh, pushing the hem of your shirt higher, higher. You shiver. Sunghoon pulls away just enough to look at you. "You okay?"

You nod quickly. "Yeah. I—yeah." Jake's grin sharpens. He leans in again, brushing his lips against your ear.

"Wanna show him what you got him for his birthday?"

You go still. Your breath catches hard in your throat. "Jake—" Sunghoon looks confused at first. "What?" Jake's voice is low now, hot against your ear. "Come on. Don't be shy. He's been so good today. You know he'll love it." You hesitate, heart pounding, your skin prickling as heat floods through you. Jake's fingers trail down your spine, featherlight.

"You said you wanted to be his gift, his birthday is in a few hours," he whispers, "so give it to him." You glance at Sunghoon. He's watching you closely now, his expression a mix of curiosity and hunger, like he's not sure what you're about to do but he wants it. Badly. So you shift on your knees, above Jake, and with shaky hands, you pull down the waistband of your shorts just enough. Enough for him to see it. The soft, glinting edge of the buttplug catches the light—delicate, blush pink, shaped like a bow. It fits snug between the curve of your cheeks, resting there with perfect intention. You shift slightly, thighs pressing together, back arched just enough.. "Is that...?"

"You can fuck her here, baby," Jake says behind you, tapping your ass cheek with one finger, his voice proud as he brushes your hair off your shoulder so he can kiss your neck. "Kept her like that all week. For you." Sunghoon doesn't move for a second. He's stunned. And then he exhales, almost like a groan, dragging a hand through his hair as his gaze drops to your ass again. "You're kidding," he mutters. "You actually..."

"She wanted to," Jake says, dragging his hand down your back, then squeezing. "She asked. You should've seen her last week, all squirmy and shy and so fucking wet the second I put it in. Had to eat her pussy so she'd stop whining." Sunghoon looks dazed. "Holy shit." You feel Jake smile against your shoulder. There's a long pause. Then the pad of Sunghoon's thumb trails lightly down the curve of your spine, featherlight, until he reaches just above the plug. He doesn't touch it. Not yet. He just lets his hand rest there.

"You've never done this before." It's not a question. He already knows. You shake your head, glancing at him over your shoulder. "No." Something in his expression shifts—something slow and low and almost solemn, like he's trying not to break something delicate in front of him. Jake watches him carefully. "Well?" he prompts. "You gonna thank her, birthday boy?" Sunghoon smiles faintly. It's crooked, quiet, full of everything he doesn't say out loud. "With you sitting over there like a smug little shit?"

Jake just grins wider. "Then come get your girl, Hoon."

"Told you he'd like it, baby." Jake says, nuzzling his nose in your neck. "Best birthday ever?"

"Best fucking birthday ever." Sunghoon muttered as he got on his knees, behind you, pressing you further into Jake so you were perfectly arched, with your ass and pussy directly in his face. He stared at the buttplug for a second longer before pulling it out slowly, watching how your body reacted to the object being removed from you. And audibly groaning at the whimper you make. The moment his tongue made contact with your dripping heat, your entire body tensed, a quiet gasp slipping from your lips as your nails dug into Jake's shoulders. "Shit," he hissed under his breath, his voice vibrating against your skin. "You're unreal."

Your lashes fluttered as you melted into the feeling, a soft moan escaping while your hips instinctively rolled toward his mouth. Sunghoon shifted lower, tongue diving deep before dragging back up slowly, deliberately. Then he started mouthing at you—messy, open-mouthed kisses that left your thighs trembling. His tongue circled your clit lazily, then slid back down again, tasting everything. "I didn't even know I wanted this," he murmured, voice husky, sending a chill up your spine. One of his hands splayed across your lower back, gently coaxing you closer to Jake, who held you steady like an anchor in the storm.

"Easy," Jake whispered, brushing a kiss to your temple. "Just breathe, baby."

Then Sunghoon's tongue slipped somewhere new—somewhere you thought the plug had prepared you for. A startled cry ripped from your throat as your body jolted, clutching at Jake in shock. The sensation was foreign, startling, and then the pleasure began to bloom. Sunghoon held you open with both hands, tongue exploring without hesitation, while Jake's fingers found your clit and started working slow, maddening circles over it. "That's it," Jake murmured, watching your expression melt. "That's my good girl. You like that?" You tried to respond, to say anything, but then Sunghoon pushed deeper, his tongue breaching you completely, and a broken, helpless moan tore free from your chest.

"Ah—Hoonie!" The feeling was indescribable—so intense and overwhelming, your mind could barely keep up. He moved between your openings with practiced ease—one second his tongue was circling your tightest rim, the next he was dragging a slow, obscene lick down to your soaked pussy. A low groan rumbled from his chest, lips slick as he devoured everything you gave him, like he couldn't get enough.

"Can I use my finger?" he asked, voice rough with want. You nodded with a shaky inhale, and Jake brushed another kiss to your cheek, his fingers still rubbing tight, unrelenting circles over your clit that made your thighs tremble.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Sunghoon muttered, one slick-coated finger gently circling your puckered entrance, playing with the sensitive muscle but holding back from fully pushing in—just yet.

When your body finally softens against Sunghoon's, he eases a finger in, pushing just past the entrance before pausing. "Do you want me to stop?" he asks, his voice quieter than usual, checking your reaction. Your answer was muffled, your face buried in the curve of Jake's neck, a quiet, shaky, "No." Jake lifts his head to speak for you. "She said no." Sunghoon's finger presses in deeper, slick with your arousal as he gently works you open. His movements are slow, precise, and devoted—though the way his jaw clenched betrays just how badly he wanted to lose control. He lets out a sharp breath through his nose as he watches the way your spine arcs, your body pressed close to Jake's, the tight clench of muscle around his finger making his cock twitch in anticipation.

"Just like that," he murmurs. You inhale sharply when a second finger slips in beside the first, stretching you further. The sensation is unfamiliar, even bordering on too much—but his patience grounds you. Jake's fingers lazily circle your clit while his mouth trails along your collarbone, muttering soft praise against your skin. "Perfect, baby. You're doing so perfect." The moment Sunghoon is confident you're ready, and satisfied with how pilant you've become, he withdraws with shaking hands and fumbles at the waistband of his shorts. His cock sprang free, red and swollen, the tension in his body palpable as he positions himself behind you. One hand sliding to your lower back, gently pushing you down into Jake's chest while his mouth ghosted over your shoulder.

"Go slow, Hoonie," Jake whispers, tilting your face to his and licking at your bottom lip in a sweet distraction. Sunghoon gives him a subtle nod, and for a moment, it really looked like he'd listen—until his palm lands hard across your ass with a sharp slap. "Ah!"

"You've been walking around with a plug in you all week like a filthy little slut," he growled. "You knew I'd lose my mind over it, didn't you, baby?" One hand grips your waist firmly while the other guides his cock to your entrance. The first press of him inside has you whimpering instantly. Jake was quick to soothe you though, brushing his lips against your ear. "It's okay, princess," "it's gonna feel so good real soon, I promise." He lowers his head to capture your nipple in his mouth, gently sucking as you try to catch your breath. Behind you, Sunghoon groans, full-bodied and desperate. "Fucking hell. So tight—Jesus Christ." His restraint was unraveling by the second. Jake's hand trails down, spreading you wider to give Sunghoon better access, and the sound that tears from him is downright feral. "Oh, fuck—Jake—yeah, just like that."

Jake doesn't stop. One hand holds you open while the other resumes slow, deliberate circles over your clit, making your thighs tremble. "Yunnie—" you gasp, voice cracking as you whine his name into his ear.

He smiles against your cheek. "Yeah, pretty girl? You like that?" "You like Hoonie fucking your tight little hole open?" You nod frantically, eyes glassy and unfocused, pleasure washing over your features like a   fever. Jake coos sweetly, lips ghosting over your cheek.

"Aww, does it feel good, baby?" he asks, fingers never slowing on your clit. Your voice comes out barely above a whisper, breathless and shaky. "Faster..." That one word sends a ripple through the air. Neither of them ask who you're talking to—both of them just react. Jake's fingers quicken, pressing tighter, circling faster, more precise. Behind you, Sunghoon grunts low in his throat and adjusts his grip on your hips, driving into you with sharper, deeper thrusts now, dragging loud moans from your throat with every push. The stretch has your legs trembling, your body sandwiched between them, completely overwhelmed. Jake kisses the corner of your mouth, not breaking rhythm for a second. "So needy, huh? You want both of us to ruin you, is that it?"

Sunghoon's fingers dig harder into your waist. "Look at her," he rasps. "Can barely keep her eyes open." Your breath stutters again as Jake slides two fingers into your mouth, letting you suck them automatically. "That's it," Jake whispered. "Good girl. Just take it."

Sunghoon's hips snap harder now, every thrust making your body jolt forward into Jake's chest. He hisses at the feel of you clenching, practically growling through his teeth. "She's squeezing me so tight."

"Because she's close," Jake smirked, pulling his fingers from your mouth to pinch your nipple. "Aren't you, pretty baby?" You can't even speak—just another frantic nod, a sob of pleasure tearing out of your throat as the pace refuses to let up. It's too much, but you don't want it to stop. You can't even imagine asking them to stop. And neither of them plan to. Just as your legs begin to shake, as the pleasure surging to unbearable heights, Sunghoon grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you upright off Jake's chest with startling ease. You gasp, dizzy from the sudden movement, your body still fluttering from the stimulation. "Open your mouth, baby" he orders, voice dark and low. "Suck Yunnie off." Jake's eyes widen for a split second, but he was already pulling his shorts down, cock flushed and leaking. He guides it to your lips, and the second you part them, he groans—loud, shameless, head tilting back as he sinks into your warmth. "Fuck—so obedient, baby," Jake pants, cupping your face as you take him deeper. "God, you're perfect. Just like that." You moan around him, tongue swirling, letting him fuck into your mouth with shallow thrusts. But the moment is cut sharp when Sunghoon's palm lands on your ass again—hard and punishing. You jolt, muffled whimper vibrating around Jake's cock. "She's so good," Sunghoon mumbles behind you like he can't believe it, voice wrecked, hips slamming into you now with barely restrained aggression. "Tight little hole—fuck, I can't..."

Your body is bouncing between them, stretched, full, completely claimed. Jake is panting through gritted teeth, hands trembling as he tries to control himself. "She's gonna make me cum—shit, you're gonna make me—" Sunghoon growls, wrapping an arm around your waist and driving into you so deep your entire body shudders. "Don't you dare finish before her." Jake groans like it physically hurts to stop but pulls back slightly, just enough for you to suck the tip, desperate and messy, while Sunghoon fucks you into the edge.

"You close, baby?" Sunghoon asks, voice broken. "You gonna cum all over my cock like a good little slut?"

Your moan is the only answer he needs. Sunghoon reaches down himself to circle your clit with practiced fingers and you absolutely break—body tensing, legs trembling, a high-pitch cry escaping past Jake's cock as your orgasm rips through you like a violent wave. "That's it," Jake whispers, watching your eyes roll back, "Good girl, fuck—look at you."

Sunghoon curses under his breath, hips stuttering as he finally lets go, spilling deep inside you with a loud moan, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. You're a trembling, boneless mess between them—used, adored, completely undone. But your mouth never stops sucking Jake off, his grip tightens in your hair as your lips work over him, cheeks hollowed, eyes glassy from overstimulation. He was already close—your tongue too eager, your mouth too warm, and your throat too obedient. "Fuck—gonna cum," he says, trying to pull back, but you suck harder, moaning around him as if daring him to finish there. "Wait—baby, swallow it—like I like—" Too late. You already were. Your throat bobs with each swallow, taking every last drop before he even finishes the command. Jake stares down at you, chest heaving. "Jesus Christ," he breathes, his cock twitching in your mouth. "That was so fucking hot."

When he finally slips free, you look dazed, lips swollen and glossy with spit, eyes fluttering as if trying to hold on to consciousness. Sunghoon still has you gripped by the waist, slowly pulling out, and you whimper from the sheer sensitivity, his cum immediately beginning to drip from your hole. Your legs give out but they catch you before you hit the floor, gently guiding you down onto the couch. You collapse sideways, chest rising and falling fast, totally limp, dazed and trembling. Neither of them speak for a second—both staring at the way Sunghoon's cum leaks from your freshly used hole, trailing slow and thick down your thighs and onto the leather. Jake adjusts himself, sweat-slick and still catching his breath, watching you like you were art. "Fuck," he whispers. "That's—Fuck."

Sunghoon stays crouched beside you, thumb brushing gently over your hip. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Quiet and intense with his jaw clenched.

Your breathing is shallow now, your body utterly spent, limbs heavy and tingling from the overstimulation. The room is silent save for Jake's slow, steady breaths where he's slumped back against the couch, almost half-asleep and completely blissed out. Sunghoon doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you, eyes slowly sweeping over your trembling frame, the marks on your hips, the slick mess between your thighs. Then he moves gently, one arm sliding beneath your knees, the other curling behind your back.

You can’t even protest as he picked you up, bridal-style, tucking your head against his chest. "Are you sore?" he murmurs as he carries you into the bathroom. His voice has lost all its edge, soft and concerned now, like every piece of him is now tuned to you. "Do you need anything? Water?" You shake your head sleepily, just clinging to him. He kisses the top of your head pulling you into the warm shower. He’s so careful with you, moving slowly, running his soapy hands down your back and legs, washing your hair, and massaging your scalp, whispering how good you were, how proud he is of you. You barely say a word, just hum softly and lean into him, letting him take care of everything.

Afterward, he towel-dries you with gentle strokes, slips one of his oversized shirts over your head, and helps you into bed. He comes back out into the living room freshly showered in only his sweats, glancing over at the couch where Jake is still out cold. "Jake," he calls, voice low but firm. "Go shower. Come to bed." Jake grumbles, half-laughs, but drags himself up, muttering something about needing ten minutes and a gallon of water. By the time he joins you both in bed, the lights were dim, and Sunghoon has you cradled against his chest, your body finally starting to relax in the warmth and comfort of his hold. Jake slides in behind you, arm draped lazily over your waist. You blink up at Sunghoon, your lips brushing his cheek in a slow, grateful kiss. "Happy birthday, Hoonie." He stills. And then he smiles—soft and rare, a kind of vulnerable happiness blooming in his eyes as he looks down at you. "You really are everything, baby." He whispers back.

The light spilling in through the white linen curtains is soft and golden, the kind that only happens near the ocean—quiet, slow, and drenched in warmth. You wake to the scent of salt and boyish musk, buried between the two people you've come to crave like breath. Jake is sprawled on your left, arm thrown haphazardly around your waist, his cheek smushed against the pillow. Sunghoon is to your right, chest bare, lashes fluttering ever so slightly as he sleeps. You feel the dull ache between your thighs—the kind you've come to love, the kind that reminds you of everything they did to you the night before. It's intimate, almost sweet in its soreness. Like a love letter written in bruises and breathless moans.

Carefully, you shift to sit up, brushing your hair from your face. But in your movement, your hand slips just slightly across the waistband of Sunghoon's boxers, pressing against the very obvious morning effect there. He groans softly through a smirk, eyes still closed. "Didn't get enough yesterday, pretty girl?" His voice is deep and gravelly with sleep, thick like honey. You flush but smile, heart fluttering. Leaning down, you kiss him gently, your lips brushing his like a secret. "Happy birthday, baby," you whisper, fingers brushing his hair back. He finally opens his eyes, they're glassy with sleep but locked on you. One hand snakes around your waist and pulls you down so you're flush against his chest, sprawled on top of him. "Thank you," he murmurs, hands splayed across your back. "You're the best gift I've ever gotten."

Behind you, Jake groans and stretches, the sheets rustling. "Ugh, what time is it?" he mumbles, voice muffled against the pillow. Then he turns, eyes still half-shut, and reaches over your body to cup Sunghoon's jaw. He leans in and kisses him, lazy and affectionate. "Happy birthday, babe," he mutters, his voice low and warm. Sunghoon chuckles beneath you, the vibration rippling through your chest. "Best way to wake up," he says. You're wrapped up in limbs and heat and love—one boy beneath you, one boy beside you, both of them looking at you like you're theirs. And you are, you can tell in the way  Sunghoon's fingers are lazy where they trace patterns on your bare back, and you're still laying on top of him when he speaks, voice muffled slightly by your hair. "So," he hums, "what should we do today?" You lift your head just a little, looking down at him, lips brushing his jaw. Jake's arm tightens around your waist from behind, like he doesn't want to give you up just yet. You hum too, thinking, but Jake's the one who answers first.

"We could invite a few of our friends up," he says casually, his voice still thick with sleep. "Just something chill. Intimate." Sunghoon snorts beneath you. "No one's gonna drive six hours to celebrate my birthday." You stifle a laugh and mumble, "I don't even have any friends," your tone a little too dry, the snort at the end giving away how little you care. Jake groans like you've personally offended him. "That's not true," he sighs, leaning up on one elbow to look at you, brow furrowed. "You have us." You twist around to meet his eyes and raise a brow. "You're not my friends." Your tone is calm, almost thoughtful. "Actually, I've been thinking...I kind of want to make new ones. Maybe girls, I need to be around less testosterone."

There's a pause. Sunghoon grunts underneath you like he's just been stabbed, his hands tightening ever so slightly on your hips. Jake scoffs. "You say girls like we'd allow it be guys."

"Jungwon's cool," Jake adds after a beat, tone a little brighter, like he's offering a genuine solution. "We could all hang out more with him when we get back." That earns an actual laugh from Sunghoon, sharp and smug. "Why are you pushing this Jungwon agenda so hard?" Jake's head snaps to him. "Because he's sweet," he says, almost defensive, like he's ready to argue. "And normal. He's not weirdly obsessed with stock prices or adrenaline or—" he gestures toward Sunghoon, "—being emotionally constipated." You groan and start crawling over Sunghoon's chest, pushing your hair back as you rise up on your knees. "I'll pass on Jungwon, I want girlfriends, " you say with a sigh, standing at the edge of the bed and stretching, "also because I can't even look him in the eye without picturing you—" You turn and point at Sunghoon, "—bending him over." Jake chokes on a laugh while Sunghoon groans, covering his face with a pillow. You grin wickedly, bend at the waist in full theatrical performance, and moan, "Sunghoon—ahh, fuck, right there!" tossing your head back dramatically like you imagine Jungwon must've. Jake loses it, flopping onto his back in laughter, and Sunghoon pulls the pillow off just to glare playfully at you.

"Minx," he mutters. Jake props himself up against the headboard, sheet sliding low on his hips, eyes still a little puffy with sleep but already gleaming with mischief. "Okay but seriously," he starts, raking a hand through his hair. "If we do invite people, it could be fun. Just a small thing. Jay, maybe. Jungwon. Heeseung, obviously." my Sunghoon groans again. "Obviously." Jake shrugs. "And I guess that means Yunjin would have to come too," he tacks on, his voice dropping into something heavier—flat, reluctant, with a bitterness he doesn't bother hiding. You pause mid-stretch in the doorway, your hand frozen on the bathroom doorframe. The annoyance bubbles up before you can swallow it. "Okay, can one of you just say it already?" Jake lifts a brow, watching you. You cross your arms. "What is it with you two and Yunjin? You act like she poisoned your drinks every time her name comes up." Sunghoon doesn't answer—just makes a face and throws his arm over his eyes like he can't even deal with the subject.

Jake, on the other hand, doesn't miss a beat. He stretches both arms over his head, tone dry, "Aside from the fact that she called you a whore to your face and is a raging cunt?" He glances at you, all faux innocence. "Not much, really." Your jaw drops a little. "Jake."

"What?" he says, eyes wide. "You were there. You heard her." Sunghoon lifts his arm from his face just to mutter, "He's not wrong."

Jake points. "See? Thank you." You roll your eyes and walk back over to the bed, standing at the foot of it now, arms still crossed. "She's my cousin."

"She's a bitch," Jake corrects smoothly, laying back against the headboard again. "Family ties don't exempt her from that." Sunghoon nods in agreement, lips tugging into a little smirk like he's secretly enjoying your disbelief. Jake squints at you, suddenly more serious. "You know we'd never say anything if it wasn't about you. You're too nice to call her out, so someone has to." You blink, caught off guard. Their protectiveness always hits a little harder when you're not expecting it. Jake sighs dramatically, kicking the sheet off his legs. "Just think about it, okay? Birthday gathering. Limited guest list. Preferably minus raging narcissists."

Sunghoon chimes in, eyes still closed, "She can come. As long as she stays six feet away from my girl and doesn't speak unless spoken to." Jake lifts his hand like he's making a pact. "Seconded." You mutter under your breath, turning for the bathroom again. "I can't even deal with you two right now." And from behind you, with a laugh in his voice—Jake calls out to you, "Baby! Come back!"

Turns out Jake was right—there is a very short list of things people wouldn't do for Sunghoon. Even driving six hours just because Jake sent out a half-assed invite to a beach house birthday? Not off the table, apparently. Only a handful of people came—it was still intimate, just louder now. Warmer. A little more chaotic. Heeseung showed up first, of course, with Yunjin clinging to his arm and sunglasses on despite it being overcast. You'd said hi to her, trying to be polite, trying to keep things smooth, and she didn't not respond...she just sort of tilted her head and said, "Bold outfit choice," before letting her eyes skim you up and down like you were something she'd never choose from the rack. And when you'd mentioned casually that Sunghoon had picked it out, she made that face. The one that was all tight-lipped and pinched like she'd just bitten into something sour and needed everyone to know.

Jake had seen it too. Of course he had. And he'd pulled you away before you could respond, guiding you across the patio by the small of your back with a too-sweet, "Let's get you away from the rotting energy, yeah?" He introduced you to Jay next—smirking a little as he did it, like he was proud to show you off. Jay had been polite, chill, charming in that low-effort way that felt like it came naturally to him. You liked him instantly. Then Jungwon pulled up, a little later, looking tan and soft and friendly, and you weren't sure what you were expecting—but it wasn't the way he smiled when he saw you. It was easy, bright, like he actually wanted to be there. Like he wanted to talk to you. He complimented your outfit right away. "You look amazing, by the way," he even asked how you were like he meant it. And you wanted to like him. You almost did. But every time he looked at you with those kind eyes, all you could think about was Sunghoon's hands on him, Sunghoon's mouth on his neck, the sound he must've made when he came and that was the problem.

No matter how nice he was, you couldn't unsee it. You couldn't unknow it.

It’s well into the afternoon now, the sun has started its slow descent over the ocean, and the birthday energy has shifted from sleepy and sweet to loose-limbed and sticky with alcohol. You're at the drinks table trying to stop Jake from going too hard, fingers wrapped around his wrist as he sloppily pours a round of shots he doesn't need. "Jake," you murmur, half-laughing, half-serious, "no more." He grins at you with that dangerous twinkle in his eye, the one that always means trouble, and holds a full shot glass just out of your reach. "But it's a celebration," he says with a mock pout, swaying slightly as he clutches the edge of the table for balance. You reach up to snatch the glass, and just then, he accidentally tilts it forward, spilling cold liquor straight onto your bare chest, where the low-cut neckline of your bikini top leaves skin exposed. "Oh nooo," he says, faux-gasping with a shit-eating grin before he dips his head low, mouth hot and wet against your skin as he licks the shot clean with a giggle. "Can't waste good tequila."

"Jake!" you squeal, swatting at him while laughing. You're barely able to regain control of the situation when Sunghoon appears at Jake's side, calm and unimpressed as he hands him a bottle of water. "That's enough," he says, low and even. Jake—drunk and flushed and still grinning—immediately drops the shot glass and takes the water with a nod, like Sunghoon's word is law. "Okay," he says softly, like a scolded dog who doesn't mind being scolded. He flops down onto a nearby stool, still sipping, and you follow, your fingers brushing gently through his hair. He hums under your touch, his lashes fluttering. Then, out of nowhere, he mumbles, "I love you. So much." It's quiet but genuine, a little slurred but certain. You smile, brushing his bangs off his forehead, your chest warm with it. But then out of the corner of your eye you see her. Yunjin. Leaning a little too close to Jay on the terrace chairs, her fingers brushing his arm like she doesn't even realize she's doing it. Her legs crossed just so, laughing a little too loudly at whatever he said. And Jay's not exactly pulling away either. Your gaze shifts instinctively and catches Sunghoon's. He's already looking, but not at you. His eyes are locked on Heeseung, who's walking toward the pair now with a stiff jaw and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

He comes to a stop in front of them, looking down at Jay like he's trying to make sense of it. "Dude," Heeseung says, his voice casual but cold, "why are you so all over my girlfriend?" Jay blinks up at him, smile faltering. And just like that, the tension at the table spikes—sharp, quiet, and full of all the things that haven't been said yet. Jay's eyes flick to Heeseung's, expression hardening into something mean and brash, so different from the charming guy you met just hours ago, the one Jake had introduced so proudly. "I'm all over your girlfriend?" Jay scoffs, standing now, his tone loud and sharp enough to cut through the sound of the waves. "She's the one who came onto me. She always comes onto me." There's a shift. A drop in pressure like the air's been sucked out of the house. Jake, still perched on the stool beside you, squints and lets out a half-drunk, "Uh oh." You slap your hand over his mouth without even looking.

Heeseung's jaw flexes. "What the fuck do you mean always? She always comes onto you?" Jay throws his hands up, exasperated. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone knows your girlfriend is a fucking slut. You're just the only one too blind to see it." Gasps break out like shattering glass. Someone actually says "Oh my god." The music comically stutters to a stop. And Yunjin? She just blinks but doesn't even deny it. Your pulse is thudding in your ears as Jay keeps going, eyes lit up like he's been holding this in for way too long. "Why are you even coming after me?" he snaps, stepping forward, "You didn't seem to have a problem when she threw herself at Sunghoon too."

Silence. Your feel your body go ice cold, turning your head slowly toward Sunghoon, your mouth dry, your breath caught somewhere deep in your throat. But he's already looking at you. Already shaking his head, already panicking. "Baby," he says, voice trembling for the first time ever, "I swear—it didn't happen. She tried, yeah, but it didn't fucking happen." He turns to Jay, eyes wild. "Jay! Are you fucking kidding me right now!?" But it's too late. Heeseung steps back like he's been physically hit, eyes wide and locked on Sunghoon now. "Are you fucking serious?" he breathes, voice deadly quiet. "You knew?" You can feel it, the moment the entire mood shatters—cracking open into something ugly and raw. Everyone's watching now. No one's moving. No one dares to breathe. And you’re standing there, still stuck on that single, damning word. Tried.

Jake, still half-drunk and slow on the uptake, lets out another one of his too-loud, too-poorly-timed laughs. "I mean...Yunjin is kind of a slut," he mumbles with a shrug, like that'll somehow ease the tension. It doesn't. Yunjin snaps her gaze to him so fast her sunglasses nearly fall off. And that's when it breaks. That last thread holding her in place. "I'm the slut?" she hisses, taking a step forward and jabbing a finger in your direction. "Not my cousin who you and Sunghoon turned into your fucking sex slave?" The air splits. Everyone flinches. Jake immediately sobers like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. He stands, voice low and sharp, "Watch your fucking mouth." Sunghoon's right behind him, jaw clenched. "Don't you dare talk about her like that." But you're already stepping back. Heart pounding. Face burning. Stomach lurching. The words crawl under your skin like fire, because this—this sick, twisted narrative—is what they've been hiding. What they've been keeping from you. Your voice comes out clipped, shaking. "Don't. Don't defend me."

Yunjin smirks like a predator who's smelled blood. "Ooou," she purrs mockingly, "look who finally grew a spine. All it took was getting dicked down, uh?" Your fists curl at your sides, and Jake growls something under his breath, but Yunjin's not finished. "You're so fucking pathetic," she spits. "You let them touch you. You let them fuck you after everything they did. You think that makes you powerful now? Makes you special? Please. You were a joke before, and now you're just a joke who moans." There's a second where no one says anything—where it feels like the whole world tilts, and even the ocean forgets to crash. But then someone speaks, "Come on, Yunjin." Jungwon. Calm, smooth, and a little amused. Arms crossed. Leaning casually against the side of the bar like he's been watching a game unfold. "You're just jealous," he says with a laugh. "You couldn't have either of them if you tried." He smiles, then adds, just to twist the knife, "And turns out—you did."

Jungwon’s words don’t seem to stop her though, it seems like she can’t stop, like she’s smelled your weakness. Spitting venom with a bitter little smile, fully convinced that out of everyone here, you're the easiest to break. "You act so fucking innocent," she snaps, taking a step closer, "but you're just as desperate as the rest of us. Probably worse. Newsflash, cousin—being passed between two guys doesn't make you liberated. It makes you a fucking whore." For a beat, it seems like no one will say anything, no one will move. But you do. You calmly step forward and Yunjin barely has time to react before your hand flies across her face, hard and open-handed. The crack of the slap echoes over the stunned silence of the house. She gasps, stumbling slightly, blinking like she can't quite believe it happened. But she recovers quickly, her face twisting in fury as she lunges at you, teeth bared, hands reaching like claws. Sunghoon is faster than her though, throwing himself between you just as she lashes out, his back turned to her. She slams her hands against his shoulders, but he doesn't budge. His only focus is you. His eyes find yours instantly, wild and pleading. "I can't believe you," you whisper, voice low and shaking and full of heartbreak. Then you turn and walk away. "Baby—wait, Y/N!" Sunghoon calls after you, voice cracking. He spins to follow, panic flooding his face. Jake plants a hand on Yunjin's shoulder and shoves her back, firm but not cruel. "Get a grip," he mutters, then glances toward Heeseung, voice low. "Get your girl." But Heeseung just lets out a short, bitter laugh. "I'm done with this bitch," he says, already walking toward the edge of the deck. "Jay can have her. Or Sunghoon. Or whoever the fuck else she tried to fuck while we were together." He doesn't look back. Just walks straight toward the path that leads out of the house. And behind you, everything collapses.

The drive back from the beach house feels interminable. You're curled up in the back seat, forehead pressed to the window, headphones in, eyes trained on nothing. Every few minutes, Jake glances at you through the rearview mirror. Sunghoon tries to look back, but you never meet his eyes. The tension is so thick it might as well be physical, like a wall separating you from them. They try though, Jake's voice is quiet at first. "You okay back there?" You don't respond. "Do you want something to eat?" Sunghoon adds. "We could stop somewhere."

"Not hungry," you mumble. Jake sighs after a long pause. "Princess, come on. Just talk to us." You don't, you plug your headphones in tighter and shut your eyes, trying to tune them out. And the silence stretches all the way home. Arriving at the apartment, you still don't say a word. You're out of the car and up the elevator before they've even made out of the car. You beeline for Sunghoon’s bedroom, flinging open the closet, and yanking clothes off hangers, fast and frantic. Your suitcase hits the bed with a thud. Shoes. Pajamas. Toothbrush. Anything you might need. "Wait—baby," Sunghoon's voice rushes in from the doorway. "What are you doing?" You don't answer, you don't even look at him. "Don't do this. Please," he says, stepping closer, voice almost cracking just a little. "We can talk about it. We can work through this."

Jake appears behind him, brows furrowed. "Don't let what Yunjin said get in your head. She's just jealous. Jungwon said it—she was trying to get a rise out of you." You freeze, your back to them. One breath. Then another. "It's not just about Yunjin," you snap, spinning around. "It's everything." They both fall silent. "We’re about to go back to school and you think people won't talk? You think they won't look at me like I'm just some kind of—" your voice breaks, "—some kind of toy you two share?" Sunghoon flinches. Jake's eyes go wide. "There was never any time for me to adjust. I was just—thrown into your world. Your friends, your rules, your dynamic. And I thought I could keep up. I really did." You're breathless now. Holding back tears. You zip up your bag with trembling hands. "I just—" you whisper, barely audible, "—I just need space to figure things out."

Jake takes a step forward, jaw clenched. "You can't do that." But before he can finish, Sunghoon cuts in gently, "Where will you go?" His voice is full of worry. "You can't seriously be thinking of going back to your apartment. Not with Yunjin still there—"

"I'm going to my parents'," you say.

You're zipping your overnight bag when you feel their eyes on you again. They don't say anything at first. Just watch you move, like they still can't believe this is happening. Sunghoon breaks the silence. Quiet. Heavy. "Fine." Jake snaps his head toward him. "Fine?" You can’t look at either of them. Jake steps forward. "For how long?" he asks you, voice low, desperate. "A few days? A week? What does space even mean?" Before you can respond, Sunghoon speaks again—steady, but restrained, like it's costing him something. "I'll drop you off at the train station." Jake turns on him. "Are you kidding me, Sunghoon?"

Sunghoon doesn't waver. "She said she needs space." Jake scoffs, almost laughing in disbelief. "So that's it? You're just gonna let her leave?"

"She's not a prisoner, Jake," Sunghoon says, and for the first time, there's a faint edge in his voice. "She said she needs space, so we give her space." Jake doesn't reply. His jaw tightens, like he's fighting the urge to yell, cry, beg—maybe all three. You swallow the lump in your throat and finally lift your eyes. "Thank you," you whisper to Sunghoon. He nods once, jaw clenched, eyes never leaving yours. Jake's arms fall to his sides. He looks so small all of a sudden, like he knows it’s been decided.

You genuinely don't remember much of the drive to the train station. Not the hum of the engine, not the silence in the car, not the way Sunghoon kept glancing at you like he was memorizing you for the last time.

You just remember the feeling. That sinking ache in your chest like guilt and grief wrapped into one, mix with the fear that you were doing the wrong thing, even though every part of you screamed that it was the only thing you could do. Sunghoon carried your bag to the platform. Jake didn't come. When your train pulled in, Sunghoon hugged you so tightly you could barely breathe, and whispered, "Please come back soon," like it physically hurt him to let go. You cried quietly the whole ride home, cheek pressed to the cold window. Your phone buzzed the moment the train started moving.

yunnie: I'm sorry. Please don't shut me out. We love you. I love you.

You didn't respond, just cause you didn’t know what to say. When your parents picked you up, it was like nothing had happened. Like you hadn't fallen apart. Like you weren't carrying pieces of your broken heart in your duffel bag. They were warm, soft and so blissfully unaware. Your mom made your favorite dinner that night. Your dad teased you about how pale you looked. They smiled. They laughed. They welcomed you home. And for a second, you almost believed you could pretend again. That none of it had happened. That you were just a girl coming home from school for a break. But then you lay in your old bed, and the tears came again. Every night, you scrolled through their messages—Jake's in the beginning, desperate and unfiltered. Sunghoon's every single day without fail, soft voice notes whispering I miss you, angel. I miss you so much. Sometimes he told you what he ate that day or he’d tell you a memory that reminded him of you. Other times he just said goodnight.

You read every word. Listened to every audio. And then, you locked your phone, turned your face to your pillow. And let your heartbreak sit with you like a ghost in your childhood room.

It's been weeks, maybe. Jake has lost track of time.

Sunghoon marks every day by your silence. You're gone—and everything's gone quiet in the worst way. The apartment feels too big without your voice, without your footsteps, without the soft way you'd call for one of them from the kitchen or the bedroom or the shower. Without you, it all feels cold. Stale. Off.

Sunghoon texts you every morning and every night.

He sends voice notes sometimes—soft, unpolished things that trail off at the end because he doesn't know how to stop talking to you without hearing something back. You rarely reply. When you do, it's polite. Surface-level. Enough to let him know you're alive, but not enough to let him in.

Jake tried too, at first. Tried calling, texting, joking, even begging. The first few days, he camped out on the couch, checking his phone every five minutes, voice breaking whenever he mentioned your name. He left your favorite snacks on the counter, like you'd somehow walk through the door and see them and forget everything. But after a week of silence, he started to withdraw. Got quieter. Moodier. By the second week, he stopped texting altogether. He still keeps your contact pinned at the top of his phone—still opens your thread sometimes just to stare at the last message you sent—but he doesn't send anything new.

Sunghoon notices. They don't say it, but something in them has started to split. They used to move in sync—choreographed without trying. Now, they barely speak unless it's about logistics. Dinners are eaten in silence. The living room feels colder, they both start sleeping in their own rooms instead of choosing one randomly to sleep in like when you were around. You were the thing holding it all together and now that you're gone, nothing feels right. It seems like neither of them know how to fix it without you.

The apartment is dark when Jake stumbles in, the front door clicking shut behind him with a careless thud. He kicks off his shoes, jacket half hanging off his shoulder, cologne and alcohol clinging to him like a second skin. Sunghoon is on the couch, still awake. The TV is on, but the screen's silent—just soft blue light casting shadows across his face. His jaw clenches when he hears Jake. "What time is it?" he asks, not turning his head. Jake scoffs, sways a little as he heads toward the kitchen. "Relax, dad."

"You've been out every night this week." Jake yanks open the fridge, grabs a water, slams it shut. "So?"

Sunghoon finally stands, voice sharp now. "Jake. What the fuck are you doing?" Jake turns to him, eyes glassy but burning. "What do you mean what am I doing?"

"You're spiraling," Sunghoon bites out. "Coming home drunk, ignoring everyone, ignoring me—" Jake throws his hands up. "Oh my god, fuck off."

"What happened to fighting for her?" Sunghoon's voice cracks around the edges. "What happened to not giving up—?"

"She left, Sunghoon!" Jake explodes. "She abandoned us. You think I'm acting out? No. I'm reacting. To the fact that the girl I love walked away and she's probably not fucking coming back!" Sunghoon flinches. But he holds his ground. Steps forward. "We can't give up." Jake laughs bitterly. "We already lost her. You just haven't admitted it to yourself."

"No," Sunghoon snaps. "You're giving up because that's easier than sitting in the pain. Because if you stay fucking drunk and distracted, you don't have to feel how much it hurts. But I do. Every second of every day." Jake says nothing, he truly can’t. And for a long moment, the only sound in the apartment is both of them breathing hard, like they've been fighting for hours. Like the heartbreak is something they're choking on. "She's not gone," Sunghoon whispers finally, more to himself than Jake. "She's just...figuring things out." Jake doesn't respond. He just walks past him and disappears into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Sunghoon's eyes fall to his phone on the coffee table, where one more message sits unsent. He hits send anyway. "Goodnight, baby. We miss you."

Sunghoon loves Jake. He really does. But these days, he can barely look at him without feeling like he might snap. He knows Jake's hurting too, but it's different. Jake hurts like a wildfire—chaotic, messy, scorching everything in its path. Sunghoon's hurt is quieter. Slower. The kind that sits in the corners of a room and never really leaves. He now spends most of his days avoiding the apartment. There's a small café down the street—one with frosted windows and chipped mugs, where the baristas don't ask questions and let him linger too long. He sits there for hours, headphones in, untouched coffee cooling in front of him. Watching people walk by the window. Wondering if you're eating enough. If you've made new friends like you said you wanted to. If you miss him. He wonders what he could’ve done better, over and over, until the memory of Jake's voice in the middle of that fight resurfaces, she left, Sunghoon. And he hates it—because maybe Jake's right. You did leave and maybe you're not coming back. He's staring blankly at his phone when it buzzes against the tabletop. One message. Your name. Your contact photo. His breath catches, his heart slipping straight to the pit of his stomach. He fumbles unlocking the screen, hands shaking so badly he nearly drops it. And there it is.

You: hi hoonie.

Two words is all it takes to make the whole café blur, to make his vision fog, dissolving the noise and shifting his entire world back into place—just two words. He stares at the screen like it might disappear if he blinks too hard. Then he types back, trembling, teeth clenched, breath caught somewhere in his throat.

Hoon: hi baby. god i missed you.

And for the first time in weeks, he feels like maybe he's not drowning anymore. His fingers are flying to type the second your reply comes in.

You: i missed you too. and jake. how's he been?

Sunghoon stares at the screen, his chest tight. His thumb hovers, unsure how to answer. He could lie, he could protect Jake a little. But he knows you deserve more than that.

Hoon: not good. we're not good without you.

He hesitates a little before adding typing more,

Hoon: i've been missing you so bad, baby. did you listen to the messages?

There's a pause. He watches the three dots blink in and out for what feels like hours. Then your response lights up the screen:

You: yes. i listened to all of them. every single one.

And then another message comes in

You: if you still want me, i think i'm ready to come home.

His breath catches so hard it almost hurts. He doesn't even realize he's already typing, his hands trembling, a sound of pure relief breaking in his chest like a dam cracked wide open.

Hoon: of course baby girl. yes. yes please. come home. please. what time should i come get you from the station? i'll be there early. i'll wait. just tell me.

He stares at your name on the screen, eyes glassy, smiling like he hasn't in weeks. For the first time in what feels like forever, the ache in his chest finally eases cause you’re coming home.

The train hisses behind you as it pulls away, the last trace of your long, quiet ride home vanishing down the track. You stand there on the platform, suitcase at your side, arms wrapped tightly around yourself—not because it's cold, but because your heart is beating so hard, it needs something to hold onto. You see him before he sees you. Sunghoon steps out of his car and into the station, black hoodie pulled low, hands stuffed into his pockets. He looks around like he's searching for air. His eyes are sharp, darting across the crowd with a kind of frantic hope. You watch him scan the line of waiting people, his lips pressed into a tight line, until his gaze catches on you. And it looks like everything in him melts. His shoulders drop, face softening instantly, mouth parting slightly as he takes a single breath and then starts walking—fast. Not running, but fast, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he takes too long. You don't move. You just watch him close the distance, watch the way his eyes don't leave yours even for a second. And when he reaches you, he doesn't say anything right away. He just pulls you in.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, strong and warm and all-consuming. Your feet barely stay on the ground. His hand is at the back of your head, fingers slipping into your hair like he's trying to relish the shape of you again. And then his lips are everywhere.

A kiss to your cheek. Another to your forehead. Then your jaw, your temple, your nose. Each one broken by a breathless whisper, "I missed you." "I missed you so much." "God, my baby—I missed you." You feel it in your throat, the way your eyes sting, your whole chest pressing into his like it's desperate to get even closer. You don't even realize you've started crying until he pulls back just enough to look at you and says softly, "Don't cry, baby. It’s okay." Sunghoon barely makes it out of the station parking lot before his hand finds yours again. It's like he can't help it—like the distance from your skin is unbearable now that he's got you back. His palm covers yours on your thigh, his thumb stroking gentle lines across your knuckles. And then, as the car slows at a red light, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses it softly, like it's something sacred.

He doesn't let go after that. One hand on the wheel, one hand curled around yours, fingers laced tightly together like if he lets go, you'll change your mind. You glance at him from the passenger seat, your heart already softening all over again. He's smiling, really smiling. Not the tight, polite one he wore when he dropped you off at the station. Not the sad, faraway one you imagined he wore every time he texted you and heard nothing back. This one is warm open and alive. "You look prettier than I remember," he says suddenly, stealing a glance at you. You laugh softly, looking away, but his grip on your hand tightens gently. "I'm serious," he says. "You were gone so long I started thinking I made you up." You shake your head, lips parting to say something but then he speaks again, quieter this time. "Jake's gonna lose his mind when he sees you." That makes your stomach twist. You look down at your joined hands, and Sunghoon must feel the change in your silence because he turns toward you slightly, his voice soft. "He's been...not himself, without you. He's gonna be really happy. We both are."

You nod slowly, chewing on the inside of your cheek, and Sunghoon lifts your hand again, pressing it to his chest, right over his heart. It's beating fast, you can feel it. "We're gonna fix this," he whispers, eyes on the road. "All of it." And he squeezes your hand like a promise.

The underground parking lot is dim and quiet, the hum of Sunghoon's car engine the only real sound as he pulls into his usual spot. He shifts into park, and the headlights click off. You stay seated for a moment, just looking out at the elevator in the distance, heart suddenly thudding in your chest like it knows something your brain hasn't caught up to yet.

But then you feel it—Sunghoon's fingers slipping between yours again, warm and almost overwhelming but grounding. "You ready?" he asks softly, eyes gentle.

You nod. He leans over the center console to kiss you—slow and smiling, like it's the first kiss of a new chapter. Then he's getting out, grabbing your suitcase from the trunk and waiting patiently as you slide out of the car. It's quiet as you walk together toward the elevator, your suitcase wheels echoing softly across the concrete.

In the elevator, Sunghoon stands behind you, arms circling your waist from behind, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. He rocks you side to side a little. "Jake's gonna freak out," he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. "He's been such a mess." You smile faintly. But your palms are sweating. The elevator dings and it almost makes you flinch. Sunghoon pulls you toward the apartment with that same soft excitement from earlier. He's already pulling out his key, fumbling a little because he's balancing your suitcase and trying to be quick about it. "You want to shower first or eat? I can order while you—"

He opens the door and everything changes. The hallway is dim, the apartment lit only by the yellow glow of the kitchen underlight. At first, it's quiet—almost deceptively so. But then you hear movement. The soft shuffle of hurried footsteps. And Jake's voice, low and rushed, "Wait—hold on, just grab your stuff."

Sunghoon's body stiffens in front of you. You try to peek past him, heart in your throat. Then you see him.

A shirtless Jake, hair sticking up like he's been in bed.

A red scratch blooming fresh across the side of his chest. And behind him, a girl, half-dressed, tangled in a button up shirt that clearly isn’t hers, carrying her shoes in one hand and her phone in the other, head ducked like she's trying not to be seen.

Your breath leaves your body like you've been hit. Not pushed—hit. The girl brushes past Sunghoon with a muttered "Sorry" and ducks around you too fast to even register your presence. Jake hasn't even seen you yet. His eyes are locked on Sunghoon. Wide. Caught. Guilt flashing so hard it nearly knocks the color from his face. Then he sees you. And it’s like his entire world collapses in on itself. He doesn't say your name. Doesn't dare breathe it. He just stares. Horrified.

Your whisper is small. Fragile. Like glass held up to a storm, "Oh my god."

His mouth opens. "No—no, no, no—fuck—you weren't supposed to—," he stammers, stepping forward, eyes begging, chest rising and falling fast. "I didn't—fuck, this isn't—it didn't mean anything—I swear to God, it didn't mean anything—"

You haven't moved. You can't seem to. You're standing there in your little travel outfit, bag rolling gently between you and Sunghoon, and all the warmth you gathered in the car, in the elevator, on Sunghoon's lip drains out of your body in one awful, slow wave. Jake is still stammering. Still frozen half-naked in the middle of the room like he hasn't decided whether to run or fall to his knees. And Sunghoon hasn't looked at you yet. He hasn't looked away from Jake. He's standing stone-still in the doorway, the suitcase handle loose in his hand. The hurt in his face is so quiet, so deep, it almost doesn't register at first. But then you see the way his jaw is locked, how his throat bobs when he swallows, the way his fingers tremble around the suitcase handle. He steps forward. Slowly. Eyes still locked on Jake like he's trying to force an explanation out of him with just his stare. "Tell me this isn't what it looks like," he says, voice sharp with warning, but soft underneath, cracked at the edges. "Tell me you didn't do this." Jake takes another half-step forward, still frantic. "I didn't know she was coming today—Sunghoon, fuck, I wasn't thinking, I didn't plan this, it just—she texted me, and I said yes without thinking, and—" He falters. Because Sunghoon finally turns to look at you.

And your face. Your face absolutely ruins him, it’s not because you’re crying or yelling—you’re not. You just look like someone blew a hole through your chest and walked away. Like something broke open in you that will never close again. And all Sunghoon can do is whisper your name.

"...Baby." You blink once, taking one small step back.

And he follows. "Wait—no—baby, please—" That's when he drops the suitcase handle and everything begins to unravel. Your shoes make almost no sound as you turn and walk out the door. It's not fast or dramatic. You just...leave. Like your body is on autopilot, like if you stay even one second longer, your chest might actually crack open. But you don't make it far. The hallway is dim, humming with ceiling light, and you're maybe ten steps from the apartment door before you hear him.

"Y/n—" Sunghoon's voice. A rough, broken thing. "Y/n, wait, please—" Then arms around you. Strong and warm and trembling. He turns you gently—carefully—and pulls you into his chest, both arms locking around your back like he's trying to hold the pieces of you together. You resist at first, trying to push him away.

But he doesn’t let you. "Shh—no, no—please—please don't do this—just let me—please let me hold you," he begs, voice cracking as he buries his face into your hair. "I didn't know. I didn't fucking know. I swear to God, baby, I would've told you. I would've never brought you back if I knew—" And that's when you break, right there in the hallway. You shatter—into him, onto him.

A sob rips out of you, ugly and raw, and your fingers claw at his hoodie as he pulls you tighter against his chest. Your legs shake, your shoulders heave, and you can barely even breathe through the sound of it. Sunghoon holds you like he's never going to let go again.

"I didn't know," he keeps whispering, over and over, like maybe if he says it enough, the truth will rearrange itself. "I didn't know. I didn't fucking know." You're still sobbing. Still trembling. He moves both of you toward the wall, pressing your body gently there, shielding you from the rest of the world with his own.

"I don't believe it," he murmurs fiercely, like he needs you to believe him. "I can’t believe he did this. He was broken without you—he couldn't even look at your stuff, he was crying all the fucking time—he loves you. He loves us. There's no way he'd—"

"But he did," you whisper, and your voice isn’t loud or sharp, it’s just final. Sunghoon pulls back to look at you. And you see it, finally—his tears. Silent and warm, streaking down his cheeks like he didn't even notice they were falling. You shake your head, barely able to get the words out.

"How could he do this…to us?" Your voice breaks on the last word. Sunghoon's lip wobbles a little as he cups your face, thumbing away the tears that just keep coming. "I don't know," he whispers. "I really don’t know." And for a moment, neither of you say anything.

There's just the sound of your breathing, labored and broken, and the way your tears soak through the front of his hoodie as he holds you. "I can't—I can’t go back in there," you whisper. "I know."

"I can't even look at him."

"I'll take you somewhere," he says immediately. "Anywhere. A hotel, my parents house—I'll get the car, right now, I swear—" You shake your head again. "Just...please don't leave me alone."

"I won't," he says, voice steady despite the tears. "Never again." And he doesn't let go. Not for a long, long time. He doesn't let go of your hand. Not as he leads you down the hallway, not as you both reach the elevator in silence, not even when the doors close and the dull hum of descent wraps around you. You're shaking. Still numb and in shock. But he keeps his fingers tangled with yours like it's the only thing saving him. When the elevator hits the underground level, he walks you carefully to the car, opens the door for you like he always does. But before getting in himself, he hesitates. "I'll be right back, okay?" he whispers, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm just gonna grab your suitcase." You nod faintly. He runs. Actually runs back toward the elevator, disappears inside the building again. You wait. Five minutes. Maybe seven. And then the trunk thumps shut and Sunghoon's slipping into the driver's seat beside you, breathing a little hard but managing a quiet, "Got it."

He starts the engine. Drives. Doesn't ask where you want to go, he doesn't need to. The silence in the car is thick. You don't look at him. You don't look out the window either. Just stare at your lap like you can still see the image burned into your eyes—Jake's face, his bare chest, the girl's body slipping past you, the disbelief on Sunghoon's face. He keeps glancing at you.

Keeps checking to see if you're okay. Keeps seeing that you're not. It's a long drive, longer than you expect, and it isn't until he pulls into the circular driveway of a hotel, glass exterior glittering under city lights, that you even realize where he's brought you. He parks. Hops out quickly. Rounds the car to open your door for you again. Still doesn't let go of your hand. Inside, the lobby is quiet, marble floors echoing beneath your feet. The concierge says nothing when Sunghoon pulls out his wallet, only asks for your name and smiles gently at your silence. "Six nights," Sunghoon tells him firmly. "Maybe more. We'll see."

You're in another elevator again. He's holding your suitcase with your hand is still in his. Neither of you speak. The hotel room is warm with neutral tones, high thread count linens and soft lighting. But it all feels far away, like a set from a movie you're not in the mood to watch. Sunghoon wheels the suitcase inside. Sets it beside the closet, watching you sit on the edge of the bed, still not speaking or crying. Until you are, like it just hits you all at once. A sob punches its way out of your throat and you fold over, shoulders curled in, hands digging into your lap as the tears crash down. You don't even try to stop them. It's too much. Everything feels too much. And he's beside you in a second dropping to his knees in front of you, arms around your waist, pressing his forehead to your stomach like he’s going to fall apart too. "Princess," he whispers, voice already breaking. "Please—please don't cry. I can't—I can't handle it—"

But you do. And he lets you. He shushes you gently, murmuring soft little promises into the curve of your waist as his hands rub your back, as he slowly coaxes you sideways onto the bed. You curl into him instinctively, face hidden in his chest. He pulls you closer, wrapping himself around you. One hand cradling the back of your head, the other strokes slow, steady circles into your spine. "It’s okay," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you. I'm not leaving." You don't know when you stop crying. You don't even remember falling asleep. But when you eventually do, you're warm. And Sunghoon's arms are still around you, his lips still brushing your hair, his chest rising and falling under your cheek like you're the only thing keeping his heart beating at all.

You wake to silence. A thick, weighted kind—the kind that makes you feel like the world has stopped turning while you slept. Your clothes are still the same from yesterday. Wrinkled, cold and you feel them stick to your skin when you shift slightly under the hotel blanket, cheeks stiff and tight with the dried remnants of your tears. Your head is buried in Sunghoon's chest.

His shirt is damp where you cried. His arms are still around you, the hand on your back still gently cupping the curve of your spine like he never loosened his grip all night. You stir and he doesn't move, doesn’t flinch.

But you can feel the tension in his body. The way he holds his breath. Like he's afraid that if he moves too quickly, the whole thing might shatter all over again.

His eyes are open, red-rimmed and tired. Fixed on the ceiling above, jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. You shift a little more, trying to sit up. He doesn't stop you, but his arm stays loosely wrapped around your waist. The room smells faintly of hotel soap and skin and sadness. You whisper, "Did you sleep at all?" He finally looks at you.

And that's when you see how broken he looks. Like someone carved a hollow right into his chest and filled it with silence. "No," he murmurs softly. “Couldn’t." You nod faintly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. You cling tighter. Like you know something's coming. And you’re right. You can feel it in the shift of his breathing. His throat bobs, and then he says, barely a whisper, "I need to talk to him." You blink up at him, brows drawing together. Your throat aches like you're about to cry again, but the tears haven't reached your eyes yet. "Oh."

"I just—" His voice is soft as he sits up, finally pulling away from you, though it's reluctant. "I need to make sense of this. What happened. Why he did it. How it even happened." You just look at him for a moment. Then you say, "I don't want to be alone." His expression crumples at that. He reaches for your hand again. Grips it tightly. "I won't be gone long," he promises, forehead pressing to yours. "Just an hour or two, baby. I'll come right back. I swear."

You bite your bottom lip, nodding slowly. He kisses your forehead, your temple, the side of your nose—soft, lingering kisses like little apologies for leaving. Then he pulls away again. And this time, you let him go. The door closes behind him with a dull, final-sounding click. And you're alone, wrapped in a hotel comforter, in the aftermath of something you're still trying to understand, while down the hall or across the city already Sunghoon walks into the fire. Into Jake, into whatever comes next.

The drive home is a blur for Sunghoon, he doesn't even remember closing the hotel door behind him. Doesn't remember the walk through the lobby or the way the valet stared at him like he recognized the storm cloud brewing behind his eyes. The world outside the windshield flies past in streaks of color, but he isn't really seeing it. He's trying to make sense of the situation at hand. Jake. Jake. He must've misunderstood. Maybe she was a friend. Maybe it was a mistake. But no. There was nothing accidental about what they saw.

The girl was buttoning her shirt—Jake’s shirt, as she walked out of his bedroom. Jake was shirtless, wide-eyed and guilty. It wasn't a maybe. It wasn't a blur. It was a fucking betrayal. And Sunghoon can't stop thinking about the way you crumbled in his arms—how you cried into his chest like the air had been stolen from your lungs. He parks the car in a daze and makes his way upstairs. Every footstep down the hallway echoes louder than the last. The door isn't locked, as he just walks in to find Jake on the couch. Head bowed. Shoulders slumped with his phone in his hand, talking softly into the speaker.

Sunghoon hears it just before it stops recording. "...I know I fucked up, but I swear I love you. I love you. Please just—just come back." Jake's thumb hovers over the send button. But he doesn't press it. He knows he can't. Not now. Not after what he's done. He looks up when he hears Sunghoon close the door. But he doesn't say anything, he doesn't try to explain. He just looks... ruined. Like a child caught red-handed, trembling and ashamed, waiting to be punished. Sunghoon stares at him for a long moment, "You couldn't even wait?" His voice is ice. Jake flinches a little, his eyes dropping again. He doesn't try to fight it. "I thought she wasn't coming back," Jake says quietly. "I thought—" Sunghoon cuts him off before he can finish. "So what? You thought she wasn't coming back, so you stuck your dick in the next girl you saw? That's your excuse?"

"I felt abandoned—" Sunghoon slams his hand down on the back of the armchair. "I was abandoned too!" he yells. "She left me too! Jake. You think it didn't break me? You think I didn't want to give up every night while texting her because I didn't know if she'd ever respond? You think I didn't miss her so fucking bad I couldn't sleep?"

Jake's chest rises and falls rapidly. "I know—"

"No, you don't," Sunghoon spits. "You don't fucking know, because instead of hurting and staying loyal, you went and fucked someone else. You cheated. On us."

Jake's lower lip trembles. His fingers are digging into his knees like he's trying to keep himself from collapsing completely. "It didn't mean anything," he whispers. "I was out of my mind. I—I regretted it the second it happened."

"Yeah?" Sunghoon snaps. "Too bad regret doesn't make her unsee it. Doesn't undo what you did." Jake wipes at his eyes, sniffling hard. "You think I don't hate myself for it? You think I'm not dying inside?"

"You don't get to die inside," Sunghoon growls. "She gets to die inside. We do. You made that choice. We live with the fucking aftermath." Jake tries to say something, tries to open his mouth, but no words come out. He looks like he's seconds from collapsing. From crumbling into nothing. But Sunghoon doesn't care. Not right now. Because he remembers the way you sobbed against his chest. The way your voice cracked when you whispered "how could he do this to us?" And no amount of guilt can take that back. Jake doesn't move, he sits there like a kicked dog, face blotchy, hands shaking, eyes rimmed red with guilt. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sunghoon cuts in before he can even try. "No," Sunghoon says sharply, chest heaving. "You don't get to do this, Jake."

His voice isn't loud, but it's dangerous now. Cold and trembling and laced with too much grief to contain. "I texted her every single day," he says through gritted teeth. "I left her voice notes every morning and every night, telling her that I missed her, that we loved her, that it was safe to come home. I promised her, Jake. I begged her to believe that everything would be okay."

Jake stares at him, lips parted. Breathing hard, like he’s on the edge of shattering. "I brought her back," Sunghoon continues, voice cracking. "I kissed her hand in the car and told her how happy you'd be to see her. I told her we'd protect her better this time, that she wasn't alone anymore. And the second I opened that door, you were standing there—shirtless, with some girl rushing out of your room." He pauses, nostrils flaring, trying to collect himself. "You don't know how hard I had to stop myself," Sunghoon whispers, eyes sharp and glassy. "From dragging you out into the hallway and beating the fucking life out of you right then and there."

Jake lets out a strangled sob. He brings both hands up to his face like he's trying to block the words out, but they keep coming—because Sunghoon can't stop. "She cried herself to sleep," he says, quieter now, more broken. "On a fucking hotel bed. In the clothes she travelled all the way back to us in. I had to hold to her while she did, and keep telling her it would be okay even though I knew it wouldn't."

Jake lets out a breath like it hurts to exhale. "I can fix it," he chokes. "I swear—I can fix it. Please, Hoon. Things can still go back to normal—" Sunghoon laughs, but it’s not funny. It's bitter and dry and devastating. "Can they?" he spits, stepping closer. "Can they really?"

Jake doesn't answer. He just sits there—pathetic, ashamed and drenched in regret. And that look of utter helplessness, of you tell me what to do and I'll do it, like he's not the one who burned it all to the ground, that’s what finally breaks Sunghoon completely. His voice drops. Barely a whisper. "If she doesn't come back to us—" he swallows hard, tears stinging at his eyes. "If she never forgives us..." Sunghoon's jaw clenches. "I will never forgive you," he says, eyes glassy. "Do you hear me?" Jake doesn't respond but his shoulders shake with the force of his sobs. "Not ever," Sunghoon breathes. "Jaeyun." Jake flinches at his name like it's some curse. And Sunghoon stares at him one last time, broken, furious and devastated before turning and walking away.

The hotel room is dim—just the golden lamp on the nightstand casting a soft glow over the bed. Sunghoon is lying next to you now, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting limp beside yours. He hasn't said much since he got back, just quiet sighs now and then, like he's still trying to sort through everything swirling in his chest. It's nighttime now and you reach out without a word, slipping your fingers into his, your thumb brushing over his knuckles gently. It's not a grand gesture, but his breath hitches when you do it.

He squeezes your hand—tentative, "I missed this," he says softly, like a confession. "Just being able to touch you." You swallow hard, your voice a whisper. "Me too." There's a long silence after that. A kind of peace that's not perfect, but quieter than it's been in days.

Then Sunghoon speaks, voice low and tired. "Did you...make any new friends while you were home?"

You actually let out a soft laugh, dry and almost shy. "No. I didn't really leave the house. I barely left my room. I think my parents were getting worried I was turning into a ghost." Sunghoon's smile is faint but real. "They're probably just happy to have you close."

You nod, your voice quieter now. "They were. I missed them so much." He glances over at you. His thumb rubs along the side of your hand again, slower this time. You hesitate before speaking again, "Jungwon texted me." You feel his body go still. "When?" he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Couple days after I got home," you murmur. "He just...asked if I was okay. Said Jake told him I left."

Sunghoon sighs heavily, but not in surprise, more of acceptance. He stares up at the ceiling for a moment before turning his head to you. "You don't have to be friends with Jungwon if you don't want to," he says quietly, with a sort of tired conviction. "Not after everything. I know he's Jake's friend, but you don't owe him anything." You nod. "I know." He squeezes your hand again, tighter this time. Like he's silently vowing to protect you from all of it—Jake's betrayal, Yunjin's cruelty, even the pieces of yourself still bruised from everything.

You lie there in the quiet, his hand still held in yours, warm and grounding. The room feels suspended in time—just the two of you tucked into this little pocket of the world where nothing hurts quite as loudly, where the betrayal and the heartbreak and the ache haven't disappeared, but at least, for now, they're muffled. You shift your head on the pillow, angling your gaze toward him. His jaw is tight, his lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks as he blinks slowly at the ceiling. You speak gently. "What about you?" His eyes flick to yours. "What did you get up to? Other than all the things you told me...the café, your parents..." you trail off. He hesitates, his mouth parting just slightly before closing again. Then, he exhales slowly through his nose, voice hushed and vulnerable. "I didn't really...get up to much." Your fingers tighten slightly around his.

"I tried, at first," he says, "to keep moving. To keep pretending like I was okay." He lets out a humorless laugh. "But my world kind of...slowed. When you were gone." Your heart tugs painfully in your chest. "I'd wake up and just—lie there. For hours sometimes." He swallows. "Didn't even want to shower. Or eat. I'd sit in that café down the block like I told you, every afternoon. Just staring out the window."

"Waiting for me to text," you whisper. He nods once, eyes still fixed on the ceiling like looking at you might break him. "Yeah." There's something so quietly devastating about the way he says it. Like existing without you took everything out of him, left him hollow in a way no one else could fill. You lean a little closer, pressing your forehead to his arm. "I missed you every second." His eyes finally meet yours. They're glossy again, but he blinks the tears back, determined not to cry this time. "Don't leave again," he whispers. "Please."

"I really don't want to," you say softly. "But how do we even get past this? We're in a hotel room right now, Hoon." He nods like he knows, stroking his thumb over the back of your hand. The silence between you is soft now—no longer heavy with pain but full of something else, something tentative and warm, like a newly bandaged wound. Then, out of nowhere, he murmurs, "You lost weight." You pout, looking up at him "Huh?"

He frowns a little. "Your face...and your arms. You feel smaller when I hold you." You roll your eyes. "Oh wow, thanks."

"No," he says, turning toward you, serious. "It's not a compliment, baby. I don't like it. You're gonna eat more." You snort. "Well, I wasn't exactly in the mood for takeout and ice cream while crying into my pillow." He shakes his head, already sitting up and stretching a little. "No, no, that won't work. I'm putting you on a schedule. Three meals a day. Snacks. Maybe I'll cook. You want pasta? I'm ordering pasta right now." You watch as he starts patting down his pockets for his phone, already mumbling about how much he's going to make you eat. "Something creamy. High calorie. Carbs. Dessert too—maybe cake or like a pie? Yeah, we'll start slow." You laugh quietly, heart swelling a little at his chaotic determination. But then there's a knock at the door and it interrupts the moment, making you both halt.  The sound is polite but firm. One knock. Two. Then silence. You glance at each other. "You expecting someone?" he asks, brow furrowed.

You shake your head. "No. You? Could be room service?" Sunghoon slowly rises to his feet. He hesitates, then quietly pads toward the door, shoulders tensing as he approaches. The hotel room is quiet, and your own breath seems too loud in your ears. He looks back at you once, a cautious warning in his eyes, then reaches for the handle and opens the door. And there Jake is. Standing in the hallway, hands in the pockets of his jeans, face pale, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red—but dry, for now. You sit up slowly. Jake doesn't even look at Sunghoon at first. His eyes seem to be trained on you as if he didn't dare believe you were really behind that door until now. Sunghoon's body shifts in front of the threshold like a quiet barrier, unmoving. Jake finally blinks, mouth twitching like he wants to speak but doesn't know where to start. "I'm not here to fight," he says softly. "I just... I just need to talk to her."

Sunghoon's hand grips the edge of the door just a little tighter.

"How did you even know she was here?" he asks, voice low, cautious. Jake doesn't flinch, or even blink. "I've always had both your locations," he says, eyes still locked on you. "Since the beginning. I just...never stopped checking." Sunghoon's jaw tightens. He doesn't say anything for a moment. You can tell he wants to slam the door shut—protect you, protect whatever little peace you've managed to find here. But after a long beat of tense silence, he sighs. And steps aside, letting Jake walk in like a ghost. Like someone quietly being lowered into a grave. His shoes barely make a sound on the marble floor. His hands are still shoved deep into his pockets like he's trying to keep himself from shaking. And still, his eyes never leave yours. He stops a few feet in front of the bed, like he knows better than to come closer.

"I won't take long," he says, voice thin, tired. "You don't have to say anything. You just have to listen."

Your throat feels tight. You don't trust your voice even if you wanted to say something. "I'm sorry." Jake's voice cracks on the second word. "I'm sorry for doing this to you. For hurting you. For hurting Sunghoon. I don't have anything to defend myself with. There's no excuse. I was scared. I was selfish. And I was fucking stupid." "There isn't a version of this story where I'm the victim, I know that." His hands come out of his pockets now, trembling at his sides.

"If there's even the smallest chance, a one in a million chance that you two can be happy without me, then I won't get in the way. I'll let it happen. I'll walk away. You should take this chance. You should be with Sunghoon." Sunghoon shifts behind Jake, still by the door, but watching, listening. Jaw locked. You can feel the weight of his silence too. Jake's eyes fill with tears, but none fall. He blinks fast and swallows hard. "He said..." He continues glancing back toward Sunghoon for just a moment, like it hurts to even repeat it. "He said he'd never forgive me if you didn't come back to us. So please..." He looks at you again, eyes wet and raw. "Forgive him. Just him. Even if you can't look at me again, even if I'm the last person you ever want to see, please don't shut him out because of what I did."

You feel your chest splinter under the weight of his words.

He takes a single step back. "I'll disappear from both your lives forever if that's what it takes. But don't make him pay for my mistake." Jake's voice is quieter now. Smaller. Almost as if each word is chipped off a block of pain lodged deep in his throat. "You should come back to the apartment," he says, not meeting your eyes this time. He stares at the floor like if he looks at you too long, he might break apart right there in front of you. "I'll move out. I've already been looking at places—just shitty little studio listings bookmarked in a folder like that's gonna fix anything but...I don't care. I'll go."

He swallows hard. The muscles in his throat twitch as he forces the next words out. "Just come back. Be with Sunghoon. You two can still have something beautiful. Real. I mean..." he lets out a bitter, breathy laugh and finally glances back at Sunghoon, "You always deserved better than me anyway. He is better. You love him and he really does love you." You press your palm to your mouth like it'll stop the ache from leaking out. Jake sees it, sees the tremble in your fingers, and rushes to finish before he breaks apart completely. "No one will look at you weird. No one will whisper anymore. It'll be normal. Easy. Just the two of you. You can have a happy relationship without people talking or judging or wondering how it all happened."

There's silence. Heavy and full. Jake shakes his head once, tears threatening again, and wipes at his face like he's disgusted with himself for crying at all. "Please..." His voice cracks. "Just don't throw it all away because of me." And then, quietly, so broken you almost don't hear it. "I already lost you. I won't survive knowing I cost him you too."

There's a long, soul-crushing pause. Jake stands there, waiting, breath caught like a thread in his throat. The silence screams in his ears—no crying, no yelling, no footsteps chasing after him. Just silence. So he takes it for what it is—understanding, maybe not forgiveness, but acceptance. Resignation. And it's enough for him to turn. He starts to walk away, but your voice, quiet and trembling, slices right through him. "But..."

Jake freezes. You take a shaky breath, eyes brimming.

"I don't want to be without you, Jake." He turns slowly, stunned. His face twists in confusion at first, like he can't believe what he heard—but then he sees you stepping toward him, the tears sliding freely down your cheeks, and he breaks. The tears he's been holding back finally fall, trailing hot and fast down his cheeks. His lips part like he wants to say something, but you're already speaking again. "I don't want to be with just Sunghoon." Your voice is louder now, clearly and it cracks, but not from doubt—from honesty. "I love both of you." Jake's mouth opens just slightly, like the words hit him so hard he forgot how to breathe. "I'm so mad at you," you whisper through the sobs you've been holding in. "You really hurt me, Jake. You hurt Sunghoon too. You almost ruined everything."

He nods like he's ready to take the hit, like he knows he deserves it. But you're still walking closer. "But I still love you," you say, tears choking every syllable. "God, I love you so much. And the thought of my life without either of you—that's what hurts the most." He takes a step forward, eyes glassy, lips trembling, hands half-raised like he's scared to reach for you, scared he'll shatter this moment. "And if—if you're willing to work through it with us," your voice trembles again, "if you're willing to fight—really fight for me and for Sunghoon..." You reach him. Your hand brushes his chest. "Then we can start from somewhere. At least."

His face crumples. And without another word, he pulls you into his arms like his whole life depends on it—because it does. You fall into his arms without thinking, the distance between you evaporating the second your body presses against his. His breath catches, chest rising sharply beneath your touch, and for a moment he just stands there, frozen, as though your embrace is the last thing he ever expected—but the only thing he's ever wanted.

He wraps his arms around you with a desperation that nearly steals your balance. One hand grips the small of your back, the other trembles against your shoulder, holding you to him as though the weight of your grief might pull you both under. His face buries in the crook of your neck, breath uneven, and you feel it—the warmth of a tear against your skin, quickly followed by another. "I'm sorry," he whispers, the words cracked and hoarse, spoken into your collarbone like a confession into church pews. "I'm so fucking sorry."

You pull back just enough to see him. His face is flushed and tear-stained, eyes glassy, wide with disbelief. You cradle his jaw gently, your fingertips brushing over the ridges of his cheekbones, thumb wiping away the tears he hasn't stopped shedding since you walked into his arms. He leans into your palm as though it steadies him. "Jake," you murmur, voice barely formed.

His gaze locks on yours, heavy with every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every regret that's burned through him since the day you walked away. Your foreheads touch. Then your noses. And when your lips meet, it's a slow unfolding—painful in its tenderness, soaked with everything you've both endured. He doesn't rush. He doesn't pull. He just kisses you—soft and reverent—his lips moving with the ache of someone who still can't believe he's allowed to. The kiss tastes of salt and apologies. Of longing that never stopped growing. Of love that never left, even after everything. But it deepens before you can even think. It's not so soft anymore. It's heat and ache and months of silence collapsing into motion. Jake's hands roam, no longer trembling but gripping—your jaw first, then sliding down to your neck, the pads of his thumbs brushing your skin. He kisses you again, and again, and again, mouth moving with bruising need, barely giving you room to breathe.

His fingers slip beneath your jaw, tilting your head just enough to fit his lips better against yours. Your hands fist into the fabric of his shirt, clutching him tightly. His touch grows more frantic, less careful. One hand cups the back of your head, holding you still, while the other traces down to your waist, gripping there like the thought of distance is unbearable. There's an audible exhale when he presses closer, chests flush, and he pulls away only for a second—just enough to whisper, "I missed you so fucking much," voice rough, breaking apart in the center. Then he's kissing you again, and this time you feel it down to your knees. He kisses you like he's starving.

Like he spent every night since you left trying to remember how your mouth felt against his. He kisses you like the world ended and this is the only piece of it left that he still wants. And you let him. Because you missed him, too. Because despite the pain, despite the betrayal, there's something magnetic and familiar in the shape of him pressed to you, in the way his breath stutters every time you touch him back. You moan into his mouth when he sucks at your bottom lip, hands climbing his chest, slipping into his hair. He groans softly at the feeling, hips barely shifting forward before he stops himself, foreheads pressed tight. "I shouldn't—" he starts, breathless. But your fingers tug at his shirt. "I want you to."

You don't hear Sunghoon approach at first. You only feel the tremble in Jake's breath as it fans across your cheek, his lips hovering over yours. Then Sunghoon speaks softly behind him, voice tight with concern. "Are you sure you want this?" Jake freezes. His head dips, forearms braced against either side of you, almost holding himself up. He doesn't say anything, doesn't look back—he's too afraid the answer will break him.

Sunghoon continues, stepping forward until he's close enough that you can feel his presence wrap around both of you. "We can wait. For as long as you need. This was never about the sex. You know that, right?"

You turn your head, catching Sunghoon's gaze from over Jake's shoulder. His eyes search yours—not for permission, but for peace. And there's nothing but reverence in them.

You give him a smile. Not a trembling one, not one born of pressure or uncertainty. It's steady and soft. The kind that says I know what I want. Then your fingers drift to the hem of Jake's shirt. You tug gently.

Jake glances down, stunned, until you meet his eyes again and whisper, "I want it." Your fingers trail up his bare skin as you lift the shirt off him, your gaze flicking between his and Sunghoon's. "I missed your hands. Both of you." Jake lets out a broken sound, something between a sigh and a groan, like the weight of your forgiveness is too heavy to hold and too sacred to drop.

Sunghoon's chest rises, then falls with a shaky breath.

Jake's forehead presses to yours again, eyes squeezed shut. There's no more rushing, only three people breathing each other in like air after drowning for so long.

Jake's breath hitches the moment he feels Sunghoon's lips against his neck. It's gentle at first —a brush of mouth over skin, nothing more. But Jake still jolts, gasping softly, muscles tense under your palms. You're still pressed against his chest, your hands dragging slowly over the ridges of his abs, the curve of his waist, but his eyes flutter shut only when Sunghoon speaks.

"I should hate you," Sunghoon murmurs into his skin, voice raw and low, every syllable burned into the space between Jake's ribs. "You really fucking hurt us."

Jake's knees nearly give. You watch it happen, how his body caves just a little between your hands, how his throat bobs with a swallow, guilt rising like bile. His mouth parts, ready to apologize again, but Sunghoon doesn't let him speak. "But tonight," Sunghoon says, breath hot and firm on Jake's neck, his tone sharpening to something unshakable, unmovable, "you're going to do whatever she says." It's really not a request. Jake exhales a trembling sound, so affected by the command it comes out closer to a whimper than a breath. His hand instinctively finds your hip, squeezing like he needs to hold onto something real. His other arm tries to reach back, grasping at Sunghoon's thigh, but he can't find purchase. Can't find anything at all.

He's unraveling, your hands don't stop moving. They coast up his chest, over his heart, one curling around the back of his neck while the other trails lower, teasing the edge of his waistband. Forgiveness tastes strange when it's this tender. When it's handed to you wrapped in heat and hunger, in soft lips and firmer words. Sunghoon's mouth is still pressed to Jake's throat, kissing softly now, possessively. His palm slides down Jake's spine, slow and steady. He’s caught between your warmth in front of him and Sunghoon's control behind, blinking up at the ceiling like he's not sure this is real. He feels dizzy with it. Drunk off the way you touch him, how soft your lips are when you kiss the corner of his mouth, how your forgiveness feels like salvation. He lets out a broken, shaking sound and doesn't even realize he's nodding. "Yes," he whispers, barely audible. "Anything."

"Anything?" you echo, tilting your head with a small, breathy laugh, soft but taunting, sweet but sharp. Jake swallows hard, noticing how your voice has teeth now.

You brush your fingers across his chest, nails grazing where his heart is hammering beneath skin. He's trembling under your touch, still catching his breath from Sunghoon's mouth on his neck, but you keep your eyes on his, watching every flicker of emotion that passes through him—the regret, the longing, the want.

"Anything," he repeats, voice hoarse, and it makes you smile, even though it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "What if I told you..." You lean closer, lips brushing his ear, voice a whisper now. "That I didn't want you to touch me at all?" You never thought it was possible to watch someone break in real time, to watch the weight of that sentence crush him from the inside. His shoulders sag, chest tight and heaving, mouth parting in a stunned silence. He wants to speak, to beg, to say something that might undo the sentence, but nothing comes out. And then Sunghoon sinks his teeth into the side of Jake's neck—hard, causing him to help. “Ah!”

It's not pain though, not really. It's submission in its purest form. The sudden rush of breath he takes in is sharp and desperate. Sunghoon pulls back slowly, his lips stained red from the pressure, a blooming bruise already forming beneath the skin. You coo, cupping Jake's face between your palms, stroking your thumbs along his jaw. "Oh, poor baby," you murmur, soft and almost mocking. "That hurt?" You take a step back, fingers still curled around his chin, guiding him until he stumbles forward, pliant and stunned. "Get on the bed," you say simply. Jake obeys. It's not graceful. He trips a little on the edge of the mattress, palms catching himself as he falls onto it. His knees follow, sinking into the sheets, wide-eyed and breathless and completely undone. The mark on his neck already deepening in color.

Sunghoon steps behind you, his hands warm at your waist, watching with a quiet, unreadable intensity as Jake looks up from the bed, mouth parted, eyes shining, completely at your mercy. Then you reach for Jake's waistband, slow and deliberate. "If I say you don't get to touch me...you won't. Understood?"

Jake nods, instantly. But it isn't enough, especially not for Sunghoon, "Use your words," he murmurs from behind you. Jake breathes out, broken and obedient.

"Yes. I understand." You turn away from Jake, slowly, deliberately, your body still humming from the control you'd just exerted over him. You tilt your head up to face Sunghoon, lips parted, voice soft and honey-sweet.

"Wanna ride you, Hoonie," you murmur, eyes full of something heady and bright. Sunghoon's lips twitch into a smile that barely hides the hunger behind it. His hands are already on your waist, sliding under your shirt, touch reverent and greedy all at once. "Yeah?" he breathes, eyes darkening as he leans in, mouth brushing against yours. "Anything you want, pretty girl."

His kisses are deep and languid, like he wants to make you feel everything at once—his hands moving with purpose, stripping you bare with a kind of ease that only comes from knowing you. He peels the shirt off your shoulders, your bra next, then bends to mouth at your collarbones. You giggle when he lifts you clean off the floor with a low grunt, effortlessly strong, still kissing you like he can't get enough. He spins you gently in his arms, your laughter catching in your throat as he lays down beside Jake, pulling you into his lap so your legs straddle his hips. The shift in the room is immediate—charged with heat. Jake's eyes are glued to you, still kneeling on the bed, chest rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths. His hands are clenched into fists on his thighs. He doesn't speak—but the look in his eyes, the desperation and hunger, says everything.

You lock eyes with him. And while holding his gaze, you reach down between your bodies, hook your fingers into the waistband of Sunghoon's pants, and tug them down just enough that his cock springs free—hot and hard, flushed a deep red. Your breath catches.

You shift your panties to the side, slowly, letting Jake watch everything—your fingers slipping under the fabric, revealing your wetness, your want. His jaw tightens as his gaze flickers down, then back to your face. You line Sunghoon up, the head of him brushing against you. Still holding Jake's stare, you whisper, "Watch me."

Then you sink down. Sunghoon groans, head falling back against the pillows, hands tightening around your waist—but your eyes don't leave Jake's, not for a second. He looks ruined already, lips parted, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as you start to move slowly, rolling your hips in small circles, your hands planted on Sunghoon's chest for balance. His eyes are locked on your face, mouth parted in awe, the way your lashes flutter when he hits the deepest part of you already making him groan. "Fuck, Yunnie," you breathe, barely able to get the words out through the sheer fullness, "Hoonie’s so big—it's too much, he's stretching me out—"

Sunghoon lets out a choked laugh, hands sliding up your back, keeping you grounded as you bounce slow and sweet. "You can take it, pretty girl," he says, breathless, "you always take it so good." Then he turns his head, eyes finding Jake across the bed—Jake, who looks completely undone, lips bitten raw, arms tense in his lap as he watches you fuck Sunghoon right in front of him. "You remember, don't you?" Sunghoon says, voice low and dark, words dragging like smoke. "How fucking tight she is?"

Jake swallows hard, nodding cause he does remember, he knows. Sunghoon's hand moves to your ass, spreading you a little wider on his lap as he grinds up into you. "She's still that tight," he murmurs. "Still squeezin' around me like she doesn't know what to do with it." You whimper, head falling forward, your rhythm stuttering for a second from the delicious drag of him inside you. You look over at Jake, flushed and panting and visibly hard under his jeans. You see the way his fingers dig into the sheets now, holding himself back. "You remember, don't you, Jake?" you whisper, your voice laced with something wicked and wet and wanting. "You remember how good I feel?" He nods again—once, sharp, desperate.

You moan when Sunghoon hits the right spot again, and you can't help it, you start to ride him harder, bouncing now, your hands gripping his shoulders, head tilted back with every gasp. “Oh shit! Sunghoon!”

Jake can't tear his eyes away. "Please," he says, voice hoarse, finally cracking. "Please let me touch you."

Sunghoon growls under you, but it's not anger—it's something else, something dark and territorial and charged with the thrill of control. "You gonna be good?" he asks, eyes narrowing. "You gonna do whatever she says?" Jake nods again, this time slower, breath catching when your eyes meet his and you smile, "Then crawl over here," "and rub my clit," you tell him, barely more than a breath between gasps, and Jake obeys instantly, crawling in close, his hands almost shaking as he reaches for you. His fingers find you, and the moment he starts to move in slow, practiced circles, your entire body trembles. The pleasure is sharp and sudden, slicing through your core and making you moan louder. You clutch Jake's shoulders to stay grounded, your forehead resting against his as you shudder. "God," you whisper, nails dragging down his arms. "Just like that."

Jake's eyes are wide, hungry and reverent all at once. "I missed you," he says, voice cracking. "Missed you so much." Then you kiss him, desperate and unrestrained. Your mouths crash together, teeth clashing, breath caught in your throat as his hands never stop rubbing. Your fingers go straight to his waistband, fumbling with the button of his jeans, tugging at the denim, hungry to feel him again, every part of him. He groans into your mouth when you finally free his cock, hips twitching, his hands pausing for only a second before he goes right back to rubbing soft circles against your clit, coaxing another shiver from your spine.

Under you, Sunghoon's hands are on your waist, fucking up into you, watching with heavy eyes as you and Jake melt together in front of him—two puzzle pieces trying desperately to fit again, despite everything. "Are you gonna let him in?" Sunghoon murmurs low beneath you. "Or do you want to keep teasing him first?" You glance down at him, then at Jake, lips swollen and pupils blown, still panting like a prayer's caught in his throat. But then Sunghoon starts unraveling beneath you. His hands are gripping your waist tighter now, fingers digging in deep. Each thrust up into you is deeper, rougher, his hips snapping with a need he's been swallowing down for weeks. "F–fuck, baby," he gasps, voice guttural. "I can't... you feel so good—I'm not gonna last—"

You're trembling, dizzy, your hands scrambling to hold on to Jake's shoulders for balance, for anything, and he's still touching you, still rubbing soft, perfect circles between your thighs, watching you with wide eyes that burn with something deeper than lust. Worship. Longing. Love. "I—I can't," you whimper, your voice barely recognizable, caught somewhere between a sob and a plea. "It's—Hoonie, it's too much—"

"I've got you," he breathes. "You can take it. You're so good for me, baby." And when you cry out, breath catching sharp and sudden in your throat, both of them hear it—hear the way your voice shatters as you cum. You barely manage to warn them, half-choking out a "I'm gonna—Hoonie, I'm—" before your body locks up. Everything crashes. Your orgasm rips through you in waves—sharp, overwhelming, dizzying. Jake holds your hands tighter, whispering, "That's it, baby, so good," while Sunghoon helps guide your hips, slowing your movements just enough to keep you from falling apart completely, easing you through the tremors. You don't even know what's happening at first. One second you're clinging to Jake's shoulders, trying to catch your breath, trying to come down from the orgasm that shattered your whole body, and the next your thighs are shaking all over again. Sunghoon is still moving beneath you, slower now, grinding up into the heat of your overstimulated cunt like he can't stop, won't stop—not until he's buried so deep inside you he disappears.

"Oh my god—" you gasp, body jolting forward. You feel it before you even realize it's happening. A gush, a rush, a sudden burst of pressure that leaves your thighs soaked and trembling and your breath punched clean from your lungs. "Holy shit," Sunghoon mumbles beneath you, stunned, voice half-wrecked with awe. His grip loosens for just a second, and then he's dragging you back down hard onto him, hips snapping up, chasing his own high now, greedy for it. Jake stares like he's seen a miracle. His hand is still between your legs, slick and shaking, frozen in place until Sunghoon growls low in his throat and knocks it away. "She's mine right now," Sunghoon mutters, almost possessive, his eyes half-lidded and dark with something primal. He pulls you back against his chest and buries his face in your neck. "Just for a second—just let me—"

And he thrusts once more, hard and deep, moaning against your skin as he finally loses control, cumming deep inside you. You're both a mess—your body shaking, hips twitching from the overstimulation, and Sunghoon gasping through his orgasm, arms wrapped around your middle, holding you to him so tight you can feel the tremor in his spine. Jake's hands move to your back, rubbing you gently as he presses a kiss to your spine, voice rough as he whispers, "You okay?"

You nod, dazed, shaky and a little broken up. Trying to catch your breath when Jake leans in again, kissing your shoulder, your back, trailing soft apologies into your skin. His eyes are wide and desperate when they meet yours, like he's still afraid this will be ripped away from him because he doesn't deserve to be here.

Sunghoon catches that look too. And he smiles—slow and deliberate—before reaching over, curling his fingers around Jake's jaw. "You're not touching her again until she says so," Sunghoon murmurs, voice still thick and wrecked from how hard you just made him cum. "Matter of fact... you're not coming until we say so either." Jake's breath catches and his whole body tightens. You cup his flushed face between your hands, nodding slowly, your lips brushing his as you whisper, "We're gonna make you beg, baby."

And oh, does he beg. The night stretches out in sweat-slick sheets and bitten lips and whispered commands. Every time Jake gets close to cumming, one of you pulls away—hands vanishing, mouths retreating, leaving him cursing under his breath, pleading for more. You ride him just enough to ruin him, then slide off with a wicked little smile, watching the way he shudders. Sunghoon kisses him through the whimpers, soothing and cruel at once, murmuring, "Not yet. You don't get to cum yet. You don't get to cum until she says so."

Jake obeys. All night long he obeys. And when you finally let him cum, when you finally look down at him hours later and whisper "You can cum now, baby" he sobs with it and thank you, over and over again.

It's not perfect yet and it might never be. But it's good now, better now. There are still moments that hurt—old memories that sometimes sneak in without warning, a passing comment or a flicker in one of their eyes that reminds you how bad it once got. But it's not sharp anymore. The edges have dulled with time, with effort and love. You trust them again. And they trust you. Jake doesn't flinch when you pull away to gather your thoughts. Sunghoon doesn't shut down when he's overwhelmed. You kiss one, then the other, and neither of them cares who sees anymore. There are still stares, whispers, but you're truly past it. The world can look because you know what you have. And that's all that matters to all of you.

Right now, you're doubled over in a sun-drenched corner booth at a café you never thought to go to until Sunghoon took you there, it’s the same one he used to haunt when you were gone. Now it's your spot. Yours and Chaewon's. She's wiping tears from her eyes from laughing so hard, one hand holding her half-empty iced coffee, the other gesturing wildly as she wheezes, "No but actually—He said that? Like what does that even mean?" You're clinging to your stomach, giggling uncontrollably. "I don't know—I don't know why it's so funny—but it is!"

That's when a familiar voice hums warmly behind you.

"Hi baby." Sunghoon's fingers sweep through your hair as he kisses the top of your head, his palm settling on your shoulder with a light squeeze. You tilt your head back to up at him, already reaching for his hand.

"You ready to go? Jake’s outside." he says, then turns his gaze to Chaewon, eyebrows lifting curiously. "And who's this?" "Oh—!" You twist in your seat, eyes still a little crinkled with laughter. "This is Chaewon, from the seminar. Chaewon, this is my boyfriend Sunghoon."

Sunghoon gives her a small, polite smile. "Nice to finally meet you. I've heard nothing but chaotic things." Chaewon grins, wide and proud. "I plead the fifth." He chuckles, then glances down at you again with something that softens all the angles of his face. You know that look. He's happy. Happy you finally made that friend you were talking about, happy you're laughing again, happy you're here.

You suddenly hear Jake’s voice before you even see him approaching, "Baby," Jake calls out, spotting you across the café with a grin already tugging at his lips, "you still wanna go to the Canary Islands—?" He stops in his tracks as his eyes land on Chaewon. You can see the calculation happening behind his gaze. He blinks once, then points between you two. "Who's this?"

Before you can answer, Sunghoon wraps an arm around your shoulders from behind and offers coolly, "Chaewon. She's her friend." Jake nods slowly, glancing between you, Sunghoon, and the girl seated beside you. Then he says, deadpan, "Cool. Chaewon, do you wanna come to the Canary Islands with us?"

You and Chaewon both burst out laughing at the same time, hers more bewildered, yours fondly exasperated. "Jake—what?!" He just shrugs, smile stretching wider, unapologetically smug. "I already bought three tickets. What's one more?" Sunghoon sighs through his nose, pinching the bridge of it. "You're not supposed to just... collect people."

Jake throws a smile at Chaewon. "It's not collecting if she's fun."

"She is fun," you defend. "Also, you're insane." But Jake only smiles more softly now, like he's seeing something you haven't yet. "Yeah. But you're laughing again."

That shuts you up for a second. Because you are laughing, you’re whole in a way you haven't been in months. Sunghoon leans down, brushing your temple with a kiss. Jake slips into the booth across from you and steals a sip of your drink before wrinkling his nose. "You still drink this garbage?" Chaewon side-eyes you. "You're letting him bully your coffee order?" You shake your head with a grin and glance between the two boys—your boys. You know you'll still have days where things feel hard, moments when the past creeps up, nights where you'll have to talk it out again, cry it out again, try again. But you'll do it. All of you will.

Because this is what it looks like now. Jake pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket showing you the email confirmation. "The hotel has ocean views and a private plunge pool. I'm thinking we leave Wednesday, Well that’s when the flights are booked for anyway." Sunghoon rests his chin on your shoulder, murmuring, "You've always wanted to go." You smile at him and nod.

"Let's go to the Canary Islands."

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[evieelyzabethh]

"lacy"

⭒"i see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear"⭒ Arcane characters when jealous {fem reader}

cast ✧ Vi, Ekko, Jayce, Viktor, Mel

cw ☞ slight angst but they all have a happy ending, kissing, and the usual stuff (slightly pervy Jayce)

♞Vi♞

♞Making Vi jealous is a terrible game. She is about that action and absolutely loves to fight, nothing beats that flow of adrenaline as she chases someone down to bash their face in. I feel like she would also get a bit mean. Jealousy is a nasty thing, it bites, and she bites back harder. The pit it creates in her stomach tries to swallow her whole and sometimes she wants to bring you down with her

♞She doesn't understand why you would want or need the attention of anyone else when you have her. Chiefly at the beginning of your relationship, it would cause a rift, intention or not. Vi doesn't have a proper education, she’s constantly guilt ridden about her childhood and her sister, she's broke, and an absolute hot mess. She's already constantly questioning why you're with her in the first place and the last thing she needs is some random coming up and flirting with you and you even bothering to dignify their presence with a response.

♞She would go dead silent, brushing you off for what feels like weeks, stewing in her increasingly negative thoughts. She doesn't even think you're cheating, but she feels like it's only a moment of time before you realize there's something better out there. Always the one to make the wrong decision, she pushes you away for a bit. She's very short with you, brushing off your attempts to make peace, playing a mean game to see if you're gonna give up on her so she can use it against you. This is definitely her biggest red flag.

It's dark and rainy out, rain pelting at the ground, seeping and sliding into its cracks to rehydrate the already soft foundation. It was supposed to be a calm night out at the Last Drop involving a few drinks to get Vi out of her current terrible mood, bookended by an unstable walk home as you both barely support each other under your weight and constant fit of giggles. Instead, Vi was a few paces ahead of you, hands shoved into her pockets, her head down rather than putting her hood up to keep her head dry from the rain. Every time you approach her, she slightly leans away. At first you thought it was an accident, maybe she was trying to avoid stepping on a rock or into a puddle, but after the umpteenth time it happens, the message becomes clear. She's avoiding you. As argumentative as she is, you may even be worse. "What the fuck is your, problem?", you bark, the alcohol in your veins curving the embarrassment of passersby clearly tuning into the argument they think is about to break out. "You've said some choice things and have been awfully rude these past few days, and I really don't appreciate it, Violet." But she doesn't have it in her to make a big scene. It's definitely the alcohol, because she's genuinely scared that if she starts a screaming match with you right now, she'll cry. She turns to you swiftly, hair dripping wet, stray dye rolling down her cheeks and down the slope of her nose. You had just dyed it together a few days ago, back before she decided to be mad at you for who knows what reason. "Look at me", she grabs your chin before you even get the chance to break eye contact with her. Petty, pissed, and unable to jerk your face out of her grip without giving yourself whiplash, you close your eyes. This pisses her off even more. "What, you don't have any more charity work left in you? You can giggle with what-his-face for hours, but you can't even look at your girlfriend?" That gets you to open your eyes, at first confused as to what the hell she was talking about then glittering with amusement that causes her to immediately let go and continue her fast paced walk back home. She isn't far enough to escape your light voice, cheery with the realization that you finally broke her down and occupied with what you think is the silliest thing in the world. "Oh, my gods, you're jealous about that guy from last night! Vi, you're so ridiculous, I don't even remember his name." And she is still teeming with anger, but that anger will dissipate soon after that last admission. Once you sober up, you don't find it as funny, but she's at your every beck and call trying to convince you it won't happen again.

♞After a little while together, she feels more stable in the relationship. Trust, she still gets jealous, but it usually looks like a smirk on her face before she pulls you into a heated kiss in front of whoever is bothering her. She makes a real show of it too, prying open your mouth to slip her tongue inside, her hands squeezing your sides and hiking up your dress, knee pressed firmly in between your legs. She continues long after the person leaves, before shrugging and sarcastically wondering where they possibly could've gone off to. You often scold her for this. You've never been to jail, and you'd hate to go for a public indecency charge.

★Ekko★

★Ekko doesn't really get jealous, like out of everyone I think he would get the least jealous so most of this section would be about his complete lack of jealousy. He doesn't believe in getting into relationships without trust first and it's because of this confident trust that he wouldn't get jealous. If anything, he wouldn't be jealous as in feeling like your relationship was in danger but jealous when it comes to your time. Like he would get slightly pouty if he felt like you were spending too much time with your friends, and it was significantly cutting out of your time together. Even then, he wouldn't really act on it.

★Ekko would be a "I don't care what my girlfriend wears, I can fight" kinda guy. Especially because he likes picking out your outfits, he does it with the intention of showing off the goods. He likes looking at you, he knows the world likes looking at you, he sees it as doing a favor to society. He is the first to tell you your tits look scrumptious in that top.

★Same concept with you being approached or flirted with. If they have the gall to do it in his direct presence, he has a great many words to say about it, but if he's watching it go down, he likes to watch it happen. He'll get involved as soon as he gets the feeling you are uncomfortable, but for the most part he sits amused a few feet away laughing at the glances you give him as the conversation goes on.

★I feel like if anyone was to get jealous, it would be you. Ekko spends a lot of time with a lot of different people which leaves space for certain people to not know that he's spoken for. I think he would be less aware of this than you. You are always at the forefront of his mind; he cannot fathom giving his attention to other people. Especially because he talks about you so often, he makes it quite clear that he is not single and when people choose to ignore that fact, he doesn't notice.

Warm light flitters into your shared room through half open blinds that reveal the orange and yellow that the blue sky had faded into. Ekko had just gotten home eager to strip down into some old, tattered tee shirt and some boxer shirts. Instead, he was met with a slightly agitated girlfriend, and he notices this immediately. He gives you space at first, greeting you at the door and asking you how you were and listening to your expectedly short answer. He only lasts a few minutes of this passive aggression before sliding beside you on the couch, sliding his arm around you and pulling you in close. You reluctantly lean in, trying to ignore how inviting he smells and how warm he feels. "Baby," he draws out, scooping you completely into his arms to straddling your thighs over his waist, his large palms remaining on your upper thigh. He's trying to whittle down your resolve and it is working. "Don't you wanna tell me what's wrong?" You rolled your eyes. "I've already told you what's wrong." He thinks it's cute that you're jealous. He likes the way your arms cross over your puffed chest, and you furrow your brow to try and appear serious but all you look like to him is a rabbit about to thump its foot. "And I have already told you, I am completely yours." It's cheesy and he knows it and he amps it up by scattering kiss all over your face, even as you try to evade his touch. "I don't doubt that, it's just..." He derails your sentences as his kisses move lower and his hands get more adventurous, exploring your upper thigh and the curve of your ass and the small of your back from underneath your shirt. "Hey!", you snap, "I'm being serious, Ekko." He pauses, withdrawing his hands to the fat of your hips and, reluctantly, his lips from your neck. "I'm listening, baby." "I've told you I don't know how many times that I do not like that girl. She is all over you." His mouth opens to try and protest, but you cut him off. "I can literally smell her perfume on you." He gets slightly defensive at this. "You don't think I'm cheating on you, do you?" A look of hurt flashes across his eyes. "Of course, I don't, Ekko. I'm not questioning you; I'm questioning her. I know she knows we're together and she just doesn't care, and you don't shut it down. Why else do you think she kept you out this late? What were you two doing?" Nothing. A whole lot of nothing, actually. The girl you were referring to, Thalara, had been a topic of conversation before. She was new to the commune, which landed her the benefit of the doubt with you, but it's been months now and she still hasn't laid off. Ekko, ever trusting of his people, never assumed malintent, but you saw right through her. You cup his head in between your hands, looking him in his eyes to make sure that the message is clear. "I love you, and I'm not mad at you, but she's pissing me off. You need to make it very clear that she needs to leave you alone or I will send the message for you." And you meant that. He makes it very clear to her the next day that he has absolutely no interest and comes back to you the next day beaming in accomplishment.

★Jealous you turns him on so incredibly much. Whatever you say goes, he is not one to turn you down when you're in a jealous mood.

❂Jayce❂

❂I feel like you would both get jealous, but he would get far more jealous than you do. While he is far from someone who would tell you to change what you're wearing, he does try and tag along with you when you're wearing something low cut. Like babe, what do you mean you don't want him to join girls night? Are you sure you're not cold?? You must be cold; your ass is hanging out, why won't you take his jacket?? Please take his jacket!!! Because of this he walks behind you, making it much harder for those undeserving to stare at you like he does.

❂While he loves showing you off at fancy events, ain't shit funny if you look too good. If you're lucky enough to make it out the house on time (he insists on helping you zip up but then gets confused which way zippers go), being there is a struggle. He likes staring at you and did not have the forethought to think other people would enjoy staring at you too. Let someone make a comment too, he is glued to your hip for the rest of the night.

He waits anxiously for the stupid gala to be over. Had he been more of a drinker, he would've been content to have a few glasses of the fancy champagne they brought around, but he hates the ethanol aftertaste it leaves behind and that is the last thing he needed after already feeling nauseous. He was trying so hard for you, he knew he had to give you your space, and he knew you were excited to go out to his Hextech showcase to show your support. He's being bitter and he hates it, he hates biting his tongue while watching you giggle with a councilman and the fact that he feels like a petulant child watching some other kid play with his toy He's been getting better with his jealousy, honest! That's why he's self-aware enough to know that his urge to go after you, sling you over his shoulder, and carry you home himself is childsh and silly and that you would chastise him over it as he looked at you like a kicked puppy. Gods, this was stupid. But he puts a smile on his face anyway, making his way over to you from the balcony he was just standing on, and sliding his hand on your shoulder. You look over at him, startled for a second, but relax when you see his amber eyes and slightly gapped smile. And then you say the magic words. "Oh, I was just about to go looking for you. Are you ready to go?" He cannot say yes fast enough. After he has you all to himself, he is insatiable, kissing you deeply as soon as you step foot in the carriage taking you home, losing balance and nearly sending you both toppling onto the floor of the moving vehicle. The seats are awkward and not long enough to properly lay you down, but he's too desperate to care about the discomfort, his hand cradling the back of your neck to make sure you are as comfortable as you can be. He's ruthless, the force of his kisses knocking the breath out of you and you can never catch up. You're almost dizzy, his desperate whispers nearly going through one ear and out the other. "You love me, right? Me and only me? You don't need anyone else.", and he's trying to find your zipper again, but his hands are clumsy and cold, and it only serves to arch your back further into him, not that he's complaining. When you do come to your senses, you giggle, running your nails through his hair as he looks up at you with wide eyes. "How long have you been holding that in." He looks at you sheepishly, fighting the urge to hide his embarrassment in the crook of your neck. "All night." You shake your head at his ridiculousness, pulling him in for a slower kiss, properly savoring the moment, before pulled away to peck his nose. "You are the only one for me, handsome, I don't know how many times I have to say it." He shrugs his broad shoulders. "A few more times wouldn't hurt." You roll your eyes and ask if he wants a collar, and he does not look as adverse as you expected.

❂He is so incredibly unhinged when it comes to jealousy. He doesn't act on it, but his mind goes to wild places. In a modern AU, if you dare not reply to a text in ten minutes he's asking, "What position he got you in?" Even worse, he knows he's being senseless, it's his way of asking for reassurance in a joking way. It's so absurd, you don't take him seriously which slightly frustrates him because he wants you to reaffirm him on what he already knows.

❂He gets really pouty when jealous too. He'll usually try and thrust himself into his work to occupy his mind and get it back to a rational place. Viktor calls you immediately because he ends up talking to him about it and he thinks the entire ordeal is unreasonable and doesn't have time to be asked at the ass crack of dawn "I know she loves me, but what if (insert insane scenario here)." He is a chronic overthinker and sometimes you just have to shut his brain off.

☽Viktor☾

☽Viktor is another one who doesn't get super jealous, but when he does, it usually stems from insecurities surrounding his leg. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes, especially as his condition gets worse, he gets frustrated that he can't do the things as easy as he used to be able to. However, he is entirely too proud to admit it or act on it. You probably wouldn't even notice, to be honest, and he wouldn't want you to.

☽I think he would absolutely throw himself into work when jealous. He's already at the lab damn near day and night, but unlike usual when he'll try for conversation here and there and be more lively, he's throwing himself into it out of necessity. It is one of his pride and joys, when his ego takes a hit, work is his refuge. This, of course, hardly ever works because he does not get good work done when it's being forced. He'll usually end up staring at the photo he keeps of you at your desk and feel lonely.

☽He'll invite you around to his lab more, though he is uncharacteristically stiff and rigid. He's trying too hard to focus but he just can't. His leg is tapping furiously beneath the table, he's biting the inside of his cheek, his hand is running through his hair every couple minutes. Things just aren't computing like how he wants them to and he hates it. His pride is a double-edged sword here, jealously is Jayce's thing. He thinks he is leagues above it and he gets frustrated with himself when he feels that green sickness in his heart.

☽He would be the type to address it head on. Once again, he's very analytical. He will tell you what exactly got him upset, why exactly it upset him, be very clear that he isn't blaming or upset at you, and silently hope you go overboard with affection for the next few weeks for the sake of his ego. After he does, he likes to ignore it even happened. Him? Jealous? You must have him confused with another ridiculously attractive, impaired, Czech-accented man. Jealous isn't even in his very extensive vocabulary, he has no idea when or why you dreamed of this completely fictitious scenario. He wouldn't try and gaslight you that it never happened, but he is petty enough to get selective hearing when it comes to mentions of it

For the first time since...ever, Viktor is home before the sun goes down. To say it catches you off guard is an understatement, so unused to the doorknob jiggling before the wee hours of the morning, you had a knife in your hand before you heard his keys in the door. You had been making dinner, and the smell alone makes his heart skip a beat. He hardly ever gets a warm dinner and for a minute, he deeply regrets being in his lab all the time. He slides off his shoes and loosens his tie as he pads over to you in the kitchen, wrapping one hand around your waist and the other gripping the counter for support. "You're home early.", you chirp, turning around to face him to peck his lips. "I was just making dinner, you want a taste?" Though he would never say no to that, you already have the spoon to his lips with a hand under to catch anything that might fall before he can even answer. He indulges, of course, and as the warm liquid soothes his throat, he hates that lab even more. Soup is one thing; but warm soup is to die for. "It's delicious, tchotchke." You smile as you turn back around. "Any reason you're home so early." He looks back the new ceiling fan you called Jayce over to put up and lets out a sardonic chuckle. He understands why you called him; he'd need to get on a ladder to put it up and have to abandon his cane for however long it took to hold the thing up and take care of the wiring. He wouldn't be able to balance himself and if he came down, the fan was coming down with him, probably on top of him. And yet, he still would've rather done it himself than you call Jayce to do it. "Yes, but it's admittedly a very stupid reason." You cannot fathom this. You remove the pot from the stove and onto a folded cloth on your counter and desert the stove. "Did something happen?" And he can't handle the look of concern on your face over something he knows to be trivial. "It's just that..." when he realizes he can't put it off any longer, he sighs. "I got jealous of Jayce." Had it not been for the serious look on your face, you would've burst into laughter. Those words had never fallen out of his mouth in that order before. "I know it's absurd, but it started when he put the fan up and it bothered me more than it should. I don't like that there are some things I can't do around the house, and it's been this way my whole life, but it's different with him. He's just always "the guy" and I hate the thought of him being "the guy" to you. It's irrational and a leap in logic, I know, but I hate it." And even better than pity, you just smile at him. In a way it's better that you want to laugh at him, he wants to laugh at him too. The thought of Jayce replacing him is maybe even more of an impossibility for you than it is for him. "So, next time I should just call a guy." He chuckles. "Yes, please."

☼Mel☼

☼I feel like she would be very calm about her jealousy, but also have a slight inclination to anger, albeit a silent one. She doesn't fear the betrayal of a potential cheating, but rather the embarrassment. If she were to see you get too chummy with someone, rather than approach you, she would watch from afar to see what you'd do. This is also a big reason why she usually doesn't take action herself; you never disappoint her when it comes to letting people know you're taken.

☼She is a bit clingier when jealous, but more than that she would insist on doing more couple things together. If she feels it is not known enough, she will make it known that the two of you are together. This often means gifts like expensive jewelry that only she could afford you, a new outfit that conveniently matches with one of hers, or even just letting you borrow bags or earrings of hers. It's her way of scenting you almost. She's too classy to try and "stake her claim" in a more showy way, so she does it in a more inconspicuous way.

Waking up alone wasn't something you were completely unused to. Mel was a very busy woman, and you were content with the nights you had together and rare mornings. These mornings were made extra bearable when you woke to a box on your nightstand, wrapped in a silk ribbon with a note in your girlfriend's handwriting slipped under the bow. 'From my heart, to my darling', it read, a lipstick mark beneath where she had signed her name with an elegant flick of her wrist. Perhaps just as eager to be opened as you were to open it, the ribbon fell loose as you gently picked up the box. It was too small to be a dress and too large to be a ring but large enough to contain maybe a fancy watch or a necklace, but judging by her unusually clingy demeanor last night, you had a feeling you could pretty accurately guess what was inside the ornate jewelry box. Unsurprisingly, within it lay a gold and pearl necklace, pearls that must’ve been rare due to their black hue rather than their usually pale pearlescent coloring.  The chain felt light in your hand, the heaviest part sinking into your palm as you stared at. Your first initial and an M. No matter which way it was taken, the M to be her first name or her last, the possessive message was clear, not that you minded. Mels smile was bright when she saw you for the first time that day, and even brighter when she saw what decorated your neck. She excused herself from the councilmember she was talking to before walking over to you, practically gliding on air. She takes your hand, kissing the inside of your wrist then your knuckles then pulls you by your hand into her. "I take it you're enjoying your gift?" Your hand still in hers, she spins you, taking you in at all angles for the first time that day. "It's beautiful, but I can't help but wonder what inspired the decision." She knows you know exactly how she works, and she doesn't mind admitting she's jealous. "Am I wrong to give my pretty girl a gift?", she says, mocking the comment you received last night. She rolls her eyes and her face gives away her impending rant. "Am I wrong to give a pretty girl a compliment? I still can't believe he said that to you last night. He only did it to piss me off, you know." You bite your lip to hide your laughter, but it eventually slips from you. "I hope I'm more entertaining than Salo was last night." She can't even feign annoyance, not with the sound of your laughter filling her ears and her name around your neck. She laughs herself, with how much the two of you talk shit about the man, you'd think anything he did could never affect her, but she had been biting her tongue since last night. "Shall I list to you all the ways you're better than Salo?" She waves the idea off nonchalantly. "No, my darling, I should hope I never need an ego boost that desperately."

☼You would definitely get jealous far more often than she does. She's gorgeous, smart, well spoken, rich and affluent, and perfection embodied in a person, there is much to be jealous of. Especially as someone who is on the council where part of the job is being great at sweet talk, I feel like you would get your feelings hurt sometimes. You catch more flies with honey, and she may be the sweetest honey there is. She does tease you for your jealousy though, she finds it utterly adorable.

☼She wouldn't allow you to be jealous long. She is very good at reading you and your emotions, she seems to always know exactly how you're feeling. You couldn't even hide it from her if you tried, she'll always find a way to corner you and help you talk your feelings through. She tries very hard to make sure that you can never question who she loves the most.  

[lexalith]

SOUR || Choi Subong (Thanos)

summary: a summer trip to seoul was supposed to be a brief escape, not a love story. meeting subong wasn’t on your bucket list… neither was spending five nights tangled up in his world, wrapped in a kind of closeness that felt too good to ever be temporary. you wanted to believe in it. in him. in the version of love that could survive anything. but loving subong was never meant to be easy. and by the time you realize the damage, there’s no saving either of you from the inevitable crash. when did your love turn so sour?

warnings/this story contains: 18+ (reader discretion is advised) female reader, small age gap (reader is 24, subong is 28… story ends when reader’s around 27 and subong’s around 31), smut (fingering, implied unprotected sex, face sitting, praise, degradation, p in v, oral sex f+m, public sex, sexting, phone sex, breeding kink, sex while being high, switch!subong and switch!reader, leg humping. subong acts like a dog in heat quite literally and is very pathetic at times… he’s overly freaked out) subong calls himself daddy once as a joke but it felt morally correct to include it as a warning lmaoo. reader is a foreigner. excessive use of pet names and the words “fuck” and “fucking”. completely fabricated subong lore. angst (miscommunication, manipulation, gaslighting, lies, deception, name calling, heartbreak, drug abuse and addiction, emotional codependency, verbal fights, toxicity, trauma, emotional whiplash, mentions of suicide/mental health and suicidal ideation, near death experience, identity loss, financial instability, debt, gang involvement) subong’s an actual human being with feelings!! (crazy, right?) both subong and the reader do and say questionable stuff at various points. they’re not perfect. ah, yes, there’s also a bit of fluff too ig… this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

a/n: this is an au set before the games! this story took me forever to write, but it’s finally here and i really hope you enjoy it :) it’s extremely LONG, though (around 40k words), so get comfy. also, i have absolutely no idea how crypto works, but i did my best. as always, lower case is intended, reader’s dialogue is in bold, text messages are in purple for subong and orange for the reader. english isn’t my first language.

songs: ifhy — tyler the creator (pls, pls, listen to this because it’s literally them) || all i need — radiohead || duvet — bôa || less than a zero — the weeknd

the night has barely started and you’re lost in hongdae, sweating through your shirt, and praying your phone doesn’t die because it’s already on 27% “let’s just go in here,” one of your friends says, pointing at a building lit up in flashing purple and blue. it’s not your first choice. not even your third. the last two clubs you tried had lines stretching down the block and bouncers who barely glanced at you before shaking their heads, and the one before that was so packed you heard someone literally got pushed back down the stairs. you’ve spent more time wandering around than actually partying, and at this point, anything with functioning air conditioning sounds good. no one argues, you’re all too tired to keep searching. so you follow the group through the door.

the club isn’t what you expected, and the second you walk in, you all kind of pause like… huh. for one, the music’s live. which isn’t necessarily a bad thing—it’s just not what you were hoping for. not exactly what you had in mind when you pictured partying in seoul. but you stay. partly because it does feel more local and less… touristy. and also, one of your friends is already deep in conversation with a very tall, very handsome guy who appeared out of nowhere and offered to buy you all drinks—which, given the state of your wallet and your mood, feels like a small miracle. so you can’t really complain, can you?

the guy casually mentions he’s got a table upstairs and asks if you all want to join. next thing you know, you’re slipping past the crowd, walking toward a staircase in the back that leads to the vip section. an area you definitely wouldn’t have gotten into on your own, not dressed in sneakers and a tank top that’s slowly clinging to your back from the heat. so there you are, heading up, clinging to the sticky handrail. upstairs is somehow worse and better at the same time. the music is slightly muffled, the lighting is dim and moody, couches line the walls, there’s actual airflow, and from here, you can see the stage perfectly—a little overlook built for people who want to pretend they’re part of the party without actually being in it.

you hang back for a bit, sipping something cold and citrusy, listening to your friends laugh and flirt and fall into easy conversation with a new group of people that magically appeared the second you sat down. and then, just as you’re about to zone out entirely, the music shifts. a beat drops and you freeze for half a second because is that 50 Cent? it is. or at least, a sample of something that sounds very, very similar. then, you hear a voice sliding between english and korean with ease, and that makes you stand up. you mutter something about needing air (which is a lie), and wander over to the balcony that overlooks the stage, drawn in like a moth. that’s when you see him—mic in one hand, the other moving with that effortless kind of swagger people either spend years practicing or were just born with. he’s wearing yellow tinted sunglasses even though it’s pitch black in the club, oversized clothes, and purple hair styled into what looks like two small, deliberate horns which, if you’re honest, is the first thing that catches your attention. his voice is deep, a little rough, and he spits each line with the mic so close to his mouth you can hear every breath he takes between bars. there’s something strangely intimate about it, like he’s performing just for himself and anyone else who happens to be listening is just lucky to be there. the crowd doesn’t seem particularly impressed, but you are. the lyrics aren’t exactly genius, but the delivery is. some lines are so cocky they make you laugh under your breath without meaning to. because it’s not what he says, it’s how he says it. he knows exactly how good he looks with a mic in his hand and doesn’t care if you agree. and unfortunately, you do.

“oh god, he’s awful,” your friend mutters beside you, and it startles you a little. you hadn’t even realized she was there, you’d been too focused, too pulled in by the purple-haired guy onstage. “he’s not that bad. i like him—the song, i mean,” you say, still watching him. there’s a pause, and then she gives you a look, trying to figure out if you’re being serious or if you’ve just had one too many drinks. “he’s said the word ‘bitch’ over twenty times,” she says flatly. “i counted.” you let out a small laugh, shrugging. “yeah, but like… with passion.” your friend snorts, shaking her head, but before she can get another jab in, someone calls her name from inside. she turns, leans in a little. “they’re doing shots,” she says. “come on.” you hesitate, glancing back at the stage—only to realize the music’s stopped. the lights have shifted, and the guy with the purple hair is no longer holding the mic, someone else is already taking his place, adjusting a guitar strap. he’s gone. you blink, surprised at how disappointed you are, and nod. “yeah, okay. coming.” you follow your friend back into the low light and noise, pretending not to care that you didn’t even get his name. not that it matters. it’s not like you’re going to see him again.

except you are. when subong steps into vip, still slightly buzzed from the stage lights, his eyes move instinctively across the room, and he sees you. he doesn’t know who you are, doesn’t recognize your face, which is rare. because he’s seen most of the faces that cycle through this place, and someone that pretty? oh, trust, he would’ve remembered. you’re standing next to the couch with a drink in one hand, looking a little overwhelmed but not uncomfortable, surrounded by people but not really paying attention to any of them. you’re not trying to stand out. which is probably why you do. his gaze lingers longer than it should. because something about you is pulling at him, and subong’s never been the type to ignore that feeling. so he grabs a drink from someone’s tray and makes his way toward you, direct. like he’s already sure how this is going to go. he stops in front of you, eyes flicking down once before landing on yours. “señorita, excuse me,” he says, voice smooth. you recognize him immediately. up close, he’s different. prettier. no, actually… he’s so fucking fine. you pay special attention to his sharp jaw, and eyes that are clearer now without the yellow sunglasses hiding them. “you’re cute,” he continues, casual, like it’s just a fact he felt obligated to mention before anything else. then, after the smallest pause—“hi.” you blink, caught off guard by the compliment more than the greeting. “hi.” his lips twitch, holding back a grin. “i’m thanos.” the music chooses that exact moment to spike—a sudden burst of bass and reverb that drowns his voice out completely. “sorry—what?!” you ask, leaning in slightly. he steps closer, bringing his mouth near your ear, his breath warm against your skin as he repeats himself loud enough for you to hear over the music. “i’m—i’m thanos!” you catch a whiff of his cologne when he moves, something fresh layered with the faint, bitter scent of smoke. it hits you all at once, and for a second, you forget what you were even trying to ask. you pull back enough to look at him again, brows lifted. “thanos?!” “stage name!”

the music finally drops to a bearable level, something with a steady beat. “like the marvel villain?” you ask, laughing a bit. “the one who wiped out half the universe?” “yeah.” “why thanos?” he just lifts a hand, points lazily at his hair, and then turns his wrist to show you his nails, each one a different color—deep purple, bright blue, fiery red, vibrant green, and a sharp orange. “see?” he says. “you’re fully committed to the bit!” “branding,” he says, like it’s obvious. you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “well, nice to meet you,” you say, offering your name in return. he repeats it under his breath, trying it on. it sounds different with his accent—stretched out a little, in a way you instantly like. his korean accent is obvious, and you’re sure some people would call it heavy, but to you it just sounds… hot. he gestures toward the space between you, then tips his head slightly. “did you see the set?” you nod. “yeah. from the balcony.” “and?” “you were… loud.” you admit, taking a sip of your drink to buy time. “mmh,” he hums, clearly entertained. “not your style?” “not usually,” you say. “but i liked it! you had your moments.” “that’s good,” he nods, eyes still on you. “i only needed one.” “one what?” “moment. to get your attention.” oh, okay… smooth. he lets the silence hang for a second, sipping his drink. “you’re not from around here,” he says eventually—not a question, more like an observation he already knows the answer to. you shake your head. “nope.” “where you from, baby?” you raise your eyebrows at the pet name, almost embarrassed at how warm your cheeks have gotten hearing him say it. you tell him where you’re from, and he nods like that fits some kind of theory he’s already formed about you. “just visiting?” he asks. “yeah, we’re here for the week,” you say. “girls’ trip.” his gaze flicks past you briefly, toward your group of friends still talking and drinking behind you, then back to you. “that all?” “mhm.” you nod. “good timing.” “for what?” you ask, tilting your head. his eyes flick over your face. “me.”

so that’s where this is going. not that you weren’t already suspicious. you kinda figured by the way he looks at you like he’s halfway through undressing you with his eyes, but still, hearing him say ‘me’ with that much confidence really drives the point home... he wants to fuck you. this is very much a he has already made up his mind and you’re just the last one to catch up. well, good luck with that, boy. you tilt your head, pretending to think. “i don’t even know your real name.” he grins. this part is his favorite—the push and pull, the game. “i’ll tell you later, baby.” you narrow your eyes. “later when?” he doesn’t miss a beat. “when you let me buy you another drink.” you stare at him for half a second, considering your options, which—let’s be honest—are limited. you could walk away and rejoin your friends, go back to the safety of watered-down vodka cranberries and gossip. or you could stay here, entertain whatever this is, and see how far he plans to take the act. subong’s still looking at you, glass in hand. in his mind, he’s already planned five different ways to keep your attention if this line doesn’t land. you glance down at your drink—or what’s left of it, really. a few pathetic ice cubes floating around in reddish water, the sad remains of something that once had flavor. it’s warm now, or getting there, and you’ve already chewed on the straw more than any adult should admit. there’s no real reason to say yes, but there’s also no good reason to say no, so you nod. “okay.”

it’s quieter closer to the bar, though still not quiet. he orders something—you don’t know what—in korean, and you don’t ask. you just lean against the bar like you’re not mentally calculating how close he’s standing. the drinks arrive, stronger than the last one you had. you sip as he asks about the trip, nods when you give half-baked answers, says little things you don’t always catch but smile at anyway. somewhere along the way, he starts teaching you random korean words, pointing at objects. you try to follow along, repeating what he says with varying degrees of accuracy, sometimes getting it close enough to earn a nod, sometimes butchering the vowels so badly you can see him wince, like you’ve committed a mild crime against his language.

he’s close. so close you start noticing the details. the way his the fabric of his shirt moves, the faint line of a scar near his collarbone, and the thin silver chain resting against his skin, catching the low light with every shift of his body. it disappears beneath the collar of his shirt and reappears again near the dip of his throat. a tattoo peeks out from the side of his neck, a straight black line that seems to be connected to one of his fingers. your eyes flick to his hand before you even think about it. silver rings catch the light—some smooth, others engraved with intricate patterns. you don’t know why you’re so focused on them, but there’s something about the way they contrast against his tanned skin that keeps your attention. then he lowers his hand, and your gaze follows. there, on the back of it, another tattoo in black ink sprawls across his skin—some kind of demon with horns, twisted together with what looks like snakes. it’s faded in places, like it’s been there a long time and he hasn’t bothered to touch it up. without thinking, you track the movement of his fingers as they flex slightly before settling at his side. they’re long, perfectly proportioned to his massive hands. wait… that’s fucking hot. would they feel coarse on your skin? would they— “yo.” you blink, snapping back to reality, realizing he’s watching you, head tilted slightly, amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “you good?” he asks, his smirk deepening and making your face warm. “yeah,” you say too quickly, clearing your throat. you’re pretty sure your mouth was watering for a second there.

you try to focus back on the conversation. focus on the way he tilts his head every time you speak, like he’s making room for the sound of your voice. it’s probably something he does with every girl he likes the look of, and yet you still feel the heat crawling up your spine like you’re special, which is probably exactly how he wants you to feel. and then, without ceremony, it just happens. one second you’re trying to act normal, pretending you don’t notice the way he keeps glancing at your mouth between sentences, and the next he’s leaning in— hand on your jaw, breath warm and close, before he kisses you. and honestly? it’s not great. it’s hot, yeah, and his mouth is warm, and you can tell he knows what he wants to do… but it’s too much. all tongue and pressure and zero pacing… like biting and breathing through his nose and full-on consuming you is the only way to make sure you’re into it. your teeth knock once, your lips feel bruised, and for a second you’re just trying not to choke on the fact that he is really going for it. you pull back, a hand against his chest to create a little breathing room, your lips probably shiny in the worst possible way. your eyes meet his and you swear he looks kind of smug about it, like he thinks you’re about to fall into his arms or ask him to fuck you right here. “jesus,” you mutter, not even hiding it. “slow down.” his brows lift, breath shallow, lips parted like he’s halfway through his next move, and you can tell he didn’t expect to be stopped. he probably never is. “what?” you don’t move your hand, just stay there, catching your breath. “i’m not going anywhere,” you say, a little softer this time. “just… not like that. try—try going slower.” he blinks once, like he’s rewiring the pace in his head, and then the corner of his mouth twitches. “bossy. i like that.”

and to his credit, he does what you asked. he leans in again, slower. this time, it actually feels like a kiss. it’s still deep, a little wild and rough, but better than before. you make a soft noise into his mouth and his hands respond immediately—one sliding lower, the other gripping your hip. and then you feel it—his fingers moving further down, gripping your ass like he needs something to hold onto or else he’s going to lose his fucking mind. bold. heat is building fast, and he’s pulling your body right up against his, which you let him do. he’s finally moving like he’s tuned in to what you want instead of just steamrolling through it. it’s good. the kind of kiss that makes your brain go fuzzy and your knees a little weak. and then he pulls back. “you wanna get outta here?” and… he’s just ruined it! “what?” his hand squeezes your side a little, still very much pressed against you. “yeah, like… somewhere private. we don’t gotta stay long.” the subtext is not even trying to be subtle. you lean back to look him in the face. “seriously?” he shrugs, but his eyes flick away for half a second because he already knows he’s misread this. “i mean. you’re into it. i’m… really fucking into it. figured we could…” he trails off, then laughs like it’ll cover for the fact that he has absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence without sounding like a dick. “you don’t even know me,” you say, and it comes out flatter than you expected. “you kissed me, girl.” “and that means what, exactly? that i owe you something now?” you start to move, shifting away from him, scanning the room for your friends.

“wait, wait—! shit—no, don’t go,” he says, suddenly very aware that he’s said the wrong thing. “please don’t hate me, pretty girl.” his hand almost reaches for you but he thinks better of it. “i didn’t mean it like that. okay, no—i did, but not like—damn. shit, man.” you don’t say anything, and that seems to only fuel the panic. he keeps going. “you’re just—fuck, you’re so hot, bro. like… so fucking hot. you have the best ass i’ve ever touched in my entire fucking life, and your mouth? damn girl. i’m not built for that kind of shit, i got so hard i—sorry.” he laughs under his breath, runs a hand through his hair. “i’ll—i’ll chill. i can chill, baby. i’ll make out with you for five hours straight if that’s all you want. i swear to god. i just—i don’t want you walking away thinking i don’t respect you or some shit.” he knows how he looks. like the kind of guy who gets girls easy, like he does this all the time. and sometimes, yeah, sure, some do stick around for a night or two, but not like you. and if kissing is all he’s getting tonight, then fine—he’ll take it happily. you laugh, soft and breathy, and he can’t tell if it’s at him or with him, but it doesn’t really matter. there’s something amused in your eyes, like you’re watching a very eager dog try to sit still. you’re trying to decide if he’s serious or just really, really horny. maybe both. either way, you find extremely funny the way he went from cocky to borderline begging in under a minute. “i’m not like that,” you say finally, and your voice is gentler now. “i don’t do the one night stand thing. it just feels… cold.” he nods. he hears you, even if he’s still a little dazed from the way your mouth tasted two minutes ago. “and you’re sweet,” you add. “but i’m gonna head back to my friends.” “wait,” he says. “can i—can i get your number, baby?” you pause, considering whether or not you want to give it to him. “yeah, okay. sure” you end up saying. “give me your phone.” oh, don’t tell him twice… he fumbles for it, unlocks it fast, and hands it over. and when you type your number in, he watches, not quite sure it’s really happening. you hand his phone back, and he stares at the contact for a second longer than necessary before locking the screen. you’re already stepping back when he finds his voice again. “and—fuck, wait,” he says. “if i asked you out… like, on a date. would you say yes?” you snort. “maybe.”

by the time you get back to the hotel, your feet are killing you and your face hurts from laughing, your makeup slightly smudged. you’re all stretched out on one bed, voices low and tired and still a bit drunk, retelling the night in pieces, everyone interrupting each other with “wait—wait—and then she said—” and “i swear he looked straight at me,” and “i think that guy wanted to kick us out, dude.” and then, eventually, they ask. about thanos. you tell them about the kissing, about the moment he ruined it, the apology and all the ridiculous things he said. they laugh, obviously. one of them calls him down bad, and yeah, fair. another says he sounds like a walking red flag, and you nod, because again, fair. but then you mention the part where he asked for your number. how he asked if he could take you out. “and you gave it to him?” one of them asks. you just shrug, staring up at the ceiling. “i mean… he asked nicely.” they tease you, of course. and you pretend not to care, but you’re smiling into the pillow like a fucking idiot anyway, because something about the way he said please don’t hate me, pretty girl has been playing on loop in your head all night, and it’s way too late to pretend it didn’t get to you. you’re about to drift off, the room quiet now, someone already snoring in the corner—when your phone buzzes. a text. from a number you don’t have saved yet, but you know exactly who it is.

yo babygirl

pls tell me this is u and not like some random old man

you stare at the screen for a second, already shaking your head, biting your lip to keep from laughing. you don’t respond right away.

dont leave me on read baby

you finally answer:

who’s this?

you know exactly who it is but you still want to make him suffer a little.

girl dont play me rn

it’s thanos🔥

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s already giving you away.

mm idk name doesn’t ring a bell

crazy, u were tryna suck my soul 2 hrs ago, girl

you tried to suck my soul, get it right boy

okay thats fair, my bad

i got excited

u fine asf what was i supposed to do

you glance over at your friend, still asleep, then sink deeper into your pillow, thumbs moving slow on your screen.

romantic

i can be for you bby

:))

cute

you never told me your real name btw

it’s subong

choi subong if we r being formal n shit

subong?? no way that’s real, it sounds made up as hell

why would i lie tho

this me fr, ask my mom

oooh say less, send me her number, i’ll fact check

u tryna meet her already?? damn girl slow down

you read it once, then again—and the laugh that comes out of you is loud enough that your friend stirs beside you and mutters something unintelligible into her pillow. he texts again.

so what u doin tmrw night, bby?

depends

on?

what you’re asking

dinner, me n u

dinner?

yeah u said u not on that one night shit so i adjusted

growth, baby

okay mr. mature

so what time u lettin me pick u up tmrw

when did i agree to the date?

dont play w me ma, cmon lemme feed u

ooookayy pick me up at 8

bet

dont flake on me pretty girl

i already told my friends i got a date w the baddest tourist in seoul

dw i’ll send you the hotel address tomorrow🙂‍↕️

goodnight subong

goodnight❤️

you wake up slowly, blinking against the sunlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains as someone’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. your mouth’s dry, your back aches a little from the shitty mattress, and one of your friends is already rummaging through their suitcase way too loudly for 9 a.m. the day starts in hongdae, where you grab iced lattes from a café, and eat soft pastries that flake apart in your hands while you lean against the glass and watch the crowds pass by. you wander from there, no real plan in place. it’s hot, not unbearable but definitely the kind that makes the shade feel like a gift from god. you end up in ikseon-dong after someone sees a post about it on tiktok—the winding alleys and hanok rooftops and little stores selling handmade accessories. you try on rings, pose in front of storefronts you can’t pronounce, and eat cold tteok skewers that stick to your teeth while your friends debate if it’s worth renting hanboks just for the photos. and it’s somewhere in between all that—while you’re wiping your hands on a napkin—that someone turns to you and says, “so what happened with purple hair?” you shrug. “he texted.” “and?” you don’t say anything. instead, you reach into your bag, pull out your phone, and start scrolling. you wordlessly hold your phone out, and one of them takes it, squinting at the screen as the others gather around her shoulder. it takes about three seconds for the noise to start. “yo babygirl?” “oh, god… not the fire emoji.” “nahhh, he’s a bit icky—” “no, no, i think he’s lowkey funny.” they keep scrolling—laughing, gasping, reacting… and then someone sees it. the message. “wait… you’re going on a date?” you nod. “what? girl, you met him like twelve hours ago—do we trust him?” she lowers her voice even though no one around would understand anyway. “we’re in a different country, you literally met him at a club, and now he’s taking you somewhere alone?” “i know,” you say, already anticipating this. “i’ll be careful.” “how careful?” “i’m gonna send you my location before i leave. i’ll keep it on the whole time. if anything’s weird, i’ll text.” the worry’s still there, visible in the slight crease between their brows, in the way they exchange looks. “i’ll be fine, don’t worry.” “okay. but try to be in public spaces.” “i will.”

you make it back to the hotel just as the sky starts turning that soft, bruised purple, and you peel off your clothes like they’re too heavy, staring at the limited wardrobe you packed as if suddenly it matters way too much. you change your outfit twice, almost three times, before settling on something simple, something that doesn’t look like you’re trying too hard. you’re fixing your hair for the hundredth time when your phone buzzes.

outside

your stomach flips so hard it’s stupid. you grab your bag, do a quick mirror check you immediately regret because now you’re second-guessing everything, and head for the elevator before you can talk yourself out of it. and when you step out into the sticky air outside, you spot him almost immediately—standing by the curb, head tipped back slightly as he exhales a slow stream of vapor into the humid air. he’s dressed way more casual than you expected too… an oversized white t-shirt hanging loose over broad shoulders, baggy jorts and sneakers. he looks… cool. subong spots you, flicking the vape down to his side with a lazy grin as you start walking toward him. you barely get the word out— “hey—” when he steps right into your space and presses a kiss to your mouth. your body freezes, every muscle stiffening in surprise. you instinctively pull back, blinking up at him. “what—” you start, hand coming up between you half in reflex, half in shock. “what are you doing?” he shrugs, one shoulder up, all casual confidence. “what you mean, girl?” he says, tucking his vape into the pocket of his jorts. “we kissed last night.” you just stare at him, heart still hammering, lips tingling from the stupidly quick kiss. he’s looking at you like you’re the crazy one, like this is normal. but there’s the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth, the smallest glint in his eyes that says he knew exactly what he was doing. “that was different,” you mutter. “was it?” you open your mouth, ready to say something—not sure what—but nothing comes out. you try to catch up to the pace he’s apparently set without telling you as he glances back at you, one eyebrow raised, head tilted slightly like what? what did i do? you shake your head, blinking to reboot your system or at least form a coherent sentence, “you can’t just kiss people like that.” he grins. “wasn’t just people. it was you.” you snort. “you’re lucky i didn’t slap you.”

he laughs under his breath, genuinely amused by how hard you’re trying to act unbothered when you’re still standing close enough to feel the heat coming off him. “okay, don’t trip,” he says, like he’s letting you win just because he feels like it. “i won’t kiss you again, i’ll be good. you set the pace. whenever you’re ready to stop acting like you ain’t feelin’ me, you let me know.” you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, but you’re also pretty sure your face is still warm from the kiss, and the worst part is, he knows it. his eyes trail down your body, and he lets out this soft, almost inaudible damn under his breath that somehow feels a thousand times louder than it is. “you look so fucking good, baby,” he comments, voice dipping lower. “shit’s actually disrespectful.” he licks his bottom lip. “got me thinkin’ wild stuff.” before you can even finish processing the fact that he just said that out loud with no fucking shame, he reaches out, fingers curling gently around your wrist, and spins you—checking out the full view. there’s something in the way his eyes trail over you as you turn that makes your skin prickle. and subong knows he’s pushing it but can’t quite help himself. you stumble a little when you land back in front of him, cheeks hot, hand fluttering uselessly at your side.“so pretty.” “thank you,” you respond, voice smaller than you mean it to be.

desperate to shift the focus, to get it off you, you ask, “so this is what you wear on a first date?” your voice back to playful now. he grins, completely unfazed, hands slipping casually into his pockets. “yeah,” he replies. “like what you see?” you can’t deny he pulls it off. “could be better,” you tease, throwing it out just to see if you can knock him down a peg. it makes him laugh, head tipping back slightly like you just said the funniest thing in the world. “alright,” he shakes his head. “i’ll let you get away with this one. first one’s free.” you grin, feeling lighter now, falling into step beside him as you both start moving. you walk for a bit, the conversation drifting into whatever, until something tugs at the back of your mind. you glance around the street, at the line of cars parked along the curb, at the people climbing into taxis and scooters buzzing past, and a tiny frown pulls at your mouth before you even know why. you slow your steps just a little, enough that subong notices, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “wait,” you say, looking around again, feeling the pieces start to click together. “where’s your car?” he doesn’t answer immediately—just lets out this quiet heh under his breath, the kind of sound that’s both i knew this was coming and damn bro, she caught me. “uh,” he starts, dragging the word out way too long. “‘bout that.” you try to keep a straight face because you’re very close to laughing and you’re not sure if you’re allowed to. “i don’t have one.” “you made it sound like you were picking me up.” “i did pick you up,” he argues, grinning like this is all very charming and not mildly ridiculous. “i’m here, aren’t i?” you shake your head, letting out a laugh you can’t hold back this time. “relax, señorita,” he says, nudging your arm lightly with his elbow, walking backwards a few steps so he can keep looking at you. “the place we’re going is close. we good. thanos’s here with you.” you raise your eyebrows, biting back another laugh. “yeah, okay.”

you follow him down a few blocks, weaving through narrow side streets that don't look like they lead to anything good, the sidewalks cracked and uneven, neon signs lit overhead. you're not really sure where you're going, but somehow you don't care. finally he stops in front of a tiny restaurant. there's no sign in english, just a battered old menu taped to the window, the plastic chairs outside scratched and sun-bleached to hell. you glance at him, raising an eyebrow, and he just smiles, flashing you that lazy, boyish look like trust me, i got you. subong holds the door open for you, and you step inside. the place smells like frying oil, grilled meat and cheap beer, and the tables are crammed so close together you have to squeeze sideways to get through. there’s a little bar shoved in the back, stacked with soju bottles and bags of chips, and a woman behind it who looks like she’d throw you out if you looked at her wrong.

you sit at a table near the window, the seat creaking under you, and he grabs two menus—ones that are almost falling apart from too many hands flipping through them—and leans across the table like he’s about to tell you a secret. “they got the best shit here,” he says, all serious. you laugh under your breath and skim the menu… it’s all in korean. and when you look up at him, he’s already watching you. “what you want, baby?” he asks, tapping the menu with his ringed fingers. “i have no idea what any of this is.” he chuckles, low in his throat. “don’t worry. i got you.” he orders for both of you, tossing words toward the server with an easy familiarity, laughing at something she says in return, flashing her that same smile that’s been getting him out of trouble his whole life, probably. you watch him, chin propped on your hand, hiding your grin. it’s hard to pretend you’re not a little charmed. the food comes fast: bubbling stews, plates of fried chicken glistening with sauce, little bowls of pickled side dishes you can’t name but don’t hesitate to try. it smells incredible. you barely finish thanking the server before you’re digging in, laughing when you nearly burn your mouth on the first bite because you were too impatient to let it cool. “careful, girl,” subong says, laughing at you while he pops a piece of chicken into his mouth. he watches you take your first proper bite, waiting for a reaction, looking way too pleased with himself when you close your eyes and groan around a mouthful of food. "told you.”

the conversation flows easy after that—mostly him talking, telling you stupid stories about growing up in the city, about getting in trouble for sneaking into clubs before he was legal, about how he got kicked off stage once for getting too drunk during a performance. every once in a while he has to stop mid-sentence, brows knitting together as he fumbles for a word in english, pulling out his phone to type it into a translator app, muttering curses under his breath when it doesn't come out right. but most of the time he powers through, thick accent clinging stubbornly to every word. you notice it—the effort, the way he doesn’t act embarrassed about it, just keeps talking, keeps looking at you like what matters is that you’re listening, not whether he gets every syllable perfect. but his english is way better than you expected. by the time the plates are empty and you’re leaning back in your seat, full and happy and a little buzzed from the cheap beer he insisted you had to try, you realize you haven’t stopped smiling for at least an hour. when the server drops the check, he snatches it off the table before you can even reach for it, tossing a few crumpled bills into the plastic tray. “i said i got you, baby. you’re my guest in seoul. gotta treat you right.”

you step out of the restaurant still laughing at something stupid he said. subong throws an arm around your shoulders, tugging you a little into his side as you start walking again. jesus, this man loves physical contact. but you let him because fuck it—you’re in seoul, he’s fine as fuck and you just had the best dinner ever. you assume this is it. that he’ll say something smooth about how he had a good time and then you’ll part ways like normal people… but of course that’s not how this night is going to end. “yo,” he says suddenly, glancing at you sideways. “you ever been to karaoke?” you blink at him, thrown off. “like, here? in korea?” he nods, looking way too excited about it. you laugh. “i mean, no? not yet.” “say less,” he says immediately. “we’re going.” you don’t even protest. maybe it’s the beer, or maybe it’s the way he says it, giving you no room to say no but somehow you don’t want to anyway. once you arrive to the closest karaoke place you could find, he pays for an hour and drags you into one of the rooms, tossing the remote onto the fake leather couch before flopping down like he owns the place. and you swear you’re ready—thinking he’s going to pick something remotely cool that would actually show off the fact that he’s a real rapper with actual skills—but instead, he picks the corniest, cringiest song you’ve ever heard, something so bad it feels like it should be illegal to perform it in public. and he commits to it, bouncing a little on the couch and pointing at you dramatically, hand over his heart, singing the dumbest lines with so much fake sincerity that you’re doubled over laughing, wiping tears from your eyes while he struts across the tiny room like he’s on tour. “this one’s for you, babygirl,” he says between lines, winking exaggeratedly, nearly dropping the mic because he’s laughing too hard at himself. you can’t remember the last time you laughed like this. to the point where your stomach hurts, and the laugh bubbles up uncontrollably until you can’t breathe and you’re clutching the arm of the couch just to stay upright.

somewhere in the middle of it you realize you’re completely fucked because he’s so annoying and so stupid and so fucking handsome at the same time. his hair’s sticking to his forehead, sweat glinting at his temples, his oversized t-shirt clinging to his chest in a way that makes it real fucking hard not to stare, and every time he sings louder, that vein in his neck strains against his skin like it’s begging for your mouth. lord, have some fucking mercy. you hate him for it—hate the way he’s making you want him without even trying, without even looking at you sometimes… just existing like this, all loud and cocky and hot enough to make your thighs press together. you cheer for him because you can’t not, hollering louder than you should when he throws in a stupid dance move that nearly knocks over the mic stand. and when he finally hands you the mic, yelling “let’s gooo, pretty girl!” like you’re stepping onto a stage instead of a busted karaoke floor, you realize you’re smiling so hard it actually hurts. you sing, and he’s clapping, hyping you up like you’re winning a fucking grammy—shouting your name. you take turns picking songs after that, drinking whatever cheap shit they sell at the front counter, voices cracking, bodies slumping closer together the longer the night drags on. and somewhere between your third song and his fourth, somewhere between him rapping aggressively at you from three feet away and you pretending to dodge his dramatic finger guns, it happens.

you catch him grinning at you, and your heart kicks hard against your chest, like your body already knows what you’re about to do before you even decide it. you remember in that moment what he said outside the hotel, about letting you set the pace. and god help you, you’re ready to set it now. you don’t think. you just move, leaning over the little gap between you, grabbing the front of his t-shirt, and pulling him in. when you kiss him, it’s nothing like the night before. it’s so much better. his mouth slants over yours perfectly, with enough pressure to make your stomach flip and enough softness to make you forget about everything outside. one of his hands slips around your jaw to hold you steady and the other one finds your thigh. you hum against his mouth without meaning to, and subong breathes out a low sound in response. you pull away to catch your breath, and when you kiss again, it’s a bit more desperate, which makes him groan, the sound vibrating against your mouth. it’s honestly embarrassing how fast you feel your panties soak. you don’t know how long you stay like that—lost in the beat of some awful pop song bleeding through the thin walls as you heavily make out—but you know that when you pull back again, breathing hard, you’re smiling like an idiot. and so is he.

it’s past three in the morning by the time you finally stumble out of the karaoke bar, that area of the city almost empty now. the only sound between you is the soft scuff of your sneakers on the pavement and the occasional lazy laugh when one of you says something too stupid to hold in. you make it back to the hotel slower than you probably should’ve, feet dragging a little like both of you are trying to stretch the night out just a little longer, neither one really willing to say it’s over yet. you stop just outside the hotel doors, under the weak yellow glow of the streetlights, and turn to him. subong smiles at you. “had fun with you, baby,” he says. you smile back, feeling it settle deep under your skin. “i had fun too. a lot.” he nods like he’s filing that away somewhere important, then shifts his weight. “we should hang out again,” there’s a thread under it you can hear, something almost urgent. you bite your lip, hesitating just a second longer than you mean to, and his eyes catch it immediately, narrowing slightly, picking up the shift in you. “i mean…” you start, fumbling a little, “i’m here with my friends. i told you, it’s like… a girls’ trip. we already have stuff planned and—” he cuts you off, scoffing, half laughing under his breath, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “man, fuck them plans,” he says, grinning but shaking his head like he’s serious underneath it. “they get to see you all year. i got only four days now, girl. four.” you open your mouth to argue, to say something logical and responsible, but he continues, “they ain’t gonna miss you for a few hours,” he says, coaxing, all lazy sweetness. “i will.” you blink up at him, caught off guard by the way he says it. maybe you should say no, tell him you’re here for your friends, not to get caught up in some boy you barely know. maybe you should turn around and go inside and pretend this night was enough. but the truth is, you already know what you’re going to do. so you just breathe out a soft, helpless little laugh, and shrug one shoulder like you’re trying to play it off even though you know he sees right through you. “okay.” you nod. “i’ll see you again.” the grin that breaks across his face is so quick, so bright, it almost knocks the air out of you. he doesn’t even try to hide it. “damn right you will,” he says. “same time tomorrow, yeah?” you can’t help the smile that pulls at your mouth, can’t stop yourself from playing along. “same time?” “yeah, baby. same time.”

the next morning you wake up feeling like you barely slept at all. you lie there for a few minutes, blinking up at the ceiling, replaying pieces of last night in your head, until someone throws a pillow at you and tells you to get up because you’re all late for whatever tourist plan you made before the trip. you tell them about the date during breakfast, skipping over the part where you made out on the sticky leather couch, but you’re pretty sure they can read it on your face anyway. they tease you again. ask when the wedding is and if they should start learning korean for the reception. those bitches. you laugh along with them, pretending you’re not checking the time more often than you should as the day wears on, counting down the hours until the sun goes down and it’s time. when you make it back to the hotel to shower and change, the sun’s just dipping low behind the buildings, painting the whole city gold. your friends are sprawled out on their beds, chatting about dinner plans for the night, but you’re in another world, getting ready for your date with subong. you slip outside just a few minutes before the time you agreed on, standing on the same spot as the night before, the concrete still holding the heat of the day. you spot him as he walks toward you, vape tucked between his fingers, a slow stream of smoke curling up. he’s hard to miss—not just because of the purple hair, but because somehow he looks even better tonight, a little more put together. he’s wearing those same jorts, a white tank top that clings to him in a way that makes you bite the inside of your cheek, the thin fabric stretched across the lines of his shoulders and the curve of his chest. over it, he’s thrown on an open short-sleeved button-up, some tropical print you can’t even process because you’re too busy processing him—the way the shirt flutters open as he walks, flashing glimpses of tan skin and silver chains. you restrain yourself from barking because oh my fucking god. you’re so feral, it’s insane. he gets closer, mouth curling into a smirk. “damn, mama,” he says. “you tryna kill me looking like that?” you smile. “maybe.” he snorts before reaching out to hook a lazy arm around your shoulders like he did last night, pulling you into his side. “come on, baby,” he says, giving you a little squeeze. “night’s young.” you glance up at him, amused. “so, what’s the plan?” he hums, thinking, like the idea of having a plan never once crossed his mind. “have fun, get you fed and keep you laughing. that good enough?” you chuckle, letting yourself be dragged wherever he feels like going.

he pulls you down a side street you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. there are carts lined up one after another, steam rising from boiling pots, old men barking orders, kids laughing, girls dressed way too nicely for the grime around their shoes. subong stops at the first tteokbokki stand he sees, hands you a toothpick without asking like it’s a rite of passage, and grins at you when you eye the bubbling, angry red sauce with suspicion. “don’t be soft,” he says, plucking a rice cake out and blowing on it dramatically before popping it into his mouth. “fire, but it’s good for you.” “fire? what do you mean ‘fire’?” you poke at a piece, hesitating, and he bumps your hip with his. “c’mon, girl. don’t think about it.” you stab the piece, blow on it half-heartedly, and take a bite—immediately coughing as the heat punches you square in the mouth. he laughs so loud people actually turn to stare. you glare at him through watering eyes, cheeks puffed out, waving your free hand frantically. “shit, baby, you good?” he says between wheezing laughs, grabbing a water bottle off the cart and handing it to you. you chug half the bottle in one go, scowling over the top of it while he keeps laughing, trying and failing to school his face into something resembling sympathy. “it’s not funny,” you choke out, but it’s hopeless—you’re laughing too, half in misery, half because his smile is so stupidly infectious.

you move from cart to cart after that, him insisting you try everything—fish cakes dipped in broth, skewered meats glazed with something sweet, a fried pancake stuffed with brown sugar and nuts that you basically inhale because it’s the first non-lethal thing you’ve eaten all night. you end up perched on the curb a few minutes later, paper trays balanced between you. it’s not exactly glamorous, but somehow, sitting here next to him, none of it really matters. he’s good company… snatching bites off your plate like he didn’t just buy two full meals for himself. you watch him for a second, amused, as he chews dramatically, eyebrows raised like he’s waiting for you to fight him for it, but you don’t. “by the way,” you say, nudging him with your knee. “i forgot to ask. how old are you?” he freezes mid bite, eyes wide like you just hit him with a question he wasn’t ready for. then he swallows and smirks, licking sauce off his thumb before answering. “twenty-eight,” he replies, tapping his chest like it’s a badge of honor. “grown-ass man, baby.” you laugh, shaking your head. “you act like you’re eighteen.” he grins wider. “young at heart, old in the dick.” you almost choke on your food, smacking his arm while he doubles over laughing, clearly way too proud of himself. “jesus christ,” you mutter, hiding your face in your hands for a second while subong keeps laughing, wiping fake tears from the corner of his eyes. “what about you?” he asks once he catches his breath, nudging you back with his shoulder. “twenty-four,” you say, still side-eyeing him like you’re waiting for another stupid comment. he whistles low under his breath, shooting you a look. “damn. little baby. you’re so cute.” you flip him off automatically, but you’re smiling too much for it to mean anything.

after a while, he pushes himself up, brushing crumbs off his jorts, and reaches a hand down to you. you let him pull you up, your fingers slipping easily into his for a second longer than necessary before you let go, pretending not to notice the way he smirks. you start walking again, no real direction, just weaving through the crowds as the streets pulse around you. he keeps glancing down at his phone, scrolling, texting, doing something you can’t quite catch, and you’re about to tease him for being glued to it when a low rumble cuts through the street noise—a motorbike pulling up just a few feet ahead of you. you pause automatically, stepping closer to him, and he looks up like he’s been expecting it. the guy on the bike kills the engine and pulls off his helmet, grinning wide. subong grins back, stepping forward to dap him up—a quick handshake and a bro-hug, that thing guys pretend isn’t just them being affectionate. they talk fast, laughing and jostling each other like they’re still teenagers. you’re not really listening, since you understand absolutely nothing. your eyes flick between the beat-up bike and subong’s lazy posture, the way he gestures casually in your direction mid sentence and jerks his chin toward you. then he says something that you do understand. “that my girl.” and you can feel your cheeks get warm. the guy nods, still grinning, and tosses subong two helmets before hopping off the bike completely and handing over the keys without a second thought. he gives you a quick polite bow, claps subong on the back, and then disappears into the crowd without a backward glance.

you blink at subong, stunned, as he turns back to you, tossing you one of the helmets with a cocky grin. “what just happened?” you ask, catching it awkwardly. he shrugs, sliding his own helmet on. “my boy owed me a favor,” he says casually, tugging the strap of his helmet tight under his chin. “told him i needed a whip for tonight. came through.” you open your mouth to question that (because what the actual fuck) but before you can, he steps closer, plucks the helmet out of your hands, says, “c’mere, baby,” and starts fitting it onto your head like you’re a little kid he’s dressing for school. he’s surprisingly gentle about it too—adjusting the strap under your jaw, fingers brushing the sides of your neck, tilting your head a little so he can buckle it properly. you hold still, heart thudding a little too fast, trying to focus on anything other than the way he smells up close. he tugs the strap once to test it, his thumb brushing the underside of your chin lightly. “perfect,” he says, grinning down at you like he just built the whole damn helmet himself. you look up at him, a little too aware of how close he is, and mutter, “you do know how to drive this thing, right?” his grin only widens. he swings one leg over the bike, settling onto the seat like he’s done it a million times, flashing you a look so smug you already know the answer before he even opens his mouth. “nah. not really.” he pats the seat behind him with the flat of his palm, all easy confidence like he’s not actively trying to kill you both tonight. “come on, baby.” “what do you mean, ‘not really’?” “i mean, like... how hard can it be?” you just stare at him, actually opening your mouth this time because no, absolutely not, what the fuck. “subong—” but before you can launch into the speech he probably deserves, he twists a little in the seat, facing you more fully, one hand reaching out to tap his knuckles lightly against the side of your helmet. “chill, girl. i’m not gonna kill us.” you narrow your eyes at him through the visor, unconvinced. “trust me, yeah?” the sheer audacity of this man… but he looks so fucking good it physically hurts. like hell yeah, if he were to fuck you right now, the helmet would stay on because holy shit…

you blow out a slow breath, feeling the last of your protests crumbling away, and swing your leg over the bike, sliding onto the seat behind him. your hands find his waist automatically, gripping tighter than necessary, and you’re pretty sure he feels it…because he lets out this low, smug little laugh. “if we crash,” you mutter, “i’m haunting you.” “shit,” subong laughs, glancing back at you. “you can haunt me anytime, baby.” you snort, and then he’s pulling out into the street, smooth and confident in a way that should not belong to someone who openly admitted he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. the bike jolts forward a little rough at first, and instinctively, you squeeze him tighter, your fingers fisting the hem of his shirt like you’re clinging for your life. which you are. he laughs again. you can feel it more than hear it, this rumbling sound that vibrates through his back and straight into your chest. the first few blocks are hell. you’re tense, stiff, squeezing the life out of him every time he takes a turn too sharp or guns it a little too hard between cars. subong’s reckless, weaving through traffic, laughing under his breath when you curse him loud enough to make two drunk guys on the sidewalk turn around. “relax, pretty girl!” he calls over his shoulder. “i got you!” hell no. you don’t relax. but somewhere along the way— maybe after the third near-death experience—you loosen your grip a little. your body starts to move with his instead of against him, leaning into the curves, even when your stomach drops into your shoes. he flies through the city, streets blurring into streaks of gold and red and neon blue, the whole of seoul stretching wide and endless around you. you laugh and he hears it. you can tell because he glances back briefly, enough for you to catch the way he’s smiling with his eyes under the helmet.

eventually, he slows, pulling into a quieter part of the city where your hotel is. he rolls the bike up to the curb, tapping the kickstand down with the side of his foot. the engine cuts off with a low grumble. subong looks back at you, hands still resting lightly on the handlebars. “see? you survived,” he says. you snort, pulling off your helmet, your hair sticking to your forehead and your cheeks hot from the ride and the adrenaline. maybe a little from him too. “barely,” you mutter, swinging your leg off the bike and standing, feeling the ground steady itself under you again. he watches you, leaning back a little, hands loose in his lap, looking so stupidly proud of himself you almost want to smack him. but mostly, you just want to kiss him. and you hate how badly you want it. how badly you’re really starting to want him. you shove the helmet into his chest instead, and he chuckles, grabbing it easily like he was expecting the hit. “damn,” he says, shaking his head like he’s genuinely offended. “no kiss goodbye?” “maybe if you took off the helmet first.” without missing a beat, he yanks the helmet off, rakes a hand through his messy, sweat-damp purple hair, and looks at you. you don’t even hesitate. you lean in, pressing your lips against his, and he’s ready for it—smiling against them like he knew you’d cave, hands finding your waist and pulling you in. you pull back after a second, but subong stays close, forehead almost bumping yours. “better,” he murmurs. you huff out a laugh. “don’t get used to it.” “too late, pretty girl.” you shake your head, trying not to smile too wide, stepping back to give yourself breathing room you’re not sure you actually want. “i wanna know more about you,” you say all of sudden. his eyebrows lift. “oh yeah?” “yeah,” you say, feeling your face heat up. “we’re hanging out again tomorrow, right? i wanna know more.” he blinks, like you caught him off guard for a second, then he smiles. “oh, we are?” subong tilts his head, teasing. you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug like you’re giving him a choice when you both know you’re not. “unless you’re busy.” you know damn well he isn’t. “i’m always free for you, girl.” “good. same time tomorrow then,” you afirm, stepping back, starting to turn toward the hotel entrance. behind you, you hear the faint click of his helmet getting strapped back on, the low rumble of the engine coming back to life. “hey,” subong calls after you, voice a little louder now over the growl of the bike. you glance back over your shoulder. “better get some rest, baby. you’re gonna need energy to handle all this tomorrow.” you raise an eyebrow. “all what?” he laughs, shaking his head. you’re so cute for even asking. “me,” he answers, flashing a wink. “got plenty to show you.”

and he’s right. he’s got plenty to show you—all the places that built him. the convenience store he used to get kicked out of for loitering. the fried chicken shop where he spent whole summers broke and eating scraps off his friend’s plates. the basketball court where he learned how to throw a punch and how to lose without crying. he shows you the narrow alley behind a laundromat where he tried his first cigarette—coughed so hard he almost passed out, ended up swearing off smoking for a year before picking it back up like a dumbass. and the little restaurant his mom used to take him to when she had extra money, telling you all proud, like he was taking her out instead of the other way around—points at a booth through the window, saying, “we always sat there. always. didn’t matter if the place was full, we’d wait.” you pass the corner where he says he got his first kiss—“shit was so bad… she had gum in her mouth, bro. almost choked me out.” he laughs so hard at his own misery you can’t help but crack up too. half the time you’re laughing so much you have to grab onto his arm to stay upright, the other half you’re just smiling, letting yourself imagine him at fifteen, wild and cocky and probably just as much of a little shit as he is now. he tells you about the time he broke his front tooth on a skateboard he stole from his neighbor—“wasn’t even a good skateboard, man, shit was so trash it couldn’t even roll properly”—and the time he got detention for a month straight for sneaking out during lunch breaks to freestyle rap behind the gym. he’s proud of it all in a weird way, even the stupid stuff, even the shit you can tell he probably should’ve been more ashamed of. and you get it. you get why he’s showing you this—the scraps, the corners, the places no one else would think mattered. because to him, they do. and for whatever reason, he wants them to matter to you too.

the night keeps pulling you along, the city thinning out into quieter streets, until you turn a corner and there it is—his old high school. the building itself looks tired, the chain-link fence rusted and sagging in places. he slows down as you approach, hands tucked loose into his pockets, eyeing the fence. you already know the look on his face before he says anything. and sure enough, a second later: “wanna go in?” you hesitate, glancing around. it’s late, the streets mostly empty, but still… breaking into a high school wasn’t exactly on your vacation checklist. “subong,” you hiss under your breath. “what if we get caught?” he just laughs, not even pretending to be worried. “ain’t nobody patrolling this old-ass place at night, baby. plus, you said you wanted to know more about me, right?” “shit—okay, fine. but i don’t wanna stay for too long,” you sigh, knowing you’ve lost, already stepping closer to him like an idiot because honestly, how could you not. he finds a spot where the fence leans out, grabs it with both hands, and yanks it back with a sharp creak, wide enough for you to slip through. he holds it open, hand reaching for yours. “ladies first.” you mutter something under your breath about how stupid this is, but your fingers still find his, and you duck through the gap, heart hammering way too loud in your chest. inside, the courtyard feels huge. you stick to the shadows instinctively, ducking your head as you walk, trying not to step directly under the working lampposts buzzing dimly overhead. subong moves beside you, easy and relaxed, hands shoved back into his pockets, looking around like he’s remembering every stupid thing he ever did here. he points out the corner where he used to ditch class to smoke, the back wall where he and his friends would race to see who could climb over it the fastest without getting caught. “got caught only once. made me mop the cafeteria floors for a week.” you stifle a laugh behind your hand, glancing at him sideways.

you weave through the empty playground, passing a soccer goal and a few wooden picnic tables, until you find yourselves near the old bleachers, which are leaning like they’re about to give up completely. before you can say anything, subong grabs your hand—big and warm around yours—and tugs you toward the space underneath. it’s dark under there, the only light filtering through the cracks in thin, broken lines from the nearest lamppost, but it’s enough to make out the shape of him standing in front of you. you’re still smiling when your hands find the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. his hands find your waist, sliding low, rough palms against your sides as he backs you up until your spine hits the thick metal bar behind you with a soft clang. you let out a breath, feeling the cold bite of the steel through your shirt, and feeling the way he cages you in with nothing but his body. he doesn’t say anything for a second—just stands there, so close you can feel the heat rolling off him. you tilt your head back a little to look at him, and he just grins, lazy and lopsided. “what’s your opinion, then?” he murmurs. “on what?” he leans in. you can feel the brush of his breath against your mouth, his hands tightening a little on your waist. “me. thanos.” you pretend to think about it, humming, dragging it out just to see the way his mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “trouble… but fun,” you whisper finally. he huffs out a quiet laugh. “good,” he says. “wouldn’t want you gettin’ bored on me.”

and then he kisses you, his mouth moving over yours with purpose. your fingers tighten in the hair at the back of his neck, making him groan, the sound slipping out between your mouths. the kiss grows hotter fast, needier. his hands are everywhere—pulling you closer until your body is pressed tight against his, the cold metal bar digging into your back the only thing keeping you grounded. you don’t even think about it, you just move. you grab his wrist, sliding his hand up, up, until it’s over your chest, pressing his palm flat against your left breast through your shirt. he stiffens for a moment before he squeezes, making you gasp softly. subong pulls back to look down at you, his pupils blown wide, lips parted, breathing heavily. “want me to make you feel good, baby? hm?” he mutters. you nod, fast and desperate, the word ‘yes’ stuck somewhere in your throat. his hand slides lower for a second, dragging slow over your ribs, down your waist, before he comes back up—fingers hooking into the dip of your neckline, where your shirt already hangs low. he tugs it down, dragging your bra with it until your left breast spills free. you barely get a breath out before subong’s mouth is on you, wrapping around your nipple and sucking hard enough to make you whimper. his tongue’s lapping at you like he’s tasting something he’s been thinking about for way too fucking long—because he has. his hand comes up to cup the underside of your breast, squeezing, pushing you harder against his mouth. your fingers dig further into his hair, pulling, desperate for something to hold onto because your legs are barely holding you up anymore. he sucks harder, sloppier, teeth grazing your nipple just to hear the broken sound it pulls out of you, his other hand already sliding toward the waistband of your shorts. you’re so fucking wet already it’s humiliating, a low ache building between your thighs.

his hand doesn’t stop—fingers dipping just beneath the waistband, grazing over your panties. you whimper, hips jerking forward instinctively, chasing the heat of his touch. his fingers slide under the thin fabric, and when he finds you—hot and soaked and so fucking ready for him—he hisses through his teeth, his whole body tensing against yours. “fuck,” he mutters, mouth still trailing over the swell of your breast. “you’re so fuckin’ wet for me—shit, baby.” he doesn’t even give you a second to catch your breath. his middle finger slips between your folds, gliding slow through the mess he’s already made of you, teasing your clit with the lightest fucking touch—making you writhe and grab at his shoulders, nails digging in. he pulls back from your chest finally, lifting his head to look at you with dark eyes and a shiny and swollen mouth from sucking on you. “you want it, pretty girl?” he rasps, fingers barely circling your clit, teasing you. “want me to fuck you with these fingers right here?” “yes,” you manage to say. “yes—please.” he grins like he was just waiting for you to beg. and then he finally gives you what you’re aching for. he slides one thick finger into you, slowly, letting you feel every inch of it, the stretch enough to make your mouth fall open around a broken gasp. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, he can’t believe how tight you are around just one finger. “been thinking about this shit since the second i saw you.” he thrusts his finger deeper, curling it inside you, making your hips jerk helplessly against his hand. “couldn’t stop picturing it,” he keeps going, filthy and sweet all at once. “you, all needy and fucking dripping for me… just like this.” you whimper when he adds another finger, and your body moves on instinct—desperate for him, desperate for something more—your thigh brushing up against the bulge straining against his pants.

he shudders when you do it. a sharp, involuntary twitch running through his body. so you do it again, slower this time, dragging your leg against him on purpose just to feel the way he grits his teeth and mutters something under his breath in korean. “you got me so fucking hard, girl. shit—” he rasps, but he doesn’t pull away. he just flexes his fingers inside you instead, fucking you deeper, rougher, desperate to keep you right there against him. and when you do it once again, subong finally gives in, hips grinding into your leg in these short, helpless thrusts, chasing friction. you keep rocking your hips into his hand, feeling the heel of it grind up against your clit every time his fingers sink deep inside you. it’s filthy, the wet sounds of him working you open, and the soft, broken little whimpers spilling out of your mouth no matter how hard you try to bite them back. he pumps his fingers faster, his palm catching your clit on every thrust, making your whole body jerk and tremble, gasping so loud you’re sure someone’s gonna hear. he kisses you before you can make another sound, crushing his mouth against yours, swallowing every moan. his tongue slides against yours, demanding as you cling onto him, legs shaking. “you’re so fuckin’ loud, baby,” he pants, pulling away for a second. “what, you tryna get us caught?” you shake your head frantically, mouth falling open around another moan.“then be good for me,” he growls, thrusting his fingers harder, lips brushing yours. “c’mon. be fucking good and cum for me. let me have it, baby.”

you don’t even have time to warn him. your whole body tightens, back arching into the cold metal behind you. you bury your face in his neck, biting down on his skin to stay quiet as the orgasm rips through you. he feels it—feels the way you clamp down around his fingers, trying so hard to stay quiet and still end up letting out this broken little cry against his throat. “yeah. yeah, that’s it. that’s it, baby.” you’re still cumming, trembling against him, and he barely holds it together. he knows he should slow down, let you catch your breath and be a decent fucking human being for once—but he can’t. he’s so fucking hard it’s unbearable, grinding helplessly against your thigh because he needs you so bad he feels feral. and it’s fucking pathetic but he can’t stop. he’s humping your leg like a goddamn dog and he doesn’t even care. you’re warm and wet and still pulsing around his fingers, and all subong can think about is how much he wants it to be his cock instead, how fucking good you’d feel if he was buried inside you instead of just fucking you with his hand. “a-ahh, fuck—shit—” he mutters against your skin, hips rutting against you without rhythm, without shame. “should be my dick i-inside you… fuck, fuck, fuck, baby—” he feels it hit him hard—feels the heat coil up in his gut—and then he’s cumming in his fucking pants like an loser, grinding against your thigh one last desperate time, his whole body locking up, breath catching in his throat. and it’s messy, leaking hot and wet into his boxers, making him feel like he’s sixteen years old again with no self-control. he slumps against you, both of you panting. for a second, neither of you says anything, and then you shift a little, enough to glance down between you and realize what the fuck just happened.

you freeze. your head snaps back up to look at him, eyes wide, mouth parting like you’re about to say something—and he knows. he knows the exact second you realize it. “oh my god,” you whisper, choking on a laugh. he groans, dropping his head into the crook of your neck, too fucking embarrassed to meet your eyes. “don’t fucking say it,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. “shit’s not funny.” you start laughing anyway. even harder when he curses under his breath like he’s actually contemplating death as a real option right now. “bro,” he pulls back, cheeks flushed redder than you’ve ever seen them, voice miserable, “the fuck am i supposed to do now?” he gestures vaguely down at himself—at the wet stain darkening the front of his pants. “walk you back to the hotel like this?” he scoffs, dead serious, like this is a real crisis. “people gonna think i fucking pissed myself, man.” you’re laughing so hard now you have to cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to completely lose it right there. he just shakes his head, dramatic as hell, pulling his shirt down lower to cover himself like that’s gonna fix anything. “nah, fuck it,” he mutters, resigned. “relax, subong,” you say, finally managing to get your breath back. “it’s dark. no one’s gonna notice.”

you walk back to the hotel—subong sticking close to your side, occasionally tugging at his shirt like it’ll somehow hide the obvious mess he’s made of himself, and you’re barely holding back your laughter every time you catch him glancing down at himself in misery. when you finally reach your hotel, he slows, almost reluctant. you turn to him, smiling. “thanks for tonight,” you say, which sounds stupid when you think about it, like… you’re thanking him for blowing his load in his own pants and making you cum on two of his fingers. “anytime, baby,” he says with a grin. “anywhere, too.” you roll your eyes before stepping closer, and kissing him—quick and soft. when you pull back, he smiles. “we’re hanging out tomorrow, right?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck, looking down the street instead of at you. you raise an eyebrow like really? “yeah, of course.” which translates to: duh, obviously. he shifts his weight, dragging his sneaker against the sidewalk. “could… could we meet earlier, maybe?” you blink at him, a little surprised at the sudden softness in his voice. “just,” he adds quickly, “you know… we only got, what? tomorrow and one more day? tryna… see you more—make the most of it.” and it’s the kind of thing that should make you pull back, remind yourself this is supposed to be a fling, a summer story you get to laugh about later. but instead, your heart does this stupid little skip in your chest. “i’ll talk to my friends,” you say. “i’ll let you know.” “hit me up, girl,” he answers, backing away toward the street. “i’m always down.” you nod. “good night, subong.” “good night, pretty girl. sleep well.”

the second you get a hint of free time the next morning, you’re grabbing your phone, texting him.

hey, i can meet earlier today if you still want

my friends don’t mind

hell yeah

been waiting on u all day

subong it’s only 11am

tf that gotta do w anything

missed u since u left last night

you’re so silly

5pm work for you?

perfect

i’ll be lookin fine as hell just for u

that better be a promise

u r gonna see girl

what’s the plan?

cant say bby

just trust daddy🔥

EWWWWW

oh hell no

absolutely not

i’m literally blocking you rn

bro im playinggg😂😂

i let you call yourself thanos

but daddy??? you lost me there

u r funny girl

i like u

see u at 5 sexy😍

subong has the whole evening planned—or at least, he pretends he does, which is close enough. you don’t even get a real explanation when you meet up, just him saying, “trust me, baby. this ‘bout to be the best date of your life.” and somehow, you let him drag you onto a rental bike, even though you haven’t ridden one in years and definitely almost crash into a post within the first two minutes. he laughs so hard he almost falls off his own bike, cutting figure eights around you in the street, showing off, and yelling “you good, girl?” like you didn’t just almost die in front of a group of passing tourists. you flip him off, wobbling forward with as much dignity as you can muster, which is none. he just laughs harder, racing ahead, calling back over his shoulder for you to catch up, then something about “damn, girl, didn’t know i was ridin’ with a fucking beginner!” “shut up, you idiot!” he laughs, throwing his head back for a second like he’s never had more fun in his life. you spend the next hour like that—racing through the paths by the han river, dodging kids and couples, weaving too close to each other on purpose, getting more than a few dirty looks from serious bikers in full gear who clearly think you’re assholes. you don’t care. you don’t think you’ve ever cared less in your life, honestly—not when the sun’s bright and high, and the air’s hot but not enough to ruin the way the breeze feels when you pick up speed. but most importantly, not when subong’s laughing like that beside you. somewhere along the way, you stop for ice cream—him skidding to a halt so fast you almost plow straight into his back, then pointing at an ice cream truck like he’s discovered buried treasure.

subong’s already halfway to the window before you even hop off your bike properly, tossing a grin over his shoulder like you’re too slow to keep up. you go simple—vanilla cone. he goes straight for the most ridiculous neon blue popsicle he can find, the kind that stains your mouth for hours. the second he sees your cone, he groans loud enough that the guy in the truck gives him a side-eye. “who picks vanilla, bro?” he says, pulling a face like you just personally offended him. “all these options and you pick vanilla?” you snort, eyeing the monstrosity in his hand. “says the guy eating radioactive smurf ass.” he almost chokes laughing, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, bright blue already smeared along the corner of his lips. “this shit’s elite,” he counters, holding it up proudly. “you just got no taste.” you bump his arm with your elbow, smirking. “not true. i’m hanging out with you, aren’t i?” “yeah, baby,” he agrees. “lucky me.”

you keep riding after that, weaving through the crowds along the river, laughing whenever subong swerves way too close to you on purpose just to hear you curse at him under your breath. but eventually, you go back to the rental spot, where a couple of kids are stacking bikes back into neat little rows. subong pulls up first, hopping off with way more swagger than necessary like he just finished a triathlon. you drop your bike into the stand next to his, brushing the hair out of your face, still a little out of breath. “i’m starving,” he says, stretching his arms overhead until his shirt rides up just enough to flash the waistband of his boxers. it feels like he’s doing it on purpose… yeah, he definitely is. “you’re always starving,” you laugh. then, you follow him across the street toward a small convenience store. you end up picking out a random assortment of junk—kimbap, banana milk, two different types of chips you can’t read the names of—and subong loads up with way too many drinks and candy. when you’re back outside, the bags crinkling in your hands, the sun’s starting to dip low behind the buildings, turning the whole sky this beautiful mix of orange and pink. he leads you down a small side path off the main trail, one you probably wouldn’t have found if you were by yourself, until you reach a quiet patch by the river where the rocks slope down into the water. no one else is around, just the distant noise of traffic, the occasional splash of a fish somewhere you can’t see. you climb down carefully, finding a spot on the bigger rocks that’s flat enough to sit without busting your ass. subong drops down beside you, tossing the convenience store bag between you, his legs stretching out long in front of him, sneakers almost brushing the water. the river laps gently against the stones, the breeze cool and soft now that the sun’s finally starting to ease up. he hands you a can of some random drink, cracking his own open with a sharp hiss, and you both sit there for a minute, just sipping quietly, the world slowing down around you like someone turned the volume down on the whole city.

“what’s shit like where you from?” he asks, voice low, trying not to break the moment too hard. you glance over at him, surprised he’s asking. you shrug. “my town’s small. and boring as fuck most of the time—you’d hate it, i think. no nightlife.” he grins sideways at you. “yeah? i think it sounds peaceful.” you hum in agreement, sipping your drink. he’s quiet for a second, tapping his fingers against the rock beside him, before he says, “always wanted to get outta here. when i was a kid, i used to think, like… soon as i turn eighteen, i’m gone.” this time he’s not smiling, but his expression’s tender in a way you haven’t really seen yet. “but shit’s expensive, y’know?” he continues. “and you get stuck. gotta hustle just to stay afloat. then next thing you know, ten years passed and you’re still sitting in the same fucking place.” you don’t say anything. you want to tell him it’s not nothing, that getting stuck doesn’t mean he didn’t make it somewhere, that he’s still here, alive, and that’s what matters. but you don’t know how to say that without sounding like you’re pitting him. so you nudge his knee lightly with yours instead, and he glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up enough to let you know he got it. “anyway.” he clears his throat. “didn’t mean to turn this into a therapy session.” “i don’t mind.” he looks at you, eyes flickering over your face as if checking if you mean it. whatever he finds there must be enough, because he smiles. “what about you? what’s next for you, after this trip?” you exhale slowly, staring at the ripples moving across the water. you could lie. you could say i don’t know, and leave it at that. but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you want to tell him the truth. “back to real life, i guess. work, responsibilities… pretending like this summer didn’t make me wanna change everything.”

“i’m gonna miss you, you know.” you roll your eyes, smiling, unsure if you should believe him. “please,” you say. “you’re gonna have another girl by next week.” he scoffs, scandalized. “woah. disrespectful as fuck, baby.” “am i wrong though?” he shakes his head, grinning. “honestly? i’m not even tryna entertain nobody else right now.” you raise your eyebrows, not expecting that—and he catches the look. “ain’t no one as cute as you, señorita,” he says, voice dropping a bit. you snort, trying to play it off, but your face is already getting hot, and he knows it. “whatever,” you tsk, taking another sip of your drink. “you’ll forget about me in, like, two days.” “i won’t. i don’t really fuck with people like i fuck with you.” “you’re gonna make me cry,” you mutter, half-joking, and he smiles like he’s proud of himself for it. “good,” he says. “i’m tryna leave a mark, girl.” you shake your head again, giggling. and then, because you feel like maybe you owe him the truth too, you say, “i’m gonna miss you too, subong.” “you will?” “mhm.” no one’s ever said that to him. or at least not like that, so sincerely. “it’s crazy. feels like i’ve known you my whole fucking life,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck, messing up his already messy hair. you smile into your drink, because yeah, even if it sounds stupid, it does feel like that. “same.” “you can’t, like… i don’t know, man. stay a little longer?” you almost choke on your drink. “subong,” you say, laughing because it’s either laugh or cry, “you’re so desperate.” he groans, dramatic as hell. “yo, fuck off. i’m tryna be romantic here,” he mutters, cracking a grin a second later because he can’t even fake being mad at you. “i can’t,” you say finally. “even if i wanted to.” “yeah… i know.”

you stay picking at the snacks, trading sips from each other’s drinks, the conversation drifting from one topic to another. you talk about home—about your job, your friends, the little boring details you wouldn’t think anyone would care about, but somehow subong listens like it’s all fascinating, nodding along, asking silly questions just to keep you talking. and somewhere between one story and the next, he starts talking about his family, which you didn’t expect. he tells you about his mom, tough as hell, the kind of woman who could work two jobs back to back, still come home and cook dinner, make sure homework was done, and find the energy to yell at him for being an idiot when he needed it. he talks about how she used to fall asleep at the kitchen table sometimes, her head on her folded arms, and how he and his sister would tiptoe around the house like they were trying not to break her more than the world already had. he tells you about his grandma too, the real boss of the family, sharp-tongued and brutal in the way only old women can get away with—the kind of woman who’d curse you out for forgetting to take your shoes off but slip an extra twenty into your pocket when you weren’t looking. he laughs when he says it, but there’s a softness in the edges of his voice, like he knows he owes her more than he can probably ever repay. and he talks about his little sister—“smarter than all of us combined,” he says, pride clear. the kind of girl who kept her head down, did her work, kept her dreams close to her chest like she was scared someone would snatch them away. the kind of girl who’s gonna leave one day, and not just leave, but stay gone.

then, tossing it in as a side note, he says, “my dad’s a piece of shit, though. wasn’t around much. and when he was… kinda wish he wasn’t.” “mine’s not really around either. he wasn’t then and… he isn’t now. he’s got better shit to do, i guess.” he hums, knowing the shape of that feeling a little too well. “mine used to come back sometimes,” he says after a minute. “acting like nothing, showing up drunk and high, fucking shit up, then disappearing again.” you don’t say anything, just pick at the edge of the bag between you, tearing little pieces off. “used to get so fucking mad at him,” he continues, laughing under his breath, but it’s not a funny sound. “then one day i just… stopped waiting for him to be different.” you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, at the way he’s hunched now, elbows on his knees, can dangling between his fingers. “got older, learned how to throw a punch.” he huffs a breath out. “one night he came back real fucked up… started yelling, breakin’ shit… and i just lost it. dropped him cold on the floor—felt good for, like, five minutes,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “then it just felt fucking sad.” he pauses, staring out at the river. “he disappeared after that… gone for years. then he just… came back one day. and my mom… she let him back in, man. and i get it. she’s tired of fighting. but—shit, i don’t know. i can’t pretend like i’m cool with it. i love her but… fuck, sometimes i look at her and i just get fucking pissed, you know?”

you nod, pressing your shoulder against his. “i’m sorry about that.” he shrugs. “it’s okay, pretty girl.” “your mom’s lucky to have you. she probably knows you’ll always be there if something happens.” “yeah, i guess” he pauses briefly before clapping once. “alright, enough of thanos already. tell me about you, baby.” “well… my dad… he was never really mean or anything. just… not there. physically, sometimes. mentally, never. i used to think if i was better somehow—better at school, better at sports—he’d notice more,” you say, laughing a bit under your breath because it sounds so fucking dumb now. “but he didn’t.” “wasn’t you, baby. it’s never you.” you smile at him before leaning in and kissing his cheek, sweetly. “we turned out alright anyway.” he snorts, tilting his head to look at you better. “yeah, alright’s pushin’ it, girl. speak for yourself. you’re solid. more than most people who had it easy, probably.” “maybe,” you mutter. “sometimes it feels like i’m just faking it better than most.” “that’s all any of us do.”

eventually, when the rocks get too uncomfortable and your ass starts going numb, subong stands up with a grunt, reaching a hand down to pull you up after him. “c’mon,” he says, dragging you toward a patch of grass a little farther up where it’s dark. he drops down without any ceremony, arms behind his head, legs sprawled out like he’s trying to take up as much space as possible. he grins at you. “what, you scared of a little dirt, princess?” he teases, patting the spot next to him. you glare at him, toeing the ground suspiciously because there’s definitely bugs around, but he’s already making himself comfortable like he’s about to nap right there, and you know you’re not gonna win this one. “there’s probably ants.” “so what?” he scoffs, genuinely confused as to why that would even be a problem. you roll your eyes, but you finally lower yourself down next to him, sitting stiff and awkward at first m, your body about to reject the whole idea of nature. he snickers, then suddenly turns his head toward you, holding out his hand—palm up. “gimme your hand.” you squint at him, suspicious. “why?” he lets out this long, suffering sigh. “the fuck you mean why? i’m tryna hold your damn hand, girl, that’s why.” you snort, still not moving, because you’re stubborn like that. he waggles his fingers at you dramatically, eyebrows raised, daring you to keep being difficult. “c’mon,” he insists. “don’t leave me hanging, baby. i got feelings too, you know.” you huff a breath—slapping your hand into his palm like it’s a burden, even though you love it. his fingers lace through yours immediately, squeezing once.

you lay back fully then, grass a little damp under your back, the sky stretching wide above you, and subong’s thumb starts brushing lazy circles over the back of your hand. “what do you wanna do tomorrow?” he asks. “i don’t know. you’re the local here.” he hums like he’s thinking, but there’s something smug about it. “was thinking,” he starts, dragging it out, trying to sound casual, “maybe you could come see me perform.” “perform? again?” “mhm. got a little set tomorrow night. nothing big—just some bar gig. but it’s nicer than what i’m used to anyway. this time’s an actual rap night, i get to show off. not like the other day.” you smile at the way he says it, like he’s trying not to let himself get too excited. “i want you to come,” he adds after a second. “bring your friends too—drinks are cheap.” you raise an eyebrow. “you just want a fan club.” he grins, shameless. “fuck yeah, i want a fan club.” you chuckle, shaking your head. “but i’m serious. i want you there.”“what time is it?” “late… like midnight. place stays open till three. and after,” he says, voice picking up, cockier now, “we celebrate—you and me.” “celebrate what?” “celebrate me being a fucking star, baby.” you laugh under your breath. “you’re planning a lot of celebrating for someone who hasn’t even performed yet.” “confidence. gotta manifest that shit.” “i’ll be there.” his hand squeezes yours again. “good. wanna show you off a little too.”

he props himself up on one elbow, grinning down at you before he leans in and kisses you, a little too eager, making you laugh right into his mouth. you push your fingers into his hair, kissing him back, and subong hums against you, pleased. his mouth starts dragging lower, pressing hot, sloppy kisses along your jaw, down your neck, his hand already sneaking under the hem of your shirt with no damn shame. you shove at his shoulder. “subong,” you hiss, still giggling. “we can’t.” he pulls back enough to look at you. “why not?” “because,” you say, shoving him again for good measure, “someone could literally walk by. and i’m not getting arrested because you can’t keep it in your pants.” he lets out the loudest, most pathetic sigh you’ve ever heard, dragging his hand down his face like the world is just too cruel to him specifically. “shit,” he groans. “i didn’t even get started yet—i was being good, too.” “that was you being good?” you tease. “fuck yeah. you don’t even know, girl. if i wasn’t being good, i’d have you sitting on my face right now—wouldn’t even care if somebody walked by.” you choke on your own spit, smacking his chest while he just laughs, proud of himself for getting you this flustered. “maybe tomorrow,” you mutter, face heating up so bad you’re surprised the grass under you doesn’t catch fire. “wait, wait,” he says, sitting up, needing to double-check you didn’t just say what he thinks you said. “you serious right now?” you shrug, biting back a smile, feeling stupidly powerful all of a sudden. “depends,” you answer, stretching your arms over your head. “you better put on a good show.” “you can’t say shit like that to me, baby,” he whines. “i’m gonna be so fucking hard on that stage—gonna forget my own fucking lyrics.” you snort. “perform well. maybe you’ll get a reward.” “watch.” he taps his chest as if swearing a vow. “i’m finna be the best fucking rapper korea’s ever seen tomorrow night.”

and he does perform well. better than well, actually. he’s the last one up, closing out the night. and he owns that little bar like it’s the biggest stage in seoul. you watch from the corner with your friends, pressed near the back wall, and you’re not even trying to play it cool—you’re hyped, yelling, cheering louder than anyone else in the place. you don’t know half the lyrics (most of it’s in korean and fast as hell) but you can feel it in your chest, in the way the crowd reacts, in the sharp flow of his voice and the smirk that never leaves his face. your friends… have mixed opinions. one of them leans in halfway through and whispers, “okay, now i get it—he’s hot,” and another just grimaces, mouthing, what is he even saying? when the beat switches and he starts spitting faster. he finishes strong, breathless and sweaty, and the crowd actually cheers. you can tell by the way he soaks it in that it means something to him. he steps off the stage a minute later, still catching his breath, and heads straight for you. “so?” he asks when he reaches you, wiping sweat off his neck with the hem of his shirt. “did i kill it or what?” “you killed it,” you afirm, letting him have it. “i couldn’t understand half of it, but you looked hot doing it, so.” he laughs, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “that’s all i needed to hear, baby.” your palm brushes his back and it’s borderline damp. “jesus,” you mutter, nose wrinkling. “you’re soaked.” “and you tryna act like you’re all innocent, girl, but you’ve been lookin’ at me like you wanna lick it off.” you shove him, laughing. “shut up!” he leans in and kisses you, and you kiss him back, smiling against his mouth. your friends do not let it slide. “okayyyy,” one of them says, loud and dramatic. “that’s enough, please. we are still here.” subong pulls back to look over at them, grinning, not even a little sorry. “my bad,” he says. “i just—shit, have you seen her? i can’t help it. she’s so fucking bad, like damn.” oh my god, this man... “anyway, we celebratin’ or what? first round’s on me. i’m feeling generous.” he pats his chest.

the night keeps going long after the music stops. your friends are perched at the bar because the drinks keep coming, and subong doesn’t leave your side for more than a second. it’s late when he leans in and asks if you want to get out of there, and you nod before he even finishes the sentence. your friends wave you off, and you leave the bar behind with that hazy kind of warmth in your chest that only comes from knowing exactly where the night is headed. his apartment is… not what you expect. but hey… we don’t judge over here. when he lets you in, it’s clear he didn’t plan on bringing anyone home. the place is old. the hallway light flickers, the door sticks so bad he has to put his whole body into it just to shove it open, and when you step inside, you’re greeted by the smell of weed and whatever boy-stank has been marinating in this apartment all summer. “yo—okay—before you say anything,” subong starts, kicking a crumpled sock out of the way. “this isn’t what it usually looks like. swear to god, baby.” he shares it with two other guys, he tells you, but they’re out tonight. and as you walk in, he’s already moving shit around—swiping a hoodie off the floor, then trying to hide the bong by the windowsill, muttering shit under his breath like, “that’s not even mine—my roommates are fucking disgusting, man.” “sure,” you say, trying not to laugh. you find it kind of funny, actually—the way he’s scrambling, all flustered, trying to pretend like this place isn’t the bachelor cave of three adult men who have never once cleaned a baseboard in their lives. he won’t shut up. he never really does. he’s talking about his roommates, about how half the stuff laying around isn’t his, and how if you give him five minutes he’ll make it nice. you’re nodding, pretending to care, pretending you’re even listening, but the truth is you stopped hearing the words about three minutes ago. all you can focus on is the way his lips move when he talks and the way his voice drops whenever he says the word ‘baby’. so you’re standing there, thinking, if this man doesn’t touch me in the next ten seconds i’m gonna lose my fucking mind. and you do lose it at some point, kissing him mid sentence, because you’ve never wanted someone this badly, this fast and this fucking stupidly.

the first night subong kissed you was awful, but two nights ago under the bleachers, his fingers were very much not. so you figured sex with him would probably land somewhere in the middle: eager and cocky but clumsy, maybe a little too into it to be smooth. and honestly, you weren’t wrong. because the second he’s inside you, he doesn’t ease into it. he’s just there, deep, all at once—couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to. he’s behind you, both hands gripping your hips so tight you’re gonna have fingerprints there tomorrow. and you’re gasping already, because the stretch is so much... but what really gets you—what makes your stomach clench and your mouth fall open around his name—is the sound he makes. needy. “fuck, baby—shit—fuck me—” he mutters, breath hot against the back of your neck. you arch your spine, pressing back into him because you need more, need him to fuck you. but his grip tightens immediately, yanking you back flush against him, his voice rough and frantic in your ear. “no, no, no. wait—wait, baby,” he hisses. “shit—give me—give me a moment.” and it’s not a joke. he sounds genuinely panicked, like he’s hanging on by a thread. one more push from you and he’s gonna cum and never recover from the humiliation. honestly, girl, that makes you feel so damn powerful… and since you love to make him suffer, you clench around him on purpose. subong groans, curses in his mother tongue, then smacks your ass so hard you jolt, just to make you behave. “don’t fucking do that, baby. you tryna make me nut in two minutes, huh? that what you want?” you laugh, breathless, forehead pressed into his mattress. he leans over you, chest to your back, one hand slipping under you to toy lazily with your clit, trying to buy time. maybe if he can make you finish first he’ll be able to catch his breath, pull it together and not embarrass himself completely. “subong,” you breathe. “please, i need you.” you try to rock back into him again. “please—” “fuck—gimme a second,” he whimpers, hand braced on the mattress, eyes squeezed shut. and then pulls out, fully, trying not to fucking explode.

the thing about subong is that he learns fast. he picks up on what you want, what you need, and how to give it to you. and he knows exactly how you want it now—how hungry you are for him, how you’re waiting to be filled again, deep and rough. he drags his hand down the curve of your ass after a beat, slow, and you can feel the head of his cock nudging between your thighs again—sliding his condom-wrapped tip up and down your folds. “fucking soaked for me,” he mutters, almost to himself. “jesus, baby. i could drown in this shit.” you whine, push back against him, but he grips your ass tighter, holding you there. “nah,” he says, voice. “you can wait a second. wanted to act all cocky—squeezing me on purpose—now look at you. fucking pathetic for it.” you turn your head, glare over your shoulder. “subong.” he raises an eyebrow, smug as hell. “what? you want it that bad?” “yes,” you snap. “shut up and fuck me. don’t make me wait, please.” he lets out a soft laugh. “damn,” he drawls, guiding the tip against you, teasing your entrance. “my girl talks real tough when she’s beggin’ to get filled.” and then he’s pounding into you, hips snapping hard and fast, chasing whatever fragile ego you cracked in half the second you laughed at him a few minutes ago. and it’s exactly what you needed. you moan, loud, grabbing the sheets, your whole body tensing from the stretch. subong keeps muttering under his breath like he’s trying to self-soothe, praying to every god he’s never believed in. “so tight, f-fuck—so wet, too—shit! what the fuck did i-i do to deserve this pussy, huh?” his thrusts are mean now, every snap of his hips sending your body forward on the mattress. “subong! shit—y-yes, yes, yes! fuck!” you choke out, knuckles white in the sheets. “don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—” “that’s it, baby—take it. you look so f-fucking pretty like this—gonna—haa, fuck!—gonna give you what you fucking asked for.” he wants to make sure that five days from now, five weeks, five months, you still remember the way it felt to have him inside you, fucking you stupid. “yes! yes, please—” you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore, all that comes out are high, broken sounds that make him groan, hips slamming into yours with a filthy slap that echoes around the room. “so fucking greedy for it,” he goes on. “been acting shy all week just to end up bent over begging for my cock like this.”

you whimper, too gone to argue, too full to think. you try to fuck back again, try to meet him halfway, but his hand is right there, locking you in place, controlling everything—the angle, the pace, the way your body moves. subong knows exactly what he’s doing. he’s hitting that spot with every thrust, grinding in deep. “s-subong,” you moan. “your dick’s so—mmmh—so f-fucking good—fuck!” “damn right it is, baby.” you feel his palm slide under your body, fingers slipping down, teasing over your clit in circles, and the whimper you let out makes him dizzy. he’s close again—you can feel it, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hips jerk forward too hard, too rough. but this time, you are too. “you close, baby?” he breathes, leaning down, pressing his lips to the side of your face. “feels like you are. so f-fucking tight, girl. fuck! you gonna—you gonna come all over my dick? yeah?” you nod, frantic, eyes wet with it, mouth open but no sound coming out—and he groans like he’s in pain. “c’mon,” he mutters. “give it to me, baby. wanna feel you c-cum on it.” you’re burning from the inside out—and when he pulls you back harder, dragging his cock deep, your whole body locks up—thighs shaking, fingers clawing at the sheets. you cum around him, a full-body convulsion, your moan ripping straight out of your throat, loud and desperate. it hits you hard, your cunt clenching so tight around subong that he stutters, hips jerking like he wasn’t expecting it to feel that fucking good. “fuck, fuck, fuck—yes, yes, b-baby, just like that—fuck! such a good fucking girl!” he pants, thrusts faltering, losing rhythm completely. “shit, i’m—a-ahh, ha—fuck, i-i’m gonna—” he doesn’t even finish the sentence. he slams in one last time and then he’s cumming, letting out the filthiest moan you’ve ever heard against your neck like he’s trying to bury the sound. he can’t believe how fast you pulled it out of him. he stays like that for a second, shaking, breathing hard, still buried deep inside you while both of you try to catch your breath.

the flight home feels longer than the one that brought you here. not because it actually is, but because your body’s tired and your brain’s fried and your heart’s doing that annoying thing where it gets too attached too fast and then expects everything not to hurt when it’s over. your friends are spread out around the plane, and you’ve got your forehead against the window, watching the clouds smear across the sky. wondering how five nights with subong managed to leave a mark that felt this deep. you keep thinking about last night—about the way his sheets felt under your back, the way his hands never stopped touching you even after he came, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. you stayed there longer than you should have, tangled up and almost asleep, skin sticking to skin in the most comfortable kind of silence. and when it was finally time to go, neither of you moved for a long time. he just kept holding you. you talked a little. he said the week flew by like someone hit fast-forward. you said it felt like longer, like you’d known him way before five days ago. he made a joke about how it felt like you’d been there for a month, said, “you’re gonna miss me like crazy, girl,” in that smug, playful tone you’d grown to like way too much. and you laughed, pushed his shoulder, told him, “you wish,” but the way your voice cracked at the end gave you away. “i will miss you, though,” he said eventually, honestly. “i will miss you too,” you said back, and it felt real in a way that scared you. because it was. all of it had been. way more real than you expected from a week-long trip. he walked you to the elevator in nothing but his boxers, hair a mess, hickeys already darkening his collarbones. you kissed him one last time, tenderly and way too long for a goodbye that was supposed to be casual. and now you’re here, 30,000 feet in the air, trying not to overthink every second you spent with him, every kiss, every joke, every stupid pet name, every look that felt like it meant more than it should’ve.

you tell yourself it’s over. it was just a summer thing. a story you’ll get to tell your friends again and again—the time you fell for a purple-haired rapper in seoul who called himself thanos, didn’t own a car, and lived like a frat boy but made you feel like the only girl in the world for five nights straight. and that’s fine. it’s enough. you don’t expect to hear from him again. your phone stays quiet after you land in your country… and you’re okay with that. you throw yourself back into your routine, catch up on sleep, unpack your suitcase... your friends keep talking about the trip, replaying the best nights out and the weird food and the worst hangovers, and you laugh along with them, nod at all the right parts, but mostly you’re just quiet. and then—a few days later—you post a selfie. you in soft natural light, the corner of your mouth tilted up. and exactly eight minutes after it goes up, your phone buzzes.

damn baby

u forgot all about thanos already

smiling n shit

you stare at it for a second, grinning and rolling your eyes.

it’s just a selfie, drama king

and that smile not for me??

thats crazy

who said it wasn’t?

i was thinking about you when i took it😚

careful girl

my ego bout to start floating

good

maybe it’ll float you all the way here so i don’t have to miss you anymore

say the word and im packing my shit rn baby💯

i’ll clear out a drawer and everything for you

gimme a pillow and a corner of the bed

dont need much

just u

ugh

why’d you have to say it like that

now i’m sad again :(

i miss u bad

this distance got me feeling weird as hell

i miss you too, idiot

cant believe i got used to seein u every day just to go back to fucking nothing

you’ll be fine

you probably got three other girls texting you rn anyway

yo what??

don’t piss me off rn baby

i’m literally sitting here thinking bout u n ur dumb lil laugh

dumb lil laugh is crazy😭

ur tits too🔥

oh!😀

n ur ass😍

okay pack it up💀

nah hold on

was saving the best for last

that fucking pussy

oh my god

how am i supposed to recover from that

so my pussy is the best part??

cool cool

not like i have a whole ass personality or anything

don’t worry tho

you won’t be seeing it again anyway

i hope you and your hand have a great life together❤️

no no wait

baby no

don’t say shit like that

i was joking girl

ok maybe not joking but like

obviously it’s not just that

i swear

subong😭 ik, i was joking too lmao

fuck off then

plssss

i was already planning how to win u back

win me back how

a rap song?

hell yeah

bars been writing themselves ever since u left

ooooh i became your muse ;)

been my muse since the moment i saw u in that club looking fine asf

shit aint left my head since

oh

yeah

don’t ‘oh’ me like that bro

i meant that shit

i know

u free now?

i ammm, why

let me call u señoritaaaa

wanna hear that sexy voice🔥

you spend the next three months talking daily to subong. you tell him everything—what you had for lunch, what your boss said in that tone you despise, the color of the sky every afternoon. you send photos of your walk to work, your room, your coffee order. he starts to learn the difference between your moods just by the way your texts sound—when you’re tired, when you’re bored, when you’re secretly pissed but don’t wanna say it. sometimes he replies instantly, flooding you with texts and voice notes that make you roll your eyes and laugh into your pillow. sometimes it takes hours, because it’s three in the morning where he is and he’s passed out with his phone on his chest, halfway through texting you back before sleep hit him like a truck. but he always replies. and from his side of the world, it’s not all that different. he walks around seoul with his earbuds in, your voice filling his head as you talk about things, and he listens like they’re the most important things he’s ever heard. he sends you pictures, too—him holding up a bag of chips, mirror selfies, pics of his food or the graffiti outside his house that changes every two weeks. then a blurry shot of the back of his hand holding a bottle of soju, captioned wish u were here señorita, a nighttime shot of the city skyline, a candid one of him lying in bed with his arm thrown over his eyes… there’s something intimate about all of it, even the dumbest ones. like he’s letting you see what no one else does.

calls happen in the in-between. early morning for one of you, late night for the other. you’re usually still in bed when he rings—eyes puffy, voice groggy as you mumble a raspy “hi” while fumbling around for your charger. on his side, it’s dark and quiet, and he’s usually propped against something—his bed, sometimes the floor of his apartment with his hoodie pulled over his head and his legs stretched out in front of him, trying not to sound as excited as he is to hear you again. the calls are always fun. you laugh until your stomach hurts and tease each other until your cheeks ache. and for a while, in those moments, it doesn’t even feel like you’re in different countries, it just feels like you’re next to each other. but in between the jokes and the mock-serious rants about whatever stupid thing happened that day… there are other moments. it starts one night with a simple question. “can i ask you something, baby?” it’s past midnight for you, and you’re lying on your stomach, about to fall asleep, but you hum back anyway. “how many people you been with?” your eyes blink open, brain stalling for a second. “what? like… dated?” “yeah,” he says, then adds after a beat, “and, you know... hooked up with.” you turn your head, staring at your pillow. “why?” “just curious,” he responds, but there’s a shift in his tone—like he’s trying to play it cool. “you don’t have to tell me if it’s weird.” “it’s not weird.” and you tell him. not in detail, not the whole history of every person you’ve ever fucked, but enough. he hums low under his breath after you’re done, letting the silence stretch out a little before he fills it with, “damn… alright.” and you smile, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “what, you jealous?” “nah,” he says, too quickly. then, softer: “maybe a little. not gonna lie.” you chuckle and he follows. “bet none of them made you laugh like i do, though.” “no,” you admit. “they didn’t.” you hear his exhale, the shift of fabric on the other end of the line, like he’s moving, maybe lying down too. “i haven’t… i haven’t really done this before,” he says eventually. “not like—like this. like… texting and calling and thinking about someone this much. i usually just…” subong trails off. “hook up and leave?” you finish for him, but it’s not mean. he laughs softly. “yeah. pretty much—but this shit’s different. like, you’re all up in my head, girl.” “i feel the same about you, subong.” “i swear—i’ve been going fucking insane not being able to touch you. i miss you so bad it’s making me crazy.” you hear him exhale through his nose. “i think about you all the time, like—fuck, man. i can’t even… you know…” “what?” there’s a bit of hesitation before he answers, “i can’t even jerk off without thinking of you.” “is that so?” “yeah…” “and what exactly do you think about?” he huffs a laugh. “what do you think?” “i don’t know, you tell me.”

you want to hear him say it. “i mean,” he says slowly, “i think of your voice. the way you sounded that night when i had my fingers in you—so fuckin’ needy—all those little whimpers, the way you kept grinding against my hand like you couldn’t wait… that shit’s been on repeat in my head, baby. shit… and the way—” he cuts himself off, laughs under his breath. “never mind.” “nope,” you shoot back immediately, “you can’t start and then stop like that. go on.” he groans. “you really gon’ make me say it?” “obviously.” he exhales sharp through his nose, then: “fuck, alright… the way you looked when we fucked, baby—jesus. turning your head to look at me while i fucking pounded into you, beggin’ for more even when your thighs were already shaking… best fucking pussy i’ve ever had, bro. i think about that shit every night. swear to god. got me jerking off like a fucking teenager again, just thinking about how wet you were for me.” you don’t say anything at first, mostly because you can’t. your whole body’s burning hot under the covers, phone pressed to your ear. “oh.” “right?” he murmurs. “now you’re thinkin’ about it too.” you try to play it off—“you’re so full of yourself”—but your voice is quieter now, and subong knows he’s got you. “not full of myself,” he drawls, all smug. “just got good memory, baby. and an even better imagination.” you let the silence stretch for a moment, because it’s not awkward—not between you two. if anything, it only makes the tension worse, tighter. “i bet you do.” you smile at the ceiling, heart racing. it’s a lot, this whole thing, but neither of you backs out. “you can say it,” you whisper, and it comes out needier than you meant. “say what you’d do if i was there.” you hear a shuffle, a low curse under his breath. “what?” “i mean… only if you want to.” “shit—yeah. yeah, i want to. okay… first? just rip that shirt off you to suck on those tits—they’re so fucking perfect.” your breath catches. he doesn’t stop. “then i’d make you ride my face. been thinking about that too much, you know? wanna feel you grind down on me, tellin’ me how close you are—fuck, i’d eat you out until you begged me to stop, baby.” you let out a quiet, shaky laugh, too turned on to hide it. “jesus christ, subong.” “yeah, yeah, something like that, but more breathless and between moans—” “subong! oh my god, shut up!” you cover your face with your free hand as you laugh harder, even though he can’t see you. subong laughs too. he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “i’m not playing,” he says. “you think i’m just talking shit, but i’ve had my hand down my pants this whole time. just… thinking about you.” there’s a pause, before his voice drops even lower. “fuck, you have no fucking idea what you do to me.” you don’t even try to pretend you’re unaffected. you shift under the covers, biting your lip, pressing your thighs together. “what? you’re—“ you clear your throat. “you’re touching yourself?” “fuck yeah. can’t help it, baby. you got me so fuckin’ worked up.” oh, okay. you lick your lips, your mouth suddenly dry.

the picture he painted with his words is vivid—his hand wrapped around his cock—and it's doing things to you. your body aches, your nipples hard and your clit throbbing. “ew, subong,” you whisper. what a fucking liar. “don’t act brand new, girl. i can damn near hear you dripping, don’t fucking play.” you snort at his words. but he’s right, you can feel the heat pooling between your thighs. “well… maybe i am dripping.” “huh?” he plays dumb, as if he didn’t really hear you. “i said… maybe i am dripping,” you repeat. “i can check for you, if you want,” you continue, voice all sweet and innocent. “you know… slide a hand… tell you how wet—” “yes,” he blurts immediately, not even letting you finish the sentence. you have to bite back a laugh. “yes, baby. tell thanos.” his voice sounds so fucking hot… you catch the way his breathing has turned ragged, each quiet sigh that escapes his lips betraying the fact that he’s quickened the pace of his strokes. you can't help but mirror his actions, your hand sliding down your body, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, finding the slick heat between your legs. you're wet, so fucking wet… your fingers slip easily through your folds, finding that sweet spot that makes your hips buck. you let out a soft moan, not bothering to suppress it. let him hear. let him know what he's doing to you. subong’s dick throbs in his hand at the sound. “shit—baby?” “mmmh?” "tell me… tell me what you’re doing." "lying here." "that it?" "listening to you." subong clicks his tongue. “c'mon, baby, please. you're gonna make me do all the work?" you roll your eyes, a smile on your face. “i don’t need to tell you what i’m doing, you already know.” “i wanna hear you say it, señorita.” “hm… well, i—i'm... i'm touching myself," you whisper, your voice barely audible. you can practically feel his smirk through the phone, so you decide to tease him. "i'm so wet, subong... i can't stop thinking about you too." you’re pretty sure that wiped the smirk clean off his face, replaced it with something closer to pain—eyebrows furrowed and lips parted. his groan echoes through the phone, and you can't help but smile, biting your lip to keep from crying out as your fingers circle your clit, your body already craving release.

and just like that, you’re gone. your fingers keep moving without thought, without mercy, slipping through your slick folds and circling your clit in fast, desperate motions, and it’s obscene, really, how wet you are—how easy it is to get yourself off when his voice is in your head, in your ear, telling each other what you would do if you were in the same room right now. you arch against the sheets, eyes fluttering shut as your whole body starts to curl in on itself, all tight coils and trembling muscles, everything aching. “you sound so fuckin’ hot, baby—” he groans. “wish i could see you right now.” and that’s when you hear it—him, breathing hard, panting, and even whining under his breath as his fist pumps faster around his cock, the sound of it slick and filthy through the phone. you can picture it way too clearly—his brows drawn tight, back probably tense as hell as he strokes himself. holy mother of fucking god. you press harder. rub faster. your hips start rocking up against your hand, chasing that sharp pressure building low in your stomach. your body’s on fire, nipples hard and tingling, heart slamming against your chest like it’s trying to break free—completely swollen with need. you let out a soft, broken whimper. “fuck! subong—shit! fuck, i’m gonna—gonna cum—” on the other end, there’s a strangled noise, a gasp. “y-yeah, baby? fuck—do it. fucking cum for me.” your orgasm crashes through you, sudden and overwhelming enough to make you cry out as your body locks up, fingers still working through it even though everything feels too sensitive. your walls clench around nothing, and for a second it doesn’t even feel like you’re on the bed anymore—you’re fucking floating. you hear subong finish half a second later with that a wounded sound, breath catching and voice breaking around your name as he spills all over himself.

it doesn’t stop after that night. if anything, it starts happening more… neither of you knows how to fucking behave anymore, oh my fucking god. he texts you a photo one night, shirtless, sheets pushed down low to show the waistband of his boxers.

thinking bout u mama

you send back a photo of your bare shoulder and a flash of your bra strap.

thinking about you too ;)  

ten minutes later, your panties are on the floor and you’re trying to keep quiet while subong whispers, “show me, baby. show me that pretty fucking pussy,” over facetime, eyes heavy-lidded and greedy, lips parted like he can taste you through the screen. you set the phone against your pillow, camera angled enough for him to see your fingers sliding between your legs, like it’s not the sixth time this week that you’ve gotten off to the sound of his voice while you whimpered through the high, every inch of your skin sensitive and strung out from how badly you want him and how fucking unfair it is that he’s not there to touch you himself. he groans so loud you have to muffle your laugh in your palm. “such a fucking tease,” he mutters, jerking off just off-frame, only giving you the barest glimpse of his tattooed hand and the flex of his stomach. and you spread your legs wider for him, pressing two fingers inside—trying to give him a show he’ll never forget. you want to etch the memory into his chest until he can’t fuck anyone else without seeing you spread out and moaning his name between gasps.

those calls happen way to often, to the point where it can’t be healthy—fucking yourselves in sync almost everyday. and subong’s always running his mouth like it’s the only muscle he knows how to use. “you touching that pretty pussy for me, baby? hm? bet you can’t wait ‘til it’s my fucking dick instead of your fingers.” sometimes it’s just texts, which is somehow worse, because you’re in public, and your phone lights up with:

i could have u on ur knees rn

followed by:

u’d be so fucking obedient

mouth open

waitin for me

i’d cum down ur throat and make u thank me for it baby

fuck

this how much i want u

then a photo of his hand curled around his cock, tip red and glistening and so hard it makes your stomach twist, the unbearable proof that he does want you, indeed. a little too bad, perhaps. and you feel your pulse drop straight between your legs as you fumble to turn your screen brightness all the way down.

you feel so fucking pathetic for thinking this but… it’s kind of the best thing you’ve ever had. because, despite the distance, the different timezones, and the fact that your lives are still so wildly separate… this thing with subong starts to feel more real than anything else. which is both sweet and deeply fucked, considering the fact that you met him at a club on a night out in hongdae (a place with the worst reputation ever when it comes to korean men), and that your entire relationship exists inside your phone now, and that you haven’t breathed the same air since august. but you’ve carved out a little space in each other’s day just to be. to flirt, to talk, to tease, to miss… and yeah, to get off, too. but then again, it’s not just that. it’s the way he talks to you like you’re his, or the way he gets all sulky when you’re too busy to call to tell him about your day, because he misses you. honestly… what the fuck is going on between you two? you don’t know when it happened—maybe the night he fell asleep with his camera still on, mouth open and snoring so softly you didn’t even mute him because you thought it was sweet. or maybe when you started calling him ‘baby’ back—but at some point, this stopped being whatever-the-fuck and turned into a routine you can’t imagine dropping. something you’ve started organizing your entire day around like it’s just as necessary as food or sleep or breathing.

so, at around the four-month mark—when your fingers know the rhythm of his voice better than they know your pink vibrator’s settings, and you’ve started to memorize the chipped paint on his bedroom wall from how often you see it in the background of his calls—you start thinking: what if i go back? and when you make a comment about it to him and he says, dead serious, “i’d fucking love that, baby.” it’s not even a question after that. you look up flights that same night. you don’t tell him, but you know—you’re going. because he’s never once hinted at coming to see you. not because he doesn’t want to (you know he does, he’s said it in every possible way) but because over the past few months, you’ve learned that subong’s money situation is… well… bad. like, “my mom still sends me money every month so i don’t starve” bad. like, “i haven’t been to the dentist in two years and i think something’s wrong with my molar but i’ll just chew on the other side” bad. and it’s jarring, because when you first met him, he didn’t come across that way. but you see it now. how much of that was bravado, how much he fakes just to look like he’s got it under control, how much he hates needing help… but it doesn’t matter, you don’t care. you don’t need him to buy you things, you just need him to be there with you.

okay don’t freak out

i got the flights

i’m coming to korea next month :))

already talked to my boss, i get two weeks!

for a second he doesn't respond, and your stomach flips because you know he saw it. and then finally, your screen lights up:

what

u serious???

u r actually coming?

dont lie to me

stfu

u think u funny girl?

nah bro

pissing me off

subong😭

calm down

i’m not lying

look

you send him a picture of the confirmation email the airline sent you.

holyyyyy shiiit u r gonna be in my city again

in my bed😈

on my face🔥 👅

should i cancel?💀

acting like u dont wanna cum on my tongue girl

help

no help is coming bby

u gotta sit on ma face, take responsibility

LMAO

you’re not okay😭

please seek professional help

i will💯

right after i professionally help u cum every day for 2 weeks straight mama

subong.

damn okay

gonna show up at the airport w a sign n flowers n shit

plss you’re not doing any of that

no im not

but im actually gonna get a job baby

so i can take u on dates n buy u food

i wanna spoil u

cant have u flying all the way here just to sit in my depressing ass room eatin instant rice

tryna make u feel like a princess

i don’t care if we eat instant rice every night subong

i just wanna be with you :)

he does get a job. actually follows through, like he said he would, which surprises both of you if we’re being honest. he starts working as a delivery guy for some local food app, riding around on this beat-up scooter that barely runs unless he kicks it three times and curses it like it’s a demon—but still. it’s real work. and subong bitches about it constantly. tells you how cold his hands get at night, how the helmet messes up his hair, how his back is already fucked from carrying someone’s 12-piece chicken combo up five floors… but he does it. every day. even the ones where it’s raining and he’s soaked and grumbling through voice notes like, “i swear to fucking god, bro, if one more person orders jjajangmyeon and lives on a fucking mountain i’m fucking quitting, man.” and even with all that, even with the whining and the dramatics and the rants about tips and customers who “looked at me like i was fucking poor! that bald motherfucker! not even a ‘thank you’!”—you can tell he’s kind of proud. maybe not of the job itself, but of having one. of trying. of doing something that feels grown-up and grounded and like he’s earning something real for once. he tells you his mom’s proud, too. says it casually, like he’s trying not to make it a big deal, but his voice gets a little softer when he says it. “she smiled when i told her. haven’t seen her do that in a while.” and the thing is, up until then, subong hadn’t really realized how fucked things had gotten. he’d been so tunnel-visioned on making it as a rapper—so deep into the fantasy of maybe—that he never really stopped to look around. he knew he was broke, but he wore it like a joke, like something that made him cooler somehow. never really took stock of the fact that he was living in a room with mold blooming above his head and socks stuffed into the gap under the window because the cold kept leaking in at night. and it wasn’t until he started working that it hit him, just how far he’d let things slide. how much of his life was being held together by denial and a really fragile sense of ‘i’ll figure it out eventually.’ he hadn’t figured it out. like… c’mon now… he’s twenty-eight and still getting money from his mom like he’s seventeen. and if he hadn’t gotten this job, he might’ve kept floating like that forever. but now he has you, too. which, in itself, feels like a fucking miracle most days. even if he doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time, he knows he doesn’t want to lose whatever this is. doesn’t want to fuck it up. doesn’t want to look back and realize he had something good and let it rot in his hands.

you land in korea right after christmas and new year, just like you’d planned. and the second subong sees you, he yells your name and starts walking toward you with this bounce in his step like he’s physically holding himself back from sprinting. when you’re close enough, he grabs your bag and says, “c’mere. c’mere, señorita,” before leaning in to kiss you. you’d booked an airbnb because… duh. there was no way in hell you were spending two weeks at his place with two other guys you haven’t even met. and he didn’t even try to argue. the plan was for him to stay with you most nights, except when he had work. and day one? yeah, you don’t do anything but fuck. subong finally gets what he wanted. after months of running his mouth about it—whining like it was some kind of tragedy that it hadn’t happened yet—after all the dramatics, he finally, finally gets to have you ride his face.

at first, it feels ridiculous and a little too vulnerable. he’s flat on his back and you crawl over him, your knees bracketing his head, cunt dripping and right there. subong’s losing it already and you haven’t even fucking sat down yet. his hands are on your ass, squeezing it, pulling you in. he’ll die if he has to wait another second. “get the fuck down here,” he demands, breath already hot against your folds. “don’t fucking tease, baby. sit the fuck down. sit on my fucking face. come on.” so you do. you lower yourself slowly… just to hear that helpless fuck me noise and that sharp inhale through his teeth the second your pussy brushes his mouth. when you really settle in, grinding down, soaking his lips and tongue and chin with your mess, he groans, desperate. you start to move with steady pressure, hips rolling gently. subong whimpers. like actually. you glance down and his whole body’s tense, trying not to cum in his underwear again just from this. oh man, he’s so gone. tongue working over your clit, mouth wide, licking and sucking and moaning into you. and fuck—he’s good at it. you grab the headboard with one hand, and you ride. subong tries to say something, but it comes out as a moan, all muffled and needy, and you rock your hips a little harder in response. “shit—f-fuck, subong—you eat so good,” you breathe. “that’s it, baby—mmmmh—that’s my good boy.” his grip on your ass tightens, and then he groans so deep it rips through you. “you like that, huh?” you pant, voice rough. “you like being m-my good boy?” he nods, mouth still full of you, eyes begging. and it flips something in you. you start to ride him harder, chasing your own high, letting it take over. he’s taking it, all of it, trying to earn every word you’ve ever said to him. “o-ooh my—,” you gasp, head tipping back. “subong—shit—i’m s-so close—” he doubles down—licking faster. you cry out, hips jerking, your thighs starting to shake around his head. “oh my god, subong!—y-yes—yes, baby, don’t stop, you’re making me—fuck!—fuck, i’m—” you cum hard. your whole body goes taut, then collapses all at once. your thighs tremble, hands clutching at the headboard as you grind through it, riding the high out on his tongue, your breath catching in your throat as wave after wave crashes over you.

turns out, subong wasn’t lying. he does make you cum every single day for the two weeks you’re in korea. it’s insane how much you two fuck. but honestly… can anyone blame you? you don’t know when the next time will be. when the next flight, the next visit, the next anything will happen. and that thought—that quiet little shadow that slips in sometime around day five—just sits with you. because everything feels perfect and bright, but underneath all of it, something starts to ache when you look at the calendar and realize you’ve started counting backwards.

you try to focus on the good. subong introduces you to his friends, who are rowdy and weird and definitely give him shit the second he leaves to go pee. but they make space for you, switching to english every now and then without being asked. they ask about your trip, about what you’ve seen, what you want to do before you go. they’re nice. you meet his roommates too, eventually. one of them is clearly terrified of you. the type of guy who looks and acts like he’s never interacted with a woman in his entire life. the other asks if you’re staying long and winks. subong throws a slipper at him, cursing in korean and telling him off. you laugh, even though your face is warm, because you can tell by the way subong moves closer to you after, the way he wraps an arm around your waist, that he’s not interested in sharing you. not even a little.

then there’s the night you try weed with him. you don’t plan to, honestly—you don’t even know he smokes that until halfway through the week, when he says something about needing to ‘go clear his brain’ and comes back smelling… funny. you tilt your head, raise an eyebrow, and go, “really?” and he just grins. “what, baby?” you find out later he smokes pretty often. not out in the open, obviously—he’s not stupid, it’s illegal here—but at home, after work, when his head gets too loud. he offers to let you try, once, just to see if you like it. you say no at first. then maybe. and then you see the way he looks when he rolls one… and it’s over for you. he’s got his sleeves shoved up to his elbows, forearms on full display, veins popping, rings glinting… rolling the joint with this pretty little pout on his mouth. he lifts it to his lips while he looks at you. his eyes flick up, and you feel it hit you in the throat before you even understand why.

then his tongue comes out, wetting the edge of the paper while he holds eye contact, and your clit actually pulses. his lips drag across the paper, sealing it smooth, and a little smile starts to tug at his mouth. smug little fuck. and you know—you know—he’s doing it on purpose. you cough your lungs out the first time you inhale and subong laughs so hard he almost drops the joint. you call him a dick. and between the fourth and fifth hit, everything starts getting funny. you’re high, your lips feel numb and your chest feels floaty, and every single thing he says makes you laugh harder than before. at one point, you find yourself in the kitchen, perched on the counter, and subong is fucking you. his jeans aren’t even off all the way, just halfway down his thighs, enough to get inside you. you’re gripping the counter with one hand and his arm with the other, legs twitching, thighs already aching from the way he’s holding you open. you’re so high you can’t tell where his body ends and yours begins. everything feels hot. your moans keep stuttering into giggles, breathless little gasps that make him groan. “the fuck you laughing at,” he pants against your mouth, thrusting harder now, sweat sticking his forehead to yours. you try to say “you,” to piss him off, but it comes out like a whimper when you feel his cock dragging deeper inside you.

you do all the tourist shit, too. some of the places you visit, you’d actually planned to see the first time you came to korea months ago, with your friends. but you didn’t end up seeing half of them. either there wasn’t time, or the plans changed, or—if you’re being honest—you were too busy meeting up with subong. so now, this time around, you go. and he takes you, grumbling about tourists and how overpriced everything is, and “this place used to be so fucking cool before influencers ruined it, man,” but still. he’s kind of a great tour guide, you can tell he likes showing you around. there’s this quiet sort of pride in it. like yeah, this is his city, yeah, these are his streets, and yeah, you’re the baddie bitch he pulled. you visit namsan tower, take the cable car up while he complains about the crowd, the incline, and then grips the bar slightly too tight the second it moves, clutching his chest. you almost die laughing. you put a lock on the fence and subong writes his name next to yours in the absolute ugliest handwriting you’ve ever seen. you go to myeongdong and eat every fried thing in sight until you feel sick. he buys you a stuffed animal from a claw machine after three failed attempts and says, “easy win,” as if his entire soul wasn’t riding on the last try, making him swear under his breath in two languages. like he didn’t mutter “fucking rigged bullshit” while shoving more coins into the machine with a look in his eyes like he was going to physically fight the glass. but now it’s in your hands—a little bear with a small heart stitched to its chest—and he’s refusing to let you carry it. “you’re already holding the drinks. give it here.” “but i want to—” “he’s mine too, girl. i’m his father.” and then he tucks it under his arm like a baby and walks ahead.

you go to a photo booth at a mall. the seat’s tiny, obviously, but subong just sprawls into it, legs wide, taking up more space than physically possible. you hesitate, looking at the sliver of plastic next to him. “there’s literally no space,” you say. he smirks. pats his lap. “bring that ass over here, baby. c’mon. it’s thanos’ lucky day.” you snort before you sit, straddling one of his thighs. subong’s kinda excited. he messes with the little filter screen, starts choosing the backgrounds, says “pick somethin’ stupid, baby—no like stupider. wait no, do the sparkle one! yesss, that’s ugly as hell.” how is this man twenty-eight? you try to look normal in the first one. you fail so hard you almost choke. second shot—he pokes your cheek at the last second. third shot—you flip him off and he throws up some sort of hand sign (he thinks he’s sooo cool) and for the last one—he kisses you.

you drag him through the coex aquarium and take a hundred videos of the jellyfish. you stop at every tank like it’s the first one, filming the same slow, drifting movement over and over again, whispering things like “subong, look at this one!” he pretends to be bored. calls them ‘wet bugs.’ and while you’re busy pointing at the seahorses and gasping at the weird, squishy ones that look like aliens, he pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures of you. of your silhouette in front of the glowing tanks. you don’t even realize he���s doing it until he shows you one. just holds the phone out and says, “you look so sick in this, baby.” you take it, expecting something stupid, but it’s beautiful. you try to play it cool. say, “okay, photographer,” and hand it back. he smiles.

one day you go to lotte world too, and he hates it. he complains the whole time—about the screaming kids, about the rides—but he still stands in line with you for an hour to get on one. he’s especially moody that day. more than usual. and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why: you’re leaving soon. it’s one of your last full days in seoul, and the countdown is real now. you’re both ignoring it, but it’s there. as the sun starts bleeding orange into the clouds, he checks his phone and mutters “fuck, i gotta go soon.” because his shift starts in less than two hours. you take the train back together, like always. you sit next to each other, too tired to talk, your thigh pressed against his, his hand holding yours, and your head resting against his shoulder. and it’s in that moment that it hits you—holy fucking shit, you’re in love with subong. and you don’t know if he feels the same. you don’t know anything, actually. not even what this is—this thing between you.

you don’t bring it up until the next day. you wake up to the weight of his arm slung over your waist, and it takes you a second to register that he’s here—pressed so close you can feel the shape of his knees behind yours and the faint scrape of his knuckles against your stomach every time he exhales. you don’t remember him coming in. you must’ve knocked out before he even made it back from work. he shifts a little when you move, then that familiar groan—half-asleep, annoyed at the light, at the time—slips out of his mouth and suddenly you’re both awake, blinking into the soft blur of morning light. you get up first. subong follows like he always does, dragging his feet. he never wants to miss a morning with you. you make breakfast together. you sit on the counter while subong stand between your knees, his back facing you. your fingers trace along the ink of his tattoo while he sips his coffee and steals the last bite of your toast even though he hasn’t even finished his own. you shower after, and he won’t stop squeezing your ass even though you’re trying to rinse your conditioner out in peace. you tell him to knock it off, laughing, and he says “baby, i’m tryna start my day right,” and then you’re pinned to the tile with his fingers buried inside you, tongue between your legs, moaning into your cunt while you gasp and twitch against his mouth. you’re on your knees for him right after, choking on his cock while water spills down your back and his hands are in your hair, guiding you. and when it’s over subong wraps you in a towel so gently you forget how hard you just came.

afterwards, he throws on sweats and flops onto the couch. you crawl in after him, blanket over both of you, your legs across his lap and your head leaned back while he flips through shit on the tv. his hand starts moving over your shin, then your calf, dragging the edge of his knuckles along your skin. he stops on a variety show with bright graphics, double-checks that the subtitles are on for you, and tosses the remote somewhere across the cushions. you barely register what’s happening on the screen—something about a cooking competition, maybe—but he’s focused, or at least pretending to be. his hands keep working. he presses into your calf with his thumb, then shifts lower, wrapping his fingers around your ankle and rubbing slow circles into the arch of your foot, then back up again—his touch firm. you watch him for a second before saying, “baby.” he hums, not looking away from the screen. your toes press against his stomach. “subong.” his eyes flick down to you. “yeah, baby?” you shift a little under the blanket, pull your legs off his lap so you can sit up straighter—knees bent. and the second your body moves like that, he pauses, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s clocked the vibe shift. “can we—” you pause, clear your throat. “can we talk for a sec?” subong freezes. the words can we talk have never once led to anything good in his life. “talk,” he repeats, cautiously. “like…talk, talk?” “yeah. i just… i’ve been thinking.” “what you mean? thinking about what?” you can tell he’s panicking inside. you don’t know how to start. you don’t even know what part of it you’re trying to get to first. “i mean… i’m not seeing anyone else,” you say. “i haven’t been… since we started talking. and not like it’s some big deal or anything, i just—i don’t even want to. like, i don’t even think about it.” the minute the words leave your mouth, he looks a lot more relieved. “and i know we never really… talked about what this is,” you keep going, “but i’ve been out here for almost two weeks, and we’ve been calling and texting and facetiming for months, and i guess i just—” you pause again. breathe. “—i want to know what this is for you—” “nah. nah, see—what the fuck you talkin’ about right now,” he cuts in, all offended. “what is this for me? baby. you’re my fucking girl. like—since day one. what are we even—” “i just didn’t want to assume.” “you don’t gotta assume shit, baby. you’ve been mine.” “so… what? like… i’m your—i’m your girlfriend?” “fucking right you are. come here.”

he pulls you into his lap without hesitation, so fast you barely get the chance to react before his arms lock around your waist and starts kissing you—pressing obnoxiously loud kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your collarbone, your neck. “my girlfriend out here making dumb questions thinkin’ she’s just some random girl i talk to—that’s crazy,” he says between kisses, voice muffled, mouth brushing your skin. you squeal, try to push him off, laughing too hard to breathe. “stop! subong—” “the fucking disrespect, bro” he grins, tightening his hold, kisses the side of your face again, “‘i want to know what this is for you,’” he mocks in a high pitched voice. “what you think, girl?” his hands tickle your side, until you’re twisting in his lap, giggling so hard your stomach hurts. “stop! i can’t—” “‘i didn’t want to assume’—assume what, baby? you think i let just anyone sit on my face and call me a good boy?” “subong!” he laughs, breath hot against your skin, and you can feel it now—how happy he is. how light. how fucking in it he’s always been.

the next few months are—against all odds and having the entire goddamn ocean between you—kind of perfect. you go home, and it sucks. obviously. you cry at the airport, your chest starts to cave in because your body doesn’t quite understand how to unstick itself from his yet. and subong pretends not to, but you catch him rubbing his eyes weirdly. life goes on. you tell your family about subong eventually, and they’re not completely on board at first. not because they don’t like him (they’ve never even met him) but because the whole thing sounds impossible. different countries, different lives… it makes them nervous, and they don’t hide that. but underneath the doubt, they’re happy for you. your friends, though… they’re all in. even the ones who were hesitant in the beginning have started to come around, because they see it now. they see how real it is, how happy you are. and it’s so sweet it makes you want to cry—to know that even though the relationship exists across an ocean, the people around you are still rooting for it to work.

life smiling at you, and you’re smiling back. you’re so, so happy. it feels like everything around you is finally starting to click and you aren’t constantly clawing your way through the week, you can actually breathe without apologizing for it. your head’s clearer, your chest feels lighter, you’re eating better, waking up well-rested… you feel better in your skin, too, more sure of yourself. maybe you’re not as impossible to love as you thought. even your boss gave you a raise last month, called you more ‘on it’ than ever before, and you almost laughed, because it’s not like you changed anything dramatic—you’ve just stopped wasting all your energy trying to feel okay. you are okay. better than okay. and it shows.

subong, on the other hand—he’s not happy. not because of you. you’re his peace and his favorite fucking person. but the rest? everything else? it’s a mess. he hates his job. he knows he’s lucky to have it, knows he was proud when he got it, knows it helped—he can pay rent now, buy groceries without asking his mom for help, take you on real dates when you visit—but that pride wore off fast. the hours drag, the streets are cold, his legs hurt all the time, and every time he clocks in, he feels like something inside him is cracking a little more. because this isn’t what he wants. this isn’t who he is. he was supposed to be doing music... supposed to be chasing something that made his blood move. but he pushed that part of himself so far back it barely makes noise anymore. it’s still there, though… buried under the tired, under the weight of pretending he’s okay when he’s not.

he says it one night, kind of out of nowhere. you’re on facetime, both of you horizontal in different beds. your voice’s tainted by exhaustion as you talk about your day. in the middle of your ramble, he lets out this little huff and says how he’d quit his job to be a broke rapper again, then proceeds to joke about how you’d break up with him if he did. smiles like it’s funny, with a little laugh at the end. you don’t laugh, though. instead, you sit up a little and say, “do it.” his smile falters. he stays quiet for a moment, then goes, “what?” “i mean—yeah. do it. quit your job, if that’s what you want. don’t give it up, subong. you’re good. and i know you don’t always see it, but i do. i do. and i want you to be happy, you know? if that means chasing music again… then fucking do it. and if you need anything—i mean it, baby—ask me. i’m not leaving you, i’m here for you. we’re together now, right? that’s what this is.” he doesn’t say much. he’s trying to wrap his head around the fact that you genuinely, without conditions, want him to be okay. that somehow, you’ve made the choice to see him as worth it, even on the days he can’t stand himself. he doesn’t know where to put that kind of grace, so he just nods. rubs a trembling hand over his mouth, trying to steady it, keep it from quivering and giving him away. and when you ask if he’s okay, he says, “yeah,” barely audible, eyes gone glassy in a way that betrays him instantly.

he quits his job two weeks later—pulls off the uniform and drops it in the trash like he’s shedding dead skin. texts you immediately after:

just quit

really?? omggg!!

how do you feel? :)

good💯

are you sure baby?

fuck yeah

better than ever

and for the first time in a long time, he means it. after that, he doesn’t fuck around. he works, pouring himself fully into the music. subong practices until his voice gets hoarse, rewrites verses at four in the morning, pulls strings with friends of friends who owe him favors from way back when, spends money he shouldn’t be spending on studio time and mixing. you see it happening in real time—the obsession, the tunnel vision, the way he lights up every time he thinks he’s nailed a line. he sends you the demo and then the mastered version. and one night, he uploads it to streaming. not even a month later, the song blows the fuck up. someone posts a clip of it on tiktok—this random girl lip-syncing to one of the more questionable lines, giggling—and people start clowning it immediately. the lyrics get memed. but eventually, something flips, like some invisible switch being hit in the collective brain of the internet, and suddenly the comments shift from ‘wtf is this bro’ to ‘wait ts lowkey eatsss’ and the lyrics that sounded dumb at first suddenly feel kinda… clever? he’s everywhere. you open your phone and there he is—on your feed, on your fyp. the memes don’t stop, but they’ve changed. no one’s laughing at him anymore, they’re laughing with him. they’re obsessed. subong’s so fucking happy. and you’re so fucking proud.

months go by and it just keeps getting bigger. the song opened the door and subong fucking sprinted through it. he releases a follow-up track a few weeks later, then another, and people eat them up like candy. the internet picks him up and carries him faster than either of you expected, which is amazing. the following months he’s busier, but he still texts you before he goes onstage, facetimes you the moment he’s free, and sends you voice notes and pictures of everything he does... but then the invitations start. first, it’s a launch party for someone else’s album, then an afterparty for a gig he didn’t even play at, then a private party for an influencer brand you’ve never heard of. and he goes, of course. he texts you, too, the whole time, telling you everything.

they got wagyu sliders n shit

these mfs be rich fr

miss u baby

someone asked who i’m texting

i said my girl

he said lucky

damn fucking right i am😍

this place got a whole ass chandelier in the bathroom

hi baby :) just woke up, i see you’re having fun

i think im a bit drunk

please be careful

im good baby, everyone’s nice

okayy :)

i have to leave for work in a few minutes

damn

that job rly snatching u away from thanos

gonna buy u an island someday baby

u wont have to worry bout work no more

n i’ll eat you out everyday

that’s so romantic, thank you

but for now i gotta get ready🙃

drink some water, please

and text me when you’re home safe

i’ll probably still be working when you get back

i’ll try to stay up

wanna hear how ur day goes

you won’t

but that’s okay! sleep if you need to❤️❤️

i wish u were here baby

i’d be showin u off so bad

my pretty girl

smilin all cute n stealing everyone’s attention

but you’re not there. you’re never there. you’re across the world, living a completely different life. and no matter how many texts he sends or calls he makes, that gap doesn’t shrink. if anything, it starts to grow. stretches like a crack down the center of something you thought was solid. because now, it’s not just distance—it’s dissonance. and it’s not that you don’t trust him. you do. it’s just that… fame changes things. and you can’t help but wonder how long you’ll stay interesting to someone whose world keeps getting bigger by the hour. how long you can keep up from so far away. how long until all the things that make you you—the mundanity, the simplicity, the slowness of your life—start to feel like dead weight to someone like him.

he calls one night, like always, right as you’re settling into bed and thinking about how weird it is that he still remembers to call, even when everything in his life feels like it’s speeding up fast. it’s morning for him, maybe early afternoon. sunlight spills across his bed, his voice’s all scratchy and bright in that way that tells you immediately: he had a good night. you’re in bed, barely awake, blinking into the dark with your phone pressed to your cheek as he launches straight into it, laughing, out of breath even though he’s just lying there. “yo, baby—you would’ve hated it. so many fake-ass people. but the place was mad bougie, i swear to god there was a real ass koi pond inside the fucking bar.” and then he’s off—telling you everything about last night. he sounds happy. like really, really happy. he tells you about the music, about the people, how everyone knew who he was. says it was probably the best night of his life so far. that hurts for some reason. and you want to be happy for him—you are—but there’s something in your chest tightening with every word, something quiet and mean and a little scared, because it’s never been clearer that you’re not there, and he’s starting to live a life that doesn’t involve you. and then he says it. “oh—shit, forgot the wildest part, baby. met this one dude—looked like he owns fucking a yacht. came up to me like, said he wants to manage me. and i was like bet. so now he’s my manager… well, i gotta sign up the contract and all that shit, but we arranged a meeting. and he gave me a pill too—no idea what the fuck it was, but fuck, baby, i was like… i don’t know, that shit hit.” what the fuck? he laughs as he says it, like it’s a joke. like it’s not a big deal... like you won’t care.

and for a moment, all the noise in your brain stops. you’re just lying there in the dark, blinking up at the ceiling, phone warm against your ear, suddenly freezing cold on the inside, listening to your boyfriend talk about taking some random-ass drug from a stranger like it’s a footnote in a funny story. and it’s not even that you didn’t expect something like this eventually… it’s just that hearing him say it, so casually, so proud, makes your stomach turn. and when you finally speak, your voice is quieter than you thought it’d be. “subong… that’s like… really bad.” and for the first time since the call started, he actually goes quiet—enough to let the silence stretch between you, like he’s trying to figure out how serious you are. he exhales sharply, not quite a laugh, but close enough to piss you off before he even opens his mouth. “baby, c’mon. it wasn’t like that. it’s not like i’m out here poppin’ mystery pills every damn night. it was just one time. it’s not that deep.” and maybe he really thinks that. but you can hear the part of him that’s panicking a little underneath, the part that knows exactly why you’re worried. you sit up in bed, your heart sinking as you try to stay calm and not sound like his mom or whatever else might make him shut down, but god it’s hard when he’s brushing off something that could’ve gone so wrong. “it’s not that deep?” you repeat, flatly. and already, you hate the way your voice sounds. “you didn’t even know what it was, subong.” he groans. “but i’m fine. nothing happened. i’m literally sitting here talking to you, girl, aren’t i?” “that’s not the fucking point.” “jesus christ—you’re making it sound like i fucking od’d.”

you don’t mean to snap. you’re trying to keep your cool—you were keeping it, even when your whole body went cold after he said it. but something about the way he’s laughing it off, like you’re overreacting, like he didn’t just tell you he took some random drug from a stranger… makes you angry. “you’re not some invincible asshole, subong.” your voice is shaking now, heat rising to your cheeks. “you didn’t even know what it was. and you still took it—you took something from someone you don’t know, at a party full of people who don’t give a fuck about you—even if you think they do—and now you’re bragging about it like it’s funny. it’s not. it’s not funny, okay? it’s fucking scary.” “here we fucking go.” he mutters. and just like that, you’re off the edge. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” “you acting like i fucking snorted coke off a stripper’s tit or some shit, man. it was one fucking pill. one. not even mine. i just wanted to feel good for one fucking night.” “you didn’t even know what it was, subong!” “so?” he snaps. “damn, what, now i need your permission to have a good time? what are you—my fucking mom?” “no, but apparently someone has to give a fuck about your life since you clearly don’t.” “talking like i ain’t fucking grown, like i ain’t out here doing this shit on my own! i’m older than you!” “don’t fucking scream at me, i can hear you just fine. and i’m trying to be there for you, but you make it so fucking hard when you act like this, subong.” “act like what, huh?” “like i’m the problem for caring.” he laughs again, but this time it’s cruel. you frown. “nah, you don’t care. you just hate not being here. that’s what this is really about, right?” “what?” “you heard me, girl.” the nerve he has…“fuck you,” you whisper. “no, no. say it with your chest, baby. c’mon. you wanna be mad so bad, don’t you? like that’s gonna make it easier—like that’s gonna make you less scared that i’m slipping away from you.” you blink. you didn’t just hear what you heard... right? “what the fuck did you just say?” he exhales hard through his nose. “you hate not being here, with me. so now you tryna control me.” “control you?” you scoff. “you always gotta have something to say when i’m out,” he continues, fast, like he’s trying to get it all out before he lets himself feel any of it. “every time i tell you about a party or who i saw or what i’m doing, you act weird.” “are you fucking serious?” “yeah.” “you really think i like this? you think i enjoy sitting here every night, wondering who you’re with, what you’re doing, if you’re safe? because that’s what i’ve been doing these past few months, by the way—worry. about your damn state and safety. so don’t even start. i just—listen… i don’t want to fight with you, subong. i really don’t. i just want you to be wise about the decisions you make. i want—i want you to be okay.”

he makes this low sound, like he doesn’t believe you. and you know then, none of what you’re saying is landing. “but you know what?” you continue, voice rising. “maybe it’s easier for you to pretend i’m some nagging bitch than admit that you’re scared, too. that maybe this is all too much too fast and you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.” “don’t put your shit on me, girl,” he bites. “maybe it’s too much for you! you were good with broke-ass me, but not now, when i’m getting attention. when people actually want me.” “i want you too, you dumb fuck!” you shout. “hey! don’t fucking call me that!” “let me speak—” “you think you can talk to me like that?! the fuck is this shit—” “let me speak!” “nah, fuck that! fuck that! you think i’m gonna let you disrespect me?!” “can you just listen to me—” “i don’t give a fuck what you tryna say when you start it off by calling me a dumbass—“ “jesus—subong, let me finish!” you hear him mutter a few words but he quiets down. “what i was trying to say is that i’ve only ever wanted you—” “yeah? then stop acting like you hate every single thing that comes with me blowing up! ‘cause that’s what it sound like.” “well maybe that’s what you wanna hear,” you spit, “so you can feel like the victim—like poor little subong with the girlfriend who doesn’t get it—” “fucking right you don’t!” “—even though she’s the one who told me to follow my dream! even though she’s been here since before the clout, before the…the fame, or whatever this is now—” “and you think that makes you fucking special?” that one. that one makes you go silent for a moment.

your voice drops, hoarse now. “say that again.” he doesn’t. “go on. say it again, subong.” he doesn’t say anything. just breathes hard into the phone. “fuck,” he mutters eventually. “you know i didn’t mean it like that.” you don’t answer. “c’mon, girl—don’t do that. don’t go all quiet on me now, like we didn’t just—like i don’t—” he stops himself, letting out a loud sigh. “you know you’re different. you know that.” and maybe he thinks that’ll fix it. but it doesn’t. your throat is tight, and your hand’s starting to shake, and you feel that stupid sting behind your eyes, and you hate that he’s still on the other end of the line because now he’s going to hear it. “i’m gonna hang up,” you say. he reacts fast, urgent. “what? baby, don’t—don’t do that. we’re just talking. we always talk like this, it’s not—” “i don’t wanna talk to you right now. i’m going to sleep, i’m tired… you have a good day.” and before he can respond, you hang up.

he calls. once, twice, then again—back to back. when you don’t answer, the texts start flooding in too. he’s apologizing (kind of) rambling through hurt pride, guilt and panic, but you don’t read them. you don’t pick up when he calls again either. you just turn your phone on silent, curl deeper under the blanket, and let the night swallow the noise. when you wake up hours later, the screen is full of missed calls and unread messages, his name everywhere.

u really hung up on me??

dont do that shit

answer

u know i didnt mean it like that baby

i was talkin out my ass

fuck

ik i fucked up alr

i say dumb shit when im mad u know that

but calling me that, bro??

really??

u gotta own what u said too

im not gonna sit here and eat shit like u didnt throw it too

dont fucking ignore me

pls baby text me back

im sorry

say somethin please

i didnt mean to hurt u baby

u were right

about the pill

the way i acted

i wont touch that shit again

i promise

im not losin u over that

bc i love you

n i mean it

you work it out, the same way you always do. you talk for hours when you wake up. and after the apologies, the guilt, the careful questions and the reassurances, after the part where he swears up and down he’s never doing that shit again, never taking anything from anyone without knowing what it is, never scaring you like that again—you tell him the thing you haven’t wanted to say out loud. that he was right. not about the fight, but about the way you’ve been acting lately. how you’ve been more irritated, more quick to get upset, more sensitive to things that used to roll off your back. how you’ve felt it happening—this thing under your skin, this heaviness that comes from constantly wondering if what you two have is going to survive everything that’s changing. the attention. the pressure. the people. because this new version of his life—this shiny, fast, spinning thing full of parties and people who want pieces of him—is starting to feel so far from the version that belonged to you. and it’s not his fault, you know that. but no matter how often he calls or sends you pictures or tries to remind you that you’re still his, it’s hard not to feel like the rest of the world is trying to pull him away anyway.

by the end of the year, just a few days short of what would’ve been your one-year mark, you move to seoul. no countdown this time, no return flight circling in the back of your head like a vulture. subong doesn’t even ask you to move in with him, he insists. tells you: “you’re stayin with me. where else would you go, baby? i already cleared out my closet, you better fill it up.” says it like it’s already settled, like this wasn’t something you were supposed to talk about first, as if there was never gonna be another option. and part of you hesitates because the idea of suddenly living together, full-time, is kinda scary. you’ve been long-distance for months, and planning this move for even longer. but planning something and doing it are two very different things. he’s gonna be your everyday. and that kind of closeness—while beautiful—is also terrifying. part of you thinks maybe you should wait, get your own place first, test the waters, do this the ‘smart’ way. but still, you say yes.

the apartment he’s in now is better. way better. he can finally afford to live alone (and there’s actual furniture this time and the heat works) and subong’s always talking about ‘our home’ like he’s lived there with you forever. he even has a car now, can you believe that? it’s insane how good things are. it almost makes you suspicious, like you’re waiting for someone to tap you on the shoulder and tell you none of it’s real. maybe you weren’t prepared for how fast it would all feel normal, how quickly your things would start mixing with his, how easily you’d get used to waking up in the same bed with his leg thrown over yours and his arm tucked under your head.

he’s busier than you thought he’d be, though. that’s the first thing you notice. there are meetings, rehearsals, video shoots, endless phone calls… you’re busy, too, but in a different way. your job transferred you when you moved, thankfully, but your schedule didn’t change, which means your days start when everyone else’s are winding down. one of the perks of remote work is that the mornings belong to you. but around six or seven in the evening, you work—hunched over your laptop with your headphones in and the city lights bleeding in through the curtains. sometimes subong’s home and sometimes he’s not, but either way, you work. it’s fucking hard sometimes. and lonely, albeit a loneliness you won’t admit, because you made this choice… you knew it wouldn’t be easy and you told yourself you could handle it, that you were brave, that you were doing something people only dream about—but sometimes the small things get to you anyway. the stares. the little barriers in language and culture that make you feel like a clown, like you’re always just slightly out of place and you’ll never quite blend in no matter how long you stay or how hard you try. some days you handle it fine and you’re proud of yourself for even trying. but some other days, it sinks in too deep. subong’s always there making you laugh, holding you when you cry and get frustrated over the smallest things. when you’re in your head and missing home and wondering if maybe you made a mistake… he’s there. and you remember why you came in the first place. for him.

but nothing stays good forever. it’s just the nature of things, the way joy always carries a quiet expiration date no one can see until the air starts to change. you’re tired and alone most days, and the silence of the apartment is starting to feel different than it did before, heavier somehow, less peaceful and more pointed, like a reminder of everything you gave up to be here. you thought things would change eventually, but after living there for six months, you realize they aren’t… and you’re not sure they will. subong’s still busy. it really starts to show—the way his presence starts to stretch thinner and thinner across your days. it makes sense that he’s pouring everything into his music, that he’s working harder than ever, saying yes to everything, because what if the offers stop coming? what if it all disappears? and you get that. but that doesn’t make it easier to sit in an apartment alone in a country that still doesn’t feel like home. and it’s not that you didn’t expect him to be busy. of course you did. you moved here knowing what his life was turning into. but now you spend more nights than you’d like to admit sitting at the little table by the window eating alone and avoiding glancing at the clock again, trying not to get mad before he even texts that he’s staying at the studio late again. trying not to feel pathetic for the way you still wait up sometimes, fully dressed, hoping he’ll walk through the door before you fall asleep.

the fights start small. you misread a text. he forgets to say hello when he comes back from the studio. he leaves his dishes in the sink again even though you asked him not to, even though he said he’d try. you ask if he’s coming home for dinner and he says “i’ll see,” and something about the vagueness gets under your skin more than it should. you both pretend things are fine even though you’re starting to keep score in your head. and it starts to show in the way you text each other, too. which is honestly where most of the fighting happens now.

miss u

how’s my girl’s day goin

hi baby :) good

i miss you too

are you coming home for dinner?

yeah

should be back around 8

yayyyyyy!

i’ve been craving pasta all day so i’ll make that

save me a big ass plate señorita

obviously ;)

thank u bby ❤️

what thank you? that’s worth at least 5 kisses😙

5 kisses? i’ll give u something better girl🔥

dummy

i’m holding you to that ;)

don’t be late!

but then 8 p.m rolls around:

just finished cooking🙂‍↕️

i’ll wait for you to get here

it smells insane btw

hurry up

are you close??

baby

i’m hungry

suboooongggg

helloooo

and 9 p.m:

fuck

baby im still at the studio

we r behind schedule

i cant leave yet

wdym you can’t leave yet

you said you’d be home around 8

i thought we’d be done by then

you could’ve told me

i’ve been waiting yk

sorry baby

i didnt wanna disappoint u

kept thinking we’d wrap in time

well

guess what

dont be like that girl

excuse me

i took my break early to cook

and i’ve been sitting here waiting for you for an hour

i didnt fuckin plan for shit to run late bro tf u on me about

whatever subong

i’m tired

eat when you get home or don’t

idgaf

then another day:

hi baby❤️

i’m so sorry to bother you rn

i went to the 7-eleven and then decided to walk a bit after and i kinda got turned around lol

don’t laugh💀

i thought i knew the way back but i think i took a wrong turn and i don’t know where i am now

i’m using maps but it’s taking me up this street and none of the lampposts are working, so i don’t really wanna walk through there

can you come get me maybe?🥲

pleaseee

what?

where u at bby??

i don’t know

somewhere near that cafe you took me to last week i think??

everything looks different at night

wait let me check

yeah, the cafe with the green logo

i didn’t realize how far i’d walked

there’s no one around

kinda creepy

tf u doing walking around by urself this late bby

needed some air

i finished work and the apartment was starting to feel like a box

sorry

are you gonna be long?

baby?

im still at the studio

been here all day

we just started recording again

oh

i thought you’d be home by now, it’s late

nah bby

we got ppl over too

shit’s stacked rn

okay then

nevermind

i’ll figure it out

i’ll walk a bit more and see if something looks familiar

u got the taxi app

take one

ik the apps i have on my phone!

i’m not stupid ty😊

yo wtf

???

tf u giving me an attitude for

i’m not giving you an attitude

i’m literally lost and it’s dark and i asked you for help

and you’re telling me to just take a fucking taxi

i’ll pay for it

there are no taxis at this hour, yk how hard it is to take one after 1am in seoul

i told u i was busy tonight

tf u want me to do, girl? teleport out the studio?

ha ha you’re soooo fucking funny subong

dont fucking piss me off

don’t fucking piss ME off

u r the one who chose to go out at fucking 1am for no reason??

how is that on me girl

yeah i chose to go out because i’ve been alone all day

and yesterday

and the day before that

and the one time i actually need you, you can’t even leave for ten fucking minutes

my bad for having work🙏🏼

fuck off dude

like genuinely

you’re not even listening to what i’m trying to say

i am

u r acting like idgaf when im here tryna finish work that pays our rent

as if i don’t pay my part of rent too💀💀 tf

wtf r u even saying rn

no one said u dont

why tf u twisting my words??

i’m not twisting anything

i’m trying to tell you how i feel

not that you care :)

u know i fucking do

tf is this even about now man

act like it then! :)))))

what u think i’ve been doing?

im at the studio every night building a future that includes u

n u crying cuz i cant drop everything to play chauffeur??

what u want from me bro

don’t call me bro

i’m your girlfriend

ye

n u always on my dick about shit

you’re a fucking asshole subong

and u r a fuckin brat

fuck you

nah fuck you bitch

it’s the first time he’s ever called you that. it’s not like you’ve never argued before, not like you’ve never said cruel shit in the heat of the moment, but that? that one word? bitch? from him? it feels like something splits open in your chest, and you hate how fast your hands start shaking and your face burns. and maybe that’s what pisses you off the most—how much it affects you, how much it stays. because it’s him, not a stranger, not someone on the street. it’s the same mouth that kisses you at night, the same person who calls you baby, the same fingers that loop into yours under the blanket when you’re snuggled up against him. you don’t answer after that. and when he starts texting again, you just stare at the lock screen and let it buzz against your leg until it stops. because you know it’s coming. the half-assed apology. the “i didn’t mean it like that” and “you know how i get when i’m mad, baby” and “you’re the only one who gets under my skin like this”—as if that’s supposed to be romantic. as if being hurt by him is some kind of proof that you matter.

you forgive him, you always do. because you love him. because it’s easier to fold into the version of him that comes after: the sorry one, the one who kisses your hands and says “i fucked up, baby. i know i fucked up. that’s not who i am, girl, you know me. please, baby… forgive me, i’ll do anything.” you try, you really fucking try… but the thing about words is that once they hit, they echo. they stretch out inside you, and suddenly everything sounds a little different. and it shows. not in the way you pull away, not in the silence or the tears into the pillow while his back is turned. no, you still kiss him. you still touch him. you still let him press up behind you at night and mumble filth against your neck with his hands under your shirt. you let him fuck you. but not the way he’s used to. now it’s you on top—dragging him down by the jaw, yanking his clothes off rough enough to make him grunt, pinning him back against the pillows. subong’s stronger, he could flip you over in a second if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. he loves that shit. he loves watching you take control with your thighs straddling his hips and your nails digging crescent moons into his chest, looking at him like you’re the one who gets to decide when he gets to breathe. you kiss him hard, bite his lip, make him open his mouth just to pull away and laugh when he chases yours.

one day you wrap your hand around his throat, and say “you think you deserve to be fucked by me? hm?” and he shakes his head immediately, lips parted, already twitching under you like you’ve got a hand wrapped around his soul instead. his cock’s hard and leaking and he hasn’t even been touched properly, hasn’t earned a single fucking thing. his voice barely comes out when he tries—just a raspy “no, baby.” “right. then why should i?” you ask as you grind down once, pressing your heat right against him, reminding him what he’s not getting yet. subong chokes on his own spit, holding himself back from doing something pathetic. and you just tilt your head, all sweet and cruel. “’cause—f-fuck, baby, ‘cause i’m sorry. i’m sorry, i know i was a piece of shit—i’ll be good. i swear i’ll be so fuckin’ good.” “you will?” you drag your nails down his chest, watching his abs jump under your touch. he nods frantically. “i-i’ll be your good boy. i promise, baby, just—fuck, please—” you cut him off with another slow roll of your hips, dragging your soaked cunt down the length of his cock, letting him feel how wet you are, how fucking turned on you are from seeing him like this. from hearing the desperation in his voice and watching him twitch and shake and beg for a pussy he hasn’t earned. “aww, and you think saying sorry makes you good, subongie?” you murmur, leaning down, lips brushing over his cheek, your hand slipping up to grab his jaw. you squeeze it hard, making him gasp. “you think one little apology’s enough to make me forget how you talked to me? you’re lucky i even let you get this close.”

subong’s eyes flutter, throat bobbing hard under your touch. he’s finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, not with the feeling of your pussy hovering just above the tip of his dick, dripping all over him like the cruelest fucking tease alive. he shakes his head quick. “no,” he whispers. “no, baby, it’s not. i fucked up, i know, i know, i’ll do anything to make it up to you, i swear—” “anything? you want this pussy that bad?” “yes,” he whines. “then beg.” he does. fuck, he does immediately. like his life depends on it, giving up every ounce of pride just to get inside you. “please, baby, please. just—just let me feel you, i can’t—i can’t fucking take it. i need you, i need that fucking pussy. please—” you hum, slow and thoughtful, then shift—lifting your hips and sliding off him, dragging the wet heat of your body away. he lets out a little sound at the loss before your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him once, still deciding how generous you want to be. his hips buck off the bed, his body unable to take the smallest kindness without trying to fuck into it. “pathetic,” you whisper, leaning down to bite his neck, dragging your teeth across his skin. “all that attitude and now look at you… begging like a fucking loser.” he moans, embarrassed, but it turns him on anyway. he’d let you spit in his mouth if you wanted to. “i’m not,” he breathes, but it’s a lie. you stroke him again, slower this time, almost languid, just to watch the way he twitches under your touch, to feel the heat of him, slick and straining in your hand, every inch of him aching with want. “you are,” you say. “whining over some pussy you haven’t earned. what happened to that mouth, huh? where’s all that talk now?” “i don’t—i didn’t mean it, girl—fuck—” his voice cracks halfway through and it’s almost funny, how you’re working him up with barely a flick of your wrist. you lean in close. “that’s my name when you’re begging?” you murmur. “‘girl’? try again.” “‘m s-sorry. baby. ‘m sorry,” he stammers. “i swear, i didn’t mean it, you know i didn’t—please, baby. just let me cum—ahh-ha fuck—please let me cum—” “already?” you laugh, low. “you haven’t even been inside me and you’re already there? just from my hand? that’s how easy you are now, subong?” he groans, hips jerking up again, losing the ability to stay still. “yes—fuck! yes, girl—i mean, baby. shit, you’re s-so fucking hot… i’m gonna cum if you don’t stop. please, let me—” “no,” you cut him off, tightening your grip. “you don’t cum ‘til i say so.”

you let go of him entirely for a second, watching him. your core aches from how wet you are, too, because seeing him like this—all that mouth reduced to desperate noise—it feeds something inside you. you crawl over him again, straddling his waist, the tip of his cock sliding through the mess between your thighs, and subong groans. “please. please, baby, let me in. i need you.” you shift your hips, letting the head of his cock nudge against your entrance, but you don’t give him anything else. “hm… i don’t know…” you murmur, tilting your head. “what were you sorry for again?” “f-for… for calling you that,” he says. “for what i said. i didn’t mean it, baby.” “for calling me what?” you press, and the slick glide of your folds drags against him. “say it.” his throat bobs. “for calling you a bitch. but you know i didn’t mean it… i was just pissed, baby.“ “mhm.” your hand goes to his purple hair, clutching a strand, yanking his head back until he’s staring up at the ceiling. “and? what else are you sorry for?” subong moans. “a-and for leaving you alone,” he answers fast, desperate. “for always being gone, for not coming home when i said i would.” you hum like you’re thinking it over. “now that’s a good boy.” you finally sink down on him. a broken moan rips out of his throat as your walls clamp tight around him, wrenching a curse straight from his lips. subong’s hands shoot up to grab your hips instinctively, but you slap one away. “no touching,” you snap.

you start to move. every drag of your pussy around him has his jaw clenched and his abs twitching, his whole body fighting not to fuck up into you, not to ruin it by cumming too fast. you know he’s close. you can feel him throbbing inside of you, pulsing between your gummy walls. your pace picks up with every whimper that leaves his throat. “y-you want to cum, baby?” he nods frantically, unable to even form words. “yeah? then make me.” you pant as you grind down harder, chasing that spot that makes you see stars, riding him with purpose, hungry for that high tightening in your belly. every deep, deliberate drag of him inside you making it harder to think, the way his cock stretches and fills you perfectly. subong doesn’t dare use his hands—not after you slapped one of them away—but his hips start moving on their own, small upward rolls that meet the motion of yours, fucking up into the rhythm you’re setting. you almost stop just to remind him who’s in charge… but it feels too fucking good. your thighs are trembling, your moans are slipping too easily from your lips and your head’s falling forward as you brace a hand on his chest. “fuck! subong—fuck—” he’s babbling under you. “you feel so fucking good, baby… this pussy’s so good—shit—mine, baby, you’re fucking mine.”

you keep going, riding him harder, the burn in your thighs completely ignored. and then your head drops, your rhythm stutters, and a broken moan rips from your throat as your orgasm tears through you, your cunt clenching around subong so tight you feel him sob under you. only then, when you’ve taken what you wanted, you tell him: “cum for me, baby.” and he does. his hips jerk up once, twice, sloppy and frantic, and he cums, spilling into you as he curses through it, breath catching on every filthy, desperate sound that slips out of his mouth. you ride it out slow, milking every drop of his until he’s boneless, flushed and soaked in sweat. you smile, watching the way his chest rises and falls and that dazed, fucked-out look on his face as he tries to blink himself back into the world.

subong’s a liar. always been and always will be. it’s not even that he’s proud of it, it’s just who he is: a boy who learned too early that bending the truth made things easier. it started when he was little, when he was six years old standing in front of a cracked window with wide eyes, saying “it wasn’t me, grandma, i think the neighbor kid did it.” and she’d believed him. kissed the top of his head and muttered about how other children were raised like animals these days while he nodded solemnly and wiped his muddy palms on the back of his shirt. it got worse when he figured out how easy it was. how it opened doors, got him out of shit and kept people on his side. he lied to his mom constantly. things like: “yeah, i studied.” … “yeah, i went straight to school.” … “no, mom, my friend’s the one who smokes, that’s why my hoodie smells.” but the lies got bigger when he realized that a well-timed excuse could soften her exhaustion, could keep her from yelling, from crying into the sink at night when she thought he was asleep. he told her he wasn’t hungry even when he was, told her school was fine when it wasn’t, told her he didn’t need anything even when his shoes had holes in them… because what was the point in making it harder? what good would the truth even do?

he lied to teachers, too. said he didn’t hear the assignment, that he forgot his books at home, that he had a cousin in the hospital and that’s why he didn’t show up to the exam. he never felt bad for it, not once. if they were dumb enough to believe it, he figured that was on them. he would even lie to the police—with his hands in his pockets and shoulders relaxed like he had nothing to hide, even when his backpack reeked of weed and his knuckles were skinned raw from something he definitely didn’t want to explain. and he lied to his friends all the time as well. about stupid shit, mostly. said he had hookups he didn’t, that he fucked people he hadn’t even met… told one friend their crush liked them back just to see what would happen, and another that someone had said shit behind their back when they hadn’t, just to stir things up. for fun. he lied about school, money, his past, his feelings (especially his feelings)… and nobody ever really pressed him about it, because he was good at it. he lied to everyone.

and you were no exception. subong had been lying to you too, for months now. it started before you moved to korea. one of the first times his manager offered him a little something, to keep the energy up, to keep the night going. subong said no at first. actually said it out loud, too, laughing a bit to dodge confrontation. told him you wouldn’t like it, and he was trying to be better. but the manager just laughed louder, clapped him on the back like he was some kind of child who didn’t know better, and said, “damn, she really got you by the balls, huh?” that stuck. didn’t matter how joking the tone was, or how quick the subject shifted after that. it dug into subong, like a splinter under the skin. “you gotta loosen the fuck up, man. you got all this shit coming your way—money, fans, freedom—and you tryna say no ‘cause of her? fuck that!” “she just doesn’t like when i do this kinda shit,” subong replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “i promised her i wouldn’t do it again.” “bro,” the guy lowered his voice like they were talking secrets. “then don’t tell her. what she don’t know won’t kill her. it’s not like you’re fucking cheating or something… c’mon, man. you’re grown. you gonna let some girl tell you how to live? you gon’ let her control you like that?” and subong didn’t want to be controlled. he hated that word, actually. the guy knew that. probably smelled it on him from the beginning. “just one,” the guy pushed, holding out the little orange pill between two fingers. “you had fun last time, didn’t you?”

subong took the pill. just like that. he doesn’t even remember when it hit. just that he was laughing harder, saying dumber shit, dancing with sweat dripping down his temples while the bass made his bones vibrate and his jaw feel loose. and after that, it just kept happening. once, twice, then again the next week, and then it wasn’t just when his manager offered. it became when someone had something. didn’t even matter who. after a while, even that didn’t feel like enough. sometimes the high didn’t hit quite right, or maybe he was building tolerance, or maybe he just liked the chase of something stronger, better, heavier. so he started trying new shit, too. but it wasn’t until that one tuesday when he found himself pacing his room with a glass of water in his hand, sweating like crazy, digging through drawers and bags and old jackets trying to find something because it had been over four days and his body felt like it was shutting down… that he realized this wasn’t just for fun anymore. he was looking for it. needing it. and he couldn’t even tell you, because he knew he’d lose you if he did.

he never wanted to call you when he was high. tried not to text either, unless he was sure he could pass for normal, and the time zone difference gave him enough of a buffer to make it easy. he’d tell you he was busy, tired, at the studio... and you always believed him, and he hated that. and even more than that, he hated how guilty it made him feel, because you trusted him like no one ever had before, and he couldn’t even fucking look you in the eye over facetime some days. he’d never felt that way after telling a lie. never felt his chest tighten like that nor had to shut his eyes after hanging up just to sit with the sour twist in his gut. with you it was like every small dishonesty stacked on top of the last, pressing heavier and heavier, until some nights, after the high wore off, he’d sit alone in his bathroom staring at his reflection and he hated what he saw. hated how easy it was to lie to you, and how hard it was to stop. he kept telling himself he’d quit soon, that he just needed a few more weeks... but that never happened.

if anything, it got worse. so much fucking worse. because once you moved in, he didn’t just have to lie, he had to live the lie. he thought, stupidly, that by the time you got there, he’d have gotten his shit together. that he’d be better and clean. but he was so fucking wrong. the withdrawals hit harder than he expected. the pressure did too. and suddenly he was in it deeper than before, but now with the added weight of hiding it from you. hiding it in front of you. so the only thing he could do to survive the guilt was to avoid it altogether. that’s why he started avoiding you. it’s what he’s been doing for months now. because what else can he do? admit it? tell you he’s been high half the time he’s kissed you lately? tell you that some nights he lies awake next to you, cock throbbing, too fucked in the head to even roll you over and fuck you like he wants to? please. he can’t do that. he won’t.

so he tries to make up for it the only way he knows how: by being the kind of boyfriend he thinks you deserve. or at least sounding like it. saying “i love you” over and over, whispering it against your bare shoulder before you even open your eyes in the morning. touching you when you pass by, pulling you into his lap when you’re both sitting on the couch, brushing his thumb along your cheek when you’re ranting about your day just to see you soften into his hand. he means it, too. it’s the one thing he doesn’t have to fake, because he loves you more than he’s ever loved anyone in his life, and maybe that’s why everything else feels so fucking unbearable—because every time he kisses you or comes home and wraps his arms around your waist and breathes you in like he’s been drowning without you, he knows he’s lying about everything else. and it fucking kills him, honestly. because you’re right there, every single day, showing up for a version of him that doesn’t even exist anymore. he tries to drown it out with love and sex. with worship. fucking you like you’re made of gold—telling you you’re beautiful every time you’re on top of him, tits bouncing, head thrown back. “gonna marry you,” he breathes. “gonna make you my wife, baby. wanna wake up to this pussy every day.” and you laugh, soft, before kissing him again.

subong knows what you like. knows exactly how to say the right things at the right time, how to pull you back in when you’re pulling away. when he feels you go quiet, when your touches grow shorter or your gaze lingers a second too long without a smile, he cranks it up like clockwork—presses closer, kisses your neck more, murmurs “i wasn’t fucking joking when i said i’m gonna marry you,” mouth hot against your skin. “gonna put a ring on your finger so fat you’ll have to work your thumb around it when you wash your hands, girl.” and it works, most of the time. sometimes, to his surprise, he even means it. sometimes he wants that future so bad it makes him sick because what the actual fuck... he’s never thought of marriage, not even once, in his whole life. but now he does—when you’re naked in front of him, biting your lip, making fun of him for being sappy while he’s already got your panties shoved to the side and you’re saying “then prove it, big boy.” and he does—up against the bathroom counter, your leg hiked up and his hand gripping the edge so hard it goes white. “gon’ get you pregnant one day,” he grits out into your shoulder, “fuck a ring, wanna see you f-fucking swollen and full of me, mama.” and you clench around him every time. maybe because it’s hot, or maybe because there’s something inside you that wants it too, even if you’d never say it out loud. and he sees that in your eyes and loses his fucking mind. “you want that? yeah? want thanos to fuck a baby into you?” and you’re moaning, back arching for him. he means it in those moments, every word, every filthy, unhinged promise he makes when he’s buried in you. because if you were pregnant, maybe you’d stay. maybe you wouldn’t leave if you found out the truth, you’d be tied to him forever. oh god… how sick is that? how fucked up is it, that the idea makes him feel better? makes the guilt hurt less? subong knows how wrong that is. how selfish and immature and backwards it all sounds, but it doesn’t stop the thought from coming anyway. he’s a fucking coward, that’s all he is.

but the truth always comes to the surface. part of him knew that. because it was obvious, wasn’t it? bound to happen eventually, especially once he started surrounding himself with people he shouldn’t have even looked twice at in club pentagon. it was easy to disappear there, easy to pretend he was someone else for a few hours, someone untouchable. and that’s exactly what he did. he met his plug there. older guy, always with a different girl on his lap. they called him kyungho, or just ‘hyung’ if they wanted to be polite, and he had a reputation for being reliable and completely fucking terrifying if you crossed him. there were always two or three men flanking him, shoulders squared like bodyguards. subong knew better than to get too close. even when kyungho was friendly—and he was, in that offhand, slippery kind of way that made it hard to tell whether he actually liked you or if you were just the night’s amusement—there was something about him that made subong’s skin crawl. but kyungho liked him. or at least that’s how it seemed, the way he always made space for him at the booth, arm flung over the backrest like they were boys who went way back, like subong belonged there among them. subong wasn’t sure if that meant he was in or just being tolerated, but either way, he sat. “you always show up right when the night gets interesting,” kyungho said one night, not even looking at him. then he cracked a grin. “you’re either lucky or real fucking bored.” kyungho didn’t wait for an answer. just reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a little baggie, dropped it into subong’s hand. “this one’s smoother,” he said. “go easy, unless you’re trying to see god tonight.” subong didn’t ask questions. he didn’t want to know where the stuff came from, didn’t care what it was either. he just muttered “thanks, man.” and nodded.

everything was fine, as long as he paid. except now, he owed them. subong hadn’t planned for this part. he’d been doing so fucking good, hadn’t he? lying well enough to keep you close, which was already a fucking miracle. but everything falls apart eventually, and for subong, it started with that fucking ring. after dating you for two years, he’d finally bought it—kept it in a drawer under his socks, some proof to himself that he was serious, that he was going to get better to be with you. it wasn’t a matter of money then, he was doing alright. the bookings were steady, the endorsements had started coming in, and he’d made it to the semifinals in rap battlegrounds, which meant the prize money was close enough to taste. everything was building toward something. and he’d bought the ring without thinking too hard about it, still high on the rush of maybe being good enough for once. he didn’t know when he’d give it to you. maybe months from now, maybe years. but he would, eventually.

the rap battlegrounds final came. he should’ve been ready—he was ready. he’d been rehearsing for weeks, killing it in every freestyle cypher he stepped into. but the closer it got, the more it started to eat at him. not the performance itself, but the stakes. he told himself he wouldn’t do it, that he’d go in clean, that he didn’t need anything. but nerves are a bitch. and the second he stepped backstage and felt his throat go dry and his hands shake no matter how many times he clenched them into fists, he knew he was fucked. so he took a pill to quiet everything down and be able to concentrate. except it didn’t quiet shit. it fogged it. made him slow, made his tongue feel heavy and made him forget the third verse of his own fucking song like a rookie. and just like that, it was over: he lost. and the prize money he was counting on? gone. just like that. poof.

for weeks, he’s a fucking ghost of himself. not publicly, though. but when the doors close, when it’s just you and him in that quiet apartment, he’s… hollow. you sit beside him and hold his face, run your fingers through his hair and kiss the corner of his temple while he cries with his teeth clenched and his chest shaking, and you tell him it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re proud of him no matter what, that he gave everything he had and you’re not going anywhere. and he cries harder. not just because he lost the tournament—though yeah, that was fucking humiliating. but no, that’s not why he cries into your lap while your hands stroke the back of his neck. he cries because he’s fucked. because he was counting on that money to pay kyungho. and subong’s been dodging his calls for days, each one a sharp pulse of dread in his head. he thought about selling the ring, but he didn’t. couldn’t. he opened the box once and stared at the way the light caught the stone and all he could think about was how it would look on your finger. how you’d reach for him with both hands and kiss him before whispering yes against his mouth. and how you’d smile, all happy and cute, when you told your friends and family—he’d figure something else out.

the days kept going, and you never noticed. to you, everything was fine. the sex had been good lately. too good, actually. he’d been insatiable for weeks now, rougher than usual—fucking you with his fingers shoved in your mouth to keep you quiet, even though the windows were open and you both knew the neighbors could hear—but also sweeter in the moments right after. you made lunch together: grilled cheese, kimchi jjigae, that fried rice he liked with too much sauce and barely any vegetables. and subong grabbed your ass when you reached for the bowls on the top shelf, grinning when you squealed. you watched movies on the couch, went out for dinner, went on walks where you’d hold his hand and swing it between you like kids, and he’d kiss your knuckles and call you pretty. he was a bit quieter than usual, sure. but you figured he was tired, or overworked, or just coming down from the crash of losing rap battlegrounds and all the energy he’d poured into it. you gave him space and avoided asking too many questions. you didn’t realize that was the worst thing you could’ve done.

one sunday morning, you’re sitting at the dining table in one of subong’s shirts and eating toast, scrolling on your phone and sipping lukewarm coffee. subong’s out running, something he’s started doing lately in the mornings, probably trying to shake the gnawing feeling in his chest that losing the rap tournament left behind, or maybe just chasing a little silence in his head that doesn’t sound like self-hatred. suddenly, there’s this violent banging on your front door. you jolt so hard your mug wobbles, coffee sloshing onto your thigh as you hear a group of men yelling right outside your apartment—slamming their palm or maybe even their fist against the door again and again, rattling it in its frame like they’re seconds from breaking it down. you don’t understand a word, the korean’s too fast, aggressive and slurred with rage, but the tone alone is enough to twist something tight in your gut. you don’t know what to do. part of you wants to scream back, part of you wants to hide, and part of you’s just whispering his name under your breath like “subong. subong. subong.” as if he’s gonna magically appear to protect you from whatever it is that those men want. you quickly pull out your phone.

subong

baby please answer me

a group of men’s banging on the door screaming in korean

idk who they are

they won’t stop

i’m scared

i didn’t call the police bc i don’t want them to hear me talking

please call them

send someone here

and don’t come home

they could be dangerous

just send someone please

idk what to do

they sound so angry

fuck

okay bby stay inside

dont open the door

omw

what??

no

no no

don’t come here subongie

please just call the cops

i cant call the cops

what?

wdym you can’t

its alr

they r my friends

friends??

what kind of friends are those

and why don’t i know about them?

not the point rn

wtf

subong explain this

now

i’m serious

you’re scaring me

this isn’t normal

need u to trust me baby

dont open that fucking door

you shouldn’t move. you know that. but your body doesn’t listen. something is wrong. you stare at your phone, at those last two texts from him before you start moving toward the door, your phone clutched in one hand just in case you need to dial someone. the banging has stopped (thank god) but you can still hear someone pacing outside, heavy boots against the hall’s floor. you press your eye to the peephole. three men. when your voice comes out it’s small and tentative. “who are you?” nothing. “what do you want?” they answer… in korean. you let out a frustrated sigh. “i don’t understand what you’re saying—” and that’s when one of them switches. the voice that comes through is rough and accented. “where’s thanos?” “what?” “choi subong,” he says. “we’re looking for him.” “why?” “just wanna talk.” right. because people who just wanna talk usually show up pounding on your door on a fucking sunday morning like a goddamn swat team. your hand tightens around your phone. “well, he’s not here,” you snap. “so either say what you came to say or fuck off.” the man laughs as if he’s dealing with a little kid playing guard dog. another voice joins in too, somewhere behind him, the cadence of it low and amused. “feisty,” the guy mutters through the door. “you’re his girl, huh? makes sense.” you don’t answer. your heart’s going so fucking fast it’s hard to breathe. “we don’t wanna hurt you,” he adds. “this isn’t about you, sweetheart. we just want what he owes.” “he doesn’t owe anyone shit,” you fire back. they’re quiet for a beat. then: “you sure about that?” and you realize he knows something you don’t. “what are you talking about?” another chuckle. it’s not kind. “your boyfriend owes us money,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “lot of it.” “…for what?”

they exchange words in korean on the other side of the door before they decide to speak to you again. “pills.” “what kind of pills?” “do we really need to say?” you shake your head, laugh once, because that’s fucking ridiculous. “you’re wrong,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than you meant. “he doesn’t—subong doesn’t do that shit anymore.” “anymore?” the man echoes, amused. “then you do know.” you stay quiet so he continues, “he’s been getting supply from kyungho for almost a year now at club pentagon. pills, mostly… sometimes other stuff. he was good for it, at first—now he’s late.” you feel all the air in your body leave your lungs, your jaw tightening with the sudden warmth spreading in your face from anger. “you’re lying.” but deep down, you know… you know he isn’t. you feel so sick. “you didn’t know?” the guy says, all mock sympathy now. “shit.” you can tell he’s enjoying it—watching it all click into place behind a locked door. “what the fuck are you talking about,” you manage, but your voice wavers, already betrayed by the way your mind is dragging you down every memory, every weird excuse, every time subong came home late with red-rimmed eyes. the guy outside sighs, like he’s getting bored of your denial. “look, we just want what we’re owed. because we’ve been real fucking nice so far.” “how much?” “enough for us to be here.” you feel so fucking stupid. how could he lie to you for so long? “leave. just—leave. i don’t know where he is.” “we’ll be back,” he tells you, warning. “tell your boy to pick up his phone next time.” and then they’re gone.

you immediately walk to the bedroom, your hands moving before you even think of it, tearing through drawers and slamming them shut again when they turn up empty, muttering fuck under your breath. nothing in the nightstand, nothing in his coat pockets or the pockets of the jeans he left on the floor last night. your heart is hammering so hard it’s a wonder you don’t throw up right there on the carpet. the apartment isn’t big, but it feels endless all of a sudden—too many places where things could be hidden, too many corners where secrets could live. you start opening kitchen drawers next, rifling past silverware and receipts. nothing. you yank open the cabinet under the sink. cleaning supplies. trash bags. nothing. you’re not even thinking straight when you start on the closet—pulling clothes off hangers, tossing them over your shoulder, crawling halfway inside… when you see something wedged between a duffel bag and the wall. a shoebox. plain and black and stupidly suspicious now that you’re looking at it. you drag it out, breathing hard, hands shaking so bad you fumble the lid. and there it is. a small plastic bag—a few colorful pills, maybe four or five, rattling softly when you lift it.

you sit down right there on the floor, the shoebox slipping out of your hand and landing with a soft thud beside you. you don’t even know how long you stay there, hand frozen around the bag, feeling embarrassed as you stare at the proof that the men at your door weren’t lying. embarrased for being so in love with subong. because this whole time you were waking up next to him, laughing with him, moaning under him—you were also sleeping beside a liar. you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, as if that’ll make it stop, as if you can block out the sting or slow your heartbeat or undo the past year. but you can’t.

the front door opens so fast it hits the wall, rattling on its hinges, and subong’s voice cuts through the apartment before you even lift your head. “baby?” it’s that voice. the one that always used to make you feel safe. but now it feels foreign. “fuck, baby—where are you?” there’s panic in it, real panic. he probably thinks that something’s happened to you, that those guys hurt you, when the truth is sitting right here between your fingers, in its plastic cage. you hear him moving, fast, room to room, muttering curses under his breath as shit clatters to the floor. you can imagine it: the wild look in his eyes and that little tremble in his hands he tries so hard to hide. you can almost feel the moment he sees the living room, sees the drawers pulled out, the papers on the floor, the spilled coffee on the table, the overturned laundry basket… and then he’s sprinting again, calling your name louder now, almost begging. you’re still on the floor when he bursts into your bedroom, breathing hard, looking like he’s about to be sick until his eyes land on you. and when yours lift, you meet the expression that splits across his face. you don’t think you’ll ever forget it. the recognition. he doesn’t ask what you found, he doesn’t have to. he knows that box. he knows exactly what was inside. and you see it hit him all at once. “fuck,” he whispers, barely audible. when you don’t answer, he takes a step inside, tentative, and for a moment you think he might actually drop to his knees, just to be on your level. but he doesn’t. he just stands there, hands twitching at his sides. “it’s not—” he tries, but he doesn’t even finish the sentence. because what is it, really? what the fuck is it supposed to be, when you’re sitting on the floor with a bag of his pills in your lap and the knowledge that the man you love has been lying to your fucking face? what the fuck is he supposed to say? so he just stands there, shame written in every inch of him.

“go ahead,” you bite out, voice sharp and trembling, “finish the sentence.” he flinches. “no?” you scoff, dragging the back of your hand across your cheek even though it does nothing to stop the heat burning its way down. “then let me guess. it’s not what it looks like? it’s not yours? it’s not a big deal? pick one, subong. fucking pick one.” he shakes his head, takes a small step toward you. “baby, i just—please.” “don’t call me that.” his mouth snaps shut like you’ve slapped him. and you kind of wish you had. maybe then he’d look as hurt as you feel. “how long?” you ask, standing up slowly. “how long have you been using?” you already know the answer, but you want him to tell you. you want him to be honest for once. but instead: “why the fuck does it matter?” you can’t believe he still has the fucking audacity to say something like that, after everything. “are you serious? it matters because you’ve been lying to me! i don’t even fucking recognize you anymore!” he runs a hand down his face. “i didn’t want this! okay? i didn’t want you to find out like this. i was gonna fucking tell you—” “when?” you cut in. “when they kicked down the door and dragged you out in front of me? or were you gonna wait until you fucking overdosed?!” his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. of course. you’ve dragged the lie out into the daylight where it can’t be ignored and there’s no fucking escape hatch he can slip through now. “yeah,” you snap. “that’s what i fucking thought.” “i didn’t fucking mean for this to happen.” “oh, spare me the tragic little story, subong! you chose this! you fucking chose it!” his eyes flash. “i didn’t choose shit!” “you took the pills!” you scream, your whole body trembling now. “you bought them, hid them and lied to my fucking face! for months!” “yeah? well maybe i fucking had to! maybe if you weren’t always breathing down my fucking neck about everything i do—” he jabs his finger in your direction and you slap it away. “oh, sorry i love you!” you snarl. “sorry i trusted you! sorry i fucking worried for you every single day! how fucking stupid of me!”

you’re out of the room before he can finish another excuse, feet carrying you on instinct to the living room. subong follows—calling your name. but you don’t answer. don’t look at him when he stops behind you, breathing hard. “i was gonna stop,” he mutters, like it’s some kind of offering, some kind of band-aid for the fucking wound he ripped open. you scoff. “yeah?” “yeah. that’s why i didn’t say shit, okay?” you turn your head to glare at him. “you promised.” “i know.” “you promised me,” you repeat. “before i moved. you said you were done with that shit. you said you wouldn’t do it again.” “yeah, well, shit changed, didn’t it?!” he snaps, throwing his arms out. “i didn’t fucking want this. shit just got outta hand!” “got outta hand?” you laugh, disbelieving. “jesus, subong.” “what, you fucking perfect now?” he shoots back, voice rising. “you never lied about shit? never fucked up? never kept something to yourself ‘cause you knew how the other person would react?” “no, actually! i would never do this to you.” he just shakes his head, scoffing. “yeah? sure about that?” “don’t—don’t fucking twist this, subong! i would never lie to you about something this serious—” “the fuck you wouldn’t.” “i wouldn’t!” you shout, stepping closer, finger jabbing into his chest. “you know why? because i would’ve never done this in the first place! i wouldn’t have broken a promise i made to you! and i sure as hell wouldn’t have lied to you for who knows how fucking long!” “yeah, yeah, right. you’re a fucking saint, huh? miss flawless.” “what? that’s not—“ “i guess you’re some kind of fucking angel now—” “i didn’t say that!” “you don’t have to say it, it’s all over your fucking face!” “are you fucking kidding me?! i’ve been here, every night, waiting for you to come home—” “yeah, to bitch at me about every little thing—” “i was just trying—“ “to control me?” you huff, offended. “to help you, you fucking asshole! i’ve never—” “acting like you know what’s best for me, like you’re some goddamn savior!” “could you stop interrupting me?!” “you do the exact same shit, man!” “because you’re not listening to me! i fucking care about you, subong. that’s why—“ he interrupts again. “you’ve got a funny way of showing it! going through my fucking shit like a fucking cop—” “don’t do that.” “don’t do what?” “try to twist it—put this shit on me! i wouldn’t have gone through your shit if you hadn’t been hiding anything in the first place, genius!” “i’m not—you’re not fucking better than me, girl!” your mouth opens, but all you can manage is, “stop, okay? i never said i was. don’t turn this a competition—” “then stop looking at me like that!” “like what?!” “like i’m a fucking failure, that’s what,” he snaps. “like you pity me or some shit—waitin’ for me to fuck up so you can say ‘i told you so.’” “what are you even fucking saying? do you even hear yourself right now? i’ve done nothing but love you while you lied to my fucking face—and for what?! so you could bring that shit into our home?! so random men could show up banging on our door ready to fuck me up?!” “they weren’t gonna do shit—” “you don’t know that! you don’t fucking know that, subong! you don’t get to gamble with our fucking safety like that! they scared the fucking shit out of me, motherfucker!”

his face twists. “what the fuck did you just say to me?” you’re crying now, barely keeping yourself standing, but you don’t take it back. “you heard me,” you whisper. “you—you let them come to our fucking door. i thought—” your mouth clamps shut, shoulders heaving, “i thought they were gonna—i thought they were gonna get in here and—” you can’t even finish the sentence due to the lump that has formed in your throat. “i didn’t know they’d pull that shit, alright?” he shouts. “but you gave them a reason to! you gave them a fucking reason! you’re the one who owes them, the one who brought this into our life!” you sob, tears streaming freely now. “you’re so selfish… you only ever think about yourself. how long did you think you could keep doing this without it coming back around, huh?! how long before it got me hurt, too?!” “oh, get off your fucking high horse—” “no, fuck you!” you spit, so loud that it stuns him into silence for a moment. “you selfish, lying piece of shit! fuck you! i gave you everything—i fucking moved here for you! i changed my whole goddamn life for you, and all this time, you were out there getting high and playing gangster with a bunch of lowlife freaks while i sat at home thinking you were fucking working—” you can’t even see his expression properly anymore, your vision too blurred by tears, your voice cracking on every syllable, choking on the weight of every word coming out of your mouth. “—thinking you were tired or stressed or just—fuck, i don’t—i don’t know! i made up a thousand excuses for you. i fucking trusted you! i… i trusted you, subong.”

he opens his mouth, probably about to say something cruel to shove the blame back onto you, but you don’t let him. you step forward, eyes blazing. “everything makes sense now. i should’ve known. god, i should’ve known. i thought i was going crazy—thinking i was too clingy, too emotional, too needy! but it was you, subong. it was always you! you left me in a city that isn’t mine, with no one but you, and then you weren’t even fucking there! you left me here alone, every fucking day. while you were off getting high, choosing that shit over me! and i was here like a dumbass, waiting, worrying… do you have any idea how fucking alone i’ve felt since i got here? and now? now i find out you’ve been hiding fucking drugs in our apartment? getting involved with—i don’t even know! some psycho gang of criminals who showed up ready to kick the fucking door down?! you don’t fucking get it, do you? you put us in danger! you fucking asshole!”

whatever self-control he had left snaps, and you don’t even have time to react before your back hits the wall, the force of it rattling your teeth, his body right there in front of you, all chest and anger and spit flying from his mouth. “fuck you!” he yells, voice cracking with rage. “you think you can talk to me like that?! like you better than me?! fuck you, bitch! you don’t know shit about what i’ve been through!” your eyes widen, hands instinctively coming up between you and him. but he doesn’t touch you, just slams his palm into the wall right next to your head, so hard the picture frame beside you shakes. “subong—” your voice shakes with fear. “i never fucking asked you to move here, girl! you did that! you decided to drop your whole fucking life to be with me—” “subong, please.” “—and now what? now i’m the fucking problem?! huh? did i ruin your perfect little fantasy, baby? well, fuck that—welcome to the thanos’ world! i’ve always been this guy!“ his mouth keeps moving, hurling venom with every breath, eyes blown wide and frantic. he even starts talking in korean—things you don’t understand, but you know they’re mean. what a fucking coward. your voice cracks through, small and trembling. “you’re scaring me—” it’s so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it, but you say it again, louder this time. “stop! subong, you’re—you’re scaring me. please—” his body freezes. your arms are trembling, your chest is heaving, and your eyes—your perfect, pretty eyes—they’re wide with something subong never wanted to see pointed at him: fear. his hand drops from the wall and he takes a step back, then another, horror slowly crawling over his features as his brain catches up to what his body just did. “fuck,” he breathes, more to himself than to you. “shit. no. no, baby—fuck, no. i didn’t wanna—” you flinch again when he moves, just barely, but it’s enough to twist the knife in his chest. “i didn’t mean to scare you, i swear—baby, i swear. i just—fuck.” he runs a hand through his hair. “i would never—i would never hurt you, baby.”

you slide down the wall, chest caving in so tight it feels like someone’s kneeling on it. you can’t breathe. your hands claw at your throat and your sobs are coming in choked little bursts, your whole body shuddering from the inside out, and all you can hear is your own panicked gasps and the blood rushing behind your ears. your lungs won’t open, your throat won’t work, and your hands are shaking so bad you can’t even press them to your chest properly. “baby,” subong says, worried. “baby—fuck—what do i do?” your body curls forward and a broken sound slips out of you, desperate. “subong—” even though you’re terrified, your arms still reach for him. he drops to his knees the second he sees it. “fuck—shit, baby, hey, hey—” his arms wrap around you immediately. “you’re okay. you’re okay, i’m here—breathe for me, yeah?” he’s rambling now, a panicked whisper against your ear as he pulls you into his chest. your hands are clumsy, grabbing onto him. your fingers knot in the fabric of his shirt and you’re trembling so hard your teeth knock together, your shoulders jolting with every gasp. “i can’t—i—” your voice cuts off into another sob as your head drops against him. “i got you, baby. i got you,” he keeps saying, his grip tightening. “i’m so sorry. shit, i’m so sorry. please breathe, please—please, baby—” his own eyes start to water, while he kisses the side of your head and swears under his breath, over and over, cursing himself for letting it get this far. he’s scared too. of losing you. he can’t stop thinking about the look in your eyes, the fear that flashed there when he raised his voice, when he slammed his hand into the wall, when he lost control. it keeps replaying in his head, and he hates himself harder with every second that passes.

when your breath finally starts to slow, and your heart stops trying to jump out of your ribcage, you pull away. you get to your feet on shaky legs, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand. you don’t even look at him when you speak. “i’m done with this.” you don’t even realize how much it stuns him until you’re halfway to the bedroom and his voice comes from behind you. “the fuck does that mean?” you don’t answer. “wait— wait. baby—” he rushes after you, practically tripping over his own feet, hand reaching for your arm… but you quickly pull yourself free from his grip, turning around to look at him. “who are you?” he frowns. “what?” “who are you?” you repeat. “what do you mean—” “i don’t know you anymore. you’re not the guy i met—the one i fell in love with two summers ago.” your lip quivers, but you keep going. “that boy was kind. sweet. funny. he made me feel safe. he would’ve never—never—lost it on me like that. he’d never scream in my face. he’d never leave me alone for nights on end and come home high off his ass and lie about it.” your voice cracks but you keep pushing, even though it hurts. “and the worst part is… you don’t even see it, do you? you think this is still you. but it’s not. you let that shit change you, subong.”

he knows you’re right. the words don’t even surprise him, because they’re true. because he’s been thinking them every fucking night. subong knows what he’s become. he’s known it for a while now. but hearing it from you… it’s humiliating. “listen, i—” you don’t give him time to talk. you turn back around and walk into the bedroom, leave him standing there with that glassy look in his eyes. subong hears the drawer open first, then it’s the rustling of clothes, the clatter of a hanger falling, the hollow thud of the closet door swinging open and slamming back into the wall. for a second, he doesn’t get it—his mind still stuck back there in the living room, where you were crying and shaking and tearing into him. but then he hears the distinct sound of wheels dragging against the floor. the realization hits him. that’s your suitcase. the one you hadn’t touched since you first unpacked it a year ago. he stumbles toward the bedroom. “the fuck you doing?” it’s stupid, because he knows what you’re doing. you don’t answer. you’re too busy grabbing whatever your hands land on—shirts, charger, underwear, your earrings from the nightstand... “hey—hey, talk to me.” “there’s nothing else to say.” you don’t even look up. “what do you mean there’s nothing—are you seriously leaving me right now?” you pause for half a second, hands frozen over the tangled mess of your t-shirts, and that silence alone almost kills him. “yo—fuck, stop—what the fuck are you doing?”

he’s on you in two steps, eyes darting between your suitcase and your face. his hands are on your stuff before you can stop him—hand yanking a pair of jeans straight out of the suitcase. “you’re not fucking doing this.” “get off,” you snap, trying to push him away with your elbow, but he doesn’t budge. “man, fuck that,” he growls, already reaching for more, grabbing a handful of shirts. “you’re not fucking leaving me like this—” “stop it!” you slap at his hands, pushing him away, trying to grab your things faster than he can take them. “fuck off, subong!” you shout. “don’t touch my stuff!” “don’t fucking do this, then, girl! acting like you’re actually gonna fucking go!” he snaps. “yeah, because i am!” you keep throwing things into the suitcase and his fingers wrap tight around your wrists in an attempt to stop you. “look at me. just—fucking stop, okay?! stop packing for a fucking second and talk to me—” “let go of me!” you rip your hands away with a curse. without even thinking, he grabs the suitcase by the handle and flings it off the bed, everything tumbling out at your feet. “there,” he spits. “you gonna pack now, huh? go ahead. pack it off the fucking floor.” you stare at him, stunned, blinking through tears. “what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, launching toward the pile. “what the fuck is wrong with me?!” “yes! yes—what the fuck is wrong with you?” “you’re the one trying to fucking leave! after all the shit we been through—fucking bitch.”

you freeze. your fingers curl around a balled-up shirt but you don’t move. your pulse thuds in your ears, all the heat in your face dropping down to your stomach. “don’t call me that,” you whisper, hands shaking as you grab at the scattered clothes on the floor. he scoffs. “what, you get to say whatever the fuck you want, but i can’t say shit back? fuck off, bitch—” “don’t fucking call me that!” you explode, standing up. “say it again, i fucking dare you—say it one more time and see what the fuck happens.” subong opens his mouth, defiant as ever, and you cut him off before he can get the word out. “fucking junkie,” you spit. his jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark. “the fuck did you just call me?” he steps forward and you flinch without meaning to, but you don’t back down. your chin stays lifted even as your fingers shake. “i said what i fucking said. you’re your dad’s fucking son after all, right? apple didn’t fall far at all! only difference is, your mom got stuck with him. i’m not gonna be that fucking stupid.” “you fucking bitch,” he snarls, stepping into your space without a single care. “you ain’t fucking shit, let me tell you that!“ you roll your eyes and ignore him, crouching down to zip up your suitcase. “fucking crazy—bringing my mom into this? my fucking dad?!” you grab the suitcase handle and start toward the door, but he blocks it. his hand jabs out, two fingers tapping hard against your temple like he’s trying to knock some kind of sense into you. “you’re not fucking special, alright? you’re not. get it through that pretty little fucking head of yours. i should’ve fucked one of those girls after the show i gave in busan—” your hand flies out, shoving his chest so hard he stumbles back a step. “don’t fucking touch me,” you snap. “don’t ever fucking touch me again. you disgust me.”

he sees it in your face. how the words cut deeper than anything else ever could. subong knows you’ve probably thought about it before—wondered if all those nights he came home late were because he was with someone else. he remembers the way you used to wait up for him, how your voice would turn smaller when you asked where he’d been, trying not to sound jealous. and now, saying that shit out loud—throwing those other girls in your face—he knows exactly what it does to you. and he wants it to hurt. “i could’ve been balls deep in a fan after every fucking show,” he continues. “could’ve been getting my dick sucked every fucking night, girl! they would’ve let me do whatever the fuck i wanted. would’ve saved me the fucking headache—“ “then go fucking do it! go get your dick sucked by every desperate fan who thinks you’re some kind of god—matter of fact, go ruin someone else’s fucking life for once! because i’m done.” you shoulder past him, yanking the bedroom door open with your free hand while dragging the suitcase behind you. you didn’t even get half your stuff, but you don’t care, you just need to get out. “yeah? fucking go, then!” he shouts after you, voice echoing down the hallway. “walk the fuck out that door, bitch! get the fuck outta my place!” you want to laugh at this point. at the way he’s calling it his place when he used to call it our home. isn’t he embarrassed? “you think i give a shit?!” he barks, following right on your heels now, his steps loud behind you. “go! go back to your fucking country and fuck off! i don’t fucking need you, girl! and don’t you fucking dare come back to me when you realize no one else is gonna put up with your bratty ass—” this time you can’t help it—you laugh. “as if i ever fucking would! you’re so pathetic.” subong’s desperate. he doesn’t want to lose you but he also doesn’t know how to stop that from happening. that’s why he says the worst things he can think of: “yeah? i’m gonna burn all your shit! every last thing you left in my closet!” as if that’ll to make you turn around and care. as if that’ll make you stay just to stop him. it’s selfish and stupid and he knows it won’t work, but he’s never been good at watching people leave nor letting go without dragging his own heart down with it. and he’s so, so disappointed and hurt by your indifference… “you hear me?! i’m gonna light it all the fuck up! don’t even think about coming back for it—” your hand’s already on the door when he screams that, fingers around the knob. you stand there for a second before you twist it, push the door open and let the stale hallway air hit your face. you glance back at subong over your shoulder, tears still streaking your cheeks, but your expression’s flat and empty now. “do whatever the fuck you want,” you mutter. “i don’t care.” and then you’re gone, the door swinging shut behind you.

the hotel is nice. the girl at the desk doesn’t ask questions when she sees your red eyes and the way your hand shakes when you pull your card out to pay. she just gives you the keycard and a weak smile right before you take the elevator up, in which you stand in silence, trying to soak in everything that has happened between you and subong. then you’re inside the room, thinking about the way he yanked your clothes out of your hands, about how he called you a brat, a bitch, how he looked at you when you said the word junkie, how he shoved his fucking fingers into your temple and slammed the wall inches away from your head. and you cry. you cry because you love him… you love him and you hate him too right now. and you think: how the fuck did i end up here. you used to know him. or you thought you did. and now it’s like every memory is gaslighting you. maybe you imagined the softness and he was always this cruel and you were just too in love to see it. now he’s proving your point in real time—not even an hour after you left, he’s already blowing up your phone with calls and texts, the same petty shit as always.

pick up the fucking phone

tf do u think u are girl

ignoring me

fucking coward

leaving me like this

after everything i’ve done for u

i don’t need u bitch

shoulda fucked someone else when i had the chance

leave me alone

and grow up

u r a selfish bitch

if you’re going to keep insulting me, at least expand your vocabulary!

it’s getting repetitive mf

shut the fuck up

always thinking u r so fuckin smart

istg im gonna fucking overdose

im gonna take all those fucking pills

if u dont answer the phone right tf now

im being fr

n give me my fucking shirt back

bet u r still wearin it rn

no, dw :)

it’s in the trash

yk what

hope it fuckin rots there

just like u

you spend a few days in the hotel, trying not to look at your phone too much. you haven’t told anyone what happened, but you’re already checking flights back, scrolling through the cheapest options to get the fuck out of here, wondering what the hell you’re even supposed to do next. your whole life here was built around him. and now? now you have nothing. subong is still being swallowed whole by whatever pride and rage cocktail he’s been nursing for the past year, and you refuse to speak to him like this. hell no. not when every word out of his mouth is sharpened into a knife and flung at you like it’s your fault he can’t stand the sight of his own reflection. it’s honestly insane, the way he tried to flip everything back on you. as if you hadn’t just caught him red-handed lying to your face, hiding shit, using, doing who knows what the fuck behind your back while you sat at home thinking you were too needy or just too much for him. the fucking audacity. but subong hasn’t given up. he’ll say he has—he’ll run his mouth like he always does, throw out every cruel sentence he can string together, try to convince you and himself that he doesn’t give a fuck. that he’s better off without you. but he’s not fooling anyone, least of all himself. he wants you. he misses you so bad it eats at him, makes his stomach twist and turn, and he’s too much of a coward to say it but it doesn’t make it any less true. he needs you. more than he’s ever needed anyone. he loves and adores you. he talks big, but he’s never had anyone like you. he’s not sure he’s ever lasted this long with someone before. hell, he’s not even sure he’s ever wanted to! you’re the first person who’s made him think about things like future and forever, he used to laugh at people who said they found ‘the one’, rolling his eyes like that shit was a fairytale. now look at him, swallowing all that back… let’s be for real, he even bought a fucking ring. a ring… subong… like what?

and now he can’t stop picturing your packed suitcase and your teary eyes and the way your voice wavered when you told him you were done. that’s all he sees, every time he blinks. he regrets every single fucking thing that came out of his mouth. and that’s saying something, because subong doesn’t usually regret shit. he can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t write... can’t even jerk off without thinking about you, and that pisses him off more than anything. he knows that if he doesn’t fix this, doesn’t get his shit together, doesn’t do something soon, you’re gonna be on the next flight out of korea and gone for good. and he can’t let that happen. he’s already ruined too much. so he starts moving, because time’s not on his side and every second that goes by feels like it’s dragging you farther and farther away from him. he’s racing the damn clock, fighting against the ticking sound. he needs money, fast. because his career’s in the fucking gutter, his rep is tanking, and he still owes kyungho more than he can count on both hands. he needs to come clean, clear the debt, make you feel safe again—not just with him, but around him, in the space you used to share. that’s the first step. and yet… how the hell is he supposed to make that kind of money in so little time?

he feels so fucking pathetic, slouched over his laptop at some godforsaken hour when even the drunks have gone to sleep, sitting there in the dark with nothing but the blue light burning into his face. he’s typing dumb things like how to make money fast in korea or side hustle ideas, like a teenager who’s maxed out his mom’s credit card and needs to fix it before she wakes up. except he’s not a teenager. he’s a grown-ass man, almost thirty-one already, sitting on a floor covered in dirty clothes and energy drink cans, shirt reeking of sweat and weed, hair greasy, trying to act like he’s got any fucking control left in his life. which he doesn’t. he watches hours of straight trash. clickbait garbage with thumbnails like ‘i made 1 MILLION won in 24 HOURS’ and ‘this changed my LIFE (no scam),’ and every single one of them leads to the same bullshit: a sketchy ass link to a survey that pays you two hundred won (if you’re lucky) and signs you up for spam emails. it’s humiliating. it’s so fucking humiliating. and yet he keeps clicking, because what else is there?

until he sees it. one night, when his brain is fried and his eyes are bloodshot—mg coin. it’s the first video he’s come across that doesn’t look like it was edited by a fourteen-year-old. no fast-talking, no neon thumbnails—just this one guy, smug, sitting in a sleek office and explaining things that subong can barely follow, but it doesn’t matter, because the guy sounds smart. really fucking smart, actually. one video turns into two, then seven, and by the time the sun starts bleeding through the window and his laptop battery’s down to 3%, subong’s fully indoctrinated. mg coin is talking about this new shit—dalmatian, whatever the fuck that means—and he’s saying it’s the next big thing. that now’s the time to invest. and subong? he’s got nothing else to lose. he’s already lost the love of his life, his dignity, and whatever tiny bit of peace he had left. what the fuck’s one more risk? fuck it. he pulls up his bank account, stares at the sad number left, and throws it all in. all of it. and then the unthinkable happens: it works. within a few days, he’s staring at his screen like it’s the second coming of christ. his balance doubled. which gives him enough to finally pay off kyungho and breathe without feeling like someone’s got a fist wrapped around his lungs. for the first time in a long ass while, he doesn’t feel like a complete fucking idiot.

the first step was paying kyungho back. good, he can check that out now. the second step—arguably harder—was texting you. subong waits another full week. not out of pride, but out of pure fear. fear that you won’t answer, or worse, that you will and it won’t be what he wants to hear. but eventually, after pacing the length of the apartment for over thirty minutes, he types it out:

im sorry

i mean it bby

paid everything off

n i been clean

swear on my fuckin life

i know i fucked up baby

but i fixed it

i love u

talk to me señorita

i miss u so fuckin bad

my girl

i didn’t mean to hurt u, u know that

but im gonna change for u

because i want u girl

i only want u

it’s u n me bby

always

please

told u i would make u my wife n i will

pls let me see u

one time

if u hate me after that i’ll fuck off forever

just one time pretty girl

please

god. you really tried not to reply. tried so hard. but the timing of it, the way your chest had already been aching with the weight of him right before his name lit up your screen, made you text him back faster than you meant to. you send him the hotel’s address.

here

but don’t try anything

you’re lucky i even agree to talk to you

because you don’t deserve it

after the way you treated me

u r right baby i dont deserve it

im sorry

sorry isn’t and won’t be enough, let me tell you that subong

i was about to buy a ticket back home

this apology should’ve come sooner

i know

but i didnt wanna come back to u empty handed

i been tryna fix my shit first

and three hours later, there’s a knock on the door. when you open it, he’s standing there, holding flowers—fresh ones, tied together with a ribbon. but it’s his face that gets you, the way his eyes go soft the second they meet yours. you thought you’d feel stronger seeing him again, but you hate how fast your chest fills up with that dumb aching love that refuses to fucking die, no matter how many times he’s stomped on it. subong starts talking the second the door shuts behind him, apologizing profusely. you let him talk, let him trip over himself, because it’s the first time you’ve seen him beg without ego. and suddenly he’s dropping down—knees hitting the hotel’s carpet with a soft thud. his arms wrap around your legs, his forehead presses against your thigh, and then it comes—those broken, shuddering breaths. oh, god... he’s fucking crying. “please,” he says, over and over against you. “please, baby. i’m sorry. i know i fucked up—i know i fucked up so fucking bad. please, i can’t lose you.” you don’t look at him, but your hand finds its way into his hair anyway, and you hate yourself for it. hate how your fingers start brushing through the soft purple strands, slow and shaky, hate how your other hand ends up cradling his cheek like you’re the one trying to comfort him now. you should tell him to get the fuck up and leave and go cry to someone else. but damn, you’d be lying if you said that watching him cry and beg to you like that doesn’t get to you a little. he looks so fucking good… clutching your legs, hands squeezing your left thigh, pressing his face against your hip…

you don’t know how it happens after that. just know that you end up on the bed, lying back against the pillows, your thighs spread open while he’s between them, still on his knees on the floor, mouth buried in you trying to make up for every awful thing he said with the way he licks. you should be telling him he can’t just do this and expect everything to be fine, but your hands are in his hair and your hips are lifting off the bed because your body’s already made its decision for you. subong latches onto your pussy, and he’s sloppy with it too—tongue everywhere, spit and slick all over his chin, both hands holding you down, knowing you’re gonna start squirming the second it gets too much, which you do, always, because subong eats you out so insanely good… and he groans against you like he’s the one getting off. it’s overwhelming—his tongue, his hands gripping your thighs, the fucking look in his eyes when he glances up at you through his lashes… he knows he doesn’t deserve any of this but he’s still gonna take it if you’ll let him. you cum fast, too. with a cry so loud you wouldn’t be surprised if someone calls reception. and he doesn’t stop until you’re grabbing at his hair, voice breaking, from how good it feels and how much you missed it—missed him. “still mine,” he mutters when he finally pulls away, hoarse. he swears he’ll fucking die if you don’t say yes. and god help you—“yes.” you whisper, completely out of breath. “yours.”

the thing about investing—and actually making money off it—is that it gets fucking addictive. especially for someone like subong, who’s always been wired for extremes, who doesn’t really know how to pace himself or think long-term most of the time. so yeah, the moment that first payout hit his account—double what he’d thrown in, just like mg coin said it would—it lit something up inside him. and now, with the high of having you back, and the low of whatever career collapse is brewing beneath him (because let’s be real, losing the battle fucked him, and no one’s calling anymore), he leans deeper into it. dalmatian coin becomes his obsession. he watches mg coin religiously—dude drops a new video and subong’s already clicking on it, nodding along, studying the man like he’s his long-lost big brother—even though, as far as you can tell, subong’s probably older. he trusts him blindly, like an idiot. like a kid. and you notice, of course. you live with him. the amount of money he’s getting is absurd, especially considering the fact that he hasn’t gotten a single call from his manager in ten whole days, hasn’t stepped foot on a stage in over a month, and keeps brushing it off like he doesn’t care. and you can’t help but wonder—how much is he fucking investing?

your concern’s been simmering for a while now… sitting there, in the pit of your stomach and growing heavier at the back of your mind. you’ve been swallowing it, biting your tongue, telling yourself it’s fine because he seems happy again and he’s been good. until one night, when he’s laying in bed with his phone in his hand and mg coin’s voice droning from the speakers like some kind of cult sermon, you say it out loud: “are you sure you know what you’re doing, subong?” he takes a slow drag from his vape, exhales, and tilts his head lazily in your direction. “what do you mean?” you’re by the closet, pulling on an oversized tee, before you sit down at the edge of the bed, facing him. “this crypto thing. you’re putting in more than you’re getting out, aren’t you?” he scoffs, like you just accused him of being bad in bed or something. “baby. you think i’d be makin’ this much money if i didn’t know what the fuck i was doing?” and there it is. that tone. defensive, making you feel stupid for even doubting him. you frown, exhaling through your nose as you shift a little closer to him on the bed, your voice gentler this time. “okay,” you say, carefully. “i’m not—i mean… just…” you glance at the phone still glowing beside him, mg coin’s pixelated face frozen mid-sentence. “just be smart about it, yeah?” “baby,” he says, reaching out to hook a hand around your wrist and tug you gently toward him, “i am being smart. i’ve been learning and doing my research. it’s okay.” you lean in, pressing your sweet lips blissfully against his in a small peck, even though the tension’s still sitting in your chest. “but i’m serious, subong. it’s not like we’ve got a safety net... you’re not performing, you don’t have steady income right now. if this goes south…” he cuts you off before you can finish, peppering kisses along your cheek and jaw. “it won’t, baby.” “you can’t know that.” he continues, kissing your neck before leaning his head on your shoulder, the weight of it warm. “you don’t have to worry, girl. i promise. thanos’ got this.” you nod slowly, but your hands are still curled a little too tight in your lap. “okay.”

‘thanos’ is stupid as fuck, to say the least. for one, your advice flies right over his head. he thinks, what would she know? she’s not the one watching all these videos. she’s worried because she doesn’t understand how this shit works. and he’s money-hungry, always has been—but can you blame him? he’s lived his whole life in straight up poverty, watching his mom beg loan sharks and pray rent wouldn’t go up. so now that he’s finally found a way to make money from the comfort of his couch, by just… clicking buttons? of course he’s gonna chase that shit like a starving dog. saying he’s investing all of his money would be a lie. right… because he’s not just investing his money. he’s investing yours too. your monthly rent payment is going straight into the crypto app, hand in hand with his, every single time. and it keeps working, always doubling. no exceptions. and that steady return finally gives him the excuse he’s been waiting for—the one thing he’s been wanting to do for months now: propose. you would’ve never expected to hear the words “would you marry me, baby?” coming out of his mouth for at least another five years. but there he is, on a random friday morning, down on one knee with a little ring box open in front of you. and you say yes before you even think. the word fiancée tastes strange in your mouth as he stands back up and kisses you, slipping the big fat ring he promised onto your finger.

but of course, subong’s liability strikes again not even three weeks later. he just doesn’t fucking learn, does he? he starts consuming again. little by little. easing his way back in, testing the waters—like he didn’t already almost drown last time. he gets on kyungho’s good side again, somehow, despite all the screaming and threats and close calls they shared when subong was neck-deep in debt. and if you were to ask him why the fuck he’s back on that shit, the answer would be as dumb as it is predictable: he doesn’t fucking know. but he does. oh, he fucking knows. he’s a junkie. like you once told him. he’s an addict who refuses to acknowledge it, refuses to name it, refuses to say it out loud. in his head, it’s anything but what it is: drug addiction. and he won’t ask for help. he won’t even bring it up. not the way his body starts to ache without it, the little voice in his head whispering on repeat: just take it. snort. lick. you’ll feel better. he’s weak. withdrawal always had the upper hand when it came to subong. it always wins. and he finds the dumbest, flimsiest excuses to justify himself to feel a little less guilty for doing this behind your back again, after he promised he wouldn’t. he’s caught in a loop. a loop of lies and guilt, of loving you so much he can’t bear to lose you… but still doing the one thing that already made you leave once.

so imagine his absolute terror when the cryptocurrency proved to be a hoax, and everyone who had invested in it, including himself, lost billions of won when dalmatian's inventors took the money and fled. subong sat there staring at his screen, refreshing the app every two seconds even though the balance wasn’t changing, wasn’t coming back, and wasn’t ever going to. first he felt confusion. then panic. then the realisation that everything he’d put in—his money, your money, your fucking rent—was gone. and all he could think was: how the fuck am i supposed to tell her? that was what made his hands start shaking. because it wasn’t just his fuckup. it was yours too, now. it was your life he’d gambled. your trust, your rent, your future… and you had no idea. on top of that—and the fact that everything would come crashing down the second the monthly payment bounced and you realized the rent hadn’t gone through—he also owed kyungho again. the moment dalmatian tanked, he thought about calling him, in an attempt to hold him over until he figured something out. and the second he thought it, he knew it wouldn’t work. last time, subong got lucky. this time’s different, because this is after he promised he’d never fuck him over again. and knowing kyungho, he wouldn’t be as merciful this time. subong’d always known this was where it was gonna end up, he wasn’t built for stability nor success. he was built to self-destruct.

it’s around 3 a.m. you’re cold, pulling the comforter tighter around you, but it’s not enough to warm you up. you turn over in bed, eyes still closed, scooting toward subong’s side in hopes of stealing a little of his body heat—stretching your arm out lazily, expecting the familiar weight of him sprawled across the sheets. but your hand touches nothing. his side is cold. you frown, still half-asleep, fingers patting around the mattress like maybe he’s just shifted out of reach, hiding somewhere under the blanket. but of course he’s not. you blink slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the dark. “subongie?” you call out, voice a little hoarse. no answer. with a soft groan, you sit up, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders as you climb out of bed. the floor’s cold under your feet and the apartment is quieter than usual. you shuffle to the light switch near the hallway and flick it on—but nothing changes. he’s not home. confused, you grab your phone from the nightstand and send him a quick text:

baby

where are you?

but when ten minutes go by and there’s still no sign of life from him, you decide to call. the number you have dialed is not available at present. please leave your message after the beep, says the robotic voice on the other end, flat and emotionless. your frown deepens as you call again—same outcome. your confusion slowly starts to shift into something heavier. panicked worry creeps up your spine as your brain starts running through a dozen different scenarios, each one worse than the last. what the fuck could subong be doing right now, while you’re sitting here on the couch with your heart in your throat? the first thing that crosses your mind is the same thing it’s always been—he’s being unfaithful. it’s not exactly new. that ugly, gut-rotting thought has circled your head for months, especially on the nights he’d disappear into the studio for hours. and it hasn’t changed, it’s still the first thing you think. is he with someone else? but then you shake your head. he wouldn’t be that fucking stupid. right? he wouldn’t throw all of this away just to fuck around. you’re not just dating anymore, you’re literally engaged. you have a ring on your finger. so you try to push that thought out. discard it—reluctantly and bitterly—trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. so there goes your second thought: maybe he’s using again. and you don’t even know which is worse. but what you do know is that you can’t stay here. you’re not gonna let whatever’s happening keep happening while you do nothing. you’re not gonna let him make a fool out of you for a second time.

you feel kind of stupid, honestly. standing outside club pentagon, shivering in your hoodie while you stare at the neon sign. it’s the only place you could think of. the only place that made sense. not because he told you, obviously, but because months ago, when those guys showed up knocking—no, banging—on your door, demanding money and scaring the shit out you, one of them mentioned this place. and it stuck. you’re not even sure this is the right club, though, but you’re still here, trying not to overthink how out of place you look, since everyone outside is in heels and tight clothes. still, when you approach the bouncer and explain—tell him you’re looking for your fiancée, show him your phone with the lockscreen photo of you and subong—he lets you in. “ah. thanos,” he nods. “he’s inside.” the confirmation makes your stomach drop and settle all at once. like, okay. at least he’s alive.

inside, the club is loud as fuck and everything’s flashing. you squint, trying to adjust as you push through the crowd like a baby deer on ice, getting shoved around from all sides by strangers who don’t even glance your way. he should be easy to spot, you think, heart pounding. not many people have purple hair. and he’s very tall. but even with that advantage, you don’t see him. you head toward the bar and approach the first guy behind the counter. “hey, sorry—” “i’m not bartending,” he says with a thick accent, without even looking up. you pause. read the name tag ‘namgyu’. “promoter. talk to him if you’re thirsty.” he adds, gesturing toward another guy without much interest. “no, i—i’m not here for a drink,” you say, pulling your phone out again and flipping it toward him. “have you seen this guy?” he looks. he recognizes him instantly, you can tell. his expression tightens, just for a second, brows furrowing slightly like he’s trying to figure out what this is. maybe why you’re here asking. maybe whether he should even answer. after a bit of coaxing, he sighs and gives in. “he went out the back a while ago. to smoke with friends.” your stomach drops. friends. right. you nod. “thanks.” your pulse is in your ears now. and as you push your way through the crowd again, one hand gripping your phone and the other shoving bodies aside, you already know—before you even reach the door—that something’s gone very, very wrong.

the cold bites at your skin again as you push the back door open and step outside, straight into the stillness of the alley. the air stings when you breathe it in. and nothing prepares you for what you see just a few feet away, at the very end of the alley, almost swallowed by the shadows—if it wasn’t for the sad little flickering streetlight barely hanging on, you might not have noticed him at all. subong. on the ground. you can’t really see his face—not his body, even—but you recognize the sneakers. they stick out just slightly from under a wall of bodies, a group of men surrounding him like fucking vultures. they’re stomping on him, over and over. one of them steps on his hand with his full weight, twisting his foot, testing how much pressure it takes to snap something, while another one drives his heel straight into subong’s ribs, again and again. there’s no hesitation in their movements, just pure, relentless violence. someone spits on him between kicks which makes another one laugh, this dry, joyless sound that scrapes down your back. and all you can really see is the way subong’s body jerks each time they land another blow, the way his legs twitch even though he’s already out cold. “subong,” you whisper, frozen in place, blood draining from your face all at once. your feet take off, each step heavier than the last, everything inside you tightening up. your chest starts to close in on itself, lungs shrinking with every breath until you can barely even get air in. “subong!” you scream this time. the first sob rips out of you without warning, panic settling in. you reach them fast, shoving the closest guy with everything you have. “get off him—what the fuck are you doing?!” they step back, amused. they were already done, and you showing up is just a mildly inconvenient. they say something you don’t understand but don’t need to—because whatever it is, it makes the others smirk as they start to walk away.

you see it then. his face. or what’s left of it. completely covered in blood, eyes swollen shut, skin split open in so many places you can’t even tell what’s dried and what’s fresh, what’s his real face and what’s just bruising and torn flesh layered on top of it. you drop to your knees without thinking, arms trembling as you lift his head from the concrete and pull it onto your lap, staining your clothes instantly, the warmth of his blood soaking through the fabric like ink. and you don’t even care, can’t bring yourself to care, because all you can think is this isn’t real, this can’t be fucking real, this can’t be happening. “subong,” you whisper, shaking him gently, your voice breaking. he doesn’t respond. not even a sound. his lips are parted slightly, but nothing comes out, and it’s the quiet that terrifies you the most. you start crying harder before leaning in closer, bringing your ear to his face, trying to listen for any hint of breath, anything at all, but it’s useless. you can’t hear anything. your ears are ringing and your heartbeat is pounding too loud to be sure. “no,” you whisper. “no, no, no, no.” your voice is shaking now, your mouth barely able to form the words. “baby, please—” you fumble for his wrist, grabbing at his arm with shaking fingers, pressing down where his pulse is supposed to be, where you hope it still is, but there’s nothing. nothing under your touch, just cold skin and the terrifying sense that you’re already too late. “subong!” you yell, like screaming might reach him wherever the fuck he’s drifted off to. “fuck—don’t fucking die on me, you idiot! please—just hold on, okay? please, don’t do this to me, don’t—” your eyes dart to his hand and that’s when you see his fingers. bent at unnatural angles, knuckles swollen and split, two of them so clearly broken it makes your stomach turn. they don’t even look like fingers anymore. and the sight of them, already starting to purple, makes your throat tighten even more. “help! someone help—please!” you reach for his neck next, your fingers slipping on his skin and pressing into the side where his pulse should be, and for a second you feel nothing… but then, there it is—the smallest flutter beneath your fingertips. the relief that hits you is so immediate you choke out a sob. your hands shake as you scramble for your phone, pulling it out with fingers soaked in red, the screen smudging immediately, slippery under your touch as you punch in the emergency number with all the desperation in the world and hit call. and while it rings, you look down at him and say, “stay with me, okay? i-i got you, i’m right here—you’re gonna be okay, baby.”

it’s been three days of subong being unconscious in the hospital when you find out the truth. you haven’t left his side. barely moved, really—just shifted from chair to chair. you’ve been watching the same slow drip of fluids into his arm for hours, watching machines beep and blink and stay steady while he does absolutely nothing, not a flinch, not a shift, not even the twitch of a finger. they’d stitched up most of his face and wrapped his hand so tightly you can’t see the fingers underneath. but he hasn’t opened his eyes. so when a nurse taps lightly on the doorframe and says billing would like to speak with you whenever you have a moment, you nod without really thinking about it, it’s probably just paperwork, something you can sign and walk away from. they lead you into a small office. the woman behind the desk is polite, middle-aged, tapping at her tablet when you walk in. you sit down across from her, and she gets right to the point. “are you a spouse or immediate family member?” “fiancée,” you answer. “okay,” she nods. “we’ve been trying to process the patient’s insurance but the information we had on file was incomplete, and there was no active policy under his name. sometimes these things lapse, or people forget to update their records. we see it a lot. we also tried the emergency contact, but the number doesn’t seem to be in service anymore.” you just stare at her. “normally in these cases we’d discuss payment options directly with the patient, but given his current condition…” she trails off, tilting her head gently, like she’s trying to be considerate. “are you aware of any prior hospital visits? or outstanding balances tied to his name?” you shake your head. “no, i—i don’t know. he never said anything.” “mmh.” she nods again, eyes glued to the tablet. “there’s no outstanding balance under his name,” she says, “no history of extended stays or billed treatment. but… there was one incident.” she scrolls, finds something, then stops tapping. the pause says enough. “it’s from about a month ago. not an official admission, more of a flagged intake. he came into the er alone, walked up to the desk and gave his name, said something about heart palpitations and chest pain. he wouldn’t give id, but they got his name down in triage.” “he—he what?” “the nurse on shift noted that he was visibly under the influence. possible opioids, though we can’t confirm—we didn’t get far enough for a tox screen. he refused treatment, got agitated when asked to sit down. started yelling. the staff tried to calm him, but he escalated quickly… so security was called and he was escorted out before we could assess him.” you’re in shock. you thought he was doing better. you believed he was doing better. and yet here it is, clear as day, handed to you by a stranger… the fucking proof that everything he swore to you was a lie. again. “there’s nothing else on record,” she adds gently. “but i thought you’d want to know.” you nod, unsure of what to say. “you’re listed as the emergency contact now, since you’re the one who brought him here. we updated the file.” “okay.”

you’re waiting for subong’s sister to arrive on the fourth day. she’s been living out of the country for the past year, based in atlanta for work, and the two of you have only met in person twice… but she was always kind to you. and when you called her that night, explaining haltingly through your tears what happened, the words unconscious and hospital tumbling out—she booked the next flight to seoul. she also promised to talk to their mom, which was a relief, because you’d tried, god knows you’d tried, but the language barrier between you and her made everything harder. to pass time while you wait for his sister to land, you leave the hospital room for the first time in hours, telling yourself you just need coffee. you feel too many things at once—anger, mostly. but also this deep, gnawing sadness. you’re mad at him, yes, at subong, for lying, for hiding, for doing all the shit he swore he wouldn’t do again. but you’re also mad at yourself, for being so blind. for trusting too easily. for loving him so much that you let it all slide, and now he’s lying here with a swollen face and broken bones and tubes coming out of his skin. you sigh through your nose, the sound sharp in the empty hallway as you make your way back to the room, clutching the vending machine coffee hoping it scalds some clarity into you. the chair squeaks in protest as you sit down again, your bones aching from the fourth sleepless night in a row, your back ready to file a complaint. you mutter under your breath, “these fucking chairs are gonna kill me,” and you’re mid eyeroll when his phone starts ringing on the nightstand beside the bed.

it’s the first sound that’s come from it in days, and it jolts you upright. you glance at the screen, and your first instinct is to let it go to voicemail, but something about it nags at you, so you end up reaching for it. you press answer and lift it to your ear. “hello?” you say, unsure, cradling the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you reach for the edge of the nightstand to steady yourself. there’s a voice on the other end immediately, polite, but it’s in korean. you blink, startled. “oh—sorry, um… i don’t… i don’t understand korean very well,” you mumble. “i’m—i’m subong’s fiancée.” there’s a pause, then the voice switches languages. “ah, miss, thank you for picking up,” they say, now in accented but clear english. “we’ve been trying to get in contact with mr. choi regarding a pending matter tied to his housing account. is this a good time to speak?” you glance at his motionless body in the bed. “he’s—he can’t come to the phone right now. he’s in the hospital.” “oh.” another pause. “i’m sorry to hear that. we don’t mean to intrude. it’s just—we’ve issued multiple notices regarding the delinquency on unit 302, but we haven’t been able to reach anyone. this is our last courtesy call before further action is taken.” what? “delinquency?” you echo dumbly, your voice cautious. “i—i don’t understand. i sent the rent money. i always do. i send it to him, and he’s supposed to… he’s the one who handles it because it’s under his name, but—” “i understand,” the person says gently. “we’re not authorized to go into too much detail with anyone not on the lease, but we do have records of the unit going unpaid for the past two months. there’s no automatic withdrawal on file, and the last successful rent payment was processed… let me check… mid-february.” you press the phone tighter to your ear. “what—are you sure? two months?” “yes. we’ve also flagged unusual financial activity linked to the bank account on file… repeated large withdrawals routed to external cryptocurrency platforms. unfortunately, at this point, the account is severely delinquent.” what the actual fuck? “thank you,” you manage. “thanks for calling, i… i need a second.” you hang up.

you’ve avoided doing this so far because it felt invasive. you told yourself that you’d respect his privacy, that you were above snooping, that he’d tell you everything when he woke up. but now? fuck that. you unlock his phone and swipe through the home screen, and there it is—the crypto investment app. you tap it and it loads painfully slow, as if the phone itself is reluctant to show you what you’re about to see. and then the number appears in aggressive, glowing red: -₩1,190,000,000. you blink. for a second you think you’re reading it wrong, that maybe the comma’s in the wrong place or the negative sign is a formatting error or some stupid bug, maybe an update broke the display. but then the rest of the interface fills in, the full dashboard sliding into view, and you see the red line charting the value of the account: a steep, violent drop. a billion. more than a billion. in debt. actual, contractual, inescapable fucking debt. you scroll. the app’s cheerful ux design makes it worse somehow, and in small gray text, a disclaimer bar you almost miss: ‘dalmatian coin has been delisted. trading permanently suspended. please consult your issuing financial institution for debt reconciliation.’ your hand clenches the phone tighter just as you find the transaction history. the first thing you notice is the consistency. it’s sickening, how routine it is—subong sat down every month, probably around the same time you were wiring him the money for rent, and opened this exact app like it was his job. the entries start small, from when you two had broken up. neat rows of numbers: ₩50,000, ₩120,000, ₩340,000, all spaced out like he was dipping his toe in. and then, without warning, the amounts spike. ₩3 million. ₩7.2 million. ₩12 million. the pattern’s still there, but now it’s frantic. an addict pressing the same button over and over. you keep scrolling, your thumb shaking but steady enough to keep going. there are dozens of entries. all of them marked with the same exchange ID, the same nauseating little dalmatian coin logo next to each transfer. then your rent—clear as fucking day. same amount you send every month, logged here like it was nothing. all of that, he was using it to gamble. without telling you.

your thumb hovers over the last transaction, the one that pushed the account into the red. the screen says it was processed successfully. and then the collapse. you almost laugh. it bubbles up in your throat but never makes it out, just sits there, acidic and mean, curling around your vocal cords. your hands are trembling now, in disgust and disbelief. you have no idea how long you sit there staring at the screen, but when you finally look up—at him, lying unconscious, bruised, stitched-up and impossibly still—it’s like you’re looking at a stranger. how could he? how dare he? you need to sit down. your legs are shaking, barely holding you up, and your vision goes blurry for a second under the nauseating, unbearable weight of the truth. what the fuck was he thinking? you sink into a chair, retracing everything in your mind—every time he brushed off your concern with a kiss like you were overthinking and he had it handled. how could he do this to you?

you’re tired of the lies, of the blind trust you keep giving him like it doesn’t cost you anything, of the way love has become synonymous with anxiety in your body. it wasn’t always like this. there was a time when loving subong felt like the easiest thing in the world… but now it just feels bitter and corrosive. you never noticed when it started to curdle—when sweetness became suspicion, when comfort turned into dread—but it’s there now, undeniable, clinging to every part of your life with him. you sit there, the phone still in your palm, and all you can think is that this love, whatever’s left of it, is sour. spoiled by every broken promise, every little thing he did behind your back, every time he looked you in the eye and chose to lie anyway. and the worst part is that you can’t even summon rage anymore, just this miserable resignation. you wanted to believe he’d changed, you needed to. but now all that belief feels like another kind of foolishness, like you were complicit in your own undoing. and maybe you were. perhaps that’s what love does, when it sours—it asks you to keep holding it, even as it poisons you.

the ring is beautiful. obscenely so. you hold it between your fingers, the metal cool against your skin. it’s mocking me, you think. it knows i swore i’d be his forever, when he slipped it on my hand that friday morning. you keep rolling it between your thumb and index finger, watching how the light catches on the stone, glinting. you haven’t put it back on and you’re not sure you ever will. his sister didn’t stay long the night before. barely an hour after she arrived, you told her what you’d found, the full rot of it, all that debt and deception and cowardice packed into numbers. she left without saying much, just mumbled something about going to their mother’s, about needing to fix this before it gets worse. but you know better. you know there is no fixing this. this isn’t a mistake, it’s a pattern. and you’re tired of pretending it isn’t.

he’s awake now. the nurses crowded him, checking vitals, adjusting lines, poking and prodding his body. they asked you to step out while they did their work, and you did, without argument. there’s no desperate need to stay by his side anymore, no aching urgency to be the first thing he sees when his eyes open, because you’ve already made your decision. when they allow you back inside, he lifts his head the second he sees you—sluggish, but the warmth is there, that familiar flicker in his eyes that used to undo you so easily. “hey, señorita,” he rasps. “you stayed.” “mmh.” you nod. that’s all you give him. just a nod, and the chair scraping softly as you pull it closer and sit. he doesn’t seem to notice it at first, how your presence no longer leans toward him like it used to. instead, you sit with your hands in your lap, folded neatly. subong smiles, probably thinking this is the part where you cry with relief or crawl into the bed beside him or at the very least, kiss him and whisper that it’s over now, that he’s safe, that everything’s going to be okay. but you don’t move. “how long?” he asks after a beat, blinking up at the ceiling before dragging his eyes back to you. “how long was i out?” “four days.” he whistles softly, or tries to—it comes out more like a wheeze. “shit. that long?” “yes.” he shifts slightly, winces at the pain. “did… did you call my mom?” “i tried to… then i called your sister. she came, but left yesterday to see your mom. she’ll be back.” his eyebrows pull slightly, and you can tell he’s trying to figure out what’s off, why your voice sounds different. “you okay, baby?” your eyes trace the bruises on his face before you ask, “are you?” and the way it comes out—almost rhetorical—makes something flicker in his expression. he’s starting to get it.

he clears his throat, shifts again, and you can see the way it costs him. “look, if this is about… i mean, if you figured it out, the reason they came after me, why it got that bad, it’s not—” he pauses, because the words are heavy in his mouth. “i wasn’t doing that shit regularly. i swear. just—it was getting hard to sleep, baby, and i didn’t want to worry you so, you know, i thought if i just—” “subong.” he stops, mid-ramble. his eyes search yours, desperate to find something soft in them—some familiar flash of tenderness, or even pity. but there’s nothing. “you don’t need to explain,” you say. “it won’t change anything.” he opens his mouth again anyway, because he doesn’t know how not to try, not when it’s you. “no, no, baby—you gotta believe me. i was gonna tell you, but i—” he sees it mid-sentence. his voice falters, crumbles into silence as his gaze drops to your hand. “wha—where’s your ring?” you glance down at your hand, where it used to sit. for a second, you almost lie. almost tell him it’s at home, that you took it off to shower and it’s safe somewhere. but you don’t. you just say, “off.” his face twists in disbelief. “off? what you mean ‘off’?” you shrug. “it didn’t make sense to wear it anymore.” he lets out this breath, something pitiful lodged in the back of his throat. “so that’s it?” he says, and there’s this sharp edge creeping into his voice now, brittle and defensive. “why? because i messed up again? because you found out before i could explain anything? jesus, baby—” you would slap him across the face right now if it wasn’t so bruised already. “when?” you ask, your voice almost gentle in its cruelty. “when were you going to tell me you were in fucking debt, subong?” shit. he freezes—the question catching him off guard completely. all you can hear is the steady beep of the heart monitor behind him, stubbornly unfazed by the absolute wreckage of the moment. “what?” he says, but he already knows what. “1.19 billion won,” you answer, enunciating each syllable. “and you didn’t just lose your own money… you used mine. every transfer i made for rent.” his face drains of whatever color it had left. you don’t know if it’s the shock, the shame, or the weight of getting caught.

but then there it is. that same infuriating, jerk attitude you’ve seen too many times before. the one that shows up whenever he feels small, cornered, like a child trying to puff out his chest and pretend he’s not the guilty one. “okay, and?” he scoffs, all false bravado, even from that goddamn hospital bed with his face torn up and a fucking iv sticking out of his arm. “you sent it to me, didn’t you? you wanted me to handle it. so why’re you going through my shit?” he mutters, like that’s the offense here. “what, you think you’re entitled to every fucking thing just ‘cause you sent me money?” you just stare at him, stunned. not because of what he said, but because of course that’s where he’d go. deflection, arrogance and pride. “are you serious? you lied to me, subong. again!” he shifts upright in the bed with a groan, eyes flaring. “i was tryna fix it, okay? for us. so we wouldn’t have to worry about shit anymore once we get married. i didn’t know th—” “you told me the bills were paid—” “i didn’t wanna stress you out,” he counters, eyes darting toward the blanket. “don’t say that like you were doing me a fucking favor. you didn’t want me to know because you knew exactly what the fuck you were doing.” “baby, c’mon—” “don’t,” you say, quick and clean, the word slicing through whatever lie he was about to conjure. “save it.”

you stand slowly, smoothing your hands down the front of your jeans. his voice turns softer, trying to course-correct. “you’re mad… i-i get it. but you’re not really gonna throw everything away over this, are you? i fucking love you, girl. you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. my fucking future wife and mother of my babies. please, we—we’ll get out of this. we could… i don’t know. i don’t know, but i promise—” you shake your head. he still doesn’t get it. “stop making fucking promises. i don’t believe you anymore… and i’m certainly not marrying you.” his jaw goes slack. “the fuck you mean you’re not—” “i mean i can’t do this anymore, subong,” you cut in, your tone unflinching. “i can’t keep loving someone who lies to me constantly. who uses me, drains me, breaks me, and isn’t even sorry.” “i am. i am sorry—i am, baby,” he insists, struggling to sit up straighter in the bed despite the groan it pulls from his body. “no, you’re not. you’re sorry you got caught. that’s not the same thing.” “you think i knew they were gonna fucking scam me? that i knew it was fake? they lied, not me. they took the money and ran. i’m the one who got fucked over here—” “no,” you snap, feeling the fury start to push past the exhaustion, slicing through the ache in your chest like glass through gauze. “you got fucked over because you’re a fucking idiot, subong.” his mouth opens, about to throw something back at you, but you don’t stop. “i told you to be careful. i told you to think before doing anything stupid—do you remember that? you didn’t listen! you never fucking listen. and now you want me to feel sorry for you? like this wasn’t your own fucking fault?” “i just wanted to give us a better life. i didn’t mean to—” “you never mean to! you never mean to hurt me. but you do it anyway, over and over. and then you sit there and act like it’s the universe conspiring against you, like you’re just the poor, misunderstood victim who can’t catch fucking a break.” you swallow hard. “but you made this mess. you did this. you.”

his eyes go wide when you reach into your pocket and pull out the ring. you hold it for a second in your palm. it means nothing now. just a pretty, glittering promise that never had a fucking chance. you hold it out to him. “take it.” he flinches. “what the fuck are you doing?” “what does it look like?” your voice is calm, and it makes him angrier. “i’m giving it back.” “no.” he shakes his head, the wires at his wrist pulling tight when he tries to push your hand down. “no, fuck that! i’m not taking it. you’re not—you can’t just leave because shit got hard—” “this isn’t just hard, subong. it’s toxic!” “i’m in a fucking hospital bed!” he snaps, like that’s the only context that matters. “you think i don’t know i fucked up? you think i don’t feel like shit already? and now you wanna leave? now?! what kind of fucking person does that?!” you clench your jaw. “what kind of person does that? you’re really asking? be so fucking for real!” he throws his arms out, desperate. “what? look at me, girl!” he gestures. “and you wanna fucking abandon me!“ “stop trying to make me feel guilty,” you hiss. “you’re the one who lied and stole, and gambled away the fucking roof over our heads.” “and you wanna fucking leave me after i almost died! that’s some next level heartless shit, bro!” “you almost died because of you,” you bite back. “because you chose to keep getting involved with those people.” “that’s not—” he starts, defensive, already gearing up to twist the narrative again. “i thought you were dead when i found you,” you continue. “do you even get what that means, subong? do you? i had to check your neck and wrist for a pulse, with your blood on my hands, and there was nothing. you weren’t breathing. your head was in my lap, and you were just… gone. and in that second, i swear to god, i thought i was gonna have to watch you die. and i was there, wondering who i’d have to call first—your family or a fucking funeral home! do you know what that does to someone?” you fight back tears. “to stand over the body of the person you love and think: this is it. this is how it fucking ends. and i know it’s gonna happen again. one day… one day it’ll be real, and you’ll be fucking dead for good. because you don’t care about your life, subong. so tell me… why the fuck should i?” he stares at you, breathing heavy, but there’s no apology in his eyes. just the selfish kind of panic that only cares about what he’s losing, not what he’s done. “you said you’d never leave me. you said—” “and you said you’d stop lying,” you snap. “that you’d never do drugs again. you said so many things, subong… so keep it.” you shove the ring into his hand, even as he fumbles to force it back into yours. “sell it, pawn it, melt it down and invest in another scam for all i fucking care. just don’t ever speak to me again. it’s over.”

subong, in all his deluded hope and terminal denial, convinced himself that it wasn’t really over. that after the heat of your anger wore off, you’d remember how much you loved him. he told himself it was just a matter of time, weeks at most. that you’d remember who you were to each other. and that no matter how bad it got, you’d still choose him. but reality hits hard the moment he tries to message you and realizes he’s been blocked. everywhere. and that’s when it sinks in—that you meant every single word. the rage that comes next is something new. he wants so badly to blame you and curse your name, call you heartless for how you left him when he needed you most. but no matter how hard he tries to twist the story, the truth keeps bleeding through. because even through the haze of anger and self-pity, he knows. he knows this is what happens when you treat the one person who gave a shit about you like he did. he knows you walked away because you had no choice, not because you stopped loving him, but because loving him had become impossible. and he hates you for that now, in the same exact way he still loves you. he hates that you’re right. that he’s every bit the coward and the liar you accused him of being.

he should’ve learned. everyone would expect that a man who nearly died in a back alley, would use that as a wake-up call, get clean and seek help to try to find his way back into something like dignity. but not him. no, every time subong says he’s ‘fixing it,’ what he really means is that he’s finding new ways to bury the damage deeper. he’s still taking pills, and now that he’s got nowhere to go—not after his mother shut the door in his face, and after losing you and the apartment—he crashes on friends’ couches. it’s never been clearer. he ruined it. all of it.

so after months of living in unrelenting misery, trapped in guilt and shame, with no hint of light at the end of the tunnel… subong’s mind starts circling darker and darker thoughts, until it lands, almost comfortingly, on the idea of ending everything once and for all. because really, who would miss him? who would cry for him? his mother won’t even speak to him, his sister’s too tired, and you… shit. he’s the only one missing people. missing you. missing himself. and every single day that goes by without hearing your voice the world feels colder. he’s tried to reach you through burner accounts, through friends, through songs you’ll never hear. but you’re gone. not just physically—though he knows, somehow, you went back to your country—but in the way that matters most. you’re out of his life. and you’re not coming back.

that’s why, one night, when the weight of it all finally sinks so deep he can’t shake it off… he walks to the han river. the same place where you spent one of your first nights together, laughing like idiots with convenience store snacks and nothing but stars overhead. now he’s alone. crying and high out of his mind as he starts climbing up onto the rail of the bridge. and as he stares down at the water, thinking of how quiet everything would be if he just fucking let go, a shadow falls over him. a man in a black suit. subong blinks, dazed. someone’s come to do the job for me, he thinks. he must be a debt collector. “yo, back the fuck off, man. i swear to god if you try anything—” but no. the man smiles, kindly, and says, “sir… do you have a minute?” “the fuck you want?” subong spits, voice slurring from both the cold and the chemicals still in his blood. “can’t you see i’m fucking busy, bro?” the man tilts his head, stepping a little closer. “would you like to play a game with me?” subong squints at him, trying to see if he’s hallucinating. “yo, are you deaf?” he snaps, the wind catching his voice. “i said fuck off, man. i’m not in the mood to buy your religion shit or whatever the fuck this is.” the guy reaches into his sleek black briefcase, as if they’re in some kind of business meeting instead of standing ten steps away from a very public suicide attempt. he pulls out two square pieces of paper—one red, one blue—and holds them out. “ddakji. play with me,” he says, “each time you win, i’ll give you 100,000 won.” subong scoffs, shoulders twitching with disbelief. “nah. fuck no. you think i’m stupid? you think i’m falling for that shit again? you got the wrong guy, man. i’m not gonna fucking—” subong’s words die in his throat when his eyes land on the banded bills packed tight inside the briefcase. he stares at the money, at the wind lifting the edge of one of the bills and making it flutter gently. “play with me,” the man repeats. “each time you win, i’ll give you 100,000 won.” subong laughs bitterly. “yeah? and what, you gonna fucking tax me if i lose?” the man’s smile widens a fraction. “if you lose… you pay me 100,000 won.” “what the—i’m fucking broke.” subong’s snaps, frustrated. “i don’t have shit to give you, man. what, you gonna take a kidney? my shoes? fuck off.” “you’ll find a way. people always do.” who the fuck is this dude? subong’s eyes flick down to the money again. he hasn’t seen that much cash in years. it’s probably more than he ever had even at the peak of his fake crypto high. he licks his lips, teeth grinding. “one round,” he mutters. “and i’m not paying shit if you cheat.” the man nods once, that same eerie, collected expression never slipping. “one round.”

can you guys tell i wrote half of this while sleep deprived and drowning in uni work?💀 anyway, this was so long i nearly gave up multiple times. i even had to cut a few scenes because it was getting way too long (and honestly, it still is). but i hope you enjoyed it!💗 (idk, but i feel like if you made it this far, we should kiss rn… just a thought)

regular taglist: @kaerasti49 @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @infinetlyforgotten @bettelaboure @scream-queen-25 @flwerangii @sherxoo @isssaaaa2111

this fic’s taglist: @thanosspills @loonybunny1

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

seven | chapter list

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you. 

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The whiplash of last night's dinner seems rectified at breakfast. Marlene arrives an hour after you wake up with a basket of farmer’s market produce, glass bottles of fresh juice, a dozen eggs still dirty with a baby feather nestled between shells. She brings cuts of bacon so fat it’s practically pork belly, and all manner of greens for the omelettes. “Gotta keep these working men fed,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’d quite like to know why Sirius Black can’t make his own breakfast.” 

Sirius falls in barely half an hour later, all hardness gone, dressed in slacks and a brown leather jacket, his loose curls pinned away from his face. “I’m thinking of growing a moustache,” he says when he spots you on the sofa. “What do you think? I don’t have much space for one, really, but it would look rather refined.”

James shows up soon enough. You worry he’s angry with you after his quick departure last night, but he says, “Princess, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Mum said she saw a photo of us together in the paper. She’s having it framed.” 

Things between James and Sirius are frosty for all of half a day. 

So for a while everyone pretends the conversation about Baron Riddle never happened. Things go back to normal, driving lessons, self defence, clothes shopping. You keep attending your university classes at the local college upon Remus’ assistance —Sirius will find a way to have them transfer your credits, he says, so long as you finish this year. Two more terms and you can take a break. 

You pretend that everything is okay, and permanent. 

“It’ll be Christmas soon,” James says.

You tilt your head to him but keep your eyes on the burning white of the computer screen, scribbling the last words of a sentence down for your next assignment. Researching isn’t fun, and getting James special permission to enter the college building hadn’t been easy, but he makes your long afternoons bearable. “Do you celebrate?” you ask. 

“I do.” 

“Your mum will be happy to have you home.”

“I’m not going home this year.” 

Your beginning smile is stopped, fading fast. “‘Cos of me?” 

“Because this is the job,” he says easily. “It’s alright. I’ll still speak to her. She’s used to not seeing me. I’ve spent more time away from her than with her, for years.” 

You close your textbook, tracing its softening edges in an avoidance of his gaze. “Well. Well, I don’t really need you, James.” 

“No?” 

You meet his eyes. Careful not to spook yourself. He’s looking at you with little emotion, impossible to infer his mood from expression alone. You don’t know what he means to ask you here. 

“Missing out on time with your family for me, when nobody even knows who I am–”

“That’s not true, is it? You get a fair few stares.” 

“Not because they really know who I am,” you whisper. “It’s like seeing someone you’re sure you’ve met before, but really you’ve seen them on TV. I’m like an odd memory or something.” 

“An odd memory.” 

You turn back to your computer and flick through the journal you’re reading for want of something to do. James twists in his chair with a hand fallen between your shoulders. Your skin tingles under his touch. “I just don’t think it’s good of me to have you when I’m fine.” 

“Do you have me, Princess?” James says, his voice turning soft slow as a taffy pull. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Yes, I do.” James’ hand comes to rest on the desk beside yours, not touching you, not moving a millimetre. He can be so still, but it’s a stillness that came with practice. He’s as at ease here as he would be at home, trusting his abilities. Nothing that can get you here scares him, not for a second. “I’m afraid I’m yours for the foreseeable future.” 

You fight down a shiver. “It’s not fair for you to miss out on Christmas. I’ll be fine by myself. I would stay home, I promise, you could lock me in and set me free a week later.” 

“I won’t do that,” he says. 

“But you could, and then you won’t miss Christmas or your mum, and–” You realise you’re talking too loudly and tone it down. “And I’ll be fine on my own.” 

“You said, yeah…” 

You stare at the cover of your textbook. “Right.” 

James checks his watch. In his ‘bum bag’ as he calls it, the radio he’d been carrying around on his shoulder when you met makes a concealed crackle. He pulls it out and brings it to his mouth. “Say again?” he orders. 

“We’re waiting outside,” Sirius says, to your surprise. 

“Pads, you’ve actually done something I asked,” James says in amazement. 

“Not really. It’s Remus’ radio, you know I won’t carry them around. It’s ridiculous. I would’ve liked to have called you but you never answer, even if it’s life or death!” 

“It’s never life or death with you.” 

“Cruel. Tell the Princess to hurry her work, she promised we’d go to the cinema and it’s getting on.” 

“She’s done when she’s done,” James says. 

“I’m finished,” you say. 

“She’s finished,” James says. 

“Oh, good. Has she picked what movie she wants to see?” 

“Sirius, can’t we have this conversation in two minutes, when we’re in the same car.” 

“What’s the fun in that?” 

You pack away your things and log out of your account on the library computer. James offers to take your bag, grumbling when you insist on carrying it yourself, and rebelling against you as you descend the stairs into the college’s entrance atrium by holding open every stairwell door. 

“What movie does he want to see?” you ask James. 

“Never mind him,” James says, stilling at the shock of cold that ebbs from the main doors. “Button your coat, lovely.” 

You thought perhaps James would get to know you more and he’d stop using ‘lovely’. There isn’t all that much about you worth such a nice word, but he still says it. He calls Marlene gorgeous practically every morning when she makes his coffee, Lily sweetness or angel or —really, he’s quite fond of Lily. You don’t see her too often; she’s here to take care of diplomatic matters directly involving you, and so she pops in every now and then to gather your signatures or ask an opinion, busy at the embassy. You get this uncomfortable feeling when you see them together, too complicated to name, like fingers curled tight around your heart, squeezing until you’re squeamish and pounding behind the ears. And Sirius makes these jokes you’re too afraid to ask about, little snippy things aimed to make fun of James in a brotherly manner. Our Prongs likes a redhead. I considered going ginger for a bit, but I don’t have the complexion for it. You have no choice but to sit there still and silent until they change the subject. It must be the not knowing them well that makes it hard. 

Just outside of the college, Remus and Sirius wait in the front seats of a rather nice car. 

“Where did you get this?” James asks, stopped too far in the road. 

“Bought it.” 

“Why?” James asks. 

“You said I couldn’t get a bike.” 

“I said you couldn’t get a bike,” Remus corrects. “James said he wouldn’t get on the bike, or sit by your bedside if you drove it into a wall.” 

“You like it?” Sirius asks. 

James gives you a smug, fond smile. “Do we?” he asks. 

“It’s pretty,” you say. 

“She’s gorgeous, Princess! Don’t downplay it like that! Now, are you getting in? Remus has picked tonight’s movie–”

“Get out,” James says. 

“You are not driving my baby,” Sirius says, “I’ve only had her an hour.” 

“I don’t care how long you’ve had the car, if the Princess is riding in it, I’ll be the one driving it. You know the rules.”

“Yes, but you’re the one who makes the rules, and they’re stupid rules, so I suppose this time you’ll be letting me drive, won’t you?” Sirius asks. 

—

“My own car,” Sirius mutters to himself beside you, “can’t even drive my own bloody car. This is worse than the summer I saved for an electric guitar and my mother smashed it into smithereens in the foyer. At least Walburga let me play a couple of songs first.” 

“Walburga?” you ask, grinning. 

“Patron Saint of hydrophones,” Sirius says offhandedly. ”And cunts. It’s why I hate water so much, see, I’m worried mum’s going to deprive me of protection.” 

“Sorry, Princess, Sirius is having one of his days,” Remus says from the passenger seat. 

“I’m being serious,” Sirius says. “Unsurprisingly.” 

“Don’t let me tell Effy who you’ve just called mum,” James quips. 

“Euphemia,” Sirius says quickly, “name of a well-spoken woman. And she is well-spoken, James’ mum, she’s well everything. Well dressed, well kind,” —he puts his hand on your arm and rubs gently, enough affection for the woman in question running through him that it pours into you instead— “she would just love you to death, Your Gorgeousness.” 

“You are having one of those days,” you say. 

“Not sure I know what you mean.” Sirius grins at you, dark hair in his eyes, his irises a pale grey that catches you. “Alright there?” he asks. 

“Your eyes are grey.” 

“If you fancy me–”

“I thought they were brown, is all, like James’,” you say, voice taking a sharp turn into loudness in a poor attempt to move away from what you’ve said. 

“We can’t all have that dreamy mocha brown,” Sirius says. His grin has changed, morphed into a mischief you aren’t yet familiar with. “We all have grey eyes, the Black’s. My mother and father too. Makes sense they would, what with their… similar heritage.” 

Sirius doesn’t volunteer information about his family often, and as he does he squirms. You wonder if he’d tripped into saying it on automatic. You know intimately how that feels. “Don’t worry about it,” you say, “I spent the last twenty years thinking my mum was a drunk and my father an idea. Of course, I know more about my dad now.” 

“Not about your mum?” 

“Oh, no. She’s dead, I think,” you say. 

“You don’t know?” 

Your turn to squirm. “Not really, no.” 

Sirius frowns. His lips part, a concerned platitude no doubt on his lips, but James’ strong voice cuts in, “You can share mine,” he says, “god knows she’s always trying to find another of my friends to parent. She even tried to baby Regulus when they first met.”

“Your brother?” you ask Sirius, remembering some tidbit of conversation. 

“He isn’t exactly versed in accepting affection,” Sirius says. 

“Neither were you!” James doesn’t look away from the road ahead as his arm reaches back. He points ineffectually. “And now look at you!” 

“Get me out of this car,” Sirius says. 

Remus, grey at the gills, murmurs, “I was just thinking the same thing.” 

Remus wars with migraine–motion sickness nausea on the corner of the street. James, having parked and locked the car once you all emerged, stands straight beside you, worry flashing across his face. Sirius has it all covered, patting the space between Remus’ shoulders slowly as Remus says, “Stop smothering me, or I’ll be sick on your shoes.” 

“Finally return the favour, then,” Sirius says. 

Remus groans, bending further toward the ground. 

“Is he okay?” you ask. 

James doesn’t answer for a while. He sweeps his gaze around the streets, cataloguing people and squinting against the lowering sun as it shuttles behind buildings. The evening cold is setting in, lights of the cinema blue-bright white and buzzing just ahead. “Remus will be alright,” he says, sounding like he believes it wholeheartedly. “Just gets sick sometimes ‘cos of the headaches.” 

It really bothers him, all the same. He doesn’t hide it well, the twitch of his fingers to go help, his furtive glances. He looks up and down the road, behind the cars, around you, and always back at Remus and Sirius. 

“How old were you when you first went away to boarding school?” you ask. 

“We were eleven. Why?” 

“I’m just wondering. You’ve been friends for a really long time, then.” 

“Not too long, now, Princess. I’m only in my twenties.” 

“Right,” you laugh, “of course.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing! It didn’t mean anything.” 

He gets a Sirius brand of smile, then. No, not Sirius at all, just a James you haven’t met before, cheeky and funny at once. “Sure it didn’t,” he teases. “You think I’m old. Do I look old to you? I’ll have you know I’m in perfect athletic shape. My mile time is six minutes on the dot.”

“Very impressive,” you say. 

He rolls his shoulders. “Yes, it is.” 

A couple of feet away, Remus has stood tall, a hand covering his eyes. Sirius covers that hand with his own, his laugh carrying across the street. “You’re a mess, Lupin, but you’re nothing I can’t handle, obviously. Get over yourself.” 

“All I said was ‘fuck’s sake’,” Remus says.

“It was teeming with self loathing.” 

“It‘s like I’m stuck together with shit PVA or something, I feel ridiculous.” 

“You’re fine. You are. You’ve never looked so fine, Moony old chap.” 

“Can you stop?” Remus asks, sounding like he doesn’t mind it either way. 

“Sure,” Sirius says anyways, softer now by a thread. “I’m done.” 

“James, should we–”

James goes down with a quiet thump. Your hearing flats out, no sound of him as his arms curl outward and his back rolls —he’s too smart to let his head smack the pavement. 

You aren’t smart enough to move out of the line of fire. 

A weight like a log forced itself into your stomach, slamming your back to a chest. You thrust your head back hard and cry out as a stab of pain rushes through your head, stumbling as best you can away from it, but the arm doesn’t let you go. 

Sudden, there’s another cry of pain, male this time, and the arm is letting you go. You bound two steps forward and spin in time to see James in a fist fight with a masked assailant, punches popped faster than you can track: you see clearly only points of contact, James taking a hit to the chest, to the head, his face snapped sideways as his knee comes up. He puts all of his weight into the motion and kicks, putting some much needed space between the two of them. 

You glance back for Sirius and Remus in a tizzy and come face to face with another black mask. 

You aren’t sure why you do it. Perhaps James’ sense of urgency rubs off on you, all his echoes of why you don’t want to let an attacker take you away from the public eye if you can help it, or maybe it’s knowing James is locked into his own fight and he might not win against another, caught off guard like that. You can’t confess to thinking, only swinging, the power of your entire upper body thrust into a punch that shatters you with pain. 

Before you can see if the punch had any effect, someone is stepping in front of you and hitting him again. Twice, a third time, James hits the masked man until he’s incapacitated on the ground. 

He swings back to you with a harsh breath. Your ears pop. “What the fuck!” someone’s saying, not James, his lips unmoving as he looks you over. 

“…You okay?” he says finally, stepping into your space to hold you by the arms. “You’re not hurt?” 

You flinch as his hand slips down to yours. 

“My hand!” you yelp, pressing it to your chest.

“What about your hand?” 

“I punched that guy!” 

“Did you tuck your thumb into your hand?” 

“Yes!”

“I told you not to do that!” James exclaims, breathless and vaguely pained as he puts his hands out again to take your injured one. “You tuck your thumbnail against the curl of your index finger!” 

“Is it broken?” Sirius asks seriously, stepping over one of your attackers in his rush to be next to you. “Are you okay? Fuck, it looked like a good one, though!” 

“I didn’t think properly,” you say, biting back a whimper as James rolls down your sleeve, your hand shaking terribly in his grasp, “I was just scared–”

“No, I know, it’s not your fault,” James says in a run on, sounding far outside the realm of a professional as he pokes near your pinky fingers knuckle. Your whine of pain makes it worse. “Sorry, lovely. I think you have a fracture. Fuck, you didn’t have to do that, I had it handled.”

“He was gonna grab me!” 

“I know.” He rubs his brow. “Shit, I’m so sorry.” James raises his gaze to Sirius as though he’s going to ask for something, but he pauses. “Where’s Remus?” 

“Turned into a migraine pretty much the second before those guys turned up, I had to sit him down.” 

James holds your arm with both hands. His eyes are browner than anything as he levels your gaze. “I’m gonna fix this, okay? I just need to make sure they aren’t getting up.” 

“Okay.” The pain in your hand gets worse by the second.  

“Okay?” he asks. 

It hurts so badly that tears form, one dribbling hot and fat down your cheek. “Okay,” you say again, wobbling. 

His lips go flat, but he turns away to start cleaning up. Sirius takes his place, wrapping an arm behind your back with a comforting murmur that you don’t quite hear. 

—

James is gone for hours. Sirius and Mikkelson take you home, and waiting for you is a team of doctors and nurses that seem unperturbed to be treating a princess in her rinky dink living room. The craziest part about it all isn’t that you’ve been attacked, or that the two doctors and three nurses are smiley, unhurried but not uncaring, and it’s not that you wish James was there so sorely it has you unsettled despite the rapid pain relief, no. The craziest part is the portable x-ray machine. 

“We could’ve gone to the hospital,” you tell Sirius, leaning back in your kitchen chair as a sweet-faced nurse slips a brace carefully over your injured hand. 

“No, we couldn’t have.” 

“I don’t understand why not.” 

“Yes, you do.” Sirius points at the plate of biscuits by your cup insistently. “Go on.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Just something quick for your blood sugar. Or pressure? One of them. Would you rather have a sandwich?” 

“No.” 

“Princess, please,” he says, giving you a frown you're unused to, like you’re pissing him off and he expects it. 

You grab a biscuit to appease him. 

Remus is wrapped in a throw blanket in your bed, likely sleeping, or perhaps still furious that Sirius had asked one of the nurses to give him a good look. Her diagnosis wasn’t anything new; Remus is suffering in the third stage of a migraine. It’s best he be left alone for a little while to rest. He’s going to be very tired when he comes out of it. 

James hasn’t returned yet. When they first stuffed you to the brim with painkillers, you’d thought morosely that you‘d needed him there, but now you just wonder what’s taking him so long. Who were those men? One of them had grabbed you tightly with intent to drag you away, so where were you going? 

Your flat is growing more crowded by the second. Marlene is in the living room trying to take dinner orders from extremely happy doctors and bodyguards alike, and with her is a stranger, a woman with dark skin and darker hair, black curls piled away from her face. You haven’t asked about her yet. Perhaps Marlene needs help catering for the sheer amount of people. 

“This isn’t exactly incognito,” you say, “all these people.” 

“Yes, well, James wants you to move anyways. And maybe that’s for the best. It’s rather cramped in here.” 

“It wasn’t,” you say. 

He assesses you quietly. 

“What?” 

“It’s alright if you don’t want to move, but you must know you’re a sitting duck here.” 

“I must?” 

“You are not a normal person, and you never will be. James won’t tell you about the things you should be scared of even if he’s honest about the risk, and I was at the mercy of his wrath last time, but I don’t care,” he says honestly. “I don’t. I need you to know that you’re not safe and it’s not because of some invisible maybe, there are real forces at play here. The sooner you move, the better. I know,” —he lowers his voice— “it’s a massive change, and you haven’t had time to catch your breath, but you can’t get comfortable now. And hey, you can keep the flat, yeah? You don’t have to give it away, but things aren’t safe here.” 

“But why not?” 

“It’s the Baron,” Sirius says, serious, quick, glancing at the door, “he’s not just cruel, he’s evil. He’s done things you’d never think he’d get away with, not now. It’s like the dark ages in his courts, the pure bloods–”

“Sirius, what the fuck?” Marlene says, pushing the door until it hits the wall. “Enough. She fucking broke her hand.” 

“And I’m telling her why.” 

“She broke it because she punched someone the wrong way,” the unknown woman says, warm but disapproving at once. “Who taught you to fight?” 

“Uh, it’s self defense,” you say uselessly. 

“James,” she tuts. 

Marlene appraises the nurse where she’s lingering at the counter, putting away her things. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asks, which is mostly sincere, just a tad pushy. 

The nurse says, “No, thank you,” and makes herself scarce. 

“This is Dorcas,” Marlene introduces as the door closes. No explanation to who she is follows as they settle against the counter tops. 

“Hi,” you say softly. 

“Hello.” Dorcas smiles, all signs of her disapproval wiped clean. “How’s the hand?” 

“Hurting.” 

“It’s nothing some rigatoni arrabbiata won’t fix, I’m sure.” 

“Sorry, Dorcas, but why the fuck are you here?” Sirius asks pleasantly. 

“Why do you think?” she asks sweetly back. 

“Usually to fuck me off.” 

“Enough,” Marlene says. “If you’re going to argue, you have two options. You can do it while pulling the tendons from these chicken fillets, or you can do it outside.” 

“Pass,” Sirius says. “I’ll go on as usual, as long as the snake stays quiet.” 

“You’re as bad as.” Dorcas crosses her arms over her chest. 

Sirius doesn’t rise to the bait, despite himself, and Marlene opens your fridge to begin cooking. He doesn’t mention the evil forces in play again, leaving you in your agony to brush it away. You’ll think of it later, or never, whichever comes first. 

“You can go to bed, if you like.” 

“Remus is in there.” 

“He won’t care. Pretty sure he had one of us in bed with him from first year to last,” Sirius says, taking one of your biscuits and eating it in two quick bites. 

You remember your own and put it down next to your cup of tea. Tea is fine, but these boys are constantly plying you with it and you’ve had enough to last a while. And the biscuits —who thought you could ever be sick of biscuits? 

“I’m not tired,” you say. “Maybe I’ll… finish some school work.” 

“Sure. Gonna be okay typing without your hand?” 

You wince. “Fuck. It’s my dominant hand, too.” 

“You’ll be out of commission for a while. Sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault.” You look down at your twinging hand, a slice of shadow banding across it under the table. “I’d rather have a broken hand than be dead.” 

“No one was going to kill you. Is that what Sirius has been telling you?” Marlene asks, glaring at Sirius from over her shoulder, her eyes like blue fire. 

“No,” you say. “He didn’t have to say anything about it to me for me to know I was in danger.” 

Marlene isn’t chastened. “You’re okay. James protected you, and he will again. You don’t need to worry about it, about any of that stuff.” 

“That’s willfully ignorant,” Dorcas says. 

Sirius takes another biscuit. “I actually agree.” 

They’re friendly from then on. You don’t have it in you to be surprised. 

—

James cannot stand London much longer. The police officers are knobs, the roads are shit, and now you’re getting attacked by freaks outside of the loneliest cinema he could find. He’s spent three hours in an interrogation room with a prick and one of the guys who tried to attack you, asking their intentions, who they work for, who they are, and it hasn’t mattered, when he could’ve been making sure you were alright. He gave strict instructions on how you were supposed to be treated and by who, but Sirius doesn’t always listen. What James realised somewhere between leaving you on the side of the road and the police station, is that he has sorely underestimated what needs to be done here to keep you safe. Dorcas might go a ways of helping that along, but he needs advice. 

He needs Mary. Maybe Lily and Emmeline full time. He needs anyone willing to help him. Dearborn, the twins. Reinforcements are necessary. 

He needs to breathe. He can’t believe you broke your hand doing something he should’ve done first. 

“Fucking winded me,” he says to himself, rolling his sore shoulder as he takes the stairs to your flat two at a time. “Wanker.” 

“Kiss your mum with that mouth?” Remus asks lightly. 

He’s sitting at the end of the hallway away from your flat with the window wide open, a cigarette wobbling between his lips. It’s not lit yet. 

“You should stay in bed,” James says, crossing the hall to stand by him. He finds a zippo lighter in Remus’ pocket and flicks it open, holding the flame to the cig, letting the end smoulder. “How is it?” 

“It’s not that bad. Didn’t make me sick.” 

“Wobbly?” James asks, closing the zippo to tuck away in his own pocket. 

Remus takes a deep inhale, hand on the window ledge to steady himself. “Only when I breathe,” he says on the exhale. 

They stand together for a bit. James sort of wants to smoke, it’s not like he didn’t do his fair share in school, but he was lucky it never caught him like Remus and Sirius, who both consider themselves casual smokers. I smoke to celebrate, Sirius said once, and to commiserate. So that’s a few a day, at least. 

Remus is less inclined. James can’t blame him either way. Isn’t he owed a vice while his head rears to implode? 

“How is the princess?” James asks eventually. 

“I can’t confess to seeing much of her,” Remus says, voice light enough to imply that you’re fine. “But she’s spent the afternoon with a fracture and Sirius. I dare say she’s miserable.” 

“Her hand is broken?” 

“Yep. But it’s a boxer’s fracture, it’ll heal in a month.” Remus gets about halfway down his cigarette before he squints at James with suspicion. “You were in a rush.” 

“Just checking you’re okay.” 

“Mm.” He takes another drag before pulling the cigarette from his mouth, flicking a tall line of ash out of the window. “She’s not upset with you.” 

“She should be.” 

“James, you’re such a martyr.”  

He shrugs. “I’m here to protect her and at the very first hurdle I’ve let her down. Actually, the second hurdle, because I’ve already hit her once, so hard she could barely keep her eyes open.” 

“You didn’t hit her, don’t say that.” 

“I did hit her.” 

“With a door.” 

“Yes, with a heavy object.” 

“By accident!” Remus laughs and snuffs his cigarette on the wall outside the window, drawing the butt inside a curled fist. It makes James wince. “You’re alright. Truthfully I think she just wants to see you ‘cos you’re nice to her.” 

“You’re nice to her.” 

“Yes, but I’m not in the best working order right now.” He smiles. “And I’m not like you, I won’t put my arm around her.” 

“Please don’t.” 

“I won’t. I would if she was upset, but she doesn’t seem upset. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” 

“Don’t say it like that!” 

Remus laughs again. “Like what? Stop making me laugh, my head is throbbing.”  

Sirius once made Remus laugh so hard it prompted a migraine, or at least it was conveniently timed. He swore off jokes and being witty for a good two weeks. “Shall I never joke again?” James asks. 

He sounds tired, even to himself. 

“It’s a start,” Remus says. 

“Time is it?” 

“Time to stop being a coward, I think. Little after seven. You’re done?” 

“Done. Too tired to make better decisions.” 

“You know that song by the Rolling Stones, Miss You?” Remus presses his hand to an eye. “Stuck in my head.” 

James loves how much Remus loves to talk to him. It’s stupid. “Guess I’m lying to myself, it’s just you and no one else,” James sing-songs quietly, with an eyebrow wiggle.

“I like your voice more than his.” 

“Charmer.”

They follow one another down the hall to your door, where Mikkelson couldn’t look more bored keeping guard. Poor Mickey with the shit jobs and no company. At least he’s well paid. In the living room, there’s little evidence of the work he’s thought would be done here. No medical waste or mess, each pillow cleanly placed and each trinket of yours where you left it. There’s not much sound, but James cocks a trained ear and listens for everything. A rustle in the bathroom. A breath taken in the kitchen, then another. There’s definitely kissing, he thinks, heaving a horrendous sigh to let the lovebirds know they have company. 

Could’ve been you and Sirius, but he can’t see it happening. 

Marlene appears around the kitchen doorway, ever so slightly pink. “Hullo. Dinner?” 

“Yeah, please.” 

“Sure. Remus, you want something? Chicken soup?” 

Marlene will make chicken soup as most Genovian would, with pastina or acini de pepe, fresh rosemary, thyme, and Parmesan rind shredded over the top. It’s no less delicious than any other dish in her arsenal, but it’s so, so homely that Remus sighs wistfully and James can’t not ask, “Soup for me, too?” 

“Sure. It’s what I made for the princess, poor girl.” 

“She’s in the bathroom?” 

“For a while.” Marlene has the decency to smile apologetically. “You boys like red pepper, yeah?” 

“And Sirius?”

“I don’t know, James, I’m not a psychic.” 

“Right. Hi, Dorcas, how are you?” 

Dorcas appears in the door. James might think she was reluctant if he didn’t know better; Dorcas doesn’t ever do anything she doesn’t want to do. Her smile says something unreadable. “Fine,” she says concisely. 

James trudges away. In the bedroom, Sirius is curled up on your bed asleep. He shakes his head in wonderment and carries on to the bathroom. There’s water running behind the door, accompanied by the soft sounds of under-the-breath cursing. 

“Angel,” he says before he can stop himself, “are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

“James?” 

“Yeah, are you okay?”

“James, I… have a long sleeve top on, and it’s hurting more than I thought with the cast. Can you… do you think Marlene would come help me?”

He shouldn’t — “I can help, angel. Is it hurting? You’re stuck, aren’t you?” 

“Just a bit.” 

Your hesitant voice echoing off the walls makes him chuckle. “I can get Marlene,” he says. 

He’s already turning when you say, “Uh, no, that’s fine. Can you get me out?” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I want it to be you,” you say quietly. 

James doesn’t know what to do with that. He opens the bathroom door and finds you uncomfortably twisted. You’ve tried to take off the sleeve on your injured arm first and ended up with the back of your shirt pulled away from you, pulled up, tight against your neck, a little gap between your chest and the fabric. You aren’t scandalous, barely undressed, but James knows you’re shy about how you look from fittings and intuition alike. He quickly encourages your uninjured hand into the air to loosen the band of fabric from behind your neck, and then easily tugs the entirety of it up your arms and off of you, more careful at your dominant hand. The moment you’re released, he takes the soft sleep shirt you’ve put on the laundry basket and ruches the sleeves. He sews your injured hand tentatively though one sleeve, then the other, before slipping it over your head and pulling it down. His knuckles skim your naked back, and he’s careful not to touch bare skin again. When he’s neatened you up, he holds your side in one hand. “Are you alright?” he asks, frowning. 

“I know it’s just a fracture, but I feel like I can’t use it. Hurts.” 

“There’s no such thing as just a fracture,” he says. “Fractures hurt. Your hand is broken, it’s alright if you can’t move it. Do you need any more help?” 

You shake your head. “I managed the trousers by myself, thankfully.” 

James looks you over and finds himself softening swiftly. He does feel sorry for you. He thinks you’re allowed an allotment of pity. But he also just likes you, and doesn’t want to see you in pain. His colossal guilt doesn’t help. 

The darkness from outside is creeping in. You’ve a shadow on your cheek, another stretching out to your side. Your pajamas are worn —well-loved— a simple black t-shirt with a teddy bear on the chest and blue pajama trousers to match the teddy’s bow tie. You’ve the appearance of somebody who cried for a good hour or two, not so much splotchy or sore looking as simply coloured by the after effects of distress, a tiredness to your eyes that has nothing to do with sleep. You look small, but not in the sense of proportions. Just small. 

“How’s your pain?” he asks you quietly. 

“It’s not bad if I don’t move it.” 

“Try not to, then.” 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. 

“It’s all fine. I don’t have any more answers for you. Please, forgive me.” 

He knows a grudge hasn't crossed your mind. Still, he’s surprised again by your endless goodness, whether you might see it that way or not, your propensity for leniency and how it can be a brave, kind thing, “It wasn’t your fault, it just happened. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if you weren’t there… Well, I can imagine. I can. And it really scares me.” You press your splinted hand to your abdomen. “Thank you for keeping me safe, James.” 

I didn’t keep you safe, I barely got to you in time, he thinks. He’s in over his head. He’s practically drowning in shame and responsibility and self-obsessed inner turmoil. 

He wants to be his best, for you. He wants to do this well. 

James has no idea how he’s going to do this. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, hiding everything but a stitch of breathlessness from his tone. 

“Did you eat?” you ask. 

In over his head. Drowning, maybe. “No. Did you?” 

“I don’t have much appetite.” 

“Marl’s made chicken soup with little pasta stars,” he says, nodding toward the door. “You’ll love it. Promise.”

“You’ll eat too?” you ask. 

James feels a tightening in his stomach that he wisely ignores. Without answering aloud, he encourages you out of the bathroom to the kitchen, and you both eat.

He’s helping Marlene clear the plates away when you hesitate by the door. Sirius has unceremoniously tumbled from your bed to the sofa when Remus tried to rouse him, begging tiredly to be allowed to stay. You’d said yes without problem. You trust Sirius, and if you didn’t, James thinks you might trust him enough to know who you can be left alone with. Remus and Dorcas have been ferried back to the accommodation by one of the others. Marlene and James are set to leave together as soon as the kitchen is squared. 

And yet you hesitate. 

Haunting the door, James recognises the way one hand flutters, almost squeezes the air, wanting to wring the other but unable.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, trying to use his body as a wall to offer you some privacy.

“Nothing.”

“You can go to bed if you need to, you don’t have to wait for us.” He manages a smirk. “You want me to change the sheets, don’t you? That Sirius Black character is a real heathen, isn't he? I don’t think a day went by when we were kids where his bed wasn’t inundated with crumbs.” 

“He ate in bed?” you ask. 

“Small rebellions.” 

“Remus says you guys shared a lot.” 

“We did. I don’t really know why. I know boys aren’t ‘supposed’ to love each other like that, but we never grew out of it.” James lonely without his mum and dad’s bed to climb into, Sirius realising he could have comfort whenever he wanted, even if he didn’t need it, and Remus, usually unwilling, occasionally doing the work himself if it was what was necessary to sleep again after a bad dream. (And the other, who didn’t often share, but leaves a bad taste in James’ mouth to recall.) 

“And it helped?” 

“Sometimes.” 

You squirm on the spot, but you force it out. “James, will you stay?” You’re apologetic. “I don’t think I can sleep if you go. I’m not scared, I promise, but…” 

James’ voice gets caught behind his teeth. 

“You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine. But if you don’t mind, you can stay, you can have my bed, if you want, I’d just feel better if it was you.” 

“Of course I’ll stay.” 

You smile. 

“It’s my job to look after you. If you feel better knowing I’m out here on the sofa, then I’ll stay.” He offers a smile usually saved for his friends.

“Okay.” Something in you has gone slack. You’re warmed from the inside out, and so suddenly tired. “You won’t go in the bed?” 

“I won’t take it from you, no. I quite like how you make the sofa up, I’ll just shove Sirius over. I want the pillowcase with flowers and the blanket with fleece underneath, please.” 

You leave to get his provisions. He follows your gaze. It’s why he knows you look back at him as you cross the threshold to your room. 

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

THIS WAS A PRANK?!

drew starkey x fem!reader

(mood board does NOT depict readers’ appearance !!)

SUMMARY: y/n pulls her family into a trending prank where you pretend to embarrass your partner in front of your family…i wonder how drew reacts?

based on this ask!! i really hope you enjoy this @xoxosblogsblog , and i hope it’s what you asked for <3

WARNINGS: i think maybe one curse word?, just pure fluff really, me crying because i used ‘mom’ instead of mum because they’re american </3 (lmk if i missed anything!)

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

SECOND PERSON +

Drew always tried his best to make a good impression on your parents. Even after three years of dating you, meeting them countless times, and attending every family barbecue or holiday dinner you invited him to, Drew still got a little nervous around them. You found it sweet, honestly—how this confident, charming actor, adored by fans worldwide, could still feel the need to impress your mom and dad.

You were currently spending the week at your parents' house, a cozy rural home in Vermont that felt like a world away from the bustling chaos of Los Angeles where you and Drew lived.

Drew had taken the week off from filming to join you, and so far, everything had been going smoothly. That was, until you saw a TikTok prank trend earlier that morning.

The prank was simple: embarrass your partner in front of your family by saying outrageous things and watch them squirm. You couldn't resist. Drew had pulled plenty of pranks on you in the past, and this felt like the perfect opportunity for some playful payback.

While Drew was in the shower, you shared your plan with your parents.

"Are you sure he's going to find it funny?" your mom asked, trying not to laugh.

"Oh, he will," you grinned. "Eventually. After he panics a little bit."

Your dad chuckled. "I'm in. But I'm not holding back—I'll really sell it."

Your mom rolled her eyes fondly. "You two are terrible."

"We'll keep it harmless," you promised.

By the time Drew emerged from the shower, fresh and smiling in a casual hoodie and jeans, you were ready to set your plan in motion.

The four of you were gathered around the dining table, enjoying your mom's homemade lasagna—a dish Drew had raved about during every visit. You decided to start small.

"You know," you said casually, "Drew actually told me he doesn't like your cooking, Mom. He says it's too... plain."

Your mom froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. "Really?" she asked, her tone clipped.

Drew's head whipped toward you so fast you thought he might get whiplash. His eyes widened. "What? No! That's not true at all! I love your cooking!"

"Hmm," your mom said, narrowing her eyes. "That's funny, because you always seem to clean your plate."

"Exactly!" Drew said quickly, holding up his hands. "I do, because it's amazing! I don't know what Y/N's talking about. I would never say that!"

You bit back a grin and focused on your lasagna, mumbling, "If you say so."

Drew shot you a bewildered look, his brow furrowing. You could tell he wanted to press you on it, but he let it go—for now.

Later that evening, the four of you were in the living room watching a football game. Your dad had always been a big fan, and Drew had made it a point to bond with him over it.

"He doesn't actually like football, Dad," you said offhandedly during a commercial break. "He told me it's boring."

The room went silent.

"What?" your dad asked, turning to Drew with a stern expression.

"No, no, no!" Drew stammered, his cheeks flushing. "I never said that! I love football! We've watched games together! We’re both huge fans of the Kansas City Chiefs!"

"You mean the team you pretended to like just to get on my good side?" your dad said, raising an eyebrow.

Drew looked like a deer caught in headlights. "No, I swear, I really like them! I even looked up their stats before we came here so I could keep up!"

Your dad folded his arms, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I thought we had something, Drew."

"I—Mr. Y/L/N—I mean, sir—I promise, I'm not lying!" Drew's voice grew more frantic, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

When your dad turned back to the game with a dramatic sigh, Drew leaned over to you. "What's going on?" he whispered.

You shrugged innocently. "I don't know what you mean."

The final straw came later that night when you were all sitting around the kitchen island, enjoying dessert.

"Mom," you said with a sigh, "Drew said he's still hungry. He wants you to make him something else."

Drew nearly choked on his forkful of pie. "What?! No, I didn't!"

Your mom gave him a sweet but pointed smile. "Well, Drew, if you don't like the pie, I suppose I could whip something else up for you."

"I love the pie!" Drew insisted, looking panicked. "I never said that! Y/N, why are you doing this?"

You shrugged again, fighting the urge to burst out laughing.

When your parents finally went their separate ways—your dad retreating to the living room and your mom heading upstairs to fold laundry—Drew cornered you in the kitchen.

"Okay," he said, crossing his arms. "What is going on?"

"What do you mean?" you asked, feigning innocence.

"Don't give me that," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You've been throwing me under the bus all day. First the cooking thing, then football, now this? I swear I didn't say any of those things!"

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Hmm, maybe you did, and you just don't remember."

"Y/N," Drew said firmly, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice now. "Are you messing with me?"

Before you could answer, your parents reappeared in the doorway, both looking serious.

"We need to talk," your dad said, crossing his arms.

Drew paled. "About what?"

"About all these things Y/N's been saying," your mom added. "We just want to know if there's something you need to get off your chest."

"I—I don't know what she's talking about!" Drew stammered, his hands flailing as he tried to explain himself. "I love your cooking, Ms. Y/L/N and sir, I love football, and I would never ask you to make me more food! I swear!"

That was it. You couldn't hold it in any longer. You burst out laughing, doubling over as tears streamed down your face. Your mom quickly followed, and even your dad cracked a smile.

Drew stared at you all, realisation dawning on his face. "Wait... this was a prank?!"

"It was a TikTok trend!" you gasped, clutching your stomach. "I had to try it!"

Your mom patted Drew on the shoulder. "We're sorry, Drew. It was all in good fun."

He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "I can't believe you all ganged up on me."

"You've pulled worse pranks on me," you reminded him, wiping your eyes.

"Fair point," he admitted, pulling you into a playful headlock. "But don't think you're getting away with this. I'm going to get you back."

"I'd like to see you try," you teased, grinning up at him.

As Drew laughed along with your parents, you couldn't help but think how lucky you were to have someone who fit so seamlessly into your family—even if he was already plotting his revenge.

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was such an adorable one :’)) i really hope you enjoyed it my lovely !!

i’m still trying to figure out a master list, so fingers crossed i’ll have it up tonight !! but for now, you can click on my personalised tags to access my fics <3

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated !! <3

[mygnolia]

to weave my love ⭒ n. riki [TEASER]

⭒ SYNOPSIS -› Riki is good at many things- dancing, making fun of his friends, playing it cool (debatable.), Hell- he’s even good at saving people from falling buildings without getting whiplash. But the things he’s bad at? Well, it’s asking you out to prom, and trying to balance the shared assignment he has with you…while being Spider-man.

⭒ PAIR -› spiderman!nishimura riki x fem-pres!reader

⭒ GENRE -› fluff, banter, comfort ⭒ TROPES -› classmates to lovers, idiots to lovers ⭒ WC -› 6-10k (est.)

⭒ RELEASE DATE -› IT'S HEREEEEEEEE YAYYYY

⭒ REN SAYS... spiderman niki is a need hes so cute i love riki sm 😕🫵 also poll voted for this and tbh i just wanna write downbad riki LOLZ | LIBRARY

“God, I don’t think you can look at her any more down bad than you already do right now.” Jake picks at his food, and despite his concentration directed towards the olives on his pizza, he’s able to dodge the flying loaded nacho that goes his way, even if he wasn’t the one with superpowers.

“Can you shut up?” Riki grumbles, laying his head on his arms as he watches you smile and point to something. “I just got pummeled into a semi truck last night. Let me have this before I die in a week.”

“Very grim,” his friend notes, ruffling the younger’s hair. “I think this is exactly what all of those mental health assemblies that we get are for.” And Riki basically tunes him out, too tired to fight and too used to the teasing remarks to come up with anything useful in response.

Riki sits up a bit, letting his head rest on his propped elbow as he looks at the school food and touches another nacho gingerly. “Y’know, I read the book for English so she wouldn’t think I’m an idiot.”

His friend snickers, successfully pulling out yet another sliced olive from the cheese, much to the disgust of Riki. “She probably already thinks you’re an idiot.”

The superhero debates throwing another cheesy nacho in Jake's face, before deciding to eat it instead. “Don’t say that asshole! You make it seem like I have no chance with her.”

Jake shoots him an exasperated look that makes Riki break eye contact. “That’s because you don’t.”

“I’ll prove to her that I’m worth her time.” Riki says somewhat wistfully, still stealing glances from a few tables away. “Maybe I’ll ask her out to prom, show up to her balcony in my suit. Do that cheesy upside kiss shit people say Spiderman does.” When his friend raises an eyebrow at him, Riki shrugs. “I will! Well-maybe not the Spiderman thing, but prom definitely.”

Jake continues to look at him unconvinced as he takes a bite out of a slice of pizza with mangled cheese. “You barely talk to her in class and you think you can ask her out to prom as Nishimura Riki?” And the younger grins, his eyes still stuck on how your eyes crinkle and how your shoulders shake with laughter.

“Yup.” And his fate is sealed, just like that.

“Are you going to prom, Riki?” Is the first thing you ask when he sits down, grabbing his book and laptop with a little too much enthusiasm.

“I’m thinking about it.” Yeah- whatever confidence he had 37 minutes ago really isn’t serving him well in this moment, because frankly, Riki feels lame as ever trying to be nonchalant around you. “You?”

“I’d have to set up, so I would be there, yes. But whether or not I have a date is another story.” You smile to lighten the mood, but Riki watches you and nods, focusing back on signing into his laptop and getting his notes.

“Well, you’re not the only single one here.” And he wants to reprimand himself for saying something without thinking. “If someone asked, would you say yes?”

You think about it, really- because you don’t really have anyone in mind when it comes to prom if Riki’s not planning on going. “It’d have to someone I know- someone I talk to somewhat regularly. I’d be nice to be with someone who doesn’t make it awkward.”

Nishimura Riki might die from overthinking if he keeps wondering whether or not he fits that description to a tee.

RIKI'S TO-DO LIST BEFORE PROM ☐ talk to ____ regularly ☐ don't make it awkward ☐ be..cute?

THERE IS NO OFFICIAL TAGLIST FOR THIS FIC, join my perm taglist to be notified when this fic comes out!

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[hoshifighting]

i love your college fling writings sm aaaa (*≧∀≦*)!! begging on hands and knees for college fling jun 🙏 esp if he’s a bit more on the dom side

college fling!jun

WARNINGS: smut, bio!genius jun, clit stimulation, oral (f. receiving), cock riding, a little dom!jun, non-established relationship.

it’s a thursday afternoon, the sort of day where the mood smells like cheap cafeteria food and half-assed desperation, ‘cause exams are coming and no one knows shit. you’re slouched over your bio notes in the library, chewing the end of your pen like it owes you some kind of lamp genie, and then boom—in struts college fling!jun.

college fling!jun, who hates the college lockers so much he straight-up just carries all his books around like some kind of over-prepared, slightly chaotic mule. deadass, his backpack looks ready to burst, and you’re already side-eyeing it, wondering how many goddamn textbooks one man could possibly need.

“you okay there?” he plops down across from you, hair slightly messy, and there’s this little grin playing at his lips. why’s he gotta look so cute when you’re on the brink of a mental breakdown?

“nah, i’m actually about to file for emotional bankruptcy,” you mutter, flipping through your notes like the answers are gonna manifest themselves through sheer panic. “you done with the bio assignment?”

college fling!jun, shy-but-funny, lowkey-genius college fling!jun, tilts his head and smirks. “you need help?”

you blink. “you know bio?”

“do i know bio?” he scoffs, dragging your notebook closer like you personally insulted him. “sit back, y/n.”

next thing you know, he’s rattling off answers about cell division and DNA replication like he’s reading straight outta the textbook, except better, ‘cause he’s throwing in jokes about mitochondria being the “bad bitch” of the cell world. who even is this man?

college fling!jun, who spent half the semester cracking dumb jokes about your prof’s comb-over, suddenly explaining concepts better than the professor himself? unreal.

“wait, wait,” you interrupt, pointing at a diagram. “so, like, the nucleus is just… chilling in the middle, bossing everyone around?”

he grins, leaning in closer, and damn, his perfume smells too good for a guy who looks like he only owns three hoodies. “exactly. it’s like me at a group project—doesn’t do much, but still gets credit.”

“i hate you,” you snort, but you’re laughing anyway, and somehow your brain is actually clicking with the material.

college fling!jun, who makes studying feel like less of a slow, painful death.

later, as you’re packing up, he scratches the back of his neck, looking all shy again, and it’s such a whiplash from confident bio-genius jun that you almost laugh. “uh, so… you wanna grab coffee or something? you know, as a reward for surviving bio?”

you raise an eyebrow. “this isn’t you trying to weasel into my project group again, is it?”

“what? no,” he says, but he’s grinning, and you already know he’s lying.

college fling!jun, who probably would try to scam his way into your group, but makes it so damn endearing you’d let him anyway.

it’s late—like, stupid late. the kinda late where your brain feels like it’s melting into a puddle of useless mush. you and jun are on the floor of your dorm, the carpet rough under your knees, surrounded by markers, cut-out letters, and one very sad excuse for a poster board. everyone else dipped like two hours ago, muttering something about “early classes” and “not wanting to lose brain cells”—like, rude much? but jun stayed.

college fling!jun, who’s now sitting cross-legged with his sleeves pushed up, forearms all veiny as he’s meticulously lining up the title letters.

“you’re actually kinda good at this,” you say, crawling closer on your knees, one hand pushing your hair back as it flops into your face. you’re half-joking, but also… not? like, his focus is insane.

he glances up, smirking. “you doubted me?”

“uh, yeah?” you deadpan, sitting back on your heels. “you’re the guy who brought a backpack full of biology books to a history lecture. forgive me for not immediately trusting your poster skills.”

he snorts, shaking his head as he smooths down a corner of the title. “at least I came prepared.”

“prepared for what? a different class?”

“y/n,” he says, tone mock-serious as he leans back on his hands, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

that shuts you up for a second. the compliment—casual, like he didn’t just drop it in the middle of a roast session—has you blinking. you recover quick, though, because if college fling!jun is good at anything, it’s teasing, and you’re not about to let him have the upper hand.

“yeah, yeah,” you say, waving him off as you grab a marker and doodle a little star in the corner of the poster. “you keep saying that, but I haven’t seen you make a move yet. scared?”

his eyes flick to yours, and there’s this little glint in them that makes your stomach flip. “scared? of you?”

“yes, actually.”

he laughs, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you now—like he’s considering something, weighing it. you’re close—closer than you realized, kneeling in front of him while he’s still sitting, one hand resting casually on his thigh.

“come here,” he says.

you tilt your head. “why?”

he leans forward, just a little, until you’re close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. “because I said so.”

there’s a challenge in his tone, and you’re not one to back down. so, you shuffle closer, knees brushing against his as you sit back on your heels again. “happy now?”

he hums, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to memorize every detail. “getting there.”

“jun,” you start joking, half-something-else-entirely, but before you can finish, his hand slides up to cup your jaw, fingers warm against your skin as he leans in and kisses you.

he’s waiting for you to push him away. but you don’t. instead, you kiss him back, your hands finding their way to his shoulders, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you.

and then… well, the guy’s got skills. his lips move against yours with this easy credit, and when his tongue flicks out to trace the seam of your mouth, you can’t help the little noise that escapes you. he takes that as encouragement, deepening the kiss until you’re dizzy, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you try to keep up.

college fling!jun, who’s apparently really, really good with his mouth.

you pull back just enough to catch your breath, your forehead resting against his as you both try to steady yourselves. “okay,” you say, voice a little breathless, “so you’re not scared.”

he laughs, low and soft, his hand still cradling your jaw. “nope. but you might be.”

before you can ask what he means, he’s kissing you again, harder this time, and then his hands are on your hips, pulling you into his lap like it’s nothing easier than that. you go willingly, settling against him as your hands find their way into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your mouth.

you’re both a little frantic now, hands wandering as the kiss turns messy, desperate. his fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, skimming over your skin and leaving a trail of heat in their wake. you shiver, pressing closer, and he takes the opportunity to mouth at your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

“jun,” you moan, and it’s enough to make him pause, pulling back just enough to look at you.

“umm... so do you…”

you nod before he can even finish the question, your hands tugging at his shirt in answer. he grins, and then he’s helping you pull it off, tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.

college fling!jun, who’s skinny but stupidly cut, all lean muscle and sharp lines that you can’t help but trace with your fingers as he kisses you again.

“your turn,” he murmurs against your mouth, his hands already tugging at the hem of your shirt. you lift your arms, letting him pull it off.

“you’re so…” he starts, but then he shakes his head, like words aren’t enough. instead, he leans in, kissing you again as his hands explore, mapping out your chest, by pinching your nipples

things blur after that—when he finally settles between your thighs, his lips trailing kisses down your stomach, you think you might actually lose your marbles.

college fling!jun, who’s apparently a goddamn expert when it comes to going down on you. his tongue swinging your clit to the sides just to suck it all right after. your fingers are tangled in his hair, and you even feel pity about his scalp. he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming inside his mouth—you last minutes by the way—, your back arching off the floor as you cry out, your other hand holding a highlighter that you've found on the floor and decided that would be your stress ball.

and then he’s kissing his way back up your body, touching your hand to release the poor highlighter before it explodes in your hand. as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “still think I’m scared?” he teases and you don’t even have the energy to come up with a clever reply.

college fling!jun, who’s cocky as hell but more than backs it up.

you pull him down for another kiss, your hands fumbling with the waistband of his sweatpants as you shift your hips, sinking down onto his lap. the stretch is dizzying. u hear your blood flow through your ears with the immediate sink, making your head spin as he grips your hips,.

college fling!jun who twitches every time you circle your clit as you ride him. the little gasps he lets out are addictive, this stuttered rhythm of groans and whines that have you clenching around him just to see how he’ll react.

“uhm—hands to yourself.” he chokes out, his head tilting back, exposing the long line of his neck, his adam apple bobbing up and down. you take advantage, leaning forward to press kisses there, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat against your lips. his hands tighten on your waist, his thighs flexing under you as he buck his hips up into you as a warning.

“j-jun,” you stammer, breath hitching as you shift, grinding down, making wet shots reach his ears, his head snaps up, eyes dark and glassy as they lock onto yours.

“you like that?” he rasps, his chest heaving as he fights to keep himself together. “‘cause i… i love watching you like this, pretty.”

college fling!jun, who moans loud enough to embarrass himself but is too lost in the feeling of you to care. his grip on you tightens as you find a rhythm. his noises grow louder, needier, every time you roll your hips, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tighten as he gets closer, he always punishing you a little for teasing him, a pinch on your clit, a bite on your neck, a slap on your ass.

“y/n,” he groans, his voice shaking, and you’re right there with him, your own climax building as you reach down between your bodies, your fingers brushing against your clit again. the added sensation has you gasping, and he twitches inside you, his hands pulling you down hard against him as he lets out a broken moan.

“you’re so… gorgeous, fuck!” he mutters, his words slurred, and that’s all it takes for you to cum, your body fluttering as you cry out his name. the sound of it seems to tip him over the edge, his grip on you tightening as he follows, his body shaking beneath you as he spills inside you.

college fling!jun who collapses back onto the carpet, dragging you down with him, his arms wrapping around your ass, letting his hands lazily squeeze the meat there.

it’s like nothing happened when you two go to the college hallways to finish the project. when actually, everything happened all at once. jun’s sitting at the edge of your desk, eating one of your granola bars like he didn’t have you trembling in his lap just hours ago. you’re pretending to focus on your laptop, but your mind’s stuck on how his hair’s still a little messy and his shirt’s on inside out—your fault, obviously.

“what’s with the face?” he asks, mouth half-full, grinning like he knows exactly what’s with the face.

“you didn’t even ask before raiding my snacks,” you say, aiming for annoyed but landing somewhere near flustered.

“c’mon, you owe me,” he teases, leaning closer. “all that… effort? you’re lucky i’m still standing.”

you glare at him, but your face burns. “junhui, shut up.”

college fling!jun, who bites his lip to stop himself from laughing but ends up chuckling anyway, stupidly cute as he swings his legs. you’re about to throw a pen at him when he leans over and kisses your temple.

and that’s how it is now. he’s still jun—still the guy who hoards biology notes and carries all his books like the lockers are his mortal enemy—but there’s this… nerves now, this implicit thing hanging between you. like, when he’s explaining something in class, leaning over your desk, his voice low in your ear, and you’re trying not to think about how those same lips were on your pussy just a few nights ago. or when he slides into the seat next to you during study group, his knee brushing yours, and you glance at him, only to catch him already looking at you with that knowing smirk.

college fling!jun, who’s casual as hell in public but pulls you into empty classrooms when no one’s around, his hands already under your shirt as he kisses you like he’s been dying to all day.

it’s worse at night, though. he texts you at random hours, shit like, “you awake?” and “missed you today” with a dick pic coming right after, hard and dripping for you—like always. like he’s not gonna be in your bed an hour later, his hands sliding over your skin as he whispers your name.

“we’re so bad at this,” you tell him one night, lying tangled in his sheets, his arm thrown over your waist as he presses lazy kisses to your shoulder.

“bad at what?” he murmurs sleepy.

“keeping it casual,” you say, glancing back at him. “you’re always here, jun.”

he shrugs, pulling you closer. “maybe i like being here.”

college fling!jun, who’s starting to feel like more than a fling, but neither of you’s ready to say it out loud just yet. instead, you let it keep happening—the late-night visits, the stolen kisses between classes, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

and maybe you’re not ready to say it, but you’re definitely feeling it. especially when he shows up at your door with takeout and that stupid grin, saying, “figured you’d be hungry,” like he hasn’t already fed you twice today.

college fling!jun, who’s not so casual after all.

[randombush3]

DROGA

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Based on Droga - Mora, C. Tangana

I apologise for any whiplash experienced while reading this x

[…]

The sea breeze whispers through the open doors of Alexia’s room in this year’s off-season villa, curtains billowing as though they are gently signalling her to get on with her day.

She groans when she wakes up alone.

She hasn’t yet grown accustomed to that.

With groggy eyes and blurred thoughts, as she sits up, the only thing that comes to mind is you. Last year. Italy and beautiful memories in that suite. A balcony that wasn’t as private as you had decided.

She smiles. She frowns.

If it were up to her, she’d do it all again. “Fuck Ibiza,” she’d say, and book somewhere for the two of you. She would get to know you once more, close the chasm that ruptured your relationship.

“Alexia!” Someone is shouting her name from outside. Probably Jenni, already in a bikini, halfway to drunkenness despite the sun still lingering in the east. “Alexia-a!”

“¿Qué quieres?” she barks back, wincing at the tension in her tone. She told herself she would be cool. Adaptable. Even if the roof has been blown off her house of love and only the skeleton is left.

Alexia shakes her limbs as though the pricks on her insides will disappear. Methodically, she prepares herself to have fun. She will have fun. She’s fine.

Jenni and Leila. It’s Jenni and Leila who ruin her mood.

As she has already reassured herself, she’s fine. But now she’s drunk. And she’s thinking — thinking about things. You, mostly. What happened. How it was entirely accidental on her part.

She didn’t give you her heart. It was a robbery. Stolen by smashing down walls and sweet-talking her into staying the night and going on dates and falling love. Alexia didn’t do love before you. Drunk-Alexia declares to Jenni and Leila that she will not be doing love after you, either.

“You’re still in love with her,” Leila says, eyes glistening under the warm string-lights draped across the imaginary walls of the villa’s patio. Her smile is encouraging. Satisfied.

Alexia is shaking her head. “But if I saw her with someone else”—she’s still disagreeing at this point—”I’d make a scene.”

“Oh, surprise, surprise,” Jenni drawls.

The laughter comprises of only two voices.

Much later, when drunk-Alexia has forced water down her throat and, when that didn’t quite fix her wobbling vision and hazy bad ideas, two fingers, she stumbles into the bed she commenced this miserable day in. Still alone. Still fine.

Still tossing and turning as if she might replicate the feeling of your body beside hers.

Still talking to herself, because her thoughts don’t quiet even though she has no one to share them with.

When Jenni shouts at her from the next room (“SHUT UP, ALE!”), she accepts the prompt to embark on her next step to bring herself closer to sleep.

Alexia, who scoffed at deep-breathing during her recovery and despises the inertia of yoga, meditates.

And it doesn’t fucking work.

Perdona la hora

It’s the first text she has sent you in three weeks. Perhaps it is pathetic that she hasn’t even lasted a month without you.

You read the message instantly.

You don’t reply. She doesn’t really know what to say past sorry.

The pain doesn’t get better. Alexia considers investing in pharmaceuticals — only some miracle drug could fix this.

You’re driving her wild and you’re not even here. No, you left. The absence is felt.

Your lingering presence is loathed.

Three dots appear as she continues to stare at the violation of post-break-up etiquette she couldn’t help but resign to.

Hola…

You must have spent a long time thinking about what to say. She’s comforted by the idea of you struggling just as much as she is. She is obviously more fine than you. So she’s winning. Even if she didn’t get a choice to participate in this competition.

Ibiza passes then. Almost in the blink of an eye.

On the final night, they get her drunk again and she calls you. “Try it with me again, even if it doesn’t last long.” She’s begging. She never does that.

“Alexia,” you warn. Your voice is hoarse. She must be upsetting you.

“I don’t want to look for you in other people,” she confesses.

You close your eyes.

“Please don’t say that.”

“But I mean it.”

“She means it,” chimes in an equally-hammered Leila.

You wince at how your ex’s friends are mocking her. You wince again when you catch yourself pitying your ex.

“Venga, vale.” Oh, that sounds like Jenni, although her tone is unusually responsible. “Say sorry for the late call, Ale.” You catch a murmured apology down the line.

“It’s fine, Jenni.”

Jenni chuckles, but this is separate from anything else you’ve been subjected to for the past twenty minutes.

“Have a nice evening,” she replies.

You’re free after that. Lying alone in your bedroom, boxes packed up and stacked in the corner. The ceiling is dull and grainy as your eyes slowly lose focus. You will yourself to sleep but the aching in your chest won’t let you float away.

In a month’s time, you will no longer feel this way. You’ll be somewhere else — somewhere free and new and exciting. You’ll meet someone else.

You solidify the mantra in your mind. You march around Barcelona with the promise silently playing on repeat. Your final days in the city are carried out with the enthusiasm of a dilapidated merry-go-round.

“You’re a pessimist,” is what your best-friend labels you as she chains you to her on her overly extensive shopping trip. “Or a nihilist.”

“I just no longer give a fuck.”

Her lips press tightly together. Then she looks you up and down.

“Mhm.” It’s not a sound that a convinced person would make. “You know, you’re allowed to admit you’re sad.”

“I’m the one who wanted it,” you protest. You’re not sure why you are arguing.

“I mean…” She trails off and doesn’t finish her sentence. You glare.

You know what she wants to say.

“Go on.”

“No, no,” she insists with a smirk. Perhaps this is a trap.

“No. Say what you wanted to say.”

Your firmness makes her laugh. Ridiculed, you turn your back and bless a rack of linens with your attention instead. She can fuck off with her truths and assumptions and oddly perceptive advice.

“She’s angry,” says Alba at the dinner table, fingers rubbing the dents in the wood she herself had made as a child in this very house.

Alexia looks up from her plate. Her mother has been alert to this impending topic since they all sat down for dinner, but she delays her intervention, awaiting a response from her eldest child.

The women hear a loud gulp. “How do you know that?” It’s sharp. Cutting. Alexia’s investment is poorly veiled.

“I saw her the other day. With a woman.”

“What did she look like?”

Alba thinks for a moment, trying to recollect details that really were just meant to provoke. She probably should have expected an interrogation so that’s on her. When she remembers, she says, “brunette. Small. Pija, I don’t know.”

“Her friend.”

Alba raises an eyebrow at her sister’s firmness. “Anyway, yeah. I saw her with her friend or whatever. She looked bummed the fuck out. And kind of… bored.”

“Sad and bored?” Alexia could jump for joy at this very moment.

She’s so winning.

She doesn't need to invent a drug because maybe you’ll do it before her.

You performed some kind of witchcraft on her, she has concluded in recent days; you put a spell on her. Perhaps you had read about it. You were always reading.

You remind her of a dog who always runs away but goes straight home when it is finally set free.

She should resent it, but she feels mildly inclined to remind you what it feels like to be close to each other. Plus, she’s not sure anything else will blunt the knife piercing through her chest.

Perdona la hora

Her teeth sink into her lip as she sees her message go through.

Otra vez, she adds.

She imagines you must be more reluctant to read it now that you have no certainty regarding her alcohol intake.

Hola Alexia

Something like disappointment settles in her gut.

K quieres?

Alexia signed her way into this without reading the small print.

No sé — typed out hesitantly.

Three dots appear. It’s as if you can see her burning alive and are finding even more cans of fuel to douse her in.

Your response is a statement. A deflection.

You called me

Alexia could make a thousand excuses. She settles on ‘I was drunk’. She cannot bring herself to explain the truth.

You begged, you text back, instantly. You said “try it with me again”

This could be an addiction. She’s never satisfied. She never will be — not when it comes to you.

Well I still mean it.

You take a long time to even start typing. She rolls over onto her side, tucking her elbows into her stomach and bringing her phone closer, as if examining it with care will provide solutions for unspoken problems.

You left without saying goodbye: Alexia wants to say that, to send the message she has already typed out. It’s hardly productive but it means a lot to her. If you knew the impact your stupid fucking breakup text has had on her life this last month… well, maybe you’d at least grant her the mercy of no longer replying to her.

Alexia doesn’t even know why the hell she’s texting you right now in the first place.

You type. You stop. You restart.

You bite your lip and kick at your duvet, suddenly far too hot under the covers.

You sigh and you delete a word.

You type some more.

You take a deep breath.

Then come here.

You both know that she will.

[hahaifolded]

We Want You: Ghoap x POC!FemReader (Masterlist) Summary: After getting to know you, the newest member of the 141, Simon "Ghost" Riley and Johnny "Soap" MacTavish realize that they want to make their little duo a trio. However, will the two be successful in reeling you in? Chapter 1: Date Night (Next) Chapter Summary: During their weekly date night, Johnny and Simon have a relationship-altering conversation. Warnings: MDNI, Slight Angst

Johnny felt sick to this stomach. How does he do this? How does he tell the love of his life that he’s falling for someone else? 

He didn’t mean to. God knows he loves Simon way too much to just throw that all away for a small infatuation. But after months of working with you and getting to know you, he knew it wasn’t just a small crush.  

It’s so similar to what he felt when he started to fall for his Lieutenant. 

And poor Johnny didn’t think it was possible for his heart to beat so fast at the mere thought of someone else. He was convinced that Simon was it. That’s all he needed. 

However, here he is, waiting for his boyfriend of years to arrive to their weekly date-night spot to break the shocking news. His leg bounced with nerves. As much as Johnny didn’t want to have this conversation, he knew it was necessary for the future of their relationship… well, if there’s still a relationship after this. 

“Sorry for the wait. Fuckin’ rookies took forever to clean up today,” groans Simon as he flops into the booth. He takes Johnny’s hand and gives it a quick kiss before shooting him a dopey smile. “How was your day?”

Stressful. Horrible. Just the worst day ever.

“Fine.”

And with that, the date starts like it always does. A waiter comes by and asks the pair if they’re interested in hearing tonight’s specials, knowing full well that the two will order the same thing. After their order is taken, they recount their day to the other. Much to Johnny’s dismay, Simon brings you up and happily shares how helpful you were with the rookies. 

“She’s a natural. Glad you convinced me in giving her a shot,” admits Simon. Oh the irony - the same person that Ghost was so hesitant in accepting in the team is the very same person that has his boyfriend in a trance. Johnny isn’t sure what’s worse: that he’s falling for someone else or that he’s falling for you, someone that Simon now trusts and respects. Whatever, it’s not like it really matters at this point, this is going to break his Lieutenant’s heart either way. 

So with his heart drumming in his ears, Johnny speaks up. “Simon, I need to tell you something.” Simon just cocks his head to the side, surprise apparent in his eyes for the sudden mood shift in his lover’s voice. Silence appears between the two for a bit before the sergeant breaks the dam.

What felt like hours but was actually a few minutes, Johnny tells Simon the truth. How he knew after Las Almas, Simon had his heart and that its still his and will always be his if he wants it. But, now, he can no longer ignore the way his heart soars when you look at him or how it flutters when you say his name. How he’s enamored by your strength and loyalty to both this team and to yourself. How he knows this is wrong and has even tried suppressing these feelings, but with every passing day, they just get stronger and stronger. And how he doesn’t know what he wants exactly but knows that Simon deserves to know and decide whether he wants to fix this.

“… so if you want to end things with me, I wouldn’t blame you.” Johnny immediately looks down, scared to see his lover agree to that. “Just don’t take this out on her. She has no clue.” With eyes glued to the floor, Johnny waits with baited breath for Simon’s answer. 

Which comes in the shape of a… heavy sigh of relief first. 

“I’m so glad you said something first.” 

“What?” Johnny snaps his head up, nearly causing himself whiplash. Simon shoots him a nervous smile before clearing his throat. 

“I’ve also been struggling with some… unexpected feelings for her,” the Lieutenant admits. Johnny just stares at Simon as a million feelings swirl in his heard. Firstly, jealously, which he knows is hypocritical of him, as his boyfriend just admitted of having feelings for the same person he has feelings for. Relief also accompanies the former as Simon didn’t outright just end things. And lastly, excitement as you’re not as unattainable as he thought. 

However, before Johnny can respond, a waiter reappears with the couple’s plates. With their dinner in front of them, neither speaks, almost too nervous to consider what comes next. 

— — — 

After dessert, the pair opts to walk through town for a change a scenery and hopefully a surge of courage to continue this conversation.

Especially Simon since he so wants to continue this conversation. For so many years, Simon didn’t think love was a possibility for him. He thought he was cursed to live just to die, but when Johnny pursued him, he realized that maybe he is worthy of being loved after all. 

And with your arrival, life was showing him that he is capable of so much more love. 

Therefore, not wanting to regress on his journey, he steers Johnny towards a bench to continue the conversation.

“So what do you want to do?” Now Simon is the nervous one.

Without giving the Brit a chance to get in his head, Johnny grabs one of Simon’s hands and gives it a light kiss. “I want to continue living this life I have with you.” And that’s okay with Simon. Despite your warmth and kindness calling to him, the Lieutenant can enjoy it at a distance. If that is what his boyfriend wants, then that’s what he—

“But I also want this… with her and you.” Johnny’s soft declaration breaks Simon from his thoughts. They both look at each, adoration and excitement radiating from their bodies. They both lean in and share a gentle kiss. Johnny stands up and cheers with joy. Simon just watches on with amusement. 

While there’s no question that he loves Johnny now, in the beginning, it was hard pill for Simon to swallow. It took him awhile to accept that he deserved someone with so much joy like Johnny. Now, after years of Johnny reassuring him that he deserves good things in life, Simon couldn’t help but feel like a schoolboy right now. For the first time, his feelings aren’t being held back by his own insecurities. All he wants to do now is hold you both and show the world that Simon Riley, the man who went to hell and back, is the proud lover of not one but two angels on Earth. He wants you and Johnny and he wants you both now.

“Let me call her so we can—“

“Woah, woah, woah there!” Johnny rushes to Simon’s side and stops him from grabbing his phone. “We can’t just tell her.”

“Why not?” Simon was taken aback by Johnny’s hesitation. He’s never been one to shy away from his feelings. Simon would know as his sergeant made it very apparent from day one that he liked the brooding giant. 

“Cause what if she doesn’t like us like that and we just make things weird between the team?” Johnny says like its the most obvious thing in the word.

Simon stays quiet as his lover has a point. You have been a great addition to the team. If he or Johnny messes that up just because they jumped the gun, Price and Kyle would for sure have their heads. 

Not wanting to leave Simon hanging, Johnny rests his head on Simon’s shoulder and suggests a game plan. “One of us should test the waters. You know, butter them up and see if they interested. If you want, you can—“

“It should be you.” Simon knows his truth and the truth is that between the two of them, you’re much more comfortable around the Scotsman than him. Although you get along with everyone on the team, there seems to be an invisible barrier between you and Ghost, probably a remnant from the initial disdain that Ghost had for you in the beginning, something that Simon greatly regrets now. 

Johnny playfully smacks Simon’s thigh and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t be like that. She likes you.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t joke with me like she does with you.”

“That’s because she respects you way too much… no clue why.” That last part comes out as a mumble, but Simon hears it either way which prompts him to grab his Scottish lover from the scruff of his neck in joyful retaliation. They both laugh at their childish antics, relieving the tension of this entire night. A comfortable silence settles between them as the reality of the situation finally sank in. 

If all goes well, this duo might become a trio.

Word Count: 1461

Masterlist - Next

Author's Note: Very excited to put this idea in words! Had so much writing this first chapter. Hope y'all will enjoy this ride with me.

[itsastrobixch]

Astrology notes

- gemini / mercury / uranus / aqua change their identity a lot online. They place a lot of importance on their online identity and as they change so does their online personas.

- Mercury dominance if well placed Learnt to talk very early and saturn mercury aspects learnt to speak a bit late or may speak with a bit of hesitation.

- chiron in 1st have deep rooted identity issues and may also not be able to relax in photos and stuff. Some may even go to the extent of not wanting to take pictures at all.

- count yourself lucky if : air signs ask for your advice.. They don't ask option from everyone. Similarly if fire signs seek you out or show you their defeated side and depressed side. They Always want people to seem them as optimistic fiery and determined but like evryone they too go through down times but they tend to bounce back faster than others.

- Mercury saturn or Mercury rx may have great conversations with themselves in their heads but when it comes out it night miss the mark or.. Like not sound as good as it did in their brains.

- all mercury /gemini dominants open 3 to 5 tabs at the same time. And don't finish a single one completely. Change my mind.

- moon pluto tumultuous emotions. Whiplash. One extrene or the other. Mood changes just with a single event. The whole room can feel the shift as well. Moon and Pluto both give out unstable, watery and intense emotions. It can be difficult if negatively aspected. Even if positively aspected it can lead to the feeling overwhelming emotions.

- People with pluto in 1st, their emotions are hidden. No one knows how they feel. Mostly i see geminis get all the credit for their glib tongues. But have you ever seen a Pluto person toy with people when they know they truth ? They'll lie so effortlessly that even the people who know the truth will start to believe the lie is the truth. Their words and their facial expressions while lying is so controlled and natural it's scary.

- Asteroid Cerea shows is how we nurture. Aries ceres is the defender of the group and people who tend to protect people who are defenseless esp animals. Taurus is the comforter. And so on. But aspects and the house in which Ceres is in also plays a major role.

- Uranus / gemini in 3rd house have lots of ideas at the same time but many are unfocused and evrything is gone in a fleet. They may have a brilliant idea but Lose it in the next second. It'll be better if they scribble down their thoughts anywhere somewhere so they'll have a basic idea of what they thought.

- I fucking admire Aries women, esp as a Libra, like how tf..? i used to have a friend, she used to do some pretty controversial shit in high school but like never once let anything get iin her way and is now a part time business woman...like come on...how are you so headstrong ? And somehow things also tend to workout for them

- every mutable person has a box full of drafts all half done and of various types but all undone. Its a mess of ideas and posts half written and lost interest and motivation along the way...but I'll save it for another day when I will want to finish it up.

- If an air sign texts you daily, they like you. Especially instant replies . 🌝

- scorpio, and Venus Pluto aspects also tend to fall for someone who is out of their grasp. they like to torture themselves like that 😂 or they'll think that they don't deserve the person they're in love with. Its Always one or the other with them.

- venus neptune contacts produce the devoted worshipper type lovers. They will worship the ground their love walks on and will turn a blind eye to their faults. This is most definitely not a healthy patter of behaviour. Please don't indulge in this.

- mercury dominants can't fucking shut their brain off. they have a lot of nervous energy. And will Always be actively thinking about atleast two things at once.

- actually now that i think about it, my bffs in high are an Aries sun, me a sag rising and my frnd a leo sun. and i still wonder why the girls didn't like us 😂🌝 if fire signs get together whether they stir up drama or not, it'll either find them or people will hold them responsible for it even if they aren't.

- gemini and Mercury dominants can imitate very well especially the accents. Their adpative ability is out of charts and a bit creepy tbh. how they change acc to people, how they acclimatise to their surroundings ax cultures, they have this ability which allows to be another person if they like.

- mars - pluto negative aspects may have r*pe dreams often even if they haven't had any such encounters.

- pluto in 1st are ironically afraid of death and illness more so than the usual person.

- 11th house sign may show how we behave online.

-geminins have this weird ability to take and soak up information from all over the place and somehow put it together perfectly . they learn stuff from disorderly messes but they seem to understand it with clarity.

[kikithekiwi19]

SUGARY SWEET!

Mark Grayson x Stocking Anarchy! Reader

Okay, just imagine Mark with a Stocking! reader makes me foam at the mouth. (Mark is a literal loser who enjoys being degraded by his girlfriend.)

You worked at the GDA as a part-timer since you were kicked out of heaven. They supplied you with ghosts and demons to kill, so you weren't complaining.

Mark heard rumors about your sugar obsession and fiery tongue, which could give anyone whiplash. Your sarcastic attitude was famed around the GDA, and it certainly didn't disappoint.

You guys didn't officially meet until he was called to the scene of a demon attack that turned ugly. He wasn't expecting to see you dancing on a pole made of holy light while you transformed.

His face blossomed to a pretty pink watching the sway of your hips against the pole, the new outfit curling against your body, pronouncing your curves.

A sweet smile tugging your lips as your provocative dance came to a close. Blades drawn and Mark painfully aroused at the display. Like, seriously, maybe there was a reason he hadn't encountered you before.

You fought swiftly, each strike calculated to a fine degree, and you danced across the battlefield with ease. Slaying the demon with one swoop.

Mark barely registered your stark approach to him, mind preoccupied with the blood rushing from his brain down to his crotch.

"Hey Dipshit! I could have used your help if you weren't floating around like a bitch!"

Now that was the famed, iron tongue he's heard so much about. He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. The switch-up from fierce seductress, striking down those caught by your charms, to a foul mouth bitch whos insults alone could make a grown man cry.

"Hey! I'm doing my job! Maybe be a little more careful of the civilians around you!"

You scoffed, "That's the job for you bigshots. I guess you wouldn't count since you keep getting your ass blown out by these low lifes."

Yeah, now he understood what everyone meant. Definitely not befitting of an angel.

Safe to say that the rumors were true. But, doesn't mean that he didn't try! Offering to take you out to your favourite dessert place anytime you guys are paired together. Even going as far as walking around with sweets just in case you're in a bad mood and need a little motivation.

The interactions between you two were never a bore. Mark's sure that your witty comebacks will never fail to bring a grin to his face. Even if they are mostly directed towards him.

"Hey cuntface, I needed you out there!"

"Stop flapping your lips, only stupid opinions ever leave them anyway."

"Don't talk to me until I've had my sugar."

Mark found your powers unique! It's not every day you meet a heavenly being.

"So your stockings turn into Katanas"

"Yep."

"All the demons and ghost you kill turn into coins so you can buy your way back into heaven?"

"Yes, Jesus Mark! Your giving me a lobotomy with all these questions."

No matter how worked up you got, he found it oddly endearing. When he actually asked you out, after months of hanging out, he was ecstatic when you said yes.

Dating was much different than your previous friendship. Except for the raked up PDA. You'd cling to his arm, pepper kisses along his face, and spew out less than appropriate things you'd do to him. Might have even performed your pole dance for him on a couple of occasions.

Mark wasn't any better, easily swayed by your charms. AKA you rubbing your cleavage up against him, leaving him as a flustered and horny mess. HE'S SUCH A LOSER

You guys are a literal power couple! Even with your odd quirks, Mark loves you through and through.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞. 𝐀𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭.

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐚/𝐧 : To all my crows—If you’ve been here a while, you know I usually haunt the angsty, aching, slow-burn corners of the fandom. Fluff? Domestic chaos? This is all new territory for me. But sometimes, the right prompt (and the right queen) can coax even a gloom-monger into the light.

So here’s my first real venture into soft moments and kitchen concerts. I hope you enjoy a singing, dancing MC, a teasing, unexpectedly-soft Sylus, and the kind of found family comfort that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

This was a big step out of my comfort zone, so please be kind in the comments—your support (and softness) means the world!

𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : For @someprettyname — Thank you, your majesty, for this delightfully fluffy prompt. Without you, this kitchen would be a lot quieter (and far less sparkly). This is yours.

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 to wander.

It started as just a walk—an excuse to stretch her legs, to shut up the static humming beneath her skin after sitting too long in a place that didn’t even echo her name, let alone remember it.

But Sylus’s mansion was never meant for soft things. Not for bare feet on chilled marble, or cotton pajama pants brushing against furniture that probably cost more than her entire existence. Every inch of the place screamed: You don’t belong here. With a very tasteful, very intimidating accent.

And honestly? She felt it. In her bones, in her lungs, in the careful hush of every step.

The hallway stretched ahead like something out of a villain’s Pinterest board—endless, empty, lined with faceless portraits and obsidian statues so shiny they probably judged you if you wore cheap mascara. Silver light puddled across the floor in cold, dramatic swaths, filtered through frosted windows that showed her absolutely nothing.

This place is a villain origin story waiting to happen, she thought. And I’m the idiot wandering into it in bunny slippers.

She almost laughed. Almost.

But the air was too still.

Behind her, the soft flutter of metal wings sliced through the quiet. Mephisto landed on the bannister with a delicate clink, his red optic blinking slow. Watchful. Patient. Judgy.

“You again,” she murmured, not bothering to turn. “Of course you’re the nosy one. You probably have spreadsheets.”

Mephisto, as expected, said nothing. But the crow tilted his head, mechanical feathers gleaming like razor-thin blades. She didn’t need words to feel his gaze settle along her spine—a second, silent heartbeat.

Weirdly enough, it was... comforting.

Like the house wasn't watching her anymore.

Someone was.

Not with suspicion. Not even with disapproval, which would've been understandable.

Just... interest. Measured. Curious. Maybe a little ominous.

She slowed, fingers trailing velvet-lined walls as she drifted deeper into the hush. She didn’t know where she was going—only that her pulse was finally calming down. That this—this strange, silent domesticity—felt more real than anything waiting outside these walls.

The fear didn't vanish.

But here, it was... negotiable.

As if the mansion, with all its sleek menace, had decided she might be worth tolerating. As if Mephisto had already logged her movements in some terrifying database labeled Potential Threat: Probably Harmless. As if Sylus—

Nope. Absolutely not.

She cut that thought off so fast it probably got whiplash.

She was still a guest here.

Still a girl in borrowed clothes and morally questinable slippers.

But when she glanced back and saw Mephisto trailing her—silent, loyal, and radiating mechanical judgment—she found herself smiling.

Just a little.

And kept walking.

She followed the corridor’s gentle curve, the floor cool beneath her feet, the air laced with the faintest trace of something botanical—expensive, rare, the kind of scent that whispered you’re underdressed. The light softened here, splintered through patterned glass that painted restless shadows across the walls like they were having a mood.

Mephisto perched on the edge of a side table, talons tapping out an erratic rhythm—half warning, half invitation. He was practically theatrical in his stillness: unblinking, overly dramatic, like a judge in a reality show no one signed up for.

She paused, glanced back over her shoulder, and smirked. “He’s not about to jump out from behind a curtain, is he?” Her voice was low, swallowed by the hush.

Even the security sensors seemed to lean in.

She spun on her heel, calling out, “Sylus? Are you lurking? Or did you finally decide to trust me not to set the place on fire?”

Her laugh slipped out, sudden and small—a startled sound she immediately pretended wasn’t hers.

She turned back to Mephisto, raising a brow. “You’d warn me, right? Blink twice if the twins are about to pop out and scare me into early retirement.”

Nothing. Just the soft, mechanical whir of Mephisto’s gears—a helpful reminder that she was never entirely alone, and never entirely not being judged by a bird with WiFi.

She dragged her palm along the back of a velvet chair, fingertips tracing unfamiliar swirls. It felt oddly intoxicating—unchaperoned, unsupervised, a tourist in a house built for control freaks and beautifully repressed secrets.

“Just you and me,” she murmured, voice warming, shrinking the room to something less vast and more… negotiable.

A hush settled. Not quite comfort—she wasn’t reckless—but almost. Closer than she’d been five minutes ago.

With a last conspiratorial look at Mephisto, she stepped into the light and warmth spilling from the next room. The kitchen—blessedly, miraculously—looked like it might have let someone human inside.

The kitchen was a revelation.

Amber lights crowned polished countertops, casting soft warmth over chrome and ceramic. The air hinted at citrus and something herbal, like a garden had once flirted with the windows and left behind a secret. It was the only room in the mansion that didn’t seem to mind a little clutter: a perfectly folded dish towel, a fruit bowl with exactly three apples, a single mug air-drying beside the sink—proof that someone, somewhere, had been here and survived.

She lingered at the threshold, part-thief, part-tourist, curiosity winning out over self-preservation. “I guess this is as close to normal as I’ll get,” she muttered, glancing back for Mephisto’s verdict.

He’d already claimed the highest cabinet, talons wrapped around the molding like a gargoyle at a black-tie gala.

She drifted to the refrigerator and pulled open the door, letting the cold rush over her like an interrogation light. Inside, everything was arranged with military precision: brand names she’d only seen on TV, more imported cheese than actual food, and a rainbow of jars so organized it was either genius or a cry for help. She stared, half-impressed, then plucked a pear and set it on the counter, grinning.

“You think he alphabetizes his condiments?” she whispered to Mephisto, like she was sharing state secrets.

The silence practically cheered her on.

Her confidence grew with every discovery: drawers lined with artisanal teas, a militant row of spice jars with intimidatingly perfect labels. “Of course he drinks white tea,” she scoffed under her breath. “Probably the kind that comes with a rulebook and a thermometer.” The knots in her shoulders began to unravel, replaced with the quiet thrill of snooping somewhere slightly forbidden.

She made a slow lap around the kitchen, poking at spice jars, lifting lids, seeing how much she could get away with before a robot army descended.

“All right, featherhead,” she called up, “I need your expertise. Are you a sous chef or more of a kitchen overlord? Because I don’t work for tyrants.”

Mephisto shifted, wings fluttering with all the enthusiasm of a disinterested judge.

She dropped into a theatrical bow, pear in hand. “Your Majesty, may I have your blessing to steal exactly one snack and promise not to poison your master in the process?”

No answer. But she could’ve sworn the angle of his head was a yes.

This time, her laughter lingered—a little brighter, a little more hers. In the gentle chaos of everyday life, her heart remembered how to settle.

For the first time since arriving, she felt almost safe.

Almost herself.

The quiet shattered—split by a low, traitorous grumble. Her stomach, voicing its concerns in no uncertain terms.

She blinked down, then glanced at Mephisto, who held his perch with the regal calm of someone who’d never skipped lunch. They exchanged a slow look: hers mildly accusatory, his forever inscrutable.

“Don’t give me that face,” she muttered. “You’re the one who made me forget I haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t vacuum-sealed or 90% caffeine in days.”

Her gaze slid to the pantry, then the fridge. She could’ve grabbed something quick—a handful of crackers, a wedge of terrifyingly expensive cheese—but it would’ve felt like stealing. Worse, it would have felt temporary.

She didn’t want a snack.

She wanted to cook.

“Alright,” she announced, clapping her hands like she’d just been handed her own Food Network special, striding to the countertop with all the misplaced confidence of someone about to burn water. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Mephisto cawed, sharp and judgy—a sound that said, Oh no, she’s serious.

She shot him a look. “Relax, Mephie. I’m not about to hack Sylus’s music archive unsupervised. I know how he gets with his precious things.”

But the kitchen had already started to melt into a lounge she’d previously avoided like a tax audit—walls in matte black, brass accents winking in the low light like secret agents. And there, in the far corner: the record wall.

She stopped. Whistled. Tried not to look like she wanted to marry the entire vinyl collection.

Floor to ceiling. LPs filed with such aggressive neatness it bordered on a kink. Jazz, classical, synthwave, operatic rock, imports in languages she’d need Google Translate just to insult. Each spine lined up like soldiers in a musical army, daring her to touch.

She drifted closer, fingers skating the spines. “I knew he was intense, but this…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, awe and mischief doing a duet. “This is serial-killer-level obsessive.”

Mephisto cawed again, the sound pure disapproval.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she sighed. “No breathing near the vinyl. Don’t even think too hard in their direction. But—” She paused at a battered sleeve. “He actually owns this?”

The record was worn at the corners—loved, not just collected. She slid it out, lips curving, nostalgia blooming for a memory she hadn’t lived.

“Oh, I definitely like him more now,” she told the bird, as if Mephisto was taking notes for a future roast.

She lifted the lid, set the record down with the reverence usually reserved for ancient relics and overpriced shoes, and dropped the needle. A heartbeat of crackle—then music, lush and golden, pouring into the room. The kind of song that demanded kitchen dancing and a reckless disregard for dignity.

She glanced at Mephisto, cranked the volume with a devil-may-care grin. “Hope your circuits are ready, because we’re doing this my way.”

The first beat dropped—crisp, insistent, absolutely not optional.

She felt it before she moved. Drums slipping under her skin, bass strutting in like it owned the lease, and suddenly the whole room felt like it belonged to her and her alone.

“Oh, this?” she called, eyebrows doing a victory dance. “This is what music is supposed to feel like, Mephie. Take notes.”

He lingered in the doorway, feathers bristling, optic blinking in a way that screamed, I regret everything.

She did not care.

Not with Amy Winehouse swirling through the air—silk, smoke, and heartbreak. Not when the rhythm took her hand and refused to let go. Not when, just for this moment, nothing belonged to Sylus, or the Hunters, or anyone who thought they could tell her how to be.

This moment belonged to her.

She spun, playfully reckless, toes sliding on cool tile, shoulders grooving to the beat. One hand claimed an invisible mic; the other thumped her thigh, mouthing lyrics with the confidence of someone who’d never met shame.

“Why don’t you come on over, Valery…” she crooned, dragging every syllable, gloriously off-key.

Mid-chorus, she spun, pointed dramatically at Mephisto—conductor summoning a deeply reluctant soloist.

“You going to flap a wing or what? No? Suit yourself, but you’re officially in the band.”

He didn’t budge. But for a second, she’d swear his optic squinted—a fine line between judgment and a tiny bit of ugh, fine, I’ll allow it.

“Come on!” she laughed, arms thrown wide, slicing the air. “This is peak music, my guy. Not dancing is basically illegal.”

The tempo soared. So did she.

Not literally, but in the way her body caught the horns, rhythm rolling through her hips and knees, her spine arcing with joy. Hair swinging, laughter bubbling—breathless, real, the kind you only set free when you finally, truly stop caring who’s watching.

No fear. No surveillance. No expectations.

Just music. Just movement. Just her.

And the echo of joy, blooming in a room that—until now—had probably thought “fun” was a security risk.

She glided back into the kitchen, hips swaying, beat urging her into a performance no one had requested—but one she desperately needed. She sang without a shred of shame, lyrics tumbling wild and loud from her lips, filling the cavernous space until it felt a little less like a luxury mausoleum.

With a flourish, she flung open the fridge. Tomatoes, basil, fresh pasta—she gathered them up, spinning toward the counter as if every ingredient had been choreographed. A jar of sauce, a hunk of cheese, a heroic fistful of garlic. She lined them up and delivered a deep, theatrical bow.

She snatched a spatula, twirled it like a baton, and pointed it straight at Mephisto. “Your solo, maestro,” she declared, matching her voice to the music’s drama.

And—miracle of miracles—Mephisto obliged. He cawed, sharp and perfectly on beat, then hopped from cabinet to counter, displaying that strange, mechanical grace only he could pull off. Every time she brandished the spatula his way, he responded on cue—an unlikely duet that dissolved her into helpless, infectious laughter.

The song faded; a new track flared to life—brass, synth, swagger: “Uptown Funk.” She whooped, unable to help herself, and kicked her dance into a higher gear. Shoulders popped, feet tapped, she shimmied past the stove like she’d been training for this her whole life, waving a box of pasta overhead like a victory banner.

A saucepan clattered onto the burner. Garlic hit the oil, sizzling, the air swelling with the scent of home she’d never had. She never stopped moving—spinning to chop basil, hair flying, spatula now her fearless microphone as she belted out every lyric, off-key and glorious, head tipped back in total abandon.

Mephisto watched, cawed again, wings flapping in a half-hearted attempt to keep up with the madness. She grinned, emboldened, hips swinging even more, letting herself dissolve into the music. Every chorus, she leaned in, spatula pointed at her unlikely backup singer. He never missed his cue.

She was everywhere at once—stirring sauce, salting water, tossing pasta with the casual confidence of someone who’d never been a guest. Flour streaked her wrist, sauce marked her cheek, a wild, reckless light igniting her eyes.

For the first time, she wasn’t a guest.

Not a captive.

Not a girl lost in someone else's fortress.

She was chaos incarnate, barefoot and divine—lips parted mid-lyric, apronless goddess conjuring a universe from steam and song. Every pot and pan a moon in her orbit. Gravity bowed to her, not the other way around.

And Sylus…

Sylus stood in the doorway, silent as a ghost, all sharp lines and softer shadows.

He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t clear his throat. His entrance was seamless, slipped in between bass lines and the golden haze of garlic and laughter. Now he leaned against the frame—one arm folded, the other draped loose, mouth curved in something gentler than a smirk.

A smile no one else ever saw.

Reserved. Unscripted. A secret shaped by her presence alone.

She hadn’t noticed him—not yet.

Too busy performing for the only audience that mattered: herself, and a crow with questionable taste.

The music swelled, brazen and bright. She answered it with her body—hips snapping, shoulders rolling, fearless and free. She bounded as the chorus demanded—dance, jump on it—dropping low and springing back up, joy unraveling in every line of her.

“If you sexy then flaunt it…”

The spatula jabbed at Mephisto, daring him to keep up.

“If you freaky then own it…”

She spun, breathless and beaming, surrendering to the moment, utterly unguarded.

And Sylus watched.

He watched the tumble of her hair, the dusting of flour on her temple, the clatter of a wooden spoon dropped and forgotten. The mess she made of his kitchen. The much greater mess she made of him.

He’d seen her composed. Cautious. Sharp.

But this—this was something else entirely.

This was softness, wild and unmade. Chaos with a beating heart. The raw, unfiltered version of her that bloomed only when she forgot to care who might be watching.

And gods, she was beautiful like this.

Not in the way he could protect. Not in the way he could teach, tame, or control.

But in the way that made him ache—to stand silent in the doorway, memorizing every untamed, radiant beat she spun through, already lost to her orbit and far too willing to stay there.

She spun mid-chorus, spatula raised in triumph, lips curled around the next lyric—

—and froze.

Her body stalled first. Then her breath. The words died, caught in a hush thick with shock. The music played on, gloriously oblivious.

He was there. Still leaning in the doorway, still watching—smirk deepening, lazy and devastating, stretched across his mouth like he had nothing but time. His eyes—red, amused, unblinking—had never left her.

They’d been there the whole time. Fixed. Steady. Impossible to ignore.

She stared. Spatula midair, hair stuck to her cheek, sauce bubbling behind her like a forgotten subplot.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

Then, louder, horrified and breathless: “How long have you—?”

Sylus pushed off the frame, arms unfolding with the kind of deliberate grace that should come with a warning label. “Long enough to consider selling tickets.”

A strangled sound escaped her—half squeak, half mortified groan, all dignity in retreat.

He stepped fully into the room, his presence sweeping away the last shadow of cold. “Tell me,” he drawled, voice pure velvet, “was that rehearsed? Or should I come back for the encore?”

Her cheeks caught fire. She tried, desperately, to salvage her dignity. “It was… not for you. Obviously. It was just—”

She flailed the spatula, as if she could swipe the memory away.

He arched a brow. “Your way of buttering up the bird?”

She spluttered, caught between laughter and outrage. “No, I was cooking. And vibing. Alone.” She shot a betrayed glare at Mephisto, who cawed—perfectly on cue—then preened like a theater critic after a standing ovation.

“Et tu, Mephie?” she groaned.

Sylus blinked. “Mephie?”

Her stomach dropped. “Oh god. Did I say that out loud?”

“You gave him a nickname.” He sounded genuinely scandalized. Then, with growing offense, “Where’s mine?”

She stared, deadpan. “Do you want one?”

“That depends.” His eyes were all secrets, mouth curving. “Does it come with a song and dance routine?”

She laughed—breathless, pink-cheeked, ruined in the best possible way. “Only if you bring your own spatula.”

He stepped closer—just a fraction, but everything felt different. Mischief still glinted in his eyes, but something softer simmered underneath, private and reverent, like a secret meant only for them.

She felt it: humming between them, threading through the quiet.

Something had changed.

Not just the air, not just the tension, and definitely not just the fact that she’d just given an impromptu kitchen concert while pasta boiled in the background.

It was the knowing. The being known.

And for once, it didn’t feel like she’d been caught.

It felt like she’d finally been seen.

Then the pot hissed.

Violently.

She jolted, eyes wide as the pasta water surged up in a steamy revolt, bubbling over and crashing onto the burner with all the fury of a kitchen crime scene.

“Shit—shit, no, no, no—”

She lurched for the stove, nearly tripping over her own feet, spatula abandoned mid-air. Mephisto cawed in protest, scandalized by the chaos.

Steam curled upward, warm and sticky against her cheeks as she scrambled to turn down the heat, muttering curses under her breath—none of which remotely matched the delicate melody still drifting through the kitchen.

Behind her, Sylus didn’t budge. He stood like a living sculpture—arms crossed, mouth quirked, one brow arched with glacial amusement.

“Is this part of the performance?” he drawled, his voice drier than the air outside N109.

She didn’t even look at him. “This is what happens when someone materializes out of nowhere and distracts the chef.”

“Ah.” He cocked his head, feigning deep thought. “So it’s a staged kitchen emergency.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, exasperated. “I was hungry. And I didn’t want anything vacuum-sealed or—what was it—science-project adjacent. So I made pasta. Like a normal person.”

“Mm.” His gaze lingered, intent, as if she were a puzzle that would solve itself if he watched long enough. “And the dancing?”

She stabbed at the noodles. “That was for morale.”

A beat passed. Then, quietly—his humor softened at the edges by something warmer: “Of course it was.”

He didn’t offer to help. Not yet. Just watched her—the way her shoulders loosened with every stir, the way she exhaled like she was finally figuring out how to breathe.

Steam rose between them, a shimmering veil—more charged than distant, more invitation than barrier.

Something had shifted.

Not quite close. Not quite far.

Just enough space for him to wonder how long she’d keep dancing when she thought no one was watching.

And how long it would take for her to let him join in.

He moved at his own pace—unhurried, unbothered, like he’d always belonged here. He slipped past her shoulder with barely a brush of fabric, rolling up his sleeves and baring skin she’d only glimpsed in stolen seconds. Light caught on the veins of his wrists, the old scar along his knuckle, the flex of tendon as he took the wooden spoon from her hand.

She clung to simple tasks: slicing tomatoes, stripping basil, listening to the sauce hiss and thicken. But she was acutely, almost painfully, aware of him—every movement amplified, every shared breath somehow heavier.

Sylus tasted the sauce, slow and deliberate. “You’re heavy-handed with the garlic,” he observed, lips quirking.

She shot him a glare that tried to be scathing, but ended up affectionate. “Maybe I like flavor. Not everyone’s a food snob.”

He feigned horror, brushing past her again—close enough that the heat of his arm sent goosebumps racing up hers.

Suddenly, their hands reached for the same jar of pepper. Her fingers grazed his—just a flicker, just enough to spark. She pulled back, hiding the jolt behind a soft scoff.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Relax. I don’t bite,” he murmured, his voice pitched just for her.

She nearly fumbled the grinder. “That’s not what the rumors say.”

Sylus’s mouth curved into a private smile—the kind reserved for empty rooms and, apparently, this kitchen. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

He added pepper with theatrical precision, glancing at her like he was challenging her to critique his style. She nudged him with her elbow—light, playful, the opening move in a game she’d only just realized she wanted to play.

“Fine, chef. Show me how it’s done.” Her voice came out a little breathier than she meant.

He obliged, and for a heartbeat their hands overlapped on the spoon. Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed hers—just a second, just enough. She tried not to react, but the electricity was impossible to hide.

Sylus’s gaze lingered on her face, sharp and unexpectedly gentle. “I thought you were fearless,” he teased.

She ducked her head, pretending to scrutinize the bubbling water. “Only in the field. Not in… domestic warfare.”

A low laugh rumbled from him—rare and unguarded. “And yet you take on my kitchen like it’s an enemy base.”

She grinned, letting her own laughter bubble over and fill the room. “I go where I’m needed.”

They slipped into a new rhythm—awkward at first, then easier by degrees. Sylus corrected her grip on the knife, his hand wrapping over hers, lingering a fraction too long before letting go. She dusted flour off his forearm with a shy flick, only for him to follow the movement with softened eyes and a half-smile that felt almost private.

At one point, she reached across him for the colander, her hip bumping his. “Sorry,” she mumbled, cheeks prickling with warmth.

He looked at her—really looked, like he was searching for a way out but finding none.

Instead, he reached up—almost tentative—and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His knuckles traced the curve of her jaw, gentle and reverent, leaving heat in their wake. She blinked, lips parting, the whole world shrinking to the space between them.

The air turned thick and honeyed, everything suspended—neither of them quite willing to move, everything balanced on the knife-edge of something quietly, breathtakingly new.

From the counter, Mephisto cawed—sharp as a starting bell, shattering the spell just as it threatened to turn into something else.

She ducked away with a shaky laugh, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “He’s judging us,” she said, nodding toward the bird.

Sylus’s smile didn’t fade. “Let him. He’s seen worse.”

And, for the first time, she believed it. The tension melted from her shoulders, replaced by something warmer, lighter, threaded with laughter she couldn’t keep in.

Cooking got easier after that—messy and collaborative, punctuated with whispered jokes and shared glances. They moved around each other, learning a duet older than language.

With every accidental brush of skin, every glance held a beat too long, she let herself trust the moment.

Just a little more.

The kitchen quieted again. Not the awkward silence of strangers, but the earned hush of familiarity—a quiet that wrapped around them like a secret, where nothing needed explaining anymore.

Steam curled from the pot in lazy ribbons as Sylus plated the pasta with a care that almost surprised her. The dish looked elegant, considering its riotous birth, and when he handed her a bowl, there was no ceremony—just the simple, practiced ease of something shared.

“Chef’s orders,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

She grinned, accepting the bowl with both hands as if it were a holy offering.

Without asking, she hopped onto the counter, legs swinging above the tile, tucking one foot behind the other. The bowl settled warm in her lap, steam curling under her chin as she leaned in for a bite.

It tasted… right.

Not perfect. Not fancy. But real—tangy, warm, too much garlic, just enough salt. She hummed, cheeks full, then offered him a forkful with a conspiratorial tilt of her hand.

He didn’t move to take the bite. Just watched her, elbow braced against the counter, his own bowl resting forgotten in his palm.

“What?” she asked, half-muffled by a mouthful of pasta.

Sylus’s gaze lingered—not sharp, not analyzing. Just… seeing her, like he was piecing together a puzzle and realizing he liked not having all the pieces.

“You should sing more often,” he said at last.

She blinked, startled.

There was no irony in his voice. No teasing edge. Just a quiet certainty, so sincere it made her throat tighten around her next bite.

“It suits you,” he added, softer this time. Then he turned his attention back to his food, as if he hadn’t just cracked her heart wide open.

She stared at her bowl, cheeks warming, not quite sure what to do with all that tenderness he’d just given her—no games, no flirty dodge, just something rare and quietly dangerous.

Because when he said it, she knew he didn’t just mean her voice.

He meant this—her, barefoot on his tile, wild-haired and flushed from the stove, music still humming in her bones. He liked her messy. He liked her real.

And she liked being seen that way.

Maybe more than she should.

Her chest lifted on a slow, careful breath—the kind that settles deep, the kind that whispers you could stay. Just a little longer.

Maybe even longer than that.

She glanced at Sylus—posture easy, expression unreadable, but somehow softer than before. Then at Mephisto, grooming himself on the windowsill as if chaos had always included him.

The kitchen was still a beautiful disaster.

But for the first time, she didn’t feel like an intruder in it.

She felt… woven into the fabric of it. Of them.

Like the chaos and the calm had finally made space for her. And so had he.

She dipped her spoon back into the bowl, taking another bite—slower this time, as if to savor the moment—and thought:

This feels dangerously close to home.

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝒃𝒚 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘

[notquitecanon]

Not Quite Canon's Masterlist:

Just another multifandom imagines blog. All works are dated- so you can date my progress and track as my ADHD brain jumps from one hyper-fixation to the next

** Indicated NSFW. 18+ MDNI

Do Not Repost! Please and Thanks <3

Requests/asks are always open, the rat in my brain likes receiving little messages and notes of inspiration :)))

Works & Playlists below the cut!

Criminal Minds x Marvel crossover 2019, unfinished (masterlist)

Marvel: 

Spangled Stars || Steve Rogers x Reader (2019)  Whiplash || Peter Maximoff x Reader (2019)  Like a Good Neighbor || Bucky Barnes x Reader (2019)  Chance Encounter || Spiderman x Reader (2020)  Look at You || Moon Knight system x reader (2023) **  Call Me… || Matt Murdock x Reader (2024) 

See Also: Miguel O' Hara Playlist on Spotify 🎧 Criminal Minds / Marvel Crossover listed above ^^

Criminal Minds:

Christmas Vacation || Spencer Reid x Reader (2019)  Fun Facts || Spencer Reid x Reader (2020) Thief! || Spencer Reid x Reader (2020)  Missing || Spencer Reid x Reader (2020) 

See Also: Criminal Minds / Marvel Crossover listed above ^^

John Wick:

First Impressions || John Wick x Reader (2020)  With & Without || John Wick x Reader (2021) 

DC Comics:  

Zero Stars || Adrian Chase x Reader (2022)  Beverage Napkin || Adrian Chase x Reader (2022)  Stop Worrying || Adrian Chase x Reader (2022)  Ghosting || John Constantine x Reader (2023)

See Also: Adrian Chase Spotify Playlist 🎧

Ghostbusters: 

Here, Let Me || Dr. Egon Spenger x Reader (2021)  Mandatory Attendance || Dr. Egon Spengler x Reader (2021)  Happy Golden Days || Dr. Ray Stantz x Reader  Snow || Dr. Egon Spengler x Reader (2022)  For Emergencies Only || Dr. Egon Spengler (2022)   >Part 2   (Metaphorical Rescue Eggroll) >Part 3  (The Love Hypothetical) Dust and Motor Oil || Dr. Ray Stantz x Reader (2022)  Stardust & Fungi || Dr. Egon Spengler x Reader (2022)  Tell ‘em bout the Twinkie || Dr. Egon Spengler x extroverted!Reader (2023)  Hypno!kink headcanon (2022) (plotbunny free to good home) ** See Also: Ray Stantz Spotify Playlist 🎧 I Wanna Be Ghostbuster Playlist 🎧

That 70s Show:

First Dates || Steven Hyde x Reader (2020)  Snowed In || Steven Hyde x Reader (2020)  Comfort || Steven Hyde x Reader (2020)  Slippery & Cold || Steven Hyde x Reader (2020) ** 4 Things Steven Hyde Agreed To & 1 He Didn’t || Steven Hyde x Reader (2020)

Star Wars: 

From the Start || Kylo Ren/Ben Solo x Reader (2019)  Strings || Obi-Wan Kenobi x Politician!Reader (2020)  Disappointment || Kylo Ren x Reader (2020) ** Sacrifice and Devotion || Din Djarin x Reader ( 2023)  See Also: Din Djarin Playlist on Spotify 🎧

Twilight: 

Cowardice || Jasper Hale x Reader (2020)  Bad Moods || Jasper Hale x Reader (2020)  Attitude Adjustment || Jasper Hale x Reader (2020)  The Moment Before Eternity || Carlisle Cullen x Reader (2020)  Firsts || Carlisle Cullen x Reader (2020)  Spiked Punch || Jasper Hale x Reader (2021)  GTA || Jasper Hale x Reader (2021)

Baldur’s Gate 3: 

Insufferably Admirable || Astarion x Reader (2023)   > Part 2 (Foolishly Admirable - 2024)   See Also: Astarion || The Pale Elf playlist on spotify 🎧

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare: 

Keep Talking || Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (2024) ** Warmth || Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (2024)  Dense || Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (2024)  A thought about Poly!141 x Reader (2024) ** >>Search History || Poly!141 x Reader (2024) ** >> Virtual Breadcrumbs || Poly!141 x Reader (2024) (Part 1.5) ** >> IRL Plug and Play || Poly!141 x reader (2025) (Part 3) ** ~~~~Any additional asks or headcanons are posted under the #searchhistory on my blog!

Familiar and Whiskey || Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (2024)** Some clever sleep pun title || Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (2025)

See Also: POV: ur in love with Johnny "Soap" McTavish playlist 🎧

POV: ur in love with Simon “Ghost” Riley 🎧

[writingforstraykids]

Missed Calls

Pairing: Changbin x gn!Reader (short mention of Chan/Jisung)

Word Count: 1232

Summary: Changbin overdoes it before the upcoming tour and ends up in hospital. You're busy and miss the many notifications blowing up your phone until you finally realize you should get going.

Warnings/Tags: angst, fluff, comfort, fainting, very short mention of blood, shitty communication skills, happy ending

A/N: Thank you, my love @zehina for helping me out with a prompt for this fic🖤

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

The sound of your ringtone is muffled beneath the blanket of music pouring from your headphones, bass-heavy and loud enough to match the mood clawing at your insides. You’re three hours into a long-overdue deep clean of your apartment- more rage-scrubbing than actual tidying, if you’re being honest - and your phone is buried somewhere under a pile of laundry and passive-aggressive to-do lists.

It’s been a day.

Actually, it’s been a week. Maybe a month. Too many deadlines, too many people asking for too many things. And on top of all that, the emotional whiplash of being half in a relationship with someone who belongs to the world and barely has time to belong to himself, let alone you.

Changbin.

Your thumb scrapes a smear of dried toothpaste off the bathroom mirror, and you glare at your reflection like it’s responsible for everything unraveling. You hadn’t meant to ignore him, not really. You’d just… needed a break. From the constant notifications, the packed schedule reminders he kept sharing, the tension you felt in every message that sounded like a goodbye disguised as a status update.

Still, you probably should’ve picked up.

The music cuts out suddenly, a faint vibration making your heart lurch in your chest. You yank the headphones off and fumble for your phone, finally digging it out from under your sweatshirt. The screen lights up with missed calls—fourteen of them. Nine messages. One from Jisung. Two from Felix. The rest are all Chan.

And then the most recent one: "Call me when you see this. It’s urgent."

Time slows. Your pulse pounds in your ears.

You swipe through the notifications with trembling fingers until you find the one that matters.

Chan [4:12 p.m.]: He collapsed at the gym. Hit his head. He's in the hospital. They're running tests now.

You don't remember grabbing your keys, or your jacket, or locking the door behind you. The world outside feels like a dream - sharp, unreal, smeared with the smog of city life and the blur of regret.

-

The hospital smells like antiseptic and stress. Bright lights buzz overhead as you make your way to the reception desk, barely managing to say Changbin’s name before someone’s guiding you down a too-white hallway.

Jisung’s waiting in the corridor, slumped in one of the plastic chairs, phone clutched in both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth. His eyes widen when he sees you. “You made it.”

“What happened?” Your voice is hoarse, breathless.

He stands, eyes flicking over you, and then pulls you into a hug you don’t realize you need until you’re already in it.

“He was at the gym. He overdid it, I guess. Barely ate, hadn’t slept. You know how he gets before tours. He just—” Jisung breaks off, swallowing hard. “He fainted. Hit the back of his head. There was blood. He wasn’t waking up for a while. Scared the hell out of us.”

“Is he—” You can’t finish the question. Your throat tightens around the words.

“He’s awake now. Groggy. Still in the ER while they check for a concussion or worse. You can go in.”

Your legs carry you down the corridor before your mind catches up. Your heart is pounding so hard it’s painful. The moment you push through the curtain, everything stops.

Changbin is lying on the bed, pale against the stark white sheets, a bandage wrapped around the back of his head. There’s a bruise forming just above his ear. His eyes are half-open, unfocused, but when they land on you, something shifts in them. He tries to sit up. “You’re here.”

You rush to his side. “God, Binnie—stay down, you shouldn’t—don’t move.”

His smile is weak. “You finally checked your phone.”

“I-” Your voice breaks. You clasp his hand, fingers trembling. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I was… cleaning. And angry. And ignoring everything. I should’ve-”

“It’s okay.” He squeezes your hand. “You’re here now.”

Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, and you don’t know if it’s guilt or relief or both. Probably both.

-

The nurse tells you he’ll need monitoring overnight. That the scans look okay, but concussions can be tricky. That he’s lucky.

You don’t feel lucky. You feel like you’ve failed him.

Later, when the nurse steps out and it’s just the two of you again, you sit by his bed, still holding his hand. His eyes keep drifting shut.

“You scared me,” you whisper. “So much.”

“I didn’t mean to.” His voice is soft, laced with exhaustion. “Just… wanted to be ready for tour. Felt like everything was on me, and I had to push harder. Guess I pushed too far.”

“You always do.” You say it gently, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “You carry too much.”

He exhales a shaky breath. “I thought maybe you were done. With me. You didn’t reply, and I figured… maybe I pushed you too far too.”

Your heart cracks wide open. “No. I was just tired. Frustrated. I thought you were shutting me out, again. I didn’t think - God, Binnie, I didn’t think something like this would happen.”

“Guess we both suck at talking,” he murmurs.

You nod. “Yeah. But we can get better. If you let me in. If you stop trying to do everything alone.”

Silence stretches between you, not heavy, but full.

“Will you stay tonight?” he asks, voice small.

You nod, already pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. “Always.”

-

That night, you don’t sleep. You sit in the hospital chair with your hand in his, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, listening to the quiet beeping of machines. Your phone buzzes again - Chan checking in this time. You reply briefly, letting him know Changbin’s resting, and then turn your phone over.

You think about how easily you could’ve lost him. How close you came to not getting this second chance.

The tour’s still happening, and you know the pressure won’t go away. But maybe, just maybe, the two of you can start showing up for each other in the moments that matter most.

One Week Later

Changbin’s better. He’s not cleared for full rehearsals yet, and it’s driving him up the wall. You catch him trying to sneak in push-ups in the living room, and you threaten to hide all the dumbbells.

“You know,” you say, leaning in the doorway with crossed arms, “if you pass out again, I’m not taking you to the hospital. I’ll just duct tape you to the couch.”

He laughs, the sound bright and welcome. “I’m fine.”

“You weren’t. And I don’t want you to forget that just because you’re stubborn.”

He looks up at you, serious now. “I haven’t forgotten. Trust me.”

You walk over and sit beside him, grabbing his hand. “Next time something’s wrong - anything - I want you to tell me. Even if it’s just a bad day. Even if it’s small. Deal?”

He links your pinkies together. “Deal.”

-

The night before the tour, you help him pack. You find yourself lingering in the hallway as he zips up his suitcase, your stomach twisting. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself on tour.”

He walks over and cups your cheek.“Promise me you’ll pick up your phone next time.”

You nod, cheeks flushing. “Deal.”

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

His lips brush your forehead, soft and grounding. “Then we’ll both be okay.”

Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):

@jinnie-ret @atinyniki @galaxycatdrawz @silverstarburst @aaa-sia @lilmisssona @kthstrawberryshortcake @channieaddict @soullostinspaceandtime @rebecca-johnson-28 @lixie-phoria @kibs-and-bits @xxstrayland @ihrtlix @pheonixfire777 @mellhwang @justawetsock @palindrome969 @harshaaaaa @rylea08 @heeyboooo @manuosorioh @gisaerlleri @andassortedkpop @lailac13 @bbokari711 @kazuuuaaa @rssamj @wolfyychan @stellasays45 @chrizzztopherbang @ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal @silentreadersthings @myforevermelody143 @sapphirewaves @minh0scat @dis-trict9

[afterglowsainz]

so american | alex albon

pairing: alex albon x american!bsf!reader

summary: you don’t understand why it bothers you so much that alex met a new girl if he’s just your best friend

fc: claudia tihan

a/n: i love the fact that we all accepted as a community that so american is alex’s song

—

liked by carmenmmundt, landonorris and others

yourusername guess who won 🏁

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username obsessed with her

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username she’s an honorary wag at this point fr

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and others

alex_albon fun triple header! onto the next 🔜

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username alex i hadn't seen you well👀

yourusername always eating

alex_albon you’re jealous!

yourusername my photo credits

alex_albon no

username i don’t understand them but i love them

username he ate! (literally)

username so babygirl coded 😘

yourusername’s instagram stories

[caption 1: post-race] [caption 2: alex_albon]

liked by f1wags and others

f1gossip several drivers seen partying last night due to the end of the triple header, including alex albon who was seen very close with a mysterious girl

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username 🧍🏽‍♀️

username i was not expecting that at all

username “seen very close” babes they’re making out

username this gave me whiplash bc in my head him and y/n are fully dating

username sometimes i forget they’re just friends 😭

username is he being serious right now 😀

username well! down the drain goes my ynalex ship

liked by alex_albon, francisca.cgomes and others

yourusername slow week🫀

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username oh my 😶‍🌫️

username i could treat you sooo good

username alex fumbled

username agree

username how do you have THE y/n right next to you and choose some random girl at a bar 😭 make it make sense

username alex and y/n are just friends you need to relax

carmenmmundt just one chance please

yourusername i’m giving you a million chances 🤭

georgerussell63 🤨🤨🤨 back of??? yourusername

yourusername cry about it

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alex_albon beach time 🌊

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username that better be who i hope it is

username y/n???

username it’s not her 😭😭

username y/n is in the states not in bali :(

username SIR? wdym you met a woman for a week and took her to BALI?

username and he’s soft launching her too 😭

username no y/n like or comment … i see how it is

liked by landonorris, alex_albon and others

yourusername home sweet home ☀️

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username this is criminal

username the woman was too stunned to speak

username the woman: alex

alexandrasaintmleux y/n!!! you can’t just post these and then leave‼️

yourusername 🤭

username i think i choked actually

username ugh y/n the woman that you are 😩

francisca.cgomes I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE (liked by yourusername)

pierregasly stop

username alex really is speechless

alex_albon nice hat

username omg someone teach this man some rizz

liked by charles_leclerc, logansargeant and others

alex_albon mood 😊

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username pls he doesn’t know what to do with himself 😭

username the face of a man who knows he fucked up

username alex is stronger than me frrrr bc if my best friend was as hot as y/n i would fold

yourusername is this because you’re coming to la? 😁

alex_albon are you gonna give me a tour?

yourusername i’ll take you to the best restaurant! (in-n-out)

alex_albon so american of you 🙄

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, carlossainz55 and others

yourusername whatever we roll (in los angeles)

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username never beating the hottest wag-non-wag allegations

username oh to be that cigarette

alexandrasaintmleux tag yourself i’m the ice cream

yourusername always the romantic 🥹

charles_leclerc 😡

username in love with her

flavy.barla my gorgeous girlfriend🥰

yourusername always you!

estebanocon not you too

username damn she’s collecting these wags like pokemons

albon_pets so pretty y/n🐭!

username even the pets came out 😭

alex_albon’s instagram stories

[caption 1: yourusername] [caption 2: 🐱]

liked by alex_albon, iamrebeccad and others

yourusername he laughs at all my jokes (he really does) and he says i’m so american (at least ten times a day)

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username OMG ITS HAPPENING ITS HAPPENING

username i know she’s trying to soft launch but unless she posts a picture of his face saying their dating i’m not gonna get my hopes up i don’t trust these two anymore

username so american is soooo ynalex coded

username queen of soft launching! (even tho we already know who he is)

alexandrasaintmleux the most perfect beautiful women ever 🥰

yourusername you areeee 💗

username omg you don’t know how long i waited for them to date 😩

username manifesting for that to be alex 🕯🕯🕯

alex_albon 💜

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and others

alex_albon i think i’m in love

tagged yourusername

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username OMG AHAKDIWJSANDJ

username my reaction exactly

username you gotta love a man who pulls a baddie like y/n by being oblivious

francisca.cgomes she’s everything 🥰💘🥹 and he’s there ….

yourusername you know i’m yours forever 🫶🏽

alex_albon rude

username fuck 🫵🏽 the soft launch, all my homies hate soft launching

username no i’m so obsessed with them you don’t understand 😔

username LOVE IS REAL

albon_pets so happy for you alex🐼 and y/n🐭! (liked by alex_albon and yourusername)

yourusername ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

alex_albon forgot to mention you’re also a poem i wish i wrote

yourusername OMGGG

[mcrdvcks]

Hi congrats on 2k! 💜

Might be feeling sorry for myself because my period started today, so maybe how Logan would support a partner during that ugh time.

sorry i couldn't get this done yesterday when you sent it in, i was a bit behind on requests but i'm slowly catching up! i know a lot of people like chocolate but i actually hate it so i just mentioned 'snacks' and not specifically 'chocolate.'

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: reader is on period, mentions of blood, mentions of pain, soft!logan, fluff

He notices before you even say anything. Your scent changes slightly, your mood dips, and you’re a little more curled in on yourself. Logan’s hyperaware of everything, and he puts it together fast.

He doesn’t say “Are you on your period?” because he wants to live. Instead: “You need anything?” “Want the heating pad?” “I’ll run to the store.”

He will, without complaint, buy pads, tampons, snacks, and three types of tea. Does not care who sees him. Will glare at anyone who gives him so much as a look in the checkout line.

He’s secretly very good at period comfort. Hot water bottle? Check. Soft blanket? Already thrown over you. Favorite snacks? On the table. Ripped-up hoodie of his you love? He’s holding it out wordlessly. “Here. Smells like me. Dunno why that helps, but it always does.”

If you get cramps, he’ll gently pull you into his lap, one hand resting low over your stomach, his other hand combing through your hair while you groan like a dying Victorian heroine.

Grumbles when you try to do anything. “No. Sit down. You’re bleedin’ and pissed off. Let me handle it.”

If you cry for no reason? He just lets you. Doesn’t make fun of you, doesn’t ask too many questions—just holds you tight and mutters things like, “It’s okay,” and “Lemme kill whatever’s makin’ you feel like this.”

If you’re angry? He lets you rage. You snap at him? He doesn’t take it personally. Just raises an eyebrow and asks, “That for me or the hormones?” Either way, he hands you a snack.

He’s not grossed out. At all. You bleed through something? Shrug. He’s been through wars. He’s seen worse. He throws it in the wash and moves on like it’s nothing.

One time you curled up on the couch in one of his flannels and whispered, “Everything hurts,” and he just knelt in front of you and said, “What do you need, darlin’? Name it. I’ll do it.

And he meant anything. Ice cream at midnight. Punching the moon. Carrying you to the bed like you’re made of glass.

He starts keeping a mental calendar. He’s not obvious about it, but around the time he knows it’s coming, he stocks up. Your favorite snack? Already in the pantry. Heat pack? Plugged in. New fuzzy socks? Folded on your pillow.

He has a sixth sense for when it’s a bad one. The kind that knocks you out. The kind that makes you nauseous and foggy and unable to get comfortable. That’s the day he clears his schedule, cancels plans, and doesn’t leave your side unless you kick him out.

He’s surprisingly gentle with physical touch. Doesn’t crowd you. Just waits until you tug on his sleeve or whisper “c’mere” before curling around you like a furnace. One big hand spread over your lower belly, thumb rubbing slow circles. “Right here, huh?” You nod, tears in your eyes. He kisses your temple like it hurts him, too.

When you feel gross, he’s extra sweet. You’re curled up under two blankets, hair a mess, tear tracks on your cheeks, and he just mutters, “You’re still the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” You roll your eyes. He smirks. “Not jokin’, sweetheart. You’re killin’ me over here.”

If you’re in the mood to rant? He listens. To the bloating. The cramps. The emotional whiplash. The betrayal of your own uterus. And when you say, “I just want to not have this anymore,” he goes: “Say the word. I’ll find whoever designed this nonsense and rearrange their face.”

If you’re curled up and sweating and your back hurts, he’ll sit behind you on the bed with your legs in his lap, rubbing your calves and mumbling, “doin’ great, darlin’. Wish I could take it for ya.”

You once snapped, “Don’t touch me,” then burst into tears five minutes later. He just raised a brow, kissed your hair, and held you like none of it was your fault. Because it wasn’t. “You don’t gotta apologize for feelin’ like hell, darlin’. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Logan doesn’t treat it like a nuisance. He treats it like something real. Something hard. Something you battle through every month and come out the other side of. He doesn’t call you dramatic. He calls you tough. “Anyone else bleedin’ for a week would be in the damn hospital. You’re just walkin’ around like it’s Tuesday. Hell of a thing.”

And if all else fails, he’ll carry you to bed, kiss your forehead, and growl out: “You rest. I’ll kill anyone who bothers you. Even Scott.” (Especially Scott.)