#we are very angry at the time of writing this

[trashytracktales]

PLSSSS part 2 to this time tomorrow but it’s a year or so later and he’s dealt with his grief and guilt and happily ever after pls

Same time yesterday | MV³³

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟮 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪

*can’t be read as a standalone.

✦ summary ──── It’s been eleven months since she left, and her absence haunted every aspect of Max’s life.

✦ pairing ──── Max Verstappen x she/her reader

✦ rating ──── explicit

✦ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, feelings of unworthiness, emotional angst, isolation, themes of guilt, grief and self-doubt, panic attack with descriptions of physical symptoms, struggles with self-worth, insecurity and personal trauma, healing through intimacy, smut, fingering & oral ─ (f)receiving, unprotected sex, pet names, praise, multiple orgasms, overstimulation.

✦ word count ──── 8.5k

✦ date ──── Jun. 12, 2025

✦ a/n ──── This is not very I don’t do part 2s of me, but the amount of people requesting it made me feel guilty, so here we are. YOU WIN (ILY) 🙄. All jokes aside, writing this healed something in me. Goodnight 🤍✨

MAX DIDN’T EXPECT her to actually leave.

In his stubbornness, he hoped that he’d find her back in his apartment once he returned from work a week later, when her mind would clear up and the adrenaline of the breakup would be long gone. But when that didn’t happen, and he came back to an empty place, he slowly began to panic. On the inside, of course. Because Max is the kind of person who rarely ever displays his feelings out in the open, and when he does it, it’s usually his ruthless side that comes out. He would never admit in front of anyone that he has weaknesses. The only time he’s ever done it was in front of the mirror, in those mornings when everything became too heavy to carry for a pair of shoulders already weighed by the burdens of the past.

He did not expect her to leave.

Not after everything they’d said to each other, not after the way she’d touched his face the night she walked out, and the way her lips lingered on his cheek like a goodbye she didn’t want to make real. Not after she whispered that he knew where to find her. That she was still willing to give them a chance, but this thime, they as a whole had a price. And he needed to cover it in its entirety.

When her absence has finally caught up to him, Max got angry.

Not at her, but at the hole she left behind. At himself for not begging her to stay, even though that goes against everything he is as a person. At the way grief still had its claws in his chest even when he thought he’d buried it deep enough to allow himself to love again.

She said she understood. She acted like she did for so long. But then she left. She promised she wasn’t asking for more than he could give, and then she still walked away when he couldn’t give it fast enough. It felt like betrayal to Max, twisted and misplaced, but real.

After that, he threw himself into work like he always did: training, simulation, back-to-back race weekends. Late nights at the gym, longer ones behind the wheel. But no matter how many laps he ran, no matter how fast he drove, he couldn’t outpace the noise inside his own head. At times, it felt as if it tried to deafen him completely. And sometimes, there were so many voices in there that they overlapped and he had the impression that he could go mad.

It got worse when doubts started creeping in.

What if he’d ruined something good once again?

What if she was right, and he never actually moved on, not from grief, not from guilt, not from his dead wife?

He couldn’t trust himself anymore. The same instincts that made him a four-time World Champion now betrayed him on track. He second-guessed overtakes, overcorrected in turns, and crashed into his rivals on purpose.

The paddock noticed it, so did the press. Max Verstappen didn’t make mistakes, until he did. And the worst part of all: he stopped caring.

His despair was subtle at first. It bled in during the long flights, in the lonely hotel rooms, and in the silence after a shitty race. He tried texting her a couple of times, but it was always short, dry, and empty. She responded kindly, as usual, but never let it go further. Though Max hated it, he respected that, because he respected her, even if he thought it was bullshit. All of it.

It wasn’t until one particularly sleepless night, many months after she left, that the loneliness finally did what the anger couldn’t: it made his mind quiet. It made him sit with himself and be brutally honest. Realistically, he realized that no trauma will ever completely heal. A shadow of guilt will always follow him, no matter who he ends up becoming, what he achieves in his career and who’s going to be there with him.

That night, Max stood in front of the mirror, the ring on his finger slightly sparkling in the bathroom light. It somehow looked dull, like it, too, got tired from being worn by a man who didn’t know how to let go. Only this time, he didn’t see his wife. Instead, he saw the woman who stayed even when he didn’t have the words to explain himself, the one who kissed him like she was pouring pieces of herself into the cracks of him, the one who left not to hurt him out of spite, but to save them both. Or at least try.

And he understood that the ring didn’t remind him of grief anymore. It reminded him of who managed to give it a whole another meaning. It reminded him of what he stood to lose if he didn’t start choosing life instead of loss. And just like that, still panicking on the inside, he figured a new way of feeling the pain and owning it without hurting so much.

Max’s fingers trembled, but he took it off. He took. The damn ring. Off.

And something about the silence cracked open the moment he did it. At first, it was a strange numbness, like his skin and limbs and even his thoughts didn’t belong to him. Then the trembling turned into tremors. His hands shook so badly that the ring slipped from his palm, clinking against the sink like a warning. He had a tiny impulse to put it back, but he didn’t. His breath hitched, chest rising in short bursts that couldn’t catch enough air. The walls of the room seemed to press in, tighter and tighter, so he gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. His heart thudded violently between his lungs, and he could hear it.

Then his knees gave out, and he collapsed to the cold tile floor, curled onto his side, eyes wide and unfocused as his mind raced with fear — am I dying? Is this how it ends? All alone…

He didn’t call anyone. He didn’t move, because he couldn’t. He just lay there, whispering to himself that he deserved this. That maybe this was part of it: the punishment, the penance, the cost of finally letting go. But he’d chosen grief so long, it felt wrong to be free of it. And, ultimately, he ended up convincing himself it was better that way, but every time he looked at the empty space on his finger, he wondered how long she’d wait. If she was still waiting at all.

He couldn’t stand the thought of her saying no after that, so he never texted her again.

IT’S A RANDOM Tuesday when Max is in the pet aisle, squinting at a row of identical cat food cans, wearing an old Red Bull hoodie from the early 2010s. The hood is up, casting a shadow over his face, a subtle shield against the world.

He isn’t expecting anything. Maybe a fan or two who may recognize him. But not her. However, the second she walks through the automatic doors, pushing her cart slowly, head tilted like she’s scanning the shelves for something specific, he sees her. Her hair is a little shorter now. Her coat swings open as she walks, and she’s humming softly to herself, unaware.

Until she turns, and her eyes meet his. Time doesn’t stop, but it does slow, just enough for Max’s chest to go tight. And they both realize it at the same time: they’re going to have to choose. Quickly. A nod and a half-smile, play it off like strangers passing in the middle of something ordinary.

Or talk.

Max does it before she gets the chance to. He doesn’t even glance at the shelves again. His hand reaches out and grabs two random cans of cat food, the labels facing the wrong way, something he wouldn’t normally touch. But it’s not about the cat food anymore.

It’s about how she notices the way Max squeezes the cans in his hands, and how his left hand, in particular, molds around the circular container, making her heart stop for a beat.

“Your hand’s all naked,” her mouth talks without her permission the moment he gets close enough for him to hear her; the fact that it’s the first thing she tells him doesn’t come as a suprise for either of them.

Max smiles a little, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he says quietly, looking down at it like he hadn’t realized it himself until now. “It’s been for a while.”

They stand there, hands full of domestic normalcy, bodies not quite knowing what to do next.

“Hi,” her lips curl slightly into something that isn’t quite a smile, but not quite neutral either.

“Hi,” he echoes, voice a little raspier than he’d like. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” adds Max, glancing around like maybe the store has changed since he last looked.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, looking anywhere but at him.

There’s too much unsaid between them to make small talk feel right. Too many memories that exist in kitchens and beds and mornings with whispers and kisses. And yet they try.

“You look good,” Max says, his eyes flicking up and down, unsure of where to land. “Shorter hair suits you.”

She nods. “Thanks. You look…,” her voice trails off, checking him out from head to toe in order to find something nice to connect with, but when she can’t do that, she chooses to be honest instead. “Tired.”

Max smiles, but looks defeated as he does. “Not sleeping much.”

“Work?”

He hesitates. “And everything else.”

They both look like they want to leave but can’t quite make their feet move. It feels like there’s too much air between them, and yet, too many things have already been said, cried out, and broken open like bones that never healed right. Max can feel it rising in his throat. It’s bitter and sweet all at once. The fucking guilt. The longing. It’s her, actually. Right here, in front of him again, after eleven months and three days of not seeing her. Of only surviving her through old texts and ghost limbs.

His fingers twitch around the cans.

She’s standing like she’s braced for impact, but her eyes finally land all over him: his face, the hoodie she actually wore a few times before when she was waiting for him to come back home, his hand, his left hand. His bare left hand.

“This is weird, right?” Max finally asks, his voice sounding like he hasn’t spoken a single word for weeks.

She lets out a sigh. “A little, yeah,” she agrees, nodding.

And still, neither of them moves.

“You know, I almost didn’t come in,” she admits, fingers curling tighter around her cart. “I was parked outside for, like, ten minutes just sitting there. Because I realized this is your neighborhood and I’d risk seeing you,” she adds quickly.

Max feels his heart racing again before he even understands it. His throat goes dry, and when he speaks, he sounds hurt. “You didn’t want to see me?”

She blinks, startled, like she hadn’t expected the question to come out that way. “No,” she breathes. “No, Max, that’s not what I meant.”

He holds her gaze, and this close, he can see the sheen of emotion swimming in her eyes. There’s no anger in there anymore. Just, maybe, a little ache.

“It’s nice to see you,” she says. “I did want to see you so badly that I almost turned the car around, because I wasn’t sure if I could handle it.”

Max’s chest caves inward, his brows drawn together like the weight of all those lost months just landed right between his ribs. “Well, I think you’re handling it very well,” he jokes, but she doesn’t laugh, which makes his smile fade a little, not knowing if he crossed a line he shouldn’t have.

She looks down for a moment, biting at her kower lip, then back up. “I think you do, too.”

They both go quiet again, surrounded by fluorescent lights and grocery store music and the quiet chatter of other people, but none of it registers. The world has narrowed down to just them in the shortest time, like it always did. Knowing someone so intimately does that to a space, no matter how big or small.

Max rubs the back of his neck, like he’s trying to release the tension lodged there. “Listen, I don’t want to do this here. In front of the cat food and the Goldfish treats.”

His words earn the smallest smile from her, just for a second. “And what is this, exactly?”

He stops, looking around in order to get his thoughts together. “If you’re not busy, I was about to order a pizza for dinner,” Max hesitates, then adds quickly, “I swear, I just want to talk. I just…” he runs a hand over his jaw. “I haven’t been able to say anything that matters in a long time, and I want to. I owe you.”

She swallows, wary. “You don’t owe me anything, Max. Not anymore.”

He shakes his head. “I owe you my time.”

He sees the way her brow furrows, confusion flickering across her face, and Max knows she doesn’t understand what he means by that. And he can’t quite tell her that he means all the months he spent with her while only giving her a fraction of himself, because the most part was still buried in grief, clinging to a past he couldn’t change. He means the smiles she gave him that he didn’t return fast enough, the quiet ways she showed up for him while he kept one foot in a world that no longer existed. He means every second he spent being afraid to choose them, and every moment he let that fear win. What he owes her is his precious time, the kind that’s undivided, intentional, and fully present.

The time he should’ve been spending loving her without hesitation. Without conditions.

The time he still hopes to give, if she’ll let him.

THE MOMENT HE turns the key in the lock and nudges the door open, the apartment comes alive with a flurry of soft meows and pattering paws. Jimmy is the first to appear, coming out from the hallway with the usual cheeky air, followed by Sassy, who practically chirps in recognition when she sees that her owner is not alone.

The girl barely has time to step out of her shoes before the cats are circling her feet, tails high, meowing as if they’ve been abandoned for weeks. They don’t hesitate, don’t even sniff to confirm, yet the purring starts instantly, the kind of sound they only made when she used to come home late and curl up with them on the couch. Both cats cling to her like she’s their mother, like home walked back through the door after years of waiting.

Max watches it all unfold, frozen, with the cans stacked on top of the other still in hand.

“Fuckin’ assholes,” he complains under his breath, shutting the door behind him. “The only reason I even left the apartment was because they wouldn’t shut up about being hungry. And now they won’t even look at me,” adds Max, a little irritated.

She looks up with a smirk and gently takes the cans from his hand. “Allow me,” she says with a mock bow, brushing past him on her way to the kitchen with the ease of someone who still remembers exactly where everything is.

Max leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her open the cabinets to pull out the tiny cat dishes they once picked together at a pet store in Italy. Her movements are fluid, the muscle memory guiding her every gesture; the clink of the spoon against the dish, and the way she splits the food evenly, as if it still matters that Sassy used to pout when Jimmy got more.

The remembering. That’s what gets to him every single time. The way it all looks like she wasn’t away for months. The way his own pets remember her scent and presence — more than that, they crave it. And they’re not the only ones, he figures.

Eventually, Max leaves her to it and goes to order the food he promised, knowing that he will be ignored anyway, at least until the cats eat and get bored of playing. The pizza arrives just as she finishes washing her hands, and they settle on the couch like they’ve done a hundred times before, the box open between them, the cats finally dozing at their feet.

For a moment, the quiet sets peacefully around them and it almost feels like they never fell apart at all. Their legs don’t touch, but the distance isn’t as wide as it used to be. Between bites, their eyes meet, without causing unnecessary tension, just a bittersweet quiet wrapped in intimacy. He watches the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she catches the way he still wipes his fingers on his thighs, like always.

Finishing his second slice, Max finally decides to disturb the peace. “Thanks for giving them some attention,” he says, pointing at the cats that are now back in their donut beds. “They’ve been such jerks lately.”

She glances at the cats, her gaze softening. “You know they treat you like you treat them.”

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth lift. “I’ve been nothing but an endless fountain of joy around them since you left, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her smile falters the second his sarcasm slips out. And suddenly, the guilt wraps around her ribs like a vice, because she had no idea just how lonely it must have been. She tried to imagine it a few times, sure, but the truth is always harsher.

“Back at the store,” she begins, a little hesitant, “You said it’s been a while since you took it off.”

Max takes a moment before he nods, not immediately meeting her gaze. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when you… you know,” she says, gesturing at his hand. “I thought that was our agreement.”

He swallows, running his fingers over his jaw, which he often does when he’s struggling to think of the right thing to say. “And say what? Thank you for waiting, I’m ready to finally offer you more than the bare minimum?” he says in a sarcastic tone, shaded by a trace of anger. “You deserve better.”

She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches him with those eyes that always made him feel seen. Like she could read the gaps between his words, without needing anything else but him.

The girl shrugs. “That would’ve been a start,” she says casually, taking the pizza box and putting it on the coffee table in front of them.

Max almost flinches at the thought. It tastes so wrong in his mouth, because he doesn’t want to act as if the time they spent together was just a draft. He wants what they had and what they were. The laughter in the kitchen. Her voice humming in the bathroom. The weight of her body curling toward his in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep. The way she used to look at him like he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

“I don’t want a start,” he insists. “I want what we left behind.”

Her brows lift slightly, her expression unreadable, but her lips part like she’s about to speak. He beats her to it.

“It’s been fucking awful,” the words come out unfiltered. “Missing you, I mean,” he explains, like the thought has been sitting on his brain for months, maybe since the second she walked out of his life. “Not just in passing. Every day.”

His hand moves without thinking, crossing a distance far greater than the space between them, and when his calloused fingers curl gently around hers, all those months of pain fade somewhere into a distant past. Her skin is just as he remembers, warm and soft like silk. The touch is tender, Max’s thumb brushing the back of her hand like he’s reminding himself that she’s real, and not just a figment of his twisted imagination.

He doesn’t want to go beyond the invisible line they’ve both drawn, but when she squeezes him gently, it’s more than a confirmation. It’s her equally strong desire to return to their own normalcy. And after that, it takes almost nothing, maybe just a look and the smallest shift in the air, and he pulls her in his lap.

Her legs straddle him, fitting there with maddening ease. Her hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingertips threading into his hair, playing with it absentmindedly like it’s second nature.

The sudden closeness forces him to breathe in sharply, inhaling her scent that fans across his lips.

“Max...” she whispers, her face tilting toward his, eyes dropping to his mouth as if kissing him is inevitable.

But he can’t have that. What good thing has ever come so easily in his life? Twice.

Max’s hand presses against her waist to push her away, and his head turns as a response. At that, she stills in his arms, eyes searching his face.

“Liefje?” she whispers again, hurt and confused.

He shakes his head, still avoiding to look at her. “I can’t.”

She frowns. “Why?”

Finally, Max’s eyes flick to hers as he swallows the lump in his throat. The blue in them is dark and faded, and it scares her a little. They’re glassy, full of things he’s never been good at saying out loud. “Because I don’t... I don’t deserve it,” he says, quiet like a confession passed through gritted teeth.

Her hands slide from his neck to either side of his face, forcing him to keep his gaze on her.

“Look at me,” she demands when he tries to look away again, but it sounds almost pleading. She can feel the way his muscles are tense beneath her, how hard he’s trying to stay composed. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t want to?” she asks.

His mouth opens, shuts, then opens again, “How could you possibly still want this?”

Her thumbs brush along his cheekbones, pressing closer, her nose brushing his. “Because you want this,” she replies simply. “I left because I thought you didn’t want us, and that hurt the most.”

Max flinches, “I did,” he nods, “Want us.”

“The ring on your finger told a different story at the time,” she smiles, a trace of sadness shadowing her face.

“I’m sorry,” it’s all he says.

She tilts his chin slightly, kissing the corner of his mouth, careful. She understands that, after all, this is their dynamic. She’ll always have to wait for him, one way or another. Do everything at Max’s pace. It may not be ideal, but it has worked in the past, when the tallest walls separated them.

He lets out a trembling breath, arms circling her waist to bring her closer.

“Please,” she whispers, “Let me kiss you.”

This time, his lips crash into hers with a desperate need. Her attempt was soft, but there’s nothing gentle in the way needs her. It’s heat and hunger and all the months of silence and aching compressed into one kiss. His fingers move to cup her face, and he groans against her mouth, finally letting go.

She shifts as the kiss deepens, slowing down until it becomes worshipful.

“I missed you,” he says again.

She smiles through the ache in her chest. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Her hips move unconsciously, but it’s enough for Max to catch her meaning. The girl slides forward and presses down right where he’s already hard beneath her. The friction hits hard between them, and they both still for a moment. Max breathes in through his teeth, and a silent gasp stutters out, all distance suddenly dissolved.

She traces down the curve of his neck, over his collarbones and lower, palms gliding across the fabric of his hoodie. It’s soft and worn, but it hides too much for her liking. So she hooks her fingers underneath it, pushing up, and Max doesn’t stop her. He lifts his arms, helps her peel it off, and the warmth of his skin underneath makes her breath catch in her throat. The muscles of his torso flex as he breathes, tight and lean, built by years of control and discipline.

But right now, he’s giving her none of that control. He just looks at her like he’s ready to rip his heart out and give it to her on a silver platter. With a smile on his face.

Her blouse is next, coming off in a smooth motion. And then, before she can say anything more, he shifts quickly underneath her. In a blink of an eye, he has her on her back, stretched out along the couch, his body poised above hers.

She barely has time to register the change in position before his mouth is back on hers, as possessive as it used to be, like the last kiss wasn’t nearly enough. Max’s lips trail down over her jaw and neck, leaving heat in his wake. Patient, he kisses along the edge of her bra, then he looks up at her. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s still that sliver of restraint behind them.

“Can I?” he asks, a tiny smile blooming in the corner of his mouth, because he already knows the answer.

She nods. “Yes.”

Swiftly, he unclasps her bra and slips it away, tossing it somewhere behind him. His hands slide down her sides as his mouth drops to her chest, breathing her in deeply. The first touch of his tongue on her nipple makes her inhale sharply, her hands flying to his back, gripping and squeezing. Max groans quietly against her skin when she arches up into him, and his hands weld themselves to her thighs to encourage her to wrap her legs around his waist. After that, he changes his position just slightly and grinds down into her, swallowing her whimpers with his mouth still latched onto her breast.

She closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel everything, all at once. His mouth moves from one nipple to the other, teasing, sucking, and she pulls him closer and closer by the shoulders, as if she can’t get enough of his weight. His presence. Him.

“Can you stay like this for a sec?” she asks in a trembling voice, the emotion evident in every word. She keeps him pressed down against her with her arms locked around his shoulders before Max can even process. “Just stay here, please.”

He lifts his head to search for her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Then, he kisses between her breasts, and rests his forehead there, listening to her heartbeat decrease in intensity with each passing second. His weight is warm and secure around her, his breathing slowing, too. She brushes his hair back with one hand, and the other strokes his spine.

“I missed you, too,” she finally says. “So much it started making me sick.”

Max’s eyes flutter closed, but he’s content to just listen, offering her the space to speak her mind.

“I had to buy a weighted blanket,” she chuckles shyly. “I couldn’t sleep, either. My anxiety was so bad I felt like I was floating out of my skin.”

Max blinks, then slowly pushes up on his forearms to look at her fully. There’s concern etched into every inch of his face, and he sounds stern when he speaks again, “You never told me it got that bad.”

She shrugs, trying to brush it off. “Didn’t want to make you feel worse. You already blame yourself for everything else.”

His jaw tightens, fingers twitching against her ribs. “That’s for me to worry, right? You should’ve told me.”

With a small sigh, she shakes her head as if it doesn’t even matter anymore. “I’m telling you now.”

Her words settle into the air between them like a sudden change in gravity, and it makes Max still completely. It takes him a second to process what she’s said, and not just the meaning, but the weight of it. That she hurt too. That while he was spiraling in silence, buried in self-loathing and racing to outrun emotions he couldn’t face, she was also falling apart as quietly.

His forehead presses against hers, but this time, the tension in his shoulders give away the war he carries in his mind, the guilt and regret in his soul, the anger, and the fear that he might still mess this up. He chokes on a breath, the kind of harsh inhale you take before something breaks and can’t be stopped.

She can feel him slowly but surely detaching, so she doesn’t hesitate to bring him back to the present moment with her. She kisses him all over, not just his lips. A sweet series of soft, scattered kisses along his cheek, his temple, his nose. His shoulders. His collarbones. She kisses him as if that would cure him of all his guilt, insecurities and self-hatred.

Max lets out a broken laugh, unexpected yet warm, as she keeps going, clumsier now. “That’s how you used to kiss Sassy when you stepped on her paws,” he reminds her. “You didn’t break me, baby,” he assures her. “It’s not your fault.”

The words hang there, heavy with understanding, because he can see she feels guilty, as if his pain is somehow hers to fix. Even now. His heart cracks at the thought of her carrying that weight, but it also warms at her tenderness and the quiet way she’s trying to make everything stop hurting. For both of them.

He sighs. “Maybe we should just finish the food, hm?” Max offers, his tone laced with hesitation, trying to give her an out, without putting too much pressure.

She shakes her head instead, then stares at him for a second. While continuing to maintain eye contact, her hand moves down between them with purpose. The metallic sound of his zipper being undone slices through the air like a whip in an empty room, and Max’s body responds instantly, looking like he’s suddenly struggling to breathe, as she pushes his pants lower over his hips.

“I’m hungry for something else,” she says, smirking at him.

The last of their clothes disappear in a blur of heat and touch, the space between them closing until it’s completely gone, and not a speck of dust can seep in. Their bodies press together, skin on skin, making Max curse under his breath, his hands roaming her waist, thighs, and ribs, remembering the shape of her all over again. After taking the ring off, he convinced himself that being alone and deprived of her entirely was the new punishment. But now, he’s surprised to find out that no amount of penance could ever be worth losing her again.

She gasps when his lips catch her off guard, kissing her deeply, hand sliding south, slipping between silk folds already wet with want.

“Shit,” he whispers through gritted teeth, barely able to contain himself. “I forgot how soaked you get from a little nipple play.”

She moans faintly into his mouth, hips lifting with ease toward his touch. His fingers stroke through her slowly, savoring her sounds, while his middle finger presses in. Just the tip, to test her patience and give her all the time in the world to open up for him.

As if he’s under a spell, Max watches her face, completely transfixed. “I swear you’re trying to kill me,” he praises her deliriously, pushing his finger deeper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Mhm,” she hums, her nails digging lightly into his back, leaving faint love scratches behind.

At that, he smiles a little smug, and starts pumping his finger with much purpose. He’s on a mission now, intending to relearn every twitch and tiny flinch, because for some reason, making her come like this has become his new life’s purpose. And the fact that she’s obscenely wet, encourages him to keep going, gliding his finger in effortlessly, the slick noises echoing between them like he’s already halfway inside her with his cock instead.

“I fucking missed it, too,” he admits, voice cracking at the way he feels her clenching around him. Every time his finger strokes against that soft, spongy spot inside, her thighs lock around his wrist like Max is her puppeteer, hips canting up, chasing more. “There it is,” he says with satisfaction.

Without pulling away, he eases in another finger, curling them with surgical precision, dragging against that same spot until she’s shaking. Her tiny gasps turns into broken moans, high and breathless, her palms squeezing his shoulders harder. Max starts scissoring them in the way he knows it’ll make her see stars, stretching her open, happy to watch her squirm and melt because of him.

“Want me to keep going until you can’t think straight?”

She tries to answer, but all that comes out is just another pathetic whimper. Her slick coats his knuckles, dripping down his palm, earning a low hum from Max while driving his fingers faster.

“So tight and desperate,” he says mostly to himself. “Let me see you,” his thumb finds her clit, rubbing delicious circles as his fingers keep fucking up into her, stretching her sweetly.

Her reaction is immediate: her whole body jerks, thighs quivering as her pussy fights to hold him in, harder than before.

“Max,” she tries to warn him in a shaky voice.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Instead, he pulls his fingers out and dives in on instinct, burying his face between her thighs like a man starved. His tongue replaces where his fingers had just been, fucking into her with messy, greedy strokes. Max grips her thighs, making sure to groan loudly into her, wanting her to hear exactly how much he’s enjoying this. She keens, hands flying to his hair as he eats her out with a kind of reckless devotion that leaves her gasping for air.

Her orgasm crashes over her with an unexpected loud cry. Her hips arch off the couch, body convulsing as she soaks his face, a warm flood dripping down his chin and onto the cushion beneath him. Max agrees satisfied, like he lives for this, licking her through it until she’s shuddering and whimpering and very much not thinking straight, trying to push him away from overstimulation.

He pulls back with a glossy mouth, chin dripping, and eyes blown wide. That clear blue has finally returned, contrasting beautifully against the bright pink of his flushed face. His hair is a mess, and he’s breathing hard like he just came. She wishes she could paint him like that, but she knows that no brush would ever do justice to the beauty she sees in him.

“My god, Max,” she laughs, still breathless, reaching up to pull him toward her. She wipes his chin with her palm, eyes half-lidded, before tugging him in for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. “You’re such a show-off.”

He smirks, resting his forehead to hers. “Well, I am a professional.”

“Oh yeah?” she teases, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Did they add that as part of your pre-race routine?”

Max shrugs with a deceptively serious expression on his face. “Helps with focus. And finger control.”

The girl chuckles. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies quickly, leaning in to finish their kiss.

His lips are soft and plumped, and they give her the second she needs to breathe before the air shifts. Max’s hand cups her cheek, and when he looks at her, his voice drops, eyes filled with a tamed concern.

“You okay?” he asks, the kind of okay that means are you still with me?

It’s the care behind his voice that gets to her. The one that she only saw a couple of times in him, when Max really let her see the purest version of him. The version that’s not on any screen, nor the version that walks out the door everyday to go to work. This Max is too soft, afraid, and weak. Or so people would say if they’d know.

She finds it hard to speak, instead, she reaches down, fingers curling around his cock. She nudges the thick head through her folds, dragging it up and down in maddening passes, not letting him in, just coating it in the mess he made of her. It’s a sweet tease, a challenge, and a bit of revenge from her side, that gets the expected reaction out of him: Max whines, and his hips twitch in anticipation.

But before she can do it again, he bucks forward just enough to slip between her lips. Not inside. Just there. Nestled. Pressed. Bothering.

“Shit,” she gasps at the drag of his cock against her folds. Is too much already, yet not enough, her body betraying her before she can play it cool.

Max laughs at her failed attempt, dragging himself up her slit again, slow and sticky. “What do you think you’re doing, schatje?”

She moans, frustrated. “Nothing.”

He keeps going, rubbing himself through her wetness, teasing her entrance, but never pushing in. After all, she just showed him how to, didn’t she? It’s punishment for both of them, his cock is throbbing, coated in her, and every pass just winds them tighter.

“You feel that?” asks Max in a quiet whisper. “That’s how much you want me,” he continues, finally pushing in. The stretch is sweet, tight and wet and warm, and the moment he’s fully inside, everything goes still. He lets out a relieved sigh, his head dropping to her shoulder, “And this is how much I want you.”

Perfection in just the right amount. Being inside her like this shuts his brain off and, soon enough, the silence inside his skull becomes addictive.

The first thrust feels like coming home.

The second thrust brings all the memories back.

The third thrust makes her eyes roll, her hands clutching at his arms, hips trying to chase every retreat he makes.

Max has to grip her tighter to keep her in place, and gently pushes her thighs apart wider. He watches the way she spreads, how easily she welcomes him, and it lights something heavy in him, but also devastatingly tender. It pushes him to slide in again and again, deeper and deeper, and the sound she lets out has the power to knock the breath out of his lungs.

It’s not difficult to find their rhythm. That perfect pace that makes it feel less like fucking and more like a love language only they understand. Every push and pull is a new promise. Every moan, a certainty that they will keep those promises this time. As the pleasure builds, they understand it’s more than that. It’s healing. With every stroke and every breathless sound between them, they’re stitching something back together. Something they thorned and fractured because they didn’t know better, now is slowly mending, making them stronger than they’ve ever been.

Max fucks her like he’s never going to get another chance to be this whole again. Like this is the last time it’ll ever hurt, and the first time they’re finally allowed to live. Their bodies slap together, the sounds echoing like music against the walls; it’s hot, thirsty, a song made by them, just for them. He keeps her open, holding her thighs in place because he wants to see all of it. The way she takes him. The way she glistens for him. The way she gives herself so fully, without flinching. And if she can do that — if she can give him this —, then maybe he’s not broken beyond repair.

He fucks into her harder, hips slamming and claiming. It’s like his darkest side cracked open and poured out all the ugly through need, hope, love, all tangled in sweat and skin and moans and and and.

“Fuck, Max. Yes, you feel so good,” her praise makes him sob, hips jerking like he’s being praised for something holy.

He leans down to kiss her, but they’re both too far gone. It ends up being just open mouths, shared breath, moans between lips that can’t quite meet, not with how their bodies are still colliding, over and over.

“Mine,” Max spits out breathless, as he feels her start to tighten around his cock, fluttering repeatedly like her body is begging to fall apart with him.

Her hands curl around his biceps in order to be able to meet his thrusts halfway, nails digging in. “All yours,” she wails.

He shifts her legs higher around his waist, his hand sliding beneath her knee to angle her just right, and when he thrusts again, her whole body jolts. “Right there?” he asks, watching her eyes closing shut, her mouth falling open. “Ja, that’s it. That’s how my baby needs it.”

Her entire body shakes with pleasure, panting with every thrust as he drives into her with a need that’s no longer just physical. It’s every moment he missed her, every second he hated himself for letting her walk away, instead of ripping that ring off his hand, finger and all.

Max’s voice breaks against her skin, “You have any idea what you did to me for eleven months?”

She nods, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Of course you do,” Max smiles into her neck, maintaining the pace, sweat dripping from his brow as her walls spasm around him, pulling him deeper. “You know I jerked off to the thought of you every night,” he continues, the confession nearly unraveling him. “Couldn’t touch anyone else because your pretty face was everywhere I looked.”

Her fingers slide into his hair, pulling gently. “My good boy,” she purrs, and the sound he makes in response is feral, like it strips him down to his most basic instinct.

Max cries out, thrusts faltering for a second before he slams into her harder. “Say that again,” he demands in a pleading voice.

“You’re my good boy,” she whispers, then kisses his cheek, smiling as he loses himself a little more. “You always were.”

The words wreck him. He breathes wetly into her neck, almost embarrassed by how much he needs to hear it, and how much he actually craves being her good boy. Beneath his though exterior, there’s always been a constant need to belong to someone entirely. Not out of weakness, but out of a desire to be seen and chosen. To be loved, treasured, and protected like he mattered. Because as a kid, those things came rarely, if ever. And though Max learned to survive without them, part of him never stopped longing for that kind of love. The kind he once found and lost, the kind he almost recklessly pushed away. The kind she gave him, without asking for anything but his love in return.

“I didn’t let anyone else touch me, either,” she continues, breathless but determined to let him know, her fingers now tracing down his spine. “Told every guy that hit on me I had a boyfriend waiting for me at home. Did I lie, Maxie?”

He moans louder, his body surging forward like something inside him just snapped. His thrusts grow rougher, driven by the need to prove her right. To remind her that she is, indeed, his, and no one else can ever make her feel this way.

“No,” replies Max. “You’re mine,” he pants, “My little kitten, ja?”

She laughs, half-sob, half-moan, body shaking as she clings to him.

Somehow, his lips find her breast again, latching onto her nipple like it’s instinct. He sucks on it a little rough, making her head bury further into the couch cushion with a soft whimper. She’s obsessed with The Feel of Max — his weight, the way he pushes into her and how his skin presses into hers, the sound of his breath against her chest. Every cell in her body burns for him, a deep fire that’s been waiting to reignite since the moment she did one of the hardest things: removing herself from her heart, because she had to choose herself for once.

His left hand reaches for hers blindly, pulling her out of the dreamy state she’s fell into. Max threads their fingers together and pins them above her head against the cushions. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she clutches his hand tighter, her stomach flipping with emotion. Her eyes fly open, not from surprise but from the intensity of it and how light it is. It’s impossible not to feel the difference; that tiny missing weight that used to sit there like a wall between them.

Max notices the shift in how she exhales, in the way her body clings to his. He doesn’t ask, but he knows.

“I see you,” he says. “I fucking see you, baby.”

She sobs out a sigh, something between a moan and an overwhelmed yes.

“You feel so good. So good, my love,” repeats Max again and again, like he can’t say it enough. “I’m never letting anything come between us, I swear.”

His honesty is poured into every thrust, every kiss against her jaw, her mouth, her neck and shoulder. Everything she needed to hear, he’s saying now, as if he finally realizes that she’s been waiting. And he knows she believes him. He feels it. Feels it in the way her walls flutter around his length faster, needier. Sees how her hips lift to meet his and how her chest expandes rapidly.

Her stomach coils tight, pleasure rising sharp inside her, “Max, if you don’t shut up,” she cries, “I’m gonna fucking come all ov—”

He laughs softly against her lips, silencing her, but he doesn’t stop. “Make a mess for me then,” he encourages her, thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve got you.”

He does. He always did.

With Max’s name on her tongue, his hand in hers, and every part of her clinging to him like gravity isn’t ever going to be enough again, she lets go. Her climax sends him spiraling, soaking everything, from the couch to his thighs and cock, with the kind of release that leaves no question how much she needed him. He wraps one arm around her waist in order to keep himself present as he shoves in deep one last time and stills, body shaking.

“Fuuuck,” Max chokes, forehead falling to her collarbone.

His cock throbs as he empties himself into her, her body welcoming every drop from him. His heart is hammering against her ribs, and he needs to breathe her in a few times before lifting his head, eyes glazed as they drop to where their bodies are still connected.

The sight nearly makes him come again.

Her thighs are trembling, spread wide, their slick mixed with his cum, smeared across her skin and his cock and the ruined couch. It’s absolute chaos, and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Satisfied, he collapses onto her fully, letting his weight sink into her just like he knows she needs. The girl sighs, breath tickling his temple, her hands finding his arms, scratching soft patterns along his skin. Goosebumps rise in waves, but Max doesn’t move. He just melts into her, letting her touch soothe him.

Her body acts before her brain has time to process. Gently, she lifts his hand and presses her lips to each knuckle. One by one. Then soft pad beneath his thumb. His palm, and the faint scar across it. She remembers how he caught the knife by the blade that night, and all the blood that spilled into the sink.

“Come home,” he whispers, voice cracking from the effort of saying it aloud. “Please.”

When there’s no answer, Max’s hands grip her waist, but he can’t find the strength to get up and look at her.

“Please,” he repeats. “I want to cook for you. Fight with you over stupid shit. Watch you fall asleep on this couch again. Just… let me love you right, baby.”

She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. Max’s scent clings to her skin, to her hair, to the air around them, and that mix of sweat and sex drives her insane. It’s in the crook of her neck, on the inside of her thighs, behind her knees, soaked into her very inhale and exhale. It’s impossible to tell where she ends and he begins.

“What did you do with the ring?”

Max stills. Not the soft kind of stillness that comes from rest after sex, but the rigid kind, where his muscles lock and his breath stops short, like her words caught him mid-step somewhere deep inside himself. And unfortunately, she feels it in the way his touch pauses, not pulling away, but no longer moving forward either.

Her heart sinks into her stomach.

She hadn’t meant it to feel like an ambush, or a test she didn’t even want the answer to in the first place. But the silence stretches just long enough that fear creeps in. And her mind is relentless, thoughts flying around, mean and uninvited: It still means something to him. Maybe more than you ever will.

But then Max’s voice cuts through all that, pushing all the dark clouds aside.

“I gave it back to her,” he says. “Took it to her grave and—”

“I’m sorry,” she cuts him off, fighting the tears in her eyes. She reaches to cradles his face in her hand, thumb sweeping gently across his cheek. His skin is warm beneath her touch, his stubble coarse. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

It’s his turn to interrupt her this time. “It’s okay,” Max assures her. “You were right. I needed to let it go if I wanted to be here. With you. It’s just… I am sorry it took so long.”

“No,” the girl shakes her head. “We can’t get mad at time for doing its thing,” she says gently.

Max’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that until it lands in him, like puzzle pieces falling into place. His eyes drift, settling on the digital clock glowing faintly on the wall. At the same time yesterday, he was lying in a cold bed, silence drilling through his ears louder than anything else. Swallowed whole by a grief so dark it didn’t even feel like sadness anymore. It was just a big hole of nothing.

A day later, he’s pressed against her, inside her, held by her. Breathing the same air as her.

Even though she didn’t say yes yet, even though he still has troubles sleeping, he’s content with the fact that the clock has reset itself for him. And for the first time since he got that call, he’s at peace.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

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© trashy track tales, 2025

[beargyu313]

cliffside

Love is so blind, it feel’s right when it’s wrong

˚.🎀༘⋆ Summary: what was supposed to be a quiet retreat turns into an unforgettable romance with a man almost twice your age (or the story of how your boyfriend’s dad seduces you). ྀ. 𐙚 ̊ Word count: 17.5k

ᵎ!ᵎ⭑.ᐟᵎ!cw: cheating !!! don’t read if uncomfortable !!!! mentions of food throughout the whole thing (they will nawt be hungry), also I do not encourage big age gap relationship irl, this is a fictional and heavily ROMANTICIZED story (ladies don’t let older guys take advantage of you !!)

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

⋆˚࿔ Tags: MDNI – smut (it’s basically pwp), soft power dynamics, forced proximity, boyfriend’s dad (meaning cheating – don’t read if u don’t like it), age gap (OC is 27, Sunghoon is in very late 30’s!), one bed trope, doting and dom!Sunghoon,, 𓆝

⋆smut tags: corruption kink, undertones of ddlg (no use of daddy), heavy petting, groping, spanking, possessive and obsessive Sunghoon !! (but he’s not acting like a freak), choking, brat-tamer!Sunghoon, praise kink

⋆˙♪ Playlist: LDR – norman fucking rockwell + Baekhyun – delight

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ A/N: was this plot just an excuse to write 17k Sunghoon smut? YES lmfaoo. My reqs are currently OPEN for Niki, Sunghoon and Jake, pleeeease request something (I don’t mind detailed reqs, because I’m not writing anything atm and would love a new project) 𓆝 also I’m opening an AO3 account by the end of the month 🦭ིྀ

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

You’re holding onto your seatbelt as your boyfriend Jihoon speeds over the winding road up the hill.

“Slow down,” you tell him, knowing it’s in vain.

You’d only been together for six months, and this was supposed to be your first real couple’s retreat. The plan had sounded romantic— staying at his dad’s remote cabin, no cell service, time to unwind, just the two of you—but right now, you’re gripping the handle on the door and trying to bite your tongue as the car takes another sharp curve.

He exhales sharply, like your voice is a burden. “We’re literally ten minutes away.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters. “What is the point, then? That I’m not driving the way you like?”

You glance at him. He hasn’t looked at you once since you got in the car.

“I’m trying to talk to you,” you say quietly. “You’ve been on edge since we left.”

“I’ve been on edge?” he laughs, humorless. “You’re the one who quit your job and suddenly needed a ‘healing escape.’”

You go still. The words hit harder than they should.

“I told you why I left.”

“Right. Because it was ‘toxic.’” He throws air quotes around the word with one hand while the other grips the wheel. “Or maybe you just couldn’t the real world.”

Silence drops like a rock between you.

You stare out the window, jaw tight. Trees blur by—dark pines, broken sunlight. The air feels heavier than it should.

He sighs again. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying, not everything is a crisis.”

“I didn’t ask for a crisis,” you murmur. “I asked for support.”

He doesn’t respond.

Not when the road evens out. Not when the trees thin and the sea appears in the distance, glittering like glass. Not even when the outline of the cliffside cabin comes into view—tucked into green and shadow like it was built to disappear.

Jihoon pulls into the gravel clearing with a crunch of tires. The cabin stands just ahead—smaller than you imagined, all warm wood and deep shadows, the ocean visible just beyond the slope. It’s stupidly beautiful here. It almost makes you more angry.

He doesn’t bother to put the car in park before saying, “Well. We made it.”

You sit still. The air between you is thick with things unsaid.

“I guess we did,” you say.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at the rearview mirror like he's already thinking about leaving. “Do you want help bringing your stuff in or…”

“No,” you cut in. “I’ve got it.”

That finally gets his attention. He turns toward you, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You unbuckle your seatbelt. “It means I think we need space. A break. Just a few days.”

His mouth pulls into that condescending half-smile you’ve grown to hate. “So what, you’re kicking me out?”

“I’m asking you to give me time to think,” you say, voice calm but tight. “I came here to breathe. You don’t want to be here anyway.”

He scoffs. “Wow. Alright then.”

You open the door and step out before he can say anything else. The gravel shifts beneath your shoes as you head to the trunk. He doesn’t move to help you—not a step.

You drag your suitcase out, the wheels catching on rock and dirt.

When you turn back, Jihoon’s already behind the wheel again. Sunglasses on. Expression unreadable.

You pause. Half of you expects him to get out anyway. To walk over. Say something. Fight for this.

But he doesn’t.

He raises one hand in a lazy wave. “Enjoy your break, I guess.”

And then he hits the gas.

The car kicks up dust and pebbles as it speeds off, tires whining slightly on the curve. You watch the taillights shrink and vanish down the hill. Just like that, he’s gone.

Melancholy creeps into you like a shadow, sighing you can’t help but judge yourself. Really, what were you thinking going for a younger guy. And yeah, maybe 5 years wasn’t that much but as your 27th birthday approaches you somehow wish Jihoon could be more mature, less selfish. You shake the thought away and tightly grip your suitcase.

The wind rises a little, brushing your hair into your face. There’s no one around. No sound but the gulls and the faint hush of waves crashing far below.

The sound of your steps crunching down on the gravel is loud compared to the quiet hush of the nature around you.

You look at the cabin again. And someone is standing in the doorway.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. White shirt sleeves pushed to the elbows.

You squint against the sun. Then recognize him.

Mr. Park. Jihoon’s father.

He steps out onto the porch, bootsteps slow and deliberate. You’ve met him once before, at a dinner—Jihoon had barely let you talk, but Mr. Park had been polite, distant. Watchful.

Now, he looks at your suitcase. Then at you. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen.

“Did Jihoon just leave you here alone?” he asks and you can tell he’s angry at his son.

You exhale through your nose. “Apparently I needed a break.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then so quietly you think you imagined it, “He’s more like his mother than I thought.”

You blink. You don’t know how to answer that.

Mr. Park glances at the suitcase again, then back to your face.

“You staying the week?”

You nod. “That was the plan.”

He tilts his head toward the open door.

“Then come inside. Wind’s picking up,” he states, as he bends ever so slightly and reaches for your suitcase. His fingers brush against yours as he grabs hold of the suitcase. You let him. But you’re still hesitating, stuck to the same spot on the driveway.

He notices.

“I don’t bite,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. Not quite a smile. Not quite a joke.

Then he turns and walks back into the cabin—like he knows you’ll follow.

And you do, eyes lingering on the subtle shift of his shoulders beneath his shirt.

If that dinner months ago was any indication, he’s a man of few words. Quiet, intense. Unreadable.

It didn’t help that you also thought he was very good looking. Long, black hair tucked behind one ear, a few strands falling across sharp cheekbones. Thin silver glasses framing his eyes, drawing attention to the thick brows that make his expression look serious—even when he’s relaxed.

He looks like someone who doesn’t speak unless it matters. Someone who sees more than he lets on.

And now you’re stuck in a cabin with him.

A cabin you thought would be empty. Jihoon never mentioned his dad was here.

Kicking off your shoes on the porch, you follow Mr. Park inside.

The inside of the cabin is warmer than you expected. Not just in temperature, but in tone—like someone curated comfort instead of just decorating it.

The floor is rich in dark wood and worn slightly in the center like it's been walked barefoot a hundred times. A plush sofa stretches across one side of the open-plan living area, upholstered in a deep jade green that catches the light from the tall windows. A few burnt orange cushions are scattered along its length—just enough color to feel intentional.

The kitchen is minimalist but modern. Clean black stone countertops. Matte brown cabinetry. Pans hanging above the stove, catching glints of sunlight through the trees outside. There’s a teapot already out on the burner—old but polished, like it gets used daily.

A single spiral staircase in wrought iron and wood winds upward to the lofted bedroom, perched just above the living space. It has no door—just a wooden railing and a clean sightline to the floor below.

You can see the bed from where you’re standing. It’s large, maybe a queen, with a low frame and linen sheets in soft earth tones. Moss green. Warm gray. A single burnt orange throw draped carelessly across the foot.

There’s no real privacy, not with the open layout. You can already imagine the sounds of footsteps on the stairs, the creak of bedsprings, even the breath of someone turning over in the night.

The whole place smells faintly of cedar, citrus, and coffee.

It’s domestic. Intimate. A little too intimate, maybe.

“Um-“

“So,” you two start speaking at the same time.

You glance at each other. You offer a tight laugh.

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

He shakes his head. “Ladies first.”

You shift your bag higher on your shoulder. “I was just going to ask… would I be, um, in your way? I mean, I didn’t know anyone else would be here.”

His gaze flicks toward your suitcase. “You’re not in my way.”

A beat. You’re not sure what to do with your hands. “Jihoon didn’t mention you’d be staying here.”

He gives the faintest shrug. “I didn’t know he was planning on coming either.”

You nod slowly, not sure how to respond.

“I usually come up for a few weeks every summer,” he adds. “To work, it’s nice and quiet here, no buzz of the city.”

“It is nice,” you say as you glance around again, avoiding looking in Mr. Park’s eyes. But you can feel his gaze on you. It’s making you squirm and you start overthinking everything. From your clothes, to your hair and down to your makeup.

“It grows on you,” he says, finally tearing his eyes off you.

Another pause. You try to find something to say. Something neutral.

“I like the colors,” you say finally. “All the… green. And wood. It feels… warm.”

He almost smiles. “That was my doing. The decorator wanted everything to be white and steel.”

You blink. “Wait. You picked the throw pillows?”

His eyes crinkle just slightly. “I’m not a savage.”

That makes you laugh, even though you try to stifle it. His gaze lingers on the sound. It softens something in his face.

Then he nods toward your bag. “You want tea? Or coffee?”

“Tea would be nice,” you say.

“I’ll get your things upstairs.”

You protest, “Oh, it’s fine, really—”

But he’s already moving.

“I’ll set it by the railing,” he says over his shoulder. “You’ll be able to see everything from up there.”

Including him, you think—but you don’t say it.

He disappears up the steps, feet thudding lightly against the polished wood. You hear the creak of the loft floor above you, and then silence.

You glance around the living room again, unsure what to do with yourself. The couch is a soft, worn leather. A stack of books sits on the coffee table. Nature. Photography. One novel with a cracked spine.

The kettle whistles from the kitchen, sharp and sudden.

You reach for it, but Mr. Park is already coming back down the stairs.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

You step back instinctively. He moves past you, not touching you, but close enough that you feel his presence, his warmth.

You silently move into the kitchen with him and watch him as he pours the hot water, slides the mug towards you and then fixes his own tea as well.

Chamomile tea with no sugar, just the way you like it.

“Oh, thank you,” you softly say as you wrap both of your hands around the cup and bring it up to your lips, blowing gently.

Mr. Park doesn’t reply, just continues moving around the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Pulls out vegetables, eggs, a small bundle of herbs wrapped in twine.

You hover for a moment. Then, ask uncertain.

“Do you want help?”

He glances back, his dark locks falling onto his cheekbones. You almost want to fix the bothersome strands, but suppress the itch to have an excuse to touch him. He is your boyfriend’s dad for god’s sake!

“No need. You’ve had a long trip.”

You offer a faint smile, trying to make it casual. “Not exactly the couple’s retreat I imagined.”

That earns you a low, dry sound. Almost a laugh. And against yourself you’re pleased.

He turns back to the cutting board. Begins to chop in precise, even strokes. Everything about him is deliberate. Controlled.

Then, without looking up he asks. “He left you up here alone?” only it wasn’t really a question.

You pause. “…He was upset. We argued.”

Sunghoon hums, neutral, but not quite, “He’s always been impulsive.”

A brief glance your way.

“Didn’t inherit that from me.” The words are clipped. Measured. Sharper than the knife he’s holding.

You hesitate. “You two aren’t close?”

He shrugs.

“Not the way I’d like. He doesn’t… think before he acts.” His voice is calm, but there’s weight behind it. History.

You tuck your hands under your thighs. “I guess I was hoping this trip would… reset things.”

He finally looks at you—really looks.

“You deserve more than hoping.”

Sunghoon continues cooking and you continue drinking tea as you try not to stare at him. You tell yourself to look away. Instead, your eyes trace the flex of his forearms as he works. The slow rhythm of the blade. The subtle tilt of his head as he concentrates.

You’re still staring when he speaks.

“See something you like?”

Your stomach drops.

He doesn’t look at you. Just slides chopped zucchini into a pan like he didn’t say anything at all.

You blink. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“Vegetables,” he says smoothly, mouth quirking. “I meant the vegetables.”

You let out a short laugh. Your cheeks are too warm. You take a sip of tea to mask it.

He finally meets your gaze. His expression is unreadable—but something in it lingers, like a touch you weren’t expecting.

“I’m making it for us,” he says. “Hope you’re hungry.”

The food is comforting. Warm rice, sautéed vegetables, the kind of seasoning that makes you pause for just a second, surprised it’s this good. You’re halfway through your bowl when the quiet between you stretches too long, and you feel the need to fill it.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “This is... really good.”

Mr. Park nods once. “Simple’s best up here. No delivery. No distractions.”

You glance at the windows, where the sun’s started to dip lower behind the trees. The silence out here feels different. Like it listens.

You clear your throat. “So… about the sleeping arrangements.”

He looks up at you, expression unreadable.

You add quickly, “I mean, I know you said I could take the bed, but I don’t want to—”

“You won’t, the couch isn’t suitable for sleeping anyway,” he interrupts gently. “Doesn’t stretch out.”

You blink. “Oh. Right. Of course. I didn’t know.”

His gaze lingers. “It’s not a problem. The bed fits two.”

You hesitate. “Mr. Park, I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“Sunghoon,” he says, voice low but firm. “Call me Sunghoon.”

You look at him. That subtle edge of command in his tone—not aggressive, not inappropriate. Just... sure. Your stomach flips.

“Okay. Sunghoon,” you softly say, his name heavy on your tongue. Like you’re saying a bad word. Forbidden.

His eyes stay on you a moment too long as if he can feel it too. Feel your unspoken desire. You fidget in your chair, his eyes piercing.

Then, just like that, he stands, collecting the dishes with easy efficiency. You rise to help, but he waves you off.

“I’ve got it. But…” He pauses at the fridge. “Do you want dessert?”

You blink. “You have dessert?”

“Kind of.” He opens the freezer. “One popsicle left.”

You let out a soft laugh. “We can split it.”

He tears the wrapper and hands you the stick. You take it, a bit taken aback that he unwrapped it for you. So far Sunghoon was being really caring towards you and you couldn’t tell if he’s being like this because he’s so much older than you and instinctively wants to take care of you specifically or if he’s always like this and it doesn’t mean anything.

Your lips wrap around the cold stick, the cold sharp and sweet on your tongue. You hear Sunghoon open the tap as he starts washing up. By the time he’s done you’re halfway done with the popsicle.

Sunghoon sits down on the sofa, right next to you as he watches the way your cheeks dip as you suckle and bite on the stick. Eyes dark, lids heavy and legs spread. But you don’t notice as you absent mindedly scroll through TV channels.

“Would you like some?” you innocently ask, “thought we said we’d split it?” only to almost drop the cold stick when you turn to look at him. Heat spreads through you like wildfire.

Sunghoon is sitting down on the couch looking like pure sex. Glasses sliding down his nose, hair a bit messy from brushing it back and heavy-lidded. Without hesitation, he slowly leans in and wraps his lips around the same spot your lips had just touched.

His mouth is slow as he softly bites down on what’s left of the popsicle. Hand wrapped around the same stick you’re holding. Deliberate. The wet sound of his tongue and the quiet sucking goes straight down to your core.

“I don’t mind sharing,” he says, dark eyes on you.

When he pulls back, he licks a faint drip from the corner of his mouth. The slow drag of his tongue as he pulls away makes you forget what you were about to say.

You stare at him. You can’t help it.

The air feels heavier now. Warmer. Intimate in a different way. He takes one last bite, then tosses the stick into the trash like nothing happened.

“You should get some rest,” he murmurs. “You can unpack tomorrow.”

You nod, fingers still cold from holding the popsicle. Mouth still warm from watching him.

And when you finally climb the stairs to the open loft, you know exactly what you’ll be thinking about when you try to sleep.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟

You wake up sweaty and sticky. Annoyed, you try to shake the duvet off but freeze as you feel the warmth behind you. Sunghoon is sprawled out next to you, his glasses on the bedside table. He’s not touching you, but with how closely he’s snuggled to you he might as well be.

You chuck the duvet off yourself, but do your best so it stays as it was on Sunghoon and let yourself fall back asleep.

The next time you wake to a steady rhythmic beat under you. You cuddle into the it, the sound calming you further into a daze. But then you register strong arms draped over you, hugging you protectively. And you realize you’re literally laying down on Sunghoon’s chest.

His arms tighten around you when he feels you waking up.

“Finally up, huh,” he mumbles, but his voice is kind. Sleep still seeping into it.

“Didn’t want to move and wake you, sorry,” he tells you and lets you roll off him.

“Sorry,” you squeal, face turning red, “hope I didn’t droll, I’m not usually the cuddling type.”

“No? S’kay, I didn’t mind it,” Sunghoon tells you as if it was nothing and starts getting ready for the day.

You’re still hiding your face behind the duvet as you listen to his quiet shuffle around the small loft. It is only when you hear the front door shut that you force yourself to get up too.

The morning is spent in quiet solitude that you invite with open arms, enjoying the scenery. You prepare yourself a simple breakfast and a tea to go along with it. As you sip on it you see Sunghoon outside, taking photos. And that’s when you remember Jihoon telling you his dad did photography.

You go back upstairs to unpack and change out of your pajamas. It’s true that it was summer, but the mountain air was a bit chillier so you decide on an oversized sweater, shorts and knee socks.

As you go out, you look around for Sunghoon, slightly jogging up to him when you spot him just off the trail. Near the forest. The sun is high up in the sky and Sunghoon has his camera raised, gaze narrowed like he’s tracking something invisible. A gull wheels overhead. His finger clicks the shutter.

"You're out early," you say, a little breathless from jogging. You brush your hair out of your face.

He turns at the sound of your voice. His eyes take you in—sweater hanging off one shoulder, the soft skin of your thighs above those socks—and there’s a flicker of something there. But just as quick as you notice it, it’s gone.

"Best light doesn’t wait. You want to try?" he asks.

"Really?" you ask, already shuffling closer to him.

Sunghoon watches you as he gruffly tells you, "come here."

He pauses when you leave some polite space between the two of you.

"Closer," he tells you, opening his chest as he indicates he wants you to come directly against his chest. You gulp as you move, his broad stature engulfing you as he put his arms around you and holds the camera in front of you.

"I’ve never held one like this before," you tell him, your heart racing at the proximity.

Sunghoon quietly chuckles, "that much is obvious. Relax your grip—you’re choking it," his hand over your, softly fixing your fingers.

"Sorry—"

"No need to apologize. Just let me guide you," and you do, his fingers guide you, as his breath caresses your neck. And you have to suppress a shiver when he quietly speaks next, his voice right next to your ear, breath tickling your neck.

"Tilt your wrists like this... yeah. Just like that. Feel better?"

"A little," you rasp and you swear his voice sounds deeper than before. You feel a warm buzzing seep from your inner thighs and try your best to will the thoughts away.

"Don’t overthink it. Let the camera rest in your hands. Let it want to be touched," he speaks, his hands moving from your wrists up your arms and settling on your shoulders as he watches you click away.

You softly chuckle in hopes of dissipating tension"you’re making it sound... kind of dirty."

"Is that how you’re hearing it?" he asks, not bothered in the slightest, but his hands on your shoulders start applying pressure – almost in warning.

"I didn’t mean—" you fumble for words, panic shooting through you. How was he always so calm?

"Mm. Focus here. Look through the viewfinder. Keep your hands steady," he cuts you off. His face is right next to your as he looks into the viewfinder.

"Breathe in," he proffers.

A beat passes as you breathe in and you swear heat builds between you. But only his hands touch you, their weight a constant reminder of how close he is.

"Now exhale slowly. Feel that? How everything sharpens when you stop fighting it?"

"Yeah..." you say, your voice coming out in a quiet breath. You shuffle in your spot, your shorts rubbing against your lower lips.

"Good girl," says Sunghoon, his voice like honey to your ears. But still – you momentarily falter, his voice bringing you back to reality.

"Mr. Park..." you hope your voice is at least a little serious, turning slightly to look at him through your lashes.

"If you keep calling me that, I’m going to start thinking you like it," Sunghoon easily replies, his gaze dropping to your lips. It’s back on your eyes just as quickly, so much so that you start to think you imagined it.

"Is that a problem?" flustered, you laugh and take a step forward. His hands drop from your shoulder as he continues watching you. A lip caught between his teeth.

"Not at all. But if we’re going to keep doing this... it’s Sunghoon. Say it."

"Sunghoon," you say, turning to look back at him.

"Better," he smirks and your gaze falls to the grass.

Sunghoon takes over the camera then, and you end up spending the entire day with him. Mostly just listening, letting his quiet confidence settle into the spaces where your thoughts usually race. He explains this and that—aperture, lighting, texture—and you try your best to keep up, even though you mostly just enjoy the sound of his voice. Low and calm, like the tide pulling in.

For lunch, you make sandwiches for the both of you, slicing the bread carefully while he’s still reviewing the shots on his camera. You place the plate beside him with a soft, "Here."

He glances up, genuinely surprised. Then, that soft flicker of something like warmth passes through his eyes.

"You didn’t have to, sweet girl," he says.

Just like that. Casual. Almost lazy. But your face burns for the next hour.

By the time the sun dips behind the trees, painting the cabin in golden light, he mentions putting on a movie in the living room—and you stupidly agree before even thinking to ask which movie.

You only realize your mistake when he dims the lights and presses play on Hereditary.

The couch is wide but low, sunken from use. You curl into yourself immediately, legs folded up beneath you, oversized sweater sleeves covering your hands. You retreat into your corner like a cat anticipating a thunderstorm.

Sunghoon claims the other side—sprawled out, knees wide, one arm draped over the backrest. He doesn’t look at you, but his presence takes up all the space anyway. Calm. Heavy.

You’re not touching. But you can feel him.

At first the movie is fine. Almost boring. You’ve seen horror films before, and for a while Hereditary just feels like another cliché movie. A family unraveling. A creeping unease.

But as the minutes tick by, your body starts to betray you. The way the music swells without warning. The shadows that linger a little too long in the corners of the screen. The sudden cuts to faces that shouldn't be there.

Your fingers curl into the blanket. You try to laugh once—force it out like it’s no big deal—but it dies in your throat.

Beside you, Sunghoon doesn’t move. He watches with the same intense stillness he brings to everything. Like he already knows exactly what’s coming.

When the first real scare lands—a sharp cut, a scream, something unnatural jerking into frame—you jump.

Not dramatically. Not even enough to make a sound, but enough that your knee brushes his thigh.

You freeze.

So does he.

Then, slowly, you start to pull away—

“Scared?” His voice is low. Barely a whisper. Almost amused.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, only to find that he's already watching you. Not the screen.

“It’s just a movie,” you say, trying to play it off.

But your voice isn’t steady. Not enough to fool either of you.

He doesn’t call you on it. Just leans a little closer, arm still draped behind you on the couch.

“Come here,” he says simply. Not a question. Not a suggestion.

Just… an offer.

And somehow, that’s even more dangerous.

“It’s fine, really,” you tell him but as the climax of the movie approaches you’re getting progressively more and more scared. Your eyes shifting in paranoia to look outside the windows to make sure no one is looking in, you almost scream when a big hand wraps around your wrist.

But you relax, when you realize it’s just Sunghoon. He pulls you right against himself, his arm falling protectively against your body. He moves your legs so they’re resting in his lap, his other arm placed on your naked thighs.

“You’re too stubborn,” he tells you, but his arms tighten around you whenever you jump.

Once the movie ends, the room is too quiet.

You don’t move at first, staring blankly at the credits. There’s still a weight in your chest—your heartbeat quick, your breath shallow. That last scene… you wish you hadn’t watched it.

Sunghoon stretches, slow and deliberate, his body radiating calm. He looks down at you—really looks—and sees it.

“Too much for you, sweetheart?”

His voice is low. Gentle. Like he’s talking to someone much smaller, like he’s already tucking you into safety without moving an inch.

You glance at him, face warming. You nod, just barely.

“It got really scary at the end,” you admit softly, voice small.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t laugh. Instead he softly asks, “Want me to put something else on?”

You nod again, biting your lip. “Can we… watch a cartoon? Something stupid. With animals, or magic. Just something nice.”

That earns the smallest smirk. Not mocking—fond.

“Of course you want animals.”

He reaches for the remote, his hand trailing down your thighs. He pulls your sliding sock back over your knee, smoothing over the goosebumps that appear on your thigh where he touches.

“Any favorites, baby girl?”

The nickname makes your stomach flip, but you don’t correct him. You just sink a little deeper into the couch and mumble something about whatever’s cute.

Sunghoon scrolls quietly until something soft and colorful starts playing. You don’t even register what it is—just the bright lights and silly voices, the kind of show you used to watch on Sunday mornings with cereal in your lap.

He glances at you again.

“Better?”

You scoot deeper into him “mhm,” you whisper. “Thanks… Sunghoonie.”

There’s a pause, and then you feel his hand move, caressing your thigh.

After some time you shuffle against him again – your back hurt after laying sideways. Your legs spread as you sit on Sunghoon’s lap, now chest to chest with him as you let your head rest on his broad shoulder.

You don’t seem to realize you’re straddling him, Sunghoon’s even breathing lulling you into a sleepy haze. You just knew the TV light was starting to bother you and Sunghoon was warm. So you snuggle further into him.

He doesn’t say anything, instead he brings his legs closer and angles his hips upwards, so your core is pressed directly against his. You squirm around a bit, trying to find a comfy position when you feel it.

Something is poking right against your butt, just as you sit fully down and begin to nod off. Bothered by the prodding you subconsciously roll and press your hips against Sunghoon’s warm body.  You quietly groan, as pleasure starts replacing discomfort.

You continue dragging your hips up and down and Sunghoon groans underneath you. You moan, nuzzling your head into his neck as you push your front into his chest. Sunghoon’s hands travel from your thighs to your waist and it’s getting harder to breathe.

You pick up the pace, grinding with more intent when his hands grip your hips, the strength forcing you to stop. You whine at the loss of friction.

“You’re sleepy baby, let me take you upstairs,” Sunghoon groans, his voice hoarse as if he’s holding himself back from saying too much.

You let him lift you up in bridal position and carry you upstairs. He softly lays you down on your side of the bed. You don’t hear him, as he quietly goes into the bathroom. Trying to hold back any sounds as he grips his hard and leaking cock. And maybe that night he furiously tugs at his cock like a teenager, cumming embarrassingly fast before he’s able to come and sleep next to you. But you don’t know that, already asleep.

When you wake the next day you’re tangled with Sunghoon again. You’re calmer this morning compared to the previous one, and that’s when his hand twitches – shifting the mood. You’re spooning, only Sunghoon’s hand isn’t around your waist. No, it’s resting directly on your boob. Almost fondling it. You feel twitching as he starts waking up, the hand on your boob momentarily tightens into a grope, and you feel your nipples stifling, poking up. You mewl, subconsciously pushing your chest further into his hand.

You don’t move more than that, pretending you’re still sleeping as Sunghoon carefully continues touching you.

His fingers pinch your nipple, hips pressing into you. You feel how hard he is, and memories of last night fill your mind. Afarid he will pull away again you continue pretending to sleep. Sunghoon quietly groans into your ear, his hips rutting against your ass. The hand covering your tit less gentle as he roughly massages your boob.

You try really hard not to make any noise, not to push back, even though the ache building between your thighs has you nearly shaking in want. A moan escapes you when his thrusts get more irregular, less controlled and his dick twitches right against your lips.

Not being able to take it anymore you jut your ass out, shifting your thighs so you feel more pressure on your pussy. You quietly moan when Sunghoon’s other hand sneaks underneath your laying figure, resting on your navel.

“My sweet little thing, so good to me,” he breathes, pulling you into a back hug as he lets you feel his hard cock.

He breathes in your hair and you mewl when his hips move, thrusting upwards. Your pussy clenching around nothing and you feel your panties start sticking to you.

You’re a whining mess as Sunghoon lets you rub yourself on his cock and he continues playing with your nipple, pinching and pulling at it. Noting what makes you whine and moan the loudest. Hit other hand drawing comforting circles on your navel and you wish he’d let it slip under your shorts.

“Feel good, baby?” he asks you, nose grazing your neck, hips gently thrusting into yours, “you like when da-“ he coughs, “when I play with you, hm pretty?” he asks, before leaving a soft kiss right where your ear meets your neck.

“You poor thing, can’t even properly do it by yourself” he pouts at you, mocking you. But you don’t realize it, instead pouting as you nod.

“Yeah Hoonie,” you whine “need your help.”

Just then a loud smack ruins the moment, Sunghoon’s hand coming down your thigh in stinging pleasure. You hiss and blink at him, dazed and still needy. But the way he’s looking at you now—stern, jaw tight—makes your stomach knot.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice low and sharp.

You blink again, still catching up. He left you empty, just when you were getting there.

“Wha—?”

“You have a boyfriend,” he says flatly, standing up fully. He adjusts himself in his boxers, then runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to wipe the heat off. “What the hell are we doing?”

The words sting more than you want them to.

“You started it,” you shoot back, voice soft but defiant. “You didn’t seem to mind a second ago.”

His head tilts. Slowly.

“And I’m ending it,” he says, firmer now, like you’re testing him. “Before either of us does something we’ll regret.”

You scoff, crossing your arms as you look away. “Maybe you’ll regret it. I won’t.”

He’s quiet for a beat.

“Take a walk.”

You glance up at him, pout deepening as your eyebrows furrow.

“Make me.”

That gets him.

He steps forward, just a little too close—his shadow long over your legs.

“Don’t tempt me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Go cool off. Before I stop caring that you’re someone else’s problem.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, still warm and buzzing from the way he pulled away. Your thighs press together instinctively, but you refuse to let it show.

“Whatever,” you mumble to yourself, standing to rummage through your suitcase.

You start peeling off yesterday’s clothes—tossing the rumpled sweater and socks into a corner—and Sunghoon pushes past you, down the stairs.

You pull on something softer: a little camisole, barely opaque, and matching shorts that reach barely over your butt. You add a loose cardigan over it, just in case. Not like you're dressing for anyone.

As you start to turn away, something on the nightstand catches your eye.

A book.

You pick it up and see it’s Dracula. Of course, you loudly exhale through your nose in a quiet chuckle. Leather-bound, dog-eared, marked with a single worn slip of paper. You flip through a few pages, thumbing the edge. It smells like cedar and time. Somehow, that feels like him, too.

Curling onto the bed, you prop a pillow behind you and let yourself sink into it. Reading helps. Sort of. The frustration doesn’t really fade—but it settles, coiled and waiting.

Downstairs, you hear the front door open and shut. A car engine stirs to life. Sunghoon’s going somewhere.

Good.

You need space.

By the time the sun has risen higher and warmed the back patio, you’re already downstairs, water bottle in hand. You tug a towel out from the closet, find your sunglasses, and step out into the golden light. The air is warmer today. Still crisp from the mountain wind, but hot enough to sunbathe.

You stretch out on the lounging, sighing as the sun warms your skin. You don’t even hear the car pull back in—until the crunch of gravel in the driveway makes you glance up.

The door shuts.

And then you hear it. The steady, familiar steps rounding toward the back of the house.

Sunghoon. Butterflies erupt in your tummy even though you’re still mad at him.

He stops in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up on his head, one hand full of grocery bags, the other holding something vaguely bottled—wine, maybe. You don’t watch, but you hear him putting groceries away inside the kitchen.

He’s back out after five minutes. You take note of his clothes despite yourself – a tight black tee, accentuating his muscular frame and broad shoulders paired with light washed jorts.

His eyes find you.

“Need help with sunscreen?” he says, voice deceptively casual as his eyes drink you up. Clad in a flimsy pink bikini set that barely covered anything.

You peek at him over your sunglasses, not bothering to sit up.

“I’ve got hands, don’t I?” you say, all mock-innocence. “Pretty sure I can manage rubbing lotion on myself.”

Sunghoon doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Just arches a brow like he’s heard this kind of sass before—and knows exactly what to do with it.

“Mm,” he hums, stepping fully onto the patio. “Thought maybe your hands needed a break, since they were so busy earlier.”

Your stomach dips. You shoot him a glare—half mortified, half flustered—and throw an arm over your face dramatically.

“You said we weren’t talking about that.”

“I said we were done,” he corrects. He walks towards you pushing his hair out of his face. “Didn’t say anything about keeping my mouth shut.”

You snort despite yourself, still hiding under your arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re burning,” he says coolly, pointing at the tops of your thighs with the little bottle of sunscreen he grabbed on his way out. “Flip over or sit up, brat. You choose.”

That gets your attention.

You peek up again, pout forming instantly. “You’re so bossy when you don’t get what you want.”

He steps closer, crouching down beside your lounger now, one big hand coming to rest casually on the side of the chair near your hip.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dipping dangerously low, “if I were getting what I want, you wouldn’t be able to lie still right now.”

You blink, heat rising all the way to your ears.

He twists the cap off the sunscreen and holds it up between two fingers. “Well?”

You make a show of sighing. “Fine,” you grumble, rolling onto your stomach with an exaggerated huff, the curve of your ass now fully on display. “But you better not make it weird.”

“Oh, baby,” he says, smoothing lotion into his palms, “I think we’re way past that.”

And then his hands are on you. He starts with your calves, wrapping his big arm around your plush skin, hot after being warmed by the sun now high up in the sky.

You force your breathing to stay even as Sunghoon rubs the sunscreen on your skin. Even though his touch was on your legs, the way his fingers knew where to apply pressure and massage made your skin tingle with raw want.

But Sunghoon smoothly continues, his hands traveling past your knee and on the back of your thighs. Once he reaches your sensitive spot you unknowingly spread your legs slightly and Sunghoon smirks, squeezing the sunscreen directly onto your skin, straight from the bottle.

You shriek, “that’s cold.”

“Serves you right for being a brat,” he lightly scolds. His hands rub the cold cream on the spot right where your thighs meet your butt, eyes glued to the spot between your thighs. He licks his lips, his fingers continuing working on your inner thighs. High. His long digits reach your bikini, grazing your lower lips and you twitch. He smirks, not saying anything.

Your breath is shallow as as his hands grasp your thighs, nails softly digging into your skin as he drags circles into your skin – spreading the sunscreen all over your legs. Sunghoon, ever the detail oriented man, doesn’t miss a single spot.

You butt starts lifting, against your best tries to just lay there and take it.

Sunghoon’s breathing is heavier when he squirts the cream on his hands again and starts spreading the creamy substance over your butt. Your bikini bottoms start to wedge into your ass, turning it more into a thong the longer he plays with you.

You sigh, melting into your chair as Sunghoon’s hand slips under your bottoms.

“Gotta make sure you don’t get burned anywhere,” he explains, his voice dropping an octave and you clench around nothing.

You just hope he doesn’t feel how wet you’ve gotten and scold you again. Sunghoon squeeze your butt and jiggles it, watching the shine from the cream reflect from it. It made your butt look so inviting and he has to bite his lip so an inappropriate comment doesn’t slip past his lips.

You on the other hand are holding your breath in quiet anticipation, but Sunghoon’s hands are already on your back. Hands sticky from the sun block as he carefully finishes his application. Grazing your lower back, then your waist and moving onto your shoulder blades.

“You’re trembling, sweetheart. You want more and you don’t even realize it yet, do you?” Sunghoon quietly murmurs by your ear, his voice telling you everything he isn’t saying.

Your body’s humming. You’re dizzy. You’re about to turn around and do something reckless—

But then he’s telling you to turn around so he can do your front side as well.

You listen, moving the sunglasses so they cover your eyes. But Sunghoon doesn’t miss your blushing cheeks and the bead of sweat right in the middle of your boobs.

“Good girl, see how well we get along when you listen to me?” he teases as he rubs on your stomach. His fingers touching your underboob, pushing your top up and revealing the softness underneath.

You moan a small ‘mhm,’ putty in his hands. You don’t dare to glance at him when he is this close. But his shadow looming over your laying figure and his scent all around you is enough to make you dizzy, all your senses filled with him. Sunghoon. Sunghoon. Sunghoon. Everywhere around you.

The moment is broken by the shrill of your phone. Sunghoon flinches away from you, as if he was caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t be.

You re-adjust your bathing suit as you reach for your phone.

You check the screen: Jihoon.

You hesitate, and Sunghoon notices. In a low, unreadable voice he matter of fact asks you. “Don’t let it go to voicemail. He’s still your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

You answer. Jihoon’s tone is annoyed and distracted right off the bat. “Hey. You alive or what? I texted you yesterday.”

“I’ve been fine. It’s… it’s peaceful up here,” you reply, lowkey already exhausted from this conversation.

“That’s the whole point. You needed to chill out. You were being weird lately,” he tells you in a clipped voice.

Your stomach twists. Your words feel small.

“Did you know your dad was going to be here?” you ask instead of giving into the fight he was starting.

“So what if he is? He’s never even home, I figured he’d be working like always,” he defensively nags.

“Well, he’s not. He saw everything, Jihoon. When you dropped me off.”

At this point, you hear the rustle of movement—Sunghoon, standing just behind you now.

“Let me talk to him,” he tells you, reaching his hand towards the phone. You’re caught off guard but hand the phone over without thinking. He takes it with fingers still faintly warm from your skin.

“Jihoon,” Sunghoon interrupts him.

A long pause is heard before he speaks again. “You left her alone, without food, without checking in. You didn’t even tell her I’d be here. What exactly were you thinking?”

You don’t hear Jihoon’s reply, but Sunghoon’s answers has you assuming what must’ve been said anyway.

“She said she wanted space, so you dumped her at the edge of a mountain?” “Grow up,” he tells him, visibly annoyed.

“That’s enough, Jihoon.” He pauses, listening before speaking again. “You lost the right to have an opinion the moment you left her here.”

He hands the phone back to you like it burns and goes inside the house, giving you privacy to finish the call.

You hold the phone to your ear and Jihoon’s voice is furious now “what the fuck was that? You seriously told my dad on me?”

“He saw everything, Jihoon. He’s the one who took care of me,” you firmly tell him, refusing to be the bad guy here.

“So now you’re what, flirting with him? Jesus, no wonder you’re acting weird,” he childishly jabs.

“I’m not the one who drove off like a child,” you tell him, trying to keep your tone steady. No matter how much Jihoon wanted to have this fight with you, you wouldn’t let him ruin this vacation for you.

“You really think he cares about you? My dad doesn’t get involved. He watches people fall and doesn’t say a word,” he quickly speaks, his voice panicked.

You pause. The words cut—because Sunghoon has cared. In ways Jihoon never has.

“That’s funny. He’s the only one who has,” you reply and then hang up, fuming.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

You don’t see Sunghoon for hours after the call. The house is too quiet and you assume he went out to take photos, since one of his cameras was absent too.                You try to nap, to read, to scroll aimlessly on your phone, but your thoughts keep circling to the way Jihoon’s voice rang out loud enough for Sunghoon to flinch. The way Sunghoon's jaw clenched so tightly after, like he was grinding back words he didn’t trust himself to say.

When the sun begins to fall behind the ridge, casting the inside of the cabin in deep, amber shadows, you finally venture out of the bedroom.

You find Sunghoon in the kitchen.

His back is to you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, knife in hand as he slices into something soft and green on the cutting board. The overhead light cuts a sharp halo over his shoulders, casting half his face in shadow when he finally turns to glance at you.

Not a word passes for a long second.

You cross your arms loosely, staying near the doorway. “I didn’t know if I should come downstairs.”

He looks back down at what he’s doing. “Didn’t want you to go hungry.” There’s warmth in that sentence, but no softness. It’s clipped. Guarded.

You both sit at the kitchen island. The meal is simple—roasted vegetables, grilled tofu, rice. You push food around your plate. The silence between you is heavy. Borderline unbearable.

And then, finally Sunghoon softly speaks “don’t mistake silence for regret.”

His voice is quiet, but deliberate, “I just don’t trust myself to say something I won’t take back later.”

You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He sets down his chopsticks, leans back against the chair. His jaw is tight, but his eyes are impossibly clear as they settle on you.

“I knew I shouldn’t have touched you.” A pause. He swallows. “But you looked so small when he drove off. And I guess, I just wanted to protect you, show you the love Jihoon wasn’t giving to you.”

Your chest clenches. The hurt spills before you can reel it back.

“Then why are you treating me like I did something wrong?”

His gaze sharpens.

“You didn’t. But I did. You’re not mine… yet.”

The word clings in the air between you like the taste of smoke. It makes you sit a little straighter. Makes your breath catch.

He watches you intently, but not indulgently. His expression isn’t soft. It’s honest. Bruisingly so.

“You said I’m not yours. Like I’m someone’s. I’m not.”

“It’s not that simple,” Now he looks at you.

“It could be.”

“You still have him.”

“I don’t want him,” you cross your arms, jaw tightening.

He doesn’t speak. You take a step closer, looking down at him as he still sits behind the table.

“I want you.” There it is. You said it plainly.

His gaze drops to the floor for a moment, like the weight of it hits somewhere deep. Then back to you.

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I do.”

You pause, softer now. “You want me too.”

He exhales once, slowly. Runs a hand through his hair. That veneer of control, cracking.

His eyes flick to yours. “Of course I do,” he says. “Don’t think for a second I haven’t tried to push it down.”

You don’t speak. Just hold his gaze.

He threads your fingers together like it’s something he’s done a hundred times. And when he steps in close, the heat between you rises. The air shifts.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, low. “Not unless you mean it.”

You swallow, heart pounding.

“And don’t say my name like it matters,” he adds, “if you’re still planning to go back to him.”

Your voice comes out steadier than you expect. “I’m not going back.”

A beat. “I’m right here.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes the back of your hand, almost unconsciously.

“…Say it again,” he murmurs. Not commanding. Just needing to hear it.

You step closer. Tip your chin up.

“I’m right here, Sunghoon.”

And then he kisses you. His mouth claims yours with a purpose that makes your knees lock. It's not hesitant, not testing. It’s decisive. Like a line is being crossed, and he’s the one drawing it.

You gasp against him, and he swallows it whole.

The kiss is deep, slow, deliberate — not the fumbling of someone new, but the kind of kiss that knows exactly where to linger, how to make your pulse stutter. He tilts your chin just enough to control the angle, to taste you properly. Like he’s waited long enough.

It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel like relief. But it does. Because this is wrong. Because this is forbidden. And because that only makes it worse. Better, sweeter.

You feel the age between you in the way he moves — in the steadiness of his hands, in the quiet control he keeps even as he presses closer. There’s no rush, the kiss is slow, intimate. And his hold on you is firm, possessive, holding you close to him as if he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets go.  

By the time he pulls back — lips parted, breathing uneven — you’re flushed down to your chest. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, slow, like he’s memorizing the shape of it now that he’s finally tasted it.

His voice is low, warm, and just a little bit patronizing — the kind of tone that curls around your spine and makes you want to misbehave just to hear it again.

“You kissed me back, babygirl,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Don’t get all shy on me now.”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t look away.

He tilts your chin up further, just enough to make you feel small beneath his gaze.

“Want me to stop?” he asks, voice velvet-dark. “Or do you want Mr. Park to take care of you properly this time?”

Your breath catches.

It’s not the words exactly—it’s the way he says them.

Mr. Park.

Your lashes flutter. That word settles somewhere low and hot in your belly, like it had been waiting to be spoken all along.

You chew your lip, looking up at him through your lashes, voice barely above a whisper.

You pause, eyes flickering across his face—testing, teasing. “You wanna take care of me, Mr. Park?” you purr, face close to his. Sunghoon traces your whole face, eyes sparkling and lips curling into an almost proud smile.

“So now you get it,” he says, voice low and rich, eyes scanning your face. “Took you long enough, baby.”

He lifts a hand, fingers brushing under your chin, tilting it up like he’s studying you, admiring his own effect.

“You like being looked after, don’t you?” His thumb grazes your bottom lip, and he hums when you part your mouth, pliant for him.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispers, hot and slow. “You’ve got me now.”

And then, quietly, firmly, sure of himself “and Mr. Park is gonna take real good care of his sweet girl.”

And then his lips are on you again, he back walks you into the living room and you let him lead, lips not parting. This kiss is messier, loud squelching sound fills the room and you can’t hold back the little whines escaping past your lips.

Sunghoon doesn’t mind, his hands now unashamedly groping everywhere. Your thighs, your butt, your waist, your boobs and it’s dizzying.

You gasp when your legs hit the sofa, falling back on it. You lay there, breathing uneven and Sunghoon just stands over you. Studying you, his eyes dark and focused, tracing every inch of your body.

He unbuckles his belt, “take your shirt off baby, let Mr. Park see you,” and you comply. The bossy tone turns you on. Your hands pull the fabric off your body.

“Mr. Park,” you breathe, pupils blown as you watch Sunghoon. You need him now, immediately. Your pussy is practically pulsating as you continue watching, waiting. But Sunghoon doesn’t seem to be in a rush. He spreads his belt on the table, carefully.

You whine, “do something already.”

He crouches next to your laying figure on the sofa, your legs dangling over the tiny thing. Caressing your neck in a dark velvety voice, almost as if he’s enjoying seeing you beg he tells you mockingly, “you’ve been whining about this all day and now you can’t even wait five seconds?”

You whimper, softly blowing a raspberry as you move out of his hold. You pull the shorts down your legs, done with the waiting.

“Fine, I’ll just take care of it myself,” you fuss, hand starting to slide down towards your core.

But Sunghoon swiftly grabs your wrist, tightly. His body is on you in a flash and it only excites you more. You moan when he speaks.

“Keep acting like this and you won’t be leaving this room today,” he is breathing hard, eyes softening when he sees the raw desire in yours.

You push your hips up, rubbing your pussy on him as he holds your forearms next to your shoulders, your left side pressing into the sofa cushion. His legs trap yours and you’re completely at his mercy, your strength no match compared to his.

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy, but don’t push it” he warns, voice husky, “now say please. Properly”

You almost want to cry, the ache so visceral you can’t even think. His words don’t even properly register before you’re’ already blabbering.

“Please please please, Mr. Park, please,” you beg, unsuccessfully trashing underneath his iron hold.

“I promise I’ll behave, just please touch me, I won’t be impatient anymore,” you whine, tears building behind your eyes out of sheer frustration.

“There she is. That’s better. My good girl knows how to behave,” he murmurs, allowing you to grind your pussy against his muscular thigh, as he caresses your face, a smirk on his face.

“Took you long enough to say it,” a dangerous lilt in his smile. He lowers down, biting in your neck in what should be pain but is instead making you mewl. Your pussy gushing at this point.

“Mr. Park, Hoonie,” you breathe, “f-fuck” you gasp, stumbling over your words as Sunghoon continues biting you, now moving onto your tits, littering small marks, “fuck me please, need you so bad” you whine, legs wrapping around his hips and pulling his lower body into you.

He’s aching you can tell, he pulls his lips from your body with a pop, a string of saliva connecting him to you, his lips red and swollen. And suddenly you’re licking your lips, desperate for just another taste of this older man.

“You love when I make the rules. Don’t pretend you don’t,” he teases, as he finally, finally pulls his cock out. He pumps it two times, licking his hand before bringing it to your face.

“Spit,” he instructs and you comply. You watch as he wraps his fingers around his long and fat cock again, droll pooling in your mouth as you watch, mesmerized.

He notices your gaze, “ah, wanted to taste my sweet girl, see if you taste as good as you look, but” he groans, lining his cockhead to your entrance, “my little one is just too impatient,” he gruffs.

He pushes his dick into you, slowly deliberately. Torturing you once again, and you’re utterly helpless. Whining, moaning, groaning, squeezing your walls together but Sunghoon doesn’t give in to your whining.

He’s barely pushed his cock in halfway when you test his patience once again.

“Hoonie just push it in already,” you whine, “need you so bad, stop teasing.” You pout. His dick twitches and that’s when it clicks. He likes seeing you this needy for him.

You look at him through your lashes, pushing yourself into the sofa, making yourself small under his larger frame, “feels so good, Hoonie,” you quietly moan, “you’re so big,” you mewl and Sunghoon finally sheaths himself fully inside of you, groaning as he does.

He stays like that for a moment, allowing both of you to adjust, his eyes are squeezed shut. Your thighs around his waist twitch, impatient once again.

You bite your lip, just watching him. You know he feels your walls pulsating, purring just for him. begging him to fucking move. You needed it fast, rough but Sunghoon was hellbent on having you slowly. Devouring you whole as you cry for him.

“Now you can wait your turn,” he breathes, almost as if he can read your thoughts. His hand wraps around your throat, his gaze dark and your walls clasp tightly around his dick. Sunghoon smirks as he draws his hips out, slowly, before pushing back into you hard.

You can’t stifle the loud moan that leaves you and that only spurs Sunghoon on. He continues fucking you like this, pace incredibly slow and powerful – as if he had all the time in the world to get lost in your pussy. He watches your every breath, every move, gaze heavy – too heavy. You shut your eyes the intensity overwhelming you.

Your smaller hand cups his bigger one, still on your throat and his voice is husky when he speaks again.

“Look at me,” his voice like honey, the thumb on your neck drawing comforting circles as he continues fucking you, “No hiding. I want to see exactly what I’m doing to you.”

He tells you and when you look you can feel it. The control, the power he has over you, how he could ruin you if he decided to. And how you would probably let him.

Your mouth opens, gasping as he picks up the pace, fast and irregular and you can tell he is close.

You try to claw at his hand that was clasping around your throat. You gasp for air and Sunghoon continues watching you, groaning as his hips work an incredible pace.

His hips stutter, eyes shutting and arm leaving your throat. And you can finally breathe again. Sughoon sheaths his hips into you and he grinds them into you.

Your orgasm starts hitting you in powerful waves, when he starts humping his dick into you, barely pushing out. Your walls tightening impossibly, and Sunghoon can’t do anything else but just take it. Let your pussy squeeze the orgasm out of him, as he stills and spills inside of you.

And you whine, you fucking whine, he flops onto you, carefully not to hurt you as he rides out his orgasm, softly thrusting in you.

You feel incredibly full, can tell that he came so much it’s overflowing out of you while he’s still inside. You two just breathe for a moment, catching you breaths and you swear your soul left you for a moment.

“Hoonie,” you mumble, “feel so full.”

“I know baby, I know,” he wraps his arms around you, turning you two so you’re laying down on him instead.

“Hoonie’s got you,” he tells you, patting down your hair and kissing you on your forehead.

Your breath slows. His doesn’t.

You’re still curled into him, skin sticky and trembling, but there’s a tension still-

“You okay?” you whisper.

Sunghoon chuckles softly, low and wrecked. “You have no idea what you just started.”

And he kisses you again. Slowly and deeply, holding you close. You moan softly as his tongue explores your mouth. You’re squirming, needy again and you can tell Sunghoon is starting to get hard again.

"That wasn’t enough," he tells you, lips not leaving yours, "you’ve been driving me crazy for days. Thought one time would fix it?”

His fingers close around your thigh, hard enough to ground you, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to fuck you like this,” he tells you and then he’s manhandling you, your torso rests on the backrest as you kneel on the couch. Sunghoon’s hands are on your hips, pressing your front over the backrest, your chest pressing into it. Ass up.

He has you bent over the couch and he reaches towards the table. You turn, watching as he picks off his belt and you tremble. Excited. You bit your lip to stop the smile from spreading across your face as you instinctively cross your arms behind your back.

“You’re gonna let me have you like this pretty girl?” Sunghoon asks, almost panting as he fondles your ass.

“Y-yes Hoonie,” you say, voice shaky.

He slaps you, watching in satisfaction as your pussy clenches around nothing. Then he wraps his belt around your wrist – not tight, just enough to stop you from moving. He hums once he’s satisfied.

This time when he lines his dick to your entrance he doesn’t wait. He stretches your walls again and you push your face down, biting on the sofa in hope of silencing any noises from escaping you.

But Sunghoon doesn’t like that, his fingers grip your hair and he gently yanks you by the hair. Your spine against his chest as he continues fucking into you hard.

“Nu-uh princess,” he moans, right next to your ear and you shiver, “let me hear you.”

You’re choked on air, pleasure overwhelming, but still you comply, “you make me feel so full, Hoon… I can’t help it.”

You mewl, rutting yourself back, as Sunghoon continues with the hard and rapid pace, his hips pushing into your ass anytime he fucks into you. Head lulls back, putty in his hands you completely relax, letting him use your body to chase his own pleasure.

“Tell me you feel it too. Tell me it’s not just me going insane over you,” he breathes right by your ear, hands holding you by your waist in position.

“I think about you all the time… even when I shouldn’t,” you confess, drunk on his cock.

“No one else gets to see you like this, you’re mine,” Sunghoon continues, his hold on you tight. Possessive.

“Then don’t let anyone else touch me. Keep me,” you rasp, moaning when he brings his digits to your clit. You shake, from the pleasure and pressure as Sunghoon rubs your clit expertly, as if he had done it a thousand times before.

“Doing so well for Mr. Park,” comes his husky voice, he softly bites down on your ear, “that’s it baby, cream my cock, make a mess little one,” he groans when he feels you clenching down on him.

Your pussy convulses, clenching around him in waves and Sunghoon stutters, pushing his dick impossibly deeper into you and you feel him twitching, filling you up for the second time.

After a moment, after you have both came down you speak, softly. “You make me feel so safe like this…” you murmur, your voice quiet, breathy. Barely there.

Sunghoon gently undoes the belt still loosely hanging around your wrists. His fingers are slow and unhurried, tracing the curve of your hips like he’s calming you through touch alone.

“Such a pretty girl,” he murmurs against your temple, lips brushing soft and warm. He kisses your cheek next, and you lean into it instinctively, your body boneless, spent.

You don’t fight him as he lifts you—your legs too sore, your mind fogged with the aftermath of everything. He carries you upstairs like you weigh nothing, one hand splayed over your thigh, his chest warm where your cheek rests against him.

He sets you gently on the closed lid of the toilet, crouching beside you to check the tender insides of your thighs with a light touch. His gaze flicks up to your face, searching, but you’re already watching him, lids heavy, lips parted.

“I didn’t mean to…” he starts to say, almost more to himself.

“I liked it,” you whisper, interrupting. Honest.

He exhales slowly, something fierce and protective shadowing his face—but it softens when he turns back to the tub, running the water, checking the temperature with his wrist. You watch the rise of steam, the pour of oil — something herbal and grounding.

He doesn’t speak, but the care in his movements says enough. When he returns to you, he sinks to his knees. His hands are warm on your waist as he coaxes you to stand.

“You okay?” he asks softly, eyes searching yours.

You nod, your voice caught in your throat. “Mhm. Just… floaty.”

He touches your face. “I’ve got you.”

You step into the water, and he follows behind, settling with you between his legs. The heat wraps around you both, and his arms immediately encircle you, pulling you into his chest.

He starts to wash you slowly — his hands gliding over your skin in steady, calming passes. The silence stretches between you, but it’s not heavy. It’s safe.

“Everything’s warm,” you whisper, eyes half-lidded. “You’re warm.”

“So are you,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “Still glowing, baby.”

Your lips curve into a lazy smile. You hum, nuzzling against his chest. “I don’t want to think. Just stay here.”

“Then we’ll stay,” he replies, wrapping you tighter in his arms. His voice dips low — protective, anchoring. “You don’t have to do anything now. Just let me take care of it.”

You nod again, your breath softening, your heartbeat slow. The water laps around you both as you sink deeper into him.

And just before your eyes fall shut, you hear him say it—quiet, more to himself than to you “so small, so mine.”

You wake up slow. Limbs heavy, thighs sore, skin warm. His hand is already curled around your hip under the blanket, thumb brushing your waist lazily, like he never stopped touching you even in his sleep.

You shift with a sleepy noise, nuzzling into his chest. He murmurs something low.

“Mm. Thought you’d run away,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you softly whine, curling into him even more.

He huffs a laugh, hand tightening around your hip, “that’s not a complaint, is it?”

You pinch his side, and he groans dramatically.

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Only when I’m right,” he laughs, “come downstairs when you’re ready, I’m making pancakes,” he taps you butt as he stands up, leaving you to lounge on the bed a bit longer.

You emerge from the bedroom wrapped in one of his shirts—oversized and hanging low on your thighs. He’s barefoot, shirtless like he does this every day. Your hair melts as you note how fluffy his black hair looked.

He glances over his shoulder. The look he gives you is unfair—equal parts pleased and hungry.

“That mine huh?” he nods towards the shirt, amused. “Didn’t even ask.”

“I think I’ve earned the right to at least one shirt last night” you grin.

He chuckles, plate in hand as he slides it in front of you on the counter.

“Careful. You’re getting spoiled.”

You hop up onto the counter, tugging his shirt down on your thighs.

“I don’t mind.”

He stands between your knees without needing to ask, fork in hand. He feeds you the first bite himself, watching your mouth.

“My sweet girl.”

“You’re feeding me like I’m five,” you playfully complain, deflecting.

“Didn’t I tell you, pretty? I plan to spoil you rotten, besidesI like seeing you soft,” Sunghoon says, his eyes sparkling and a soft grin on his lips.

Your eyes flick up to his. “What does that mean?”

“That you let me take care of you,” he easily replies, tucking your hair behind your ear.

You’re breathless as you reply, “you’re not playing fair…”

But Sunghoon just chuckles, “I’m not playing at all.”

His fingers linger a second too long, grazing your cheek before slipping down your jaw. You blink at the weight of his gaze like he’s memorizing you. His thumb taps your bottom lip once, absently.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmurs. Not teasing. Just quiet, like a truth too heavy for the air.

Your pulse kicks, and when you look away, flustered, he lets you. Doesn’t push just rests his palm on your thigh, warm and grounding.

A moment passes like that. And as you reach for your juice, he tugs the hem of his shirt on you a little lower, eyes scanning your bare thighs.

“Don’t go outside in this.”

“Why? Afraid someone’ll see?” you tease.

“No. I just don’t like sharing,” he firmly replies, voice stern.

Your breath catches.

“Go finish eating. We’ve got all day.” He kisses your forehead.

The sun climbs higher. Warm light spills through the big windows, turning everything golden. You're curled up on the sofa, still wearing his shirt and nothing underneath but cotton panties, your legs stretched across the cushions.

“You look too pretty to waste the light,” Sunghoon says from across the room, holding his camera.

You blink up at him, amused. “Are you seriously about to make this a photoshoot?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t call it that.”

You tilt your head. “Then what would you call it?”

He lifts the camera halfway, gaze steady over the top of it. “Mine.”

Your throat tightens, pulse kicking up. You sit up slowly, legs tucking under you. “Tell me where you want me.”

He gestures toward the floor near the window where the light cuts in strong and clean. “There. Knees up. Just lean back on your hands.”

You settle into the pose, feeling a little silly, a little shy. But then he steps closer, lowering the camera for a moment.

“No, not like that,” he murmurs. “Chin up. That’s it. Now relax your mouth—yeah, like that.”

His fingers brush along your jaw to adjust the angle. Then lower, tracing a line from your throat to your collarbone.

He clicks the shutter.

You try to hide your shiver. “You’re not even looking at the pictures.”

“I’m looking at you,” he says, voice low.

Another shutter click.

He crouches down in front of you now, so close you can feel his breath. The lens barely a foot from your face. “This one’s just for me,” he says. “No one else gets to see you like this.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily.

“Sunghoon…”

He looks over the lens at you again, heat simmering in his gaze. “You like this. Knowing I’m the only one who’ll ever have this version of you.”

You swallow hard, voice quieter. “I do.”

He lowers the camera entirely now. “Good.”

You're still seated where he posed you, but your breathing has shifted — shallow, anticipatory.

Sunghoon sets the camera down on the nearby chair, but doesn’t move away. His fingers skim your jaw again, softer this time, trailing along the column of your throat.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Flushed everywhere.”

You feel it too — the heat that’s crawled up your chest, painted across your cheeks.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, trying to sound annoyed. It comes out breathless.

“Can’t,” he says simply. “You let me have this. You don’t get to complain now.”

Your stomach tightens at the word have.

He brushes your hair back over your shoulder, exposing your collarbone, your bare leg tucked under you. His eyes never stray far from your face — as if every shift of your expression matters.

“Why are you looking at me like I’m going to vanish?” you murmur.

His jaw ticks. “Because you might.”

You blink, thrown by the admission.

He cups your face with both hands now, firm but gentle, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Do you even understand what you’re doing to me?” His voice is velvet-wrapped steel. “You let me take care of you. Let me see you like this. I don’t just want you anymore, sweetheart. I need you.”

Your lips part but you don’t know what to say. The gravity in his voice, in his touch—it hits you low, deep. And the wildest part?

You love it.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmur, but lean into his hands anyway.

“Why not?” he asks, brushing his nose along yours. “You want gentle? I can be gentle. You want rough, you just have to say the word. But don’t ask me to be casual.”

He shifts to sit behind you, legs bracketing your body as he draws you against his chest, palms slowly smoothing over your bare thighs.

“I’m not sharing,” he says quietly against your ear. “Not your body. Not your time. Not your smile.”

You tilt your head back against him, eyes fluttering closed.

“You’re getting worse,” you whisper, teasing, but there’s no real fight in it.

“I know,” he says, dragging his mouth along your shoulder. “And you love it.”

And you do.

God, you do.

You feel him smile against your skin — slow and smug — before he lifts the camera again, his fingers adjusting the lens like it’s second nature.

“Let’s try something,” he murmurs, tone deceptively casual. “Lean forward for me a little. Just rest on your hands.”

You obey, your palms flattening on the hardwood floor in front of you, back arching slightly. He hums in approval behind you, one large hand gliding up your spine to encourage the motion further.

“Good girl. Now—eyes here.”

You glance over your shoulder, and the click of the shutter follows instantly.

“Perfect,” he praises, the warmth in his voice making your stomach flutter. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me like this.”

“You’re the one making me do it,” you mumble, flushed.

“Correction,” he says, lowering the camera slightly. “I’m just helping you play.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out — breathless, soft. “Play, huh?”

He shifts behind you, one hand pressing lightly to the small of your back. “Mm. Sit up again. Just like before. Keep your knees bent, feet tucked close.”

You adjust, trying not to overthink it — but then his hands slide along your inner thighs to reposition them just slightly wider. Your breath catches.

“Yeah, like that,” he says lowly. “That’s the shot.”

You swallow, your skin prickling with awareness as you feel how close he is, how warm his breath is at your neck again.

“Smile for me,” he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

You try — you really do — but it comes out more like a shy smirk.

Click.

He lowers the camera, lips ghosting near your ear. “Now lose the shirt.”

Your head turns sharply, eyes wide.

His voice is gentle, coaxing. “Just turn your back to me. Let me see your skin. Nothing I haven’t already memorized.”

The way he says it makes your breath hitch.

“You don’t have to,” he adds, though his fingers are already curling at the hem of the shirt.

You pause for a second, then slowly unbutton it, letting it fall down your shoulders, your back remaining to him as he asked.

He draws in a slow, audible breath. “You’re so good like this,” he says. “Soft. Obedient. Trusting.”

Your whole body hums.

He sets the camera down now, forgotten. His hands trail up your sides, slow and reverent. You lean back into him without thinking, and he wraps his arms around your middle, drawing you flush against his chest again.

“You really like taking pictures of me,” you whisper, dazed.

“No,” he says into your hair. “I like proof that you’re mine.”

You bite your lip, a warm ache blooming in your chest at the quiet, possessive honesty in his tone.

“Now,” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw, “let’s play a little more.”

Then his phone buzzes. Sunghoon frowns as he checks the screen “it’s Jihoon.”

You freeze. Sunghoon answers. His tone shifts, cool and calm. You hear Jihoon’s muffled apologies to his dad through the phone, “I shouldn't have blown up like that… I can pick her up Sunday, give you both some space.”

You watch Sunghoon, waiting for the guilt to hit you. It never does. You watch the serious look on Sunghoon’s face, the way his jaw clenches. You bring a hand between your thighs, shifting your weight on it for just a second. Just to relieve a bit pressure.

Then you drop on all fours, waiting for him to look at you. When he does you crawl to him, sitting yourself in his lap. Sunghoon wraps an arm around you, thinking you want to cuddle because you feel bad.

But instead you pull his shirt up, hands exploring the strong and toned frame. You shift closer, crotch directly on his half hard dick.

Sunghoon shoots you a look. A warning.

But you continue, pressing your lips on his jaw. Sunghoon hisses when your finger traces his nipple, the hold around you tightens. And you can tell he is getting hard. And mad.

 “You said we had all day,” you seductively whisper in his free ear.

He clears his throat. Tries to keep talking to Jihoon, but his voice shakes slightly. You don’t listen to their conversation until your name is mentioned again.

“Anyway. You’ll bring her back, right?” you hear Jihoon ask Sunghoon. You tentatively roll your hips, pressing your pussy on him.

Sunghoon is deadly calm, as he speaks in a strained voice, his hand griping the phone, knuckles white.

“Yeah. I’ll handle her, I mean I’ll see she comes to the city safely.”

Then he hangs up mid-sentence, tosses the phone onto the sofa, as he grabs your jaw, clearly mad.

“You really don’t care about playing nice, do you?” he scolds, pushing you back and forth on his lap, fully hard now.

“You started it,” you whisper, shameless as you moan. “Please Hoonie, I want more,” you beg, fisting his shirt.

“Yeah? You like it when Mr. Park lets you play?” he asks, voice deep. He lets you hump yourself against him just watching you, gaze serious, brows furrowed slightly. But you don’t notice.  

“Mhm,” you say blissfully. Hugging him to you, your tits press against his chest and he twitches.

Sunghoon sneaks his hands between the two of you, pulling his cock out.

“But you haven’t been playing nice, doll” he tells you and lands a smack against your ass.

You cling to him, position yourself so your clothed pussy is touching his dick. Mewls turn into whimpers as pushes you off of him.

“Come here,” he tells you, seating himself on the sofa, legs spread. His hand is on his dick, lids heavy as he watches you.

“No, not like that” he scolds, “crawl like you did before.”

You clench around nothing as you go on all fours, padding towards him. Eyes on his dick, when he sees your gaze he teases you. Gripping his cock, lip caught between his teeth as he strokes himself.

You stop at his feet and Sunghoon pulls you up by your upper arms, bending you over his lap. He roughly pulls your panties off and you clench when the cold air hits your wet pussy.

“You think it’s funny? Grinding on me while I’m talking to him?” Sunghoon asks, voice low as he rubs your exposed ass, touch deceptively soft.

He spanks you again, a sharp clap of sound that makes you whimper.

“Do you know what you sounded like? Panting into my neck while I’m trying to keep my voice steady?” he continues, fondling your ass as he speaks before he lands another spank on your pink ass. This one harder, the sting makes you hiss upon impact.

“Princess. That wasn’t cute. That was reckless,” he scolds you, hand resting on your lower back.

You wriggle, needy for his touch and he lets out a laughs. He grabs your hips, stilling you.

“Don’t squirm like that unless you want more,” he says, breathing hard. And you feel his dick poking you, can feel the precum leaking onto you where his dick presses into your plush skin.

He runs his hand over the curve of your ass in a brief caress, before another sharp slap lands.

“Making me hard while I’m talking to your boyfriend. Is that what you wanted?” he asks, breathless. Then in three quick succession slap, slap, slap.

But you liked being punished, so you test his patience, teasing “you were already hard before I moved.”

“And now look what you’ve earned. Mr. Park can’t even take one call without his little one acting up,” he growls, spanking you once again and your ass is starting to hurt. But you invite the pain, lean into the sting as your thighs rub together.

He leans close to you, lips brushing your ear, “you think I won’t punish you just because you’re cute? Think again, baby,” he slowly speaks, possessively.

He pulls you up and you cringe, your ass sensitive from the spanking. It hurts to sit down on him and you lift on your feet hovering over him in a crouching position.

Sunghoon just watches you amused, but then. He rubs his dick against your pussy. You sigh, looking down and watch as he wedges it between your lips.

“Such a pretty thing, just for me, for your Hoonie,” he breathes in a daze.

You nod, clenching down around nothing as you watch Sunghoon rub his dick on your pussy, spreading your wetness all over himself.

You softly moan when he pushes past your tight entrance, “want more,” you grind. Pushing down you sit yourself on him and Sunghoon brings you close to him by your hips.

His lips find yours in a surprisingly soft kiss, as you start to grind. Pushing up and down, slowly in an uneven rhythm.

You’re already a whining mess, your eyes shut as you let Sunghoon kiss you. He slips his tongue in your mouth and you’re like putty in his hands.

He plays with you, hands over your boobs, pinching and scratching lightly. You’re numb with pleasure, cock drunk as your Hoonie starts thrusting upwards.

You come undone at the same time, orgasm crashing into you in strong waves. Sunghoon watches you, and you don’t notice when he reaches for his phone, snapping another photo of you looking so small and so sexy on him as you come undone.

You collapse against his chest, body boneless, breath hitching as the aftershocks ripple through you. He’s still buried deep, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring you to earth.

You’re only just coming back to yourself when you hear the shutter click.

Your head jerks up, eyes wide. “Did you just—?”

He smirks, absolutely unapologetic as he shows you the photo: you, flushed and undone, mouth parted, nails dug into his forearm. “Couldn’t help myself. Look at you,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know how good you look when you fall apart.”

You swat weakly at his shoulder, more flustered than angry. “You’re insane.”

“Mm,” he hums, kissing your temple. “over you.”

He pulls out slowly, groaning at the mess you’ve both made, and then scoops you up like it’s nothing. You squeak in protest.

“Put me down!”

“No,” he says simply. “You can barely stand. That was the point.”

You hide your face in his neck, skin still burning. He takes you upstairs.

Once inside the bedroom, he lays you gently on your stomach, palms trailing down the backs of your thighs before he pulls away. The bed shifts with his weight, and then you hear him rummaging softly through a drawer.

“Don’t move, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Just stay right there.”

You glance over your shoulder, lids heavy, and catch the glint of a container in his hand. Vaseline.

Your stomach flips.

You flinch slightly as the cold ointment hits your skin. “Ah—” “I know,” he says softly, stroking it in with care. “Shh, I’ve got you.”

His fingers massage it in slowly, deliberately. Tender, as though undoing the sting of every sharp smack from earlier. “You’re red,” he mutters under his breath, thumb brushing a particularly sore patch. “Should’ve gone easier.”

“No,” you mumble. “You were perfect.”

A beat. His hand pauses.

“You always say the filthiest things, and then turn around and say shit like that.” He leans in, pressing a long kiss to the base of your spine. “Gonna ruin me.”

You hum in response, half asleep already.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟

A Bit Later… You wake to the soft crinkle of blankets on the living room floor.

Sunghoon’s back from the kitchen, a tray in hand — cut fruit, chocolate, a bottle of wine, and a heating pad that he doesn’t say anything about, just plugs in and tucks gently under your thighs when you sit down with a tiny wince.

You’re wrapped in one of his hoodies now. No underwear. He let you keep it.

The music playing is soft and dreamy. Something instrumental. The air smells like strawberries and lavender soap.

Sunghoon sits beside you, legs spread lazily, shirt halfway buttoned and sleeves rolled to the elbow. His eyes are heavy-lidded, but sharp — always watching.

You curl up beside him again. He opens his arm and pulls you in without asking.

“You good, baby?” he asks, brushing a knuckle under your jaw. “Mhm,” you whisper, nuzzling into his chest. “Warm.”

He presses a kiss to your hairline. “You did so well today. My good girl.”

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. The compliment sinks deep — deeper than it should.

“I like it when you take care of me,” you murmur.

He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back. “Yeah. I know you do.”

A few moments pass in comfortable silence.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” you ask, quieter. “Me being like this?”

Sunghoon shifts to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His expression is unreadable at first — then softens.

“No,” he says. “I think it’s perfect.”

You hold his gaze for a beat too long.

Then you speak, even softer.

“You’ll spoil me.”

He smirks faintly. “That’s the plan.”

And spoil you, he does.

You spend the day camped out on the living room floor, a makeshift indoor picnic laid over the throw blankets and couch cushions Sunghoon pulled down with quiet intention. There’s a soft jazz record playing in the background and between bites of fruit and chocolate, he feeds you with his fingers, eyes never straying far from your mouth.

At some point you curl up in his lap with a glass of wine, and he reads to you from whatever book you pulled off his shelf, voice smooth and low in your ear. The sunlight drifts lazily across the floorboards. You don’t notice how much time passes — just that it feels suspended. Like nothing outside this cabin exists.

He’s good at that — creating small, perfect worlds for you to collapse into.

Sunghoon’s fingers stroke idle lines across your lower back. You feel him breathe. Slow. Anchored.

Neither of you says much. There’s no need.

Eventually, he murmurs, “Let’s go to bed, sweetheart.”

You nod against his neck, already half-asleep, letting him guide you. You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You wake in his bed again, the morning sunlight streaming in.

Sunghoon’s already dressed, sitting behind you with his legs spread, guiding a comb gently through your hair. You’re settled between his thighs, back to his chest, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“You always wake up first,” you mumble.

“I like watching you sleep,” he says, not missing a beat.

The comb glides through another section. “It’s calming,” he adds. “You look like you trust me.”

“I do.”

He pauses at that — just a beat — then keeps combing, slower now.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the hush of the room, the smell of his cologne clinging to the shirt you still haven’t given back, the lazy warmth of early sun.

Then he speaks again, voice low beside your ear. “Finish waking up, sweetheart. We’ve got a place to be.”

You shift slightly, eyes cracking open. “Where are you taking me?”

“The lake.” He presses a kiss to the side of your head. “We’re leaving in an hour. I packed wine. Fruit. Towels. Blanket.”

You turn in his lap to face him, grinning now, suddenly wide awake. “You planned a date?”

His smile matches yours. “You deserve one. A real one. No interruptions. No guilt. Just you and me.”

You stretch your arms up, still nestled between his thighs. “Guess I better get ready, Mr. Park.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty,” he says, but doesn’t let go just yet — he pulls you in for a slow, warm kiss first.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

Sunlight sparkles off the water. A breeze rolls across the dock. Everything is golden and quiet and slow.

You’re both barefoot on the wooden planks, dripping after a swim, wrapped in towels and each other. Sunghoon hands you a slice of peach. You feed him the next one.

For a while, you just lie there on the blanket, the world held at bay.

Then you speak. “It’s weird to think this ends tomorrow.”

Sunghoon’s quiet for a second, “it doesn’t have to.”

You blink over at him.

“We go back,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean we go back to how things were. I don’t want to.”

You trace a finger over his forearm. “Me either.”

He watches you. “This wasn’t a fling for me. You know that, right?”

“I know.” You sit up, eyes on the water now. “It wasn’t for me either. And... I want more.”

There’s a stretch of silence that isn’t uncomfortable — just real.

Then Sunghoon speaks, voice gentle but unwavering. “Jihoon didn’t just leave you here. He left you alone for a long time before that.”

You inhale through your nose. It hurts — but it’s true.

“He didn’t protect you. He didn’t see you,” Sunghoon adds. “But I do.”

You turn to him. “And I see you, too. I don’t want to sneak around or feel guilty. I want to be with you.”

His hand slides around your thigh. “Then be with me.”

You nod. “Okay.”

It’s said so simply. Like it was always going to happen this way.

The air is warm, the late morning sun painting everything golden. You’re both still sticky with fruit juice and the tipsiness of wine-soft smiles when Sunghoon eyes you sideways.

“You’ve got that look,” you say warily.

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re about to do something stupid.”

He grins. “I’m hurt. This is going to be very dignified.”

“You’re literally crouching like a cartoon villain.”

“Princess, I’m just trying to bring balance to the universe.”

“What does that even mean—Sunghoon—!”

But he’s already lunging.

You shriek and take off across the dock, laughing so hard your legs barely move straight. He’s right behind you, water splashing around your ankles as you try to dodge.

“You’re gonna pay for this!”

“For what?! Being charming?!”

“For splattering me with peach juice!”

He grabs you around the waist, and the two of you topple into the lake in a messy, dramatic splash. The water is cold but refreshing, and when you surface, hair plastered to your face, you’re both wheezing with laughter.

“You look like a drowned kitten,” he says, absolutely delighted.

“Rude. And you look like you just lost a shampoo commercial.”

You splash him in the face before he can respond.

“Oh, it’s on now.”

You flail as he comes after you, hands trying to grab your ankles underwater. There’s shrieking. More splashing. You push his head under once — a bold move — and he resurfaces with water dripping down his lashes, mock-offended.

“You’re lucky I like you.”

“You love me,” you say smugly, swimming just out of reach.

He lunges. “Not if you keep talking like that—!”

Eventually you give in, breathless, letting him pull you close in the center of the lake. His arms wind around your waist, and you float there together, the water gently rocking your bodies.

Your laughter fades into warm quiet, cheek resting against his damp shoulder.

“I haven’t laughed like that in forever,” you murmur.

Sunghoon presses a kiss to your hair. “Same.”

Later, you walk back to the cabin hand in hand, skin sun-warmed and soft from the lake. He carries the towels; you carry the last of the fruit. Everything about it feels easy. Shared.

The next morning, the day of going back home, you pull your suitcase out from under the bed, still in one of his shirts.

Sunghoon’s already halfway through folding your clothes for you, methodical and quiet, each movement precise. You watch him for a moment—brows furrowed, fingers smoothing fabric—and grin sleepily.

“You always like playing house this much?”

He looks up. “What?”

“You fold clothes like a husband,” you tease, nudging his foot with yours.

He chuckles but doesn’t stop. “And you wear my shirts like my wife.”

You hum, walking over and leaning your head on his shoulder. His hand reaches for your waist, grounding. A soft forehead kiss follows, like it’s instinct now.

As you zip your duffel shut, you notice something nestled inside: his hoodie, a polaroid, and a paperback novel you’d been eyeing on the cabin shelf.

You blink. “You packed these?”

Sunghoon shrugs, brushing your arm as he walks by. “Now you have to come back.”

You look up at him. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice light but sure. “I’m not going anywhere.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

In the car, the playlist is a mix of both your tastes. It’s playing low as the trees blur past outside. You’re curled in the passenger seat, feet on the dash, humming to the music. You catch him looking at you at a red light, when you’ve reached the civilization again.

“What?” you ask.

“Just wondering if you’re gonna pretend you’re too cool to be seen with me after I drop you off.”

You scoff. “We literally live twenty minutes apart.”

He smirks. “Fifteen if I drive like a crazy person, which I am for you,” he says, hand resting on your thigh as he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building, turning the ignition off.

You share a deep kiss, your hands cupping his jaw, his on the back of your neck. He pulls away first, flushed cheeks and breathing heavy.

He taps your thigh gently. “Come on, let me carry your suitcase up.”

You roll your eyes but smile, as he unlocks the car door. “You just want an excuse to come upstairs.”

“Maybe I just want to make sure you get inside safe,” he says, grabbing the handle of your suitcase with one hand and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder with the other. “Can’t help it. I’m responsible.”

You snort. “Husband behavior.”

Sunghoon smirks. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

“You better not be serious,” you deadpan, nudging him with your shoulder as you both head inside.

Once inside your apartment, you toe off your shoes and flick on the lights while Sunghoon sets your suitcase neatly by the couch. Everything looks a little dustier than you remembered. Like your old life is already softening around the edges.

“Wanna eat something before you go?” you ask as you scroll for the takeout app.

“I already ordered,” he says, smug, showing you his phone. “It’s on the way.”

You blink. “You ordered for both of us?”

He shrugs, casually leaning against your counter. “Figured you’d be too tired to cook after all the swimming... and making out.”

“Wow.” You press a hand to your chest, feigning shock. “Romantic and cocky.”

He winks.

The food arrives, and the two of you eat cross-legged on the floor, a movie playing low in the background. It’s peaceful. Cozy. But there’s something pressing in the air, unspoken but understood. When the containers are empty and the credits start to roll, Sunghoon doesn’t make a move to linger.

He leans in to kiss your cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Call me after.”

You nod, eyes soft.

“I mean it,” he says, gaze holding yours. “Even if it’s late.”

You stand at the door, still barefoot, as he walks out. You watch until the elevator closes.

The apartment feels quieter now. Still carrying the scent of him.

You don’t hesitate as you find his contact in your phone and press call.

The knock at your door comes later than expected. You open it to find Jihoon standing there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, hood pulled up despite the heat. His eyes flick over your body—still wearing one of Sunghoon’s shirts—and narrow.

“Nice shirt,” he mutters, already walking past you into the apartment without being invited. “You two playing house now, or what?”

You don’t react. “There’s a box with your stuff in the hall closet.”

That stops him mid-step.

“What?”

You don’t flinch. “Take it. We’re done.”

He laughs. Sharp, disbelieving. “You’re breaking up with me now? After going off-grid for nearly a week? With my dad?”

“Jihoon.”

“No, seriously,” he says, throwing his arms out. “You disappear, don’t answer your phone, and when I do call, you’re suddenly all buddy-buddy with him? You think I’m an idiot?”

“I’m not doing this with you,” you say, voice still calm but harder now. “You made your choices when you left me there without a second thought. And now I’m making mine.”

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs. “You’re seriously choosing him? You couldn’t keep it in your pants for five days?”

“I think we both know you stopped loving me long before I ever looked twice at him.”

That hits. His jaw tightens.

“I waited,” you say quietly. “I tried. But you kept treating me like an inconvenience. Like I was always too much or not enough, depending on your mood.”

He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, breathing uneven.

You point toward the closet. “Your stuff’s in there. Take it and go.”

“You’re not even gonna pretend to be sorry about any of this?”

You shake your head. “No. I’m not.”

Jihoon exhales hard, scoffing again, then yanks open the closet door. Grabs the box. He pauses at the threshold, glaring at you like it’ll change something.

“You’ll regret this,” he mutters. “When he gets bored of you.”

You meet his eyes, steady. “I won’t.”

And then—finally—he leaves.

The door closes with a quiet finality.

This time, it stays closed. You go into your bedroom and sit on the edge of your bed, phone in hand, heart still beating steady and slow — not from nerves, but from clarity.

It’s done.

The apartment is quiet now. His box is gone. The door’s locked. You’re still wearing Sunghoon’s shirt.

You thumb open your messages first, but after a moment’s hesitation, you press call instead. He picks up before the first full ring.

“Hey,” Sunghoon says, voice low and warm.

You let out a soft breath. “It’s done.”

A pause. Then, “You okay?”

You nod, even though he can’t see. “Yeah. I think I’ve been okay for a while, actually.”

Another beat of quiet, and then you hear his exhale — relieved, grounding.

“I wanted to do it face-to-face,” you add. “…didn’t go too well, I might have been too honest.”

“You didn’t owe him anything past your truth,” Sunghoon murmurs. “I’m proud of you.”

Your lips curve into a smile. “You always say the right thing.”

“I try,” he teases gently.

There’s a beat. You hear movement on his end. Maybe he’s in bed. Maybe pacing.

“I can come over,” he offers. “If you want.”

“I do,” you say, no hesitation. “But… no rush. Just knowing you’re there is enough.”

He hums, and you can almost feel his smile through the line.

“You were never too much, you know,” he says. “You’re just the right amount for me.”

That gets you. You blink hard. “Sunghoon…”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t get cocky just because you’re my boyfriend now.”

He chuckles. “Not cocky. Just… grateful.”

You both fall quiet again, but it’s the good kind. The safe kind.

“Call me if you need anything,” he says.

“I might just fall asleep on the phone with you.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed, sweetheart.”

You breathe in slow, gaze drifting to the camera polaroid he left in your bag — the one of you in his shirt, bare-legged, smiling like you already knew this was how it would end.

Or maybe, how it would begin.

“Goodnight, Mr. Park.”

You hear his smile in the dark.

“Goodnight, babygirl.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝

🦭ིྀA/N: thank you for reading !!! I struggled so much with the first scene because it’s literally the two things I hate most: fighting and describing interior lmaoo but once I was past that it was super fun, hope everyone enjoyed reading (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

[prettyflyshyguy]

OK I HAVE NO TIME CAUSE I'M PREPPING FOR ART MARKET

HOWEVER.

You know what time it is. I need to do this quick because otherwise I'll explode if I don't know what's going on. You know the drill! Thought's under the cut:

GIRL ME TOO WHEN SOMEONE TRIES TO FLIRT WITH ME

stop looking at people with those huge wet stupid eyes

"we can't fix the hopper because you wanted to download a show"

I'M FUCKING SOBBING HOLY SHIT GO OFF MENSAH THAT ENTIRE CONVERSATION WAS PHENOMENAL THE WRITING AHAHAHA

THE WAY SHE JUST SUDDENLY REALISES AFTER ALL THE TIMES IT'S BEEN COLD, TERRIFYING, UNCOMFORTABLE THAT IT'S JUST HOARDING SHOWS IN ITS HARD MEMORY AND SHE'S JUST SO FUCKING DISSAPOINTED GNOANHGEGJRNIJGERIOGHNE

both of them just have such good fucking expression acting I'm dead I love them both sm

Interesting. Very. Interesting.

It's like she's bouncing between very targeted information gathering and suddenly being very boundary pushing.

Bharadwaj I love you I love you I love you you are SO funny and SO wonderfull (ALSO GURATHIN'S FACE MY MAN'S JUST TRYING TO GET WORK DONE AND NOT THINK ABOUT SECUNIT PENIS GRAFTING)

"Can't you print new wiring?"

"Oh."

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE the way it's now completely mask off. This is its real genuine personality on display. Mensah is experiencing the actual true face of this thing and how it thinks and feels and operates and it's fucking delightful to see the complete shift in tone, body language, the OPENNESS of it's self expression.

"sit on this bunker"

"YOU SIT"

sobbing. I'm sobbing-

"Sanctuary. Fucking. Moon,"

THE WAY MY JAW FUCKING HIT THE FLOOR ON THIS LINE DELIVERY I AM GOING TO DIE THIS IS SO FUCKING FUNNY

MENSAH'S JUST LIKE ME FOR REAL I GET SO ANGRY WHEN I'M PANICKING AND SOMEONE DOES THIS -- but it's the initial pain response. This hurts to watch because I'm Mensah. I've been Mensah.

"DON'T TOUCH"

SCREAMS

this entire conversation is utterly brutal and so, so, so fascinating

Once again: I love her and she feels like she keeps bouncing between saying something very genuine "I want to have kids" and something very REHEARSED - the maps.

"Why dont you tell me what you saw?"

"I think I'd rather not"

GURATHIN'S ONTO HER YESSSSSSS MY MAN YESSSSSSSSS

YEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS HAHAHAHAA YEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I LOVE AN EVIL WOMAN YEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

they use cloned neural tissue in transport vehicles!!!!!!!!!????????

ALSO HELLO THIS SCENE HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO

IT USING DIALOG FROM MED CENTRE ARGALA I'M CRYING

"i'm a vegetarian"

"you dont have to eat me, just cut me"

"scalpel"

"wrench"

THIS IS THE BEST SCENE IN THE WHOLE FUCKING SHOW THIS IS THE EBST TV IVE WATCHED IN YEARS

OH MY GOD THIS WAS BEAUTIFULL

THE WAY ITS WALKING AROUND WITH ITS ENTIRE BACK EXPOSED LIKE THAT PUT THAT AWAY YOU SL-

god

THIS SHOW IS SO SNAPPY AND I LOVE IT SO MUCH IT WASTES NO FUCKING TIME

finally we get Murderbot murdering someone on screen!!!!

THE GUTS ABSOLUTELY SMOTHERING EVERYONE IN THE ROOM

OH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

"but then I exploded Leebeebee's head. And that. Felt good."

WHAT A WAY TO END THE EPISODE HOLY FUCK

The prexaux team finally get to see MB for who it truly is and MB also gets to do some self discovery of a very cursed variety but there's so much undercurrent of internal conflict there. Like yeah buddy I'm sure it felt good to obliterate her, she came onto you, said some rancid depersonalizing thing's about your body and penis grafting, and endangered your entire crew which you keep trying to convince yourself you don't care about in the way that you clearly do.

Why else would you have felt that bad when Mensah scolded you. Why else would you work so hard to not be the monster when you were almost taken over by hostile code. Why else would you work so hard to keep them all safe even when you didn't ever need to, when you could half half assed it and gotten away with it too.

[findingyourrootscomic]

Finding Your Roots- Chapter 12, Page 84 Oh boy, where to begin haha;;;; If you'll allow me to lift my usual authorial silence and ramble... I'll talk about these guys today and Shelly tomorrow. So I originally grouped Team Molten together in the story because they shared an ending. I caught them all around the same time/in the same region, and they died in p quick succession one after another. I caught Ember first in Route 112, Copper in Fiery Pass, and Tuffy later in Jagged Pass. Copper died first, then Ember right behind him. And upon catching Tuffy, I'm p sure she died like less than ten fights later (and I was grinding for Flannery). They were the pokemon of the run who came in quickly and left quickly. Tone-wise and pacing-wise, it was going to be very hard to juggle. I wanted them to at least make some impact before they left. I mean, I had to justify their inclusion in the story SOMEHOW, especially since I wanted every in-game death to also be a story death. No departures in this nuzcomic. Soooo, I stuck them all on a team together. This way I could introduce them all together instead of having to trickle them in one after another. They all already knew each other, so they only had to get acquainted with my main cast and not with one another. I decided all four pokemon who died at this part of the run would all die at the same time, so it could be a one-and-done scene instead of pokemon having to drop dead one after another (which imo would have been much worse tonally). And noting the connection between having two numels and Mantle being a numel, I decided to connect them to Team Magma... and used that connection to give Team HEARTH a newfound investment in the villains. If I was going to have these characters around for a few chapters, I may as well make use of them lol. After that, they became characters. I turned them into wise friends who could help Cedar along in her racial identity crisis. Since Team Molten come from the desert and not racist ass Littleroot, its members would probably have a healthier perception of their race than Cedar would. All of Team Molten was earthen-elementals, so it would've felt like a waste to not connect them to Cedar's arc. It became something for the characters to initially connect over, and Team Molten's help with this stuff allowed Cedar to become better friends with them. It's why they were able to become close in such a small amount of time. Without it, Team Molten might've still felt like strangers by now. With the cast being so big in the desert arc of the comic, it was extremely hard to juggle screentime and lines for everyone. I ended up singling Ember out as a sort of "protagonist" of Team Molten; she ended up carrying the heart of her team's arc. I relate to her somewhat: She deals with abandonment trauma that turned her explosive and angry, and uhhh that's kinda my story too sdfkjghjkfg. She's a character who became pretty dear to me in the short time I've been writing her. But I also love Copper and his nerdy vibe, and Tuffy representing a big sister who could be trusted and relied on. That was especially important with this comic's themes of (found) family. And now, through the deaths of these characters we came to love in the past two years, I will kickstart the entire rest of the story. It couldn't have happened without them, and without what happened to them. Goodnight, Ember, Copper, and Tuffy. I really did want a camerupt in my run but it just did not shake out that way haha;;;. Rest in power, little guys. Last page of the chapter is tomorrow. Next > Cover Content Warnings If you loved Team Molten, please consider supporting me on Patreon!

[rapunzellovesbooks]

I find it so interesting that the most "Emmy-worthy" material of season 3 is delivered by Luke Newton (the carriage speech, the LW reveal, the final speech) and yet the press writes articles about Nicola where they can barely pin point scenes... almost like they do not watch the show. Because they do not. They care for buzz words and SM engagement and I am so sick that they only took Nicola seriously as an actress after they changed Pen´s looks and wardrobe, even though she has been giving a great performance for years and she should have been nominated for that fight with Eloise.

I adore her and I am very happy for her success, but I just cannot take critics seriously anymore. They do not care about the performances, not really. They look down on romance shows unless they can use that show to gain traction online for inclusivity, body positivity, etc.. buzz words without understanding the characters or characters motivations.

Mind you, this happens with every single BGT couple, they chose one and ignore the other, even though the other has incredible material to work with. Jonathan Bailey in favour of Simone Ashley, Rege in favour of Phoebe, no one from Queen Charlotte let us be honest...

Every year it is the same thing and I know that some people feel like Luke N. has "no chance" due to how the show was written but I disagree cause the pattern is there every year. The material Luke got was great and screen time does not get you awards. Luke N. could have been in every single scene and I know they still would have chosen to highlight Nicola because she is more online, she has had popular projects before, she is ya know "a new type of romance lead" (the fuck does that mean).

I am going to be happy for the both of them regardless of awards. I know that as fans it is really nice, but really... they did not even give JB a nomination in his season and look where he is now.

Nicola, girl, you deserved all of this much much sooner and I feel like so much of it does not even have to do with you but rather how the public uses your persona. And Luke, every single fan commented where you were on that bts reel they posted a few months back, they miss you and miss Colin. Hope you know that, hope you know that we get you better than any critic who got paid to watch the show or did not even watch it before voting like the idiots who vote for the Oscars did.

Anyway, this is me yet again getting angry at awards season, cause they are simply a way to stroke egos in Hollywood saying "look, we now notice this person, now they have value, now they are someone, praise us for praising them.".

I had to endure years of Better Call Sauld getting so many nominations and losing every single one of them. Johnny Depp got one Oscar nomination in his entire career. Freaking Emilia Perez was nominated for best movie.

I get people saying they set up Luke for failure but he loses nothing when you think about it. There are thousand of fans of other actors in the same position as us and it is the same feeling. It has nothing to do with Netflix or Shondaland or the writing of the season. It is the awards themselves, otherwise Sam Heughan would be swimming in Emmys right now.

Anyway, rant over.

But not before I say that I would love it if Nicola got nominated, but I would also love it if every interview they have with her it is not about the sex scenes and her looks. Like, that is all you took from it?!

[theredharlotybf]

Hi! I just read your post, If your requests are open then I’d love to ask for anything with Toby! I’m absolutely starved for any SFW content about him—but NSFW is also very appreciated if that’s your vibe 👀

Honestly, I just want to give you full creative freedom, but I’m also super curious about your headcanons for him. So really, anything at all would totally make my day 💖 Thanks either way!

AN: Hi everyone! Hope no one minds how long this is, my first time writing headcannons, not a professional yet but hopefully i get there soon.

Ticci Toby Headcannons

Disclaimer: Blood, Violence, Gore, Bullying, Seccual content, I make these up as I go, don't judge me.

PERSONAL HEADCANONS

Toby, Toby, Toby. Where do we start with Toby?

I know a lot of people see a hyperactive and silly goofy guy so, not a lot of people really take him seriously.But he is so much more than that.

Born with all those mental disorders does a number on you, especially at such a young age. He never learned how to interact with other people his age- his tourette syndrome which led others to call him ‘Ticci Toby? He never had a real friend in his life.

Of course, there was his older sister Lyra who always did her best to protect him. What with their abusive father screaming abuse at him, Lyra and the mother- taking his rage out on Toby by beating him while in a drunken frenzy. Even in those times, Lyra came to his defense- taking some of those punches even though she knew he couldn’t feel pain due to his CIPA.

I imagine their mother at the time would dissociate whenever their father was like this, just pretend it didn't happen and put herself somewhere else. A lot of people do this when in situations concerning domestic violence- but since she was too focused on protecting her own mental state- she completely forgot about the safety and wellbeing of both Toby and Lyra.

Then came the accident. Both Toby and Lyra were driving home one night after going to see a movie when all of sudden- a drunk driver is carelessly carousing on the wet and slippery backroad to their house and crashes into them. Lyra is killed on Impact and Toby- thanks to his CIPA is unfazed- but is forced to watch his sister die right before him. His safe space and only friend. But even after her funeral, his mother kept on dissociating and his father just got worse- the beatings, the verbal abuse…..the voices.

He was angry-he was depressed, he was losing his sanity.

How do you help a boy like Toby who is diagnosed with Schizophrenia, Bipolar disorder, ADHD and to top it all off- PTSD, who lost his sister in a gruesome way- his father abusing him in every way he knows and his mother- playing blind to all of it.

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fucking fair. Why did it have to be Lyra who died and not their dad? Hell- their mother can die too for all he cares- if she did- neither him nor Lyra would be in this mess. But running away wouldn’t have solved anything- he was still a minor. If he ran away from home- police would simply find him and drag him right back.

That is…. If he had a home to return to…

The solution was staring him right in the face- they told him the answer- yet he didn’t want to see it. But the minute he picked up those hatchets, gripping the handles in both hands, he no longer felt afraid.

He never knew killing could be so cathartic before swinging those hatchets down into his father- the beautiful smell of metal coating his skin as his father’s blood squirted onto him as if it were a geyser. The look of terror in his eyes that looked far too much like his sisters. He plucked them out and squished them under his boots. His screams rang throughout the garage and ironic as it is, his mother finally snapped out of it when she realised her son was murdering her husband.

While his mother called the police- he took a canister of gasoline and a match, setting fire to the neighborhood. He wouldn’t let the police take him- for something that was his right and yet- when the fires set in around him- the only thing he could think about was Lyra.

If he died, he knew there was a chance he might see her again- but he knew there was only one place he was going and it surely wasn’t heaven.

“Toby….. My child….”

The voices in his head had come again, his strength- had come in the form of an eight foot tall man with no eyes, no nose or mouth. A faceless being who stood among the burning trees, looking down at his helpless figure as he struggled to breathe

“This is not the end for you…. Your work has only begun…”

Before he blacked out, a searing burn was felt on his back, Toby had become the Slendermans’s proxy- and yet…. He didn’t hate it.

Toby felt as though he had ascended from the frightened and helpless boy he once was to a man- a servant of the Operator with the duty to murder any and all his Master deems as a target. He was strong, he was powerful and he had the backing of the most dangerous entity in the world.

Strangely enough- his master had other Proxies working for him. Two men called Tim and Brain, a bit older than Toby but more or less on the saner side. Tim was quite irritant and cranky while Brain was silent but sarcastic when he wanted to be. They clearly had some baggage but Toby wasn’t all that interested in knowing- both Tim and Brian- or rather, Masky and Hoodie were simply co-workers. One of them would always go for the kill, and the other would always film it.

Then came Kate, a new Proxy for their master. She never spoke a word and yet everyone could sense her bloodlust every time she walked into a room. She was not to be fucked with and Toby could respect that. Everyone just left everyone the fuck alone, get the jobs done and be done with it.

Though, a lot had changed in terms of his lifestyle. ((Realistically, there is no Slender Mansion ;-;))

Slenderman’s domain was spread out within the forest of the countryside, along with plenty of abandoned cabins ((Squatting in some or killing the original owners and taking it for themselves)). Even though Toby was a man now- he had to adapt to being an adult quickly- sure he could murder people and take their money- but it wasn’t as steady of an occupation as you would imagine, I mean, not every victim they come across is swimming in money so- they had to get jobs.

Toby has multiple jobs, working as a farmhand, a lumberjack, he even picked up some mechanical work after wrapping his head around it- guess it did help that his dad was a mechanic.

Now he fixes Masky’s car and Hoodies’s truck and they pay him back with either cash, cigarettes- alcohol. All the same to him.

He only wears his mouth guard when hunting- when he’s out in public, he puts a gauze over his cheek where he chewed through.

Sleeper build for days- yet has such an unhealthy diet of take out, microwave dinners and tinned food. This boy can’t cook to save his life.

MEETING TOBY

How would you meet Toby? He is quite the solitary creature, he won’t leave the forest if he can help it- the only times he ventures into the city is when he has a target there or when it's his turn to shop for supplies.

He won’t go to you so you go to him.

You live a stressful life with your own shit to deal with- a breakdown was imminent and when you crashed out, you realized this lifestyle wasn’t for you and getting away from the hustle and bustle of the city was just what you needed.

You bought an old Cabin nearly twenty years old, the owner went missing years ago and presumed dead, since then, it's just been sitting on the market place- waiting to be bought. You jumped at the opportunity, taking your pets and moving to the countryside. 

When you get there with the real estate agent- you notice some belongings, men's clothes, old food in the fridge- the agent tells you its most likely squatters but judging by the rotting food in the fridge, the squatters haven’t been here in a while and called up a locksmith to come and change all the locks in the house free of charge since no one knew the residence was being lived in.

Though, you did feel bad about whoever was living here, you understood times could get tough, hence why after scrubbing the fridge clean, you threw the old clothes in the wash, hanging them up to dry and then folding them neatly and leaving them in a box.

The previous owner of the cabin was an older man who enjoyed hunting, the house was decorated in taxidermied animals and it wasn’t really for you, preferring to put all of them up for auction instead. Over the next few weeks, you got to cleaning up the cabin, replacing old furniture with new ones and stuff from your old home. You brightened up the place with fresh coats of paint, new curtains and carpet, replacing the broken windows and fixing all the creaky doors yourself. Even installing an automatic dog door for your pets so they can come in and out themselves.

You planted flowers at the front of the cabin while starting your own little vegetable garden. The old smell of tobacco and musk was replaced with scented candles and the smell of your new hobby, baking. You had completely transformed the old cabin and it had become more like home.

Little did you know- this little home of yours was one of the less frequently used hideouts for Ticci Toby.

And when he first laid eyes upon it, he was shocked. Sure, he has his main cabin deeper in the woods- but this hideout was one that none of the other proxies knew about- and it pissed him off. Who the hell moved into his place? Was the previous owner not warning enough?

He walked up to the front door and- “Oh! Hello!”

He didn’t notice the comfy swing seat at the end of the porch, there you were, your knees tucked to your chest, a book in hand, your pet cuddled up to and by your seat was a small table with a glass of lemonade. You were careful not to bother your snoozing baby as you placed your book down and stood up. “Can I help you sir?”

Toby’s mind went completely blank. He couldn’t put words into what he was feeling but something about you just looked….. Sweet. You didn’t look like a bad person, you were wearing blue slippers with cartoon animals, a large sweater over some leggings.

“I…. left some stuff here…” He muttered. He didn’t know what else to say. You just nodded your head. “Ah, just wait one second then.” You opened the front door and headed inside the house, he peeked inside and noticed that the once yellow walls were gone, a fresh white coat brightened up the home, new furniture, a new flat screen t.v. to replace the old one with the big fat back. He could even smell something sweet and tasty cooking.

You re-emerged from the home, carrying a box full of his clothes, clean and folded. He didn’t remember cleaning them when he last left. “I have some cherry pie in the oven, would you like some?”

“Oh- I don’t think…” He couldn’t talk anymore where you got your oven mitts and took the pie out of the oven, the delicious smell making his stomach growl. You packed him up a slice of pie in some tupperware. He was confused, surely you would have realised he was the one previously squatting in your home, yet you washed his clothes and gave him some dessert?

“You take care of yourself…. Mr?”

“Toby… Just Toby…” He muttered.

“Toby… that's a good name, you looked after yourself Toby, and enjoy that pie!”

He went back to his main hideout, wiping off a dirty spoon on his trousers before using it to eat your cherry pie. It was good. Very good. He couldn’t remember the last time he enjoyed a homemade pie. Actually, now that he thinks about it- he can’t seem to remember any positive memories of having dinner. Mom just made dinner, no starters, mains or… desserts. She just just made everyone a plate and that was it.

He went back to see you, he had to see you again.

But only this time, you weren’t aware he was there.

It was annoying at first because you always got up super early and he wasn’t exactly a morning person. You would get up and water your plants, refill the bird feeder and you made breakfast that looked way too healthy and some type of tea he knew wasn’t that good. You also went for a walk with your pet which gave him time to sneak into the cabin. He found out your name, your age, your birthday, even your blood type. He even managed to get access to your laptop since you didn’t turn it off. He went through your emails and a bit more digging- he found out about your breakdown after someone continuously harassed you at your last home and that your doctor advised you to ease your stress levels and live a more relaxed life, a new place where no one knew where you lived but it wasn’t what he would call a relaxed life, seeing as you liked to keep yourself busy.

You worked from home now and only went to work if there was an important meeting. But you mostly kept to yourself, alone in that cabin with your pets- he wanted to talk to you again- he wanted to get to know you, he wanted to find out what it was about you that drew him in.

So, he kidnapped your pet.

Yes, dick move, he knows- but what you don’t know doesn’t hurt you and after a day of watching you run about, crying your eyes out, yelling for your baby to come home- he reappears, with your pet- saying he found them by his home nearby.

You wept for joy, taking your pet into your arms, smothering them with love and affection, vowing to never let them leave your sight again while taking Toby for bringing them back to you.

You invite Toby back to your home and offer him something to drink. You make him and yourself some coffee while allowing your pet to snack on their favorite treats. You respectfully inquire about the gauze on Toby’s cheek and there he tells you he was born with CIPA and accidentally chewed through his own cheek- it freaks people out to see it and that he hides it.

You then get worried because you gave him some pie last time you saw him and imagined how hard it would be to eat with a missing cheek. He chuckled, telling you he mastered eating his food on the one side of his mouth. He thanks you for looking after his belongings- and didn’t realise he left them behind.

You safely assumed he was a squatter until he said that he and the man who lived in the house before you used to be ‘acquaintances’, that they would hunt together on occasion which made your cheeks light up in embarrassment for assuming he was living in your house illegally. Another lie of course but the last thing he wanted was for you to think he was homeless.

Speaking of appearance- he began to wash himself more frequently, snuck away to the laundromat at the dead of night and washed all his laundry while no one was there. Even stealing cologne from a victim’s house just so he’d smell nice around you and his efforts were not unnoticed.

He would make ‘weekly’ appearances just so he could have his opportunities to interact with you by offering to do some handy work like chopping up some firewood and repairing your car (which suddenly started breaking down all the time!) and finding your pet when they ran off, you would invite him in for conversations and a meal- you once tried to get his social media but when he told you he had no social media- you found that refreshing- but at the same time, he lives out in the boonies, most people in the countryside down need social media so you just acquired a basic phone number instead.

Although his visits are ‘weekly’. He comes by your house every day to…. Keep an eye on you.

And when I say keep an eye, I mean watching you through the bushes as you tend to your garden and looking through your window as you go about your chores at home.

He was once luckily enough one night to catch you in the act- your hands under your shorts….

He never had the chance to engage in such acts but seeing you in that position was enough to make him dizzy.

But it made him stop and think- what was it about you that made him keep coming back? Sure- he found you attractive- he wasn’t ashamed to admit that but it was something more than that- despite his ticks and inconsistent mood swings- you didn’t treat him like a freak like everyone else did. He wanted to chalk it up to you having your own mental breakdown but looking at your personal info, it was more or less stress and work related anxiety that caused you to feel from society. Not that he didn’t understand how shit society was but when he interacted with you…. You never faked it.

Your warmth and kindness, not the fake smiles or carefully worded comments given to him by others. It reminds him of…. her. And suddenly, he felt like he was at home again.

His one real human connection, someone who saw him as he was and not a freak-

What the hell was thinking?

He was a murderer, a killer, a Proxy of the Slenderman. He can’t ever be human again. You didn’t know the extent of who he was- if you did- you would have gone running for the hills and never looked back.

This realization hurt- because he was really starting to become attached to you but he knew he was already crossing the line, befriending you like this. You know who he is and that was dangerous enough, he was putting the other proxies at risk and it was only a matter of time before you learned of his true identity.

He made up his made and gathered his hatchets.

He walked towards you home, both blades in hand. He didn’t want you to suffer- which is why he would make it quick and painless.

That was….. Until he saw another car in front of your house and a pet hiding under the porch- notably terrified.

He ran up to your home and saw you.

Tied up to a chair, bound and gagged as tears streaming down your face as a man who he had never seen before circled the chair you sat in while twirling a knife in his hands.

“What made you run away… darling? I’ve been with alot of women but you have to be the most ungrateful one of all! I’ve bought you the best gifts money can buy- I’ve took you on all those extravagant dates- fuck- I left my damn wife for you and you dare reject me? ME!? After everything I’ve done for!”

Toby’s first began to shake with fury- how dare this prick treat you like this?! The files… this must be the guy who was harassing you.

The guy ripped the gag from your mouth to allow you to speak.

“You never told me you were married! You lied to me from the moment we met and you try to pin this on me?! You were the one who pursued me and destroyed your own marriage! If you could cheat on your own wife- what made me think I could expect any loyalty from you? I told you as much and you still wouldn’t leave me alone- despite all those protection orders I had on you!”

“But what you and I had was true love- my wife never made me feel as fulfilled as you did- I only wanted you to know the extent of my feelings for you… then you just had to get the police involved….”

Then he stabbed the knife into your thigh

“And now, because of you- I am ruined! Everyone thinks I’m a degenerate! I got fired and my wife won’t let me see my children! We could have been happy together and you had to go and fuck it all up- now… I’m going to take my time with you… slowly.. Intimately.. I’m going to break you in every way I know how and leave your body in a ditch-”

Toby didn’t say anything else before busting down the door-  his blood raced to his face- hidden by his mouth guard and orange goggles. You both looked over at his direction, his arrival unexpected. Your stalker’s face said it all, he was terrified. Toby clearly overshadowed him with his height and physique, those two blood stained hatchets in his hands stating his intentions clearly.

“H-Hey… wait a minute there bud- lets talk about this-”

Toby didn’t give him another second before launching one of his hatchets into his chest. He screamed like a little bitch before he sauntered over to him, looking down at him. His dilated pupils studying his form through his orange goggles.

“Wanna B-break her huh? All because your a disloyal f-faggot who wasn’t worthy of a decent relationship. It's people like you that make this world so u-ugh..unbearable to live in. I’m not even gonna take my time with you…. You're not worthy of all that attention… but you’re not gonna die a painless death- that I can assure you….!”

True to his word- he ripped out the hatchet from the stalker’s chest and brought them down on him again and again, relishing in their screams until they eventually died out.

And all he could hear was your cries.

When he finally snapped out of it, he realised what he had done- you lovely kitchen which was always so clean and tidy was now saturated in blood- you were covered in the blood splattered by Toby’s reckless abandon. You shivered, crying weakly as you shivered- you were so absolutely terrified and he knew he was the cause. He wanted to run out of that cabin- to never darken your doorstep again-

“Toby… is that you?” You whimpered.

You looked up at him- with a smile breaking out into tears ago.

What happened after that was quick. He untied you, stuck you in the bathtub and let the shower head soak you as he went to clean up your kitchen as best he could, getting rid of the body and the car he came in. He let your pet back inside which gave you a lot of comfort before you rejoined him in the kitchen, wearing a fluffy bathrobe. You had a towel placed on your thigh to stop the bleeding and Toby was able to sow up your leg- using his own experience from showing up his own wounds, and yet, after he finished tending to you, you had such an empty look in your eyes.

You wanted the truth from him, no more lies.

He spilled everything, he was a deluded murderer- he killed his father and set his neighborhood on fire, he came into the service of the operator where their sole purpose is to make sacrifices in his name- how… he was planning to kill you tonight. He couldn’t lie to you, not anymore.

You were clearly taken aback- sitting on your couch and staring into space, holding your pet close to you before asking him if any of your interactions were real- was he just trying to get close to you so she would kill you.

He remembers grabbing your hands, he would never hurt you, after tonight, seeing you like that killed him so much, he never wanted to see you hurt or scared again.

You ask him to leave your house and to give you a week to think.

He obeys but not without checking his phone every five minutes- he never wanted you to hate him but if you hated him- he couldn’t live with himself. To think the only girl he ever came to care about and he fucked it up for what?

He got sloppy with his missions- targets nearly escaped and he had to hunt them down and kill them before they got away. So much so, his master confronted him about his work. And what made things worse- Slender had known about you all along. Whiched confused Toby, but his master’s reply was simple.

“I care not for your relationships outside of work but it is your job to make sure those who know of your work are kept to be indiscretion. If indulging in the flesh and company of a female is what will keep you at the top of your game- then let it be so- but if she tells anyone about you or the others…. I will dispatch her myself.”

Finally a week went by before you called again, when he came to your home- the kitchen smelt of chemicals- fresh pain and cleaning materials to remove the stains and the smell. It irritated his nose but you looked more angry. You had been through all the motions over the past week.

He asks if you and him were over and you tell him it depends on what he says.

He felt as if he was walking on thin ice before he sat down across from you. You ask if it was always his intention to kill you. He refutes this- you were always more of a curiosity, he didn’t understand why you had treated him so nicely even though he was a stranger, someone who you didn’t know. That made you even angrier, claiming it was called basic decency- that not everyone is a horrible judgemental human being- you were nice and kind to him because that's how you were with everyone- despite his disfigurement. You were hurt because of how he automatically assumed the worst of you when you met.

You also bring up the fact that he was watching you which surprised him. But you reminded him that you had a stalker before you had come to the countryside so you had recognised when someone was watching you. He admitted to watching you from afar and to looking at your private information. You had to get up from your seat- your face red with anger, betrayed at the fact that the one friend you thought you had made would do something so underhanded. That it disgusted you.

Yet- you couldn’t completely dismiss the fact that he did save you from being raped and murdered.

He asked what that guy was about. You explained that you met him at a company dinner where he asked you out, you had no objections but he brought you on super expensive dinners and good gifts like jewellery and bouquets of flowers- practically showering you with affection. That's when you knew something was up. Because if something was too good to be true, it probably is, which is why you did a deep dive into your date’s background when you found out he was married with children.

You had urged him to go back to his wife and both of you forget your affair ever existed- even though you never slept with him thank god- but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He would show up at your house at ungodly hours and send gifts to your work. You made several complaints but no one ever took you seriously. You had a doorbell camera installed at your old residences and in one video- he left a dead bird at your door and only then people had started to take you seriously but by then- the bird was the last straw and you wanted out as fast as you could. 

You asked Toby what his angle was- you had been through enough shit as it was and if he was gonna do anything to disturb the peace you fought so hard for in your life.

He promised he had no desire to hurt you but you reminded him he came to your home that night armed and ready- if that man had not been there, torturing you- what would he have done?

He didn’t know how to answer- but he knew that no matter what, he couldn’t lose you, but what could he say? What could he say…?

“Toby… I think you should leave-”

“I l-love you.” 

His lips moved on their own, he couldn’t control his words, his voice- they forced themselves out of his mouth. You stared at him with disbelief in your eyes. “You love me? How can you say that- I don’t…”

“I screwed up…. But give me a chance… I will make it up to you for the rest of my life if that what it takes”

You didn’t want to believe him, he’s done a lot of terrible things in order to be close to you, how safe were you with him near and yet….. Just by looking at him, you can tell he’s never had a genuine relationship in his life. He was a sad….lonely…and miserable boy with not a hope in the world.

But…. you were just as alone as him. Both of you sat in that darkness- with only each other and no other person to support either of you.

SFW HEADCANONS

You wanted to start off your relationship slowly with him- if he really wanted to be with you, he would have to work to earn your trust back. Which is easier said than done, so you laid your ground rules. First and foremost- boundaries. No more was Toby going to sneak around your home nor snoop like a creep. He is to keep his nose out of your computer, phone, documents- anything confidential! If he wants to visit, he will do so during the day and he will text you beforehand and not show up randomly. 

When you found out he was the servant of this demon- god- whatever it was- you didn’t want to know. It was hard enough to stomach that he would come and go, after potentially hurting and murdering a lot of people. He would tell you these people were the scum of society- but it didn’t help to stomach it any easier. Toby could do as he pleases- just as long as he didn’t bring it to your home.

Also, he was no longer allowed anywhere near your pet after finding out he would take them just to gain your trust, and you were keeping an extra close eye on your engine. As much as Toby hated the fact he was now walking on eggshells around you- he would rather this never never speak to you again.

When he was allowed to come over- you never left his sight and you never left his. If you were gardening, he would do his best to help you- but he mostly stuck to cutting up your firewood and what not. You always made him a meal when he came over and he was always happy to eat what you made, in fact, he believed he had gained more muscle by eating your foods. But you would always make him something sweet as well.

You also did more research on his conditions as well- seeing what you could do to help better accommodate him- Toby wasn’t on any medication, he stopped any medication the day he killed his family. As worrying as that was, it wasn’t like you could make him take meds- but the specific meds he would need would have to be prescribed by a doctor and as far as anyone was concerned, Toby was dead.

You two would watch movies, play some games and sometimes, Toby would take you hiking. You visited many places where you two could sit and have lunch together- it was a nice peace.

Sooner or later, you two got to talking about each other’s past. Toby told you all about his childhood, how everyone would bully him because his tourette syndrome, how they used to beat him up but because of his CIPA, he could never feel anything, but he could feel shame because he knew they were hurting him- calling him names, like ‘Ticci’ Toby because of his ticks. And to reinforce that- sometimes he would flinch when you put your hand on him before you said anything.

To that end- you thought that physical touch was not something that he wanted, so you refrained from touching him for a while- but he hated that. He wanted you to touch him- because he would never feel comfortable with anyone else touching him. It started with you two holding hands, the rough skin of his fingers rubbing against your smooth ones.

He liked to be held and to hold you. Sometimes, when you're at the kitchen, he’ll come up behind you and loop his arms around your waist while burying his head between your neck. When you watch movies, he likes to lay his head on your lap while you run your soft fingers through his hair.

Your first kiss with him was not what you had expected- he and you had taken a trip down to a nearby lake where you rented a boat. He rowed you both out while the sun shone down on the pair of you, it was a lovely day. You decided to give Toby a peck on the cheek and he looked shocked.

For a moment, you thought you messed up before he grabbed your face and pulled his lips towards yours. You remember gasping his name as he sucked on your face as you both fell to the floor of the boat with Toby on top of you.

Toby didn’t have a lot of experience with kissing, so it was up to you to teach him how to kiss. It was awkward- teaching a guy to kiss- but Toby often gets carried away with his kisses. He kisses you everywhere that has skin exposed, your face, your neck, your fingers- your legs.

When you finally came back from the lake, your neck was full of bitemarks and hickies from Toby’s love attacks.

Toby became even bolder and bolder with his affections- he was a quick learner.

NSFW HEADCANONS 

Oooooh boy, figured we get here eventually.

Toby didn’t have kissing experience prior to meeting you, what makes you think he has any sexual experience?

He doubts masterbation counts. Fuck, he has alot of porn back at his main hideout- he has needs but no one to release them on. Sure- he's a proxy and there have been many female victims- but the thought of forcing himself on someone makes him sick- despite his twisted sense of morality.

Though, he is a bit of a voyeur if you're really asking. He stalks his victims, sometimes those victims will be busy knocking boots with one another- and you. 

He has tried to wipe that night from his mind- you were in the privacy of your bedroom, your curtains were closed but he was able to see all your actions through the crack of your curtain. He wanted to touch you down there as well and after a while of dating, you believed you were ready.

You told Toby to come over and when he was on his way, you got ready. You had a previous hunch he had seen you changing and massaging your sweet spot- although you had dealt with enough stalker business- the thought of Toby watching you? You would lie, it turned you on.

Imagine Toby’s face when he comes into your home and finds you on your bed, black lacy panties and bra, and when he stood there, you told him to stay. Spreading your legs, your fingers tracing your pussy through the thin silk of your underwear. You could hear his breath hitch before you snuck your fingers inside, playing with your clit as you stuck your fingers inside your heated walls.

Toby looked like a man in the desert, thirsty for water while you slipped a tit out of your bra, it pebbled at the cold air as you gave it a slight pinch, making your core tighten as you repeated a single word.

“Toby….Toby….oh Toby!”

You made him absolutely feral, he practically lunged at you, ripping your bra off your body as you went for your tits.

Toby loves your tits, if there were ever a perfect stress toy, if it would be them, they just fit so snuggly in his hands, he loves seeing the reactions you make as he pinches at your nipples, bites them, flicks at them with his tongue.

This boy has a lot of pent up energy, a lot of pent up libido, you were both each others’ first and you know how they say the first is the worst?  That couldn’t have been any more false. Toby had you dripping before sinking his cock inside you. Not only did you get super worked up after he bullied your titties- he wanted to taste your cunt. He always wondered what pussy tastes like.- he even said this to you as he pulled your hips up, his arms wrapped around your torso before going tongue first. He had your legs suspended in the air with the way he helped you and there was no escaping his grip. He was a man on a mission, his tongue wiggling around in your cunny like an alien object while you grabbed at your sheets.

Toby’s penis is a wonderful size and shape, six inches- a good width that curved upward, uncircumcised of course. Toby never thought much of his penis- he hated looking at it- there was a time where after gym class, the boys in the locker room stole his gym clothes and ripped his towel off him- he was a kid a time and he remember their jeers clearly- making fun of the size of his dick while some took photos. ((They’re dead now.))

He hesitated for a bit but when he finally started fucking you, he swore he saw stars in your eyes. “Yes Toby! Oh- fuck! Toby- you’re filling me up so good! Give me more Toby- please!”

He gained back a confidence he didn’t realise he had or needed.

Your first time was vanilla, just him on top of you while he fucked his cock back into your cunny over and over again as tears weld up in your eyes from the sheer fullness of him

With it, came a sort of dominance he displayed over you- he loved seeking you weak from pleasure- he loved your submission, the control he had over you.

“You're mine, do you understand… this little pussy belongs to me.” He would snarl in your ear while fingering your pussy. He can be quite mean, he likes to call you his slut while making you masterbate in front of him- you recently invested in a vibrator and you’ll sit there, legs spread and cum as many times as he wants- whether you're over stimulated or not, even go as far as to slap that pussy after its all red, swollen and dripping with yours and his spent.

When he comes to your home and you're doing ordinary things, you're the one incharge, he’s the one who can’t put a foot wrong, but in the bedroom, he’s in charge and you have to watch yourself. Speaking of submission, he loves seeing you tied up, he loves your tiny body against his. He’ll fuck you everywhere he can, on the bed, against the wall, on the floor, on the sick counter, in your shower. He even once got you outside of the grass where he fucked you into the dirt.

But he’s not entirely ruthless, he’ll run you a bath while you hydrate yourself with some water. Because of his CIPA, he doesn’t really feel hot or cold so one time, afterwards, he tried to put you in a bath- you screamed your head off because the water was too hot- but he’s gotten better at evening out the temperature. He’ll sit with you in the bath and wash your hair while your relax against his chest

He’ll change your sheets and dress you up in airy pajamas before tucking both himself and you into bed, big spooning you with his head buried in your neck.

“You're my home now (Y/n).... so please…. Don’t ever leave me.”

[novelmonger]

5 things you like about yourself tag game

Firstly, when you get this, you have to answer with 5 things you like about yourself, publicly. Then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool) <3

Thought this would be fun! Play with me?

Tagged by @dairogo

I have pretty hair. It's a nice, dark brown with a reddish tint to it in the right light, it's down to my waist, and it's got a pretty wave that comes out effortlessly if I let it air-dry. It would probably look better if I spent more time and money on it, but one of the things I like the most about it is how easy and agreeable it is for the most part. I've figured out how to keep it pretty healthy (though split ends are a never-ending issue), and found a conditioner it really likes. I never do anything with it except a simple ponytail when doing chores, but it thrives this way.

I have a certain...stubbornness? Sticktoitiveness? I might not be the best at figuring out the most effective or efficient or skillful way of getting something done, but I'm good at sticking to a project until it's complete. In terms of writing, this means that if I've gotten past a certain point of actually writing a story, I'll definitely finish it at some point, even if it takes years and isn't maybe the best thing you've ever read ^^' It also extends to other things, like...I'm not the best gamer ever, but I'll keep trying and trying until I eventually beat it. *glances sidelong at the 100+ hours I've put into Star Renegades without ever getting to the end*

A pastor once told me he thought my spiritual gift is patience. I struggle with other fruit of the Spirit plenty, but I do find it relatively easy to be patient most of the time. Part of this is probably due to me just not having a high energy level, so I'm perfectly happy to sit and wait. But yeah, I do think God has given me more patience than some, making it easier for me to sit and listen to someone, to put up with small annoyances, and maybe even lends itself to forgiveness?

I'm good at window-shopping and avoiding impulse buys. A lot of that probably comes from not having a ton of money growing up, not to mention being homeschooled for most of my childhood (and not even being part of a co-op, just me and my family on our own), and thus not having many peers with stupid trends to follow. So I grew up with the understanding that, however much I might want something that looked cool or fun, it was probably too expensive, so don't expect to ever get it. Even now that I'm making my own money and get to decide how to spend it, when I see something that looks desirable, I always check myself with the thought, "But would I actually ever do anything with it?" So yeah, that sword at the ren faire looks really cool, but I would never actually do anything with it, so maybe I'll keep my money and buy some books instead.

This is a big one for me, because the Novie of a couple decades ago would be flabbergasted at me saying it: I like that I cry easily. I'm very empathetic - if you're crying, I'm probably crying. I cry when I'm sad, when I'm happy, when I'm angry, when I'm scared. I cry for movies, I cry for beautiful music, I cry when my friends (even distant acquaintances!) are struggling. I've even cried because the full moon was really pretty! XD During the depths of my teenage angst, this was something I hated about myself, something I tried to stifle, but my emotions are simply too big and can't be contained. And I think I can finally, finally accept that this is simply the way God made me. It can be inconvenient sometimes, but I think tears are a pathway to empathy and connection. There's something instinctive in us when we see someone crying, to want to try to draw near and help them. And that's a good thing.

Tagging @rainintheevening, @sailforvalinor, @valiantarcher, @pippilotta-the-philologist, @authortobenamedlater

@elanorpevensie, @thetreasurechest, @nerdy-catfish, @mislamicpearl, and @bunnyscar if you want to do this!

[queenofbaws]

FOR WRITING PROMPTS: We've both talked about the metaphorical cannibalism the UD group commits in the basement by shooting Em-- would love to see your take on if that basement cannibalism became literal! (PEAK IRONY...)

Hannah had made it thirty days. The journal had told her so. Thirty days of thirst, of pain, of loneliness, of unimaginable grief and fear and hunger. She'd been tormented, then chased, then fallen, then gotten up, then buried Beth, then starved, then starved, then starved, then starved, then unburied her only when her body began to eat itself.

Thirty days. That was a long time.

But Sam didn't have anywhere to bury Emily.

She couldn't remember how she'd ended up in the basement again. Behind her eyes, the world was tv static and dark, swirling mist, all the things she'd been warned about her in first aid classes. She remembered finding the journal, and God help her, she remembered finding the grave, and she thought maybe Mike had been with her, but then again, maybe he hadn't been. Maybe that had been later, upstairs, where she'd been so, so scared, but...why?

The fire and its smoke had pushed her down and down and down some more, and before she'd stopped to think about it rationally (all those stairs, all those calories, all that effort and energy) she'd been in the safe room again. Hopeful. Helpless. And glad, for the first time that night, for how very, very cold it was.

"Oh, Em..." It was for her own benefit, really, proof that her voice was still there, still worked, that her throat hadn't been scorched by the fumes she'd choked on upstairs, pounding at the door Josh had taken her through a lifetime ago.

This was the place where she apologized, wasn't it? The moment where all of her regrets came spilling out in one big, ugly glut? Only they didn't, no matter how long she stood in the sickly green glow of the monitors, the snow in her brain made real on their screens; she didn't fall to her knees and weep, she didn't beg for forgiveness, she didn't even bother saying sorry, because what was the point?

She was sorry - for believing, for ignoring, for trying so hard, for not trying hard enough, for expecting the others to manage, for knowing that they couldn't. She was sorry for herself, sorry that it had come to this. But sorry for Emily? For what had happened to her? No.

"He told you he was going to do it," she muttered, leaning over Josh's desk to stare into the monitors, basking in the artificial light as, one by one, the final feeds went dead. "But I guess you always thought you were special, huh?"

*****

She took her jacket on the second day, thinking again about the journal. It was harder to do than she'd expected - from a purely physical perspective, of course - because without blood, Emily had frozen. Her joints were rock-solid, her position unchanging, and she'd been curled up so tight when Mike had shot her. It was like she was still fighting even now, gripping tight to the material things she'd always been so proud of.

It might've taken minutes. It might've taken hours. Either way, Sam was sweating by the time it was all said and done, her hair pasted to her forehead and already beginning to freeze. She held the jacket in her hands, the fur (real fur too, because all of Emily's favorite things came at someone else's expense) lining too soft, too alive against her skin.

All at once, Sam realized how angry she was, how furious. It came on like a thunderclap, a wave of indignation and hurt she did her best to swallow down before remembering they were alone now, they were alone, and even if they weren't, she needed to be found.

She screamed until her vision spotted and her knees gave out. Then, fingers splayed on the concrete, she screamed some more.

Through the ringing of her ears, her echo made some good points: "WHY COULDN'T YOU LET IT GO? WHY IS IT ALWAYS ABOUT YOU? HE TOLD YOU TO LEAVE, HE WARNED YOU! WE ALL DID! YOU ALL DID IT TO HANNAH - WHY WOULDN'T YOU DO IT TO YOURSELVES TOO?!"

And when the ringing stopped, when she found herself lying face-up on the ground, her teeth chattering from cold and shock and adrenaline, she didn't feel better, but she didn't feel worse.

She eased herself to her feet and began unlacing Emily's boots.

*****

On the third day, she climbed the stairs. Slowly. Carefully. Constantly compensating for Emily's boots, a size too large on her feet. A part of her (the sentimental one) had hoped the experience would lighten her, somehow; 'walk a mile in someone else's shoes,' or whatever. But neither her boots nor her coat nor the torn sweater beneath had shed any light on everything she'd done wrong that night, much less the ones that had come before it.

If anything, each step she took made her feel less human - they'd never really been friends, no matter what the photos or the yearbook signatures said. Sam had never liked Emily and Emily had never liked her, and every late-night phone conversation they'd had, every girl's trip they'd taken, every Facebook tag and candid video clip and surprise birthday party was just another move on some bullshit social chessboard she'd been too naive to second guess.

Sam gripped the railing. Took another step.

If Emily hadn't come up with that stupid prank, Hannah would still be alive. If Hannah hadn't run out into the snow, Beth would still be alive, too. If Hannah and Beth were alive, then Josh would be alive, and if Josh was alive, then...

She reached the landing. Doubled over with her hands on her thighs until she caught her breath. Started up the next set.

If Emily hadn't started that fight with Jess, she'd still be alive. And if Emily hadn't abandoned Matt in the mines, he'd still be alive. If Emily hadn't, by her own admission, panicked in the radio tower, someone would've come to their rescue before the others could die in the explosion, because of course they had, there was no other reason they would've left her, no chance that they'd made it out and not come looking, no...

It wasn't until she reached the basement door that she realized how tired she was. She raised her fist to pound on it, opened her mouth to shout, and simply slumped against it instead, her eyes slitting shut against the stinging air.

If Emily's feet had been the same size as hers...

If Emily had listened to her...

If Emily had just...

Later, when it was clear no one could hear her (or at least that no one cared enough to answer), Sam started down the stairs again, scooting on her bottom like a child. She didn't like the way her thighs and calves had started shaking, but she liked the gnawing in her stomach even less.

*****

The fourth day, she was sorry. The fourth day, she was scared.

Whatever had happened upstairs had finally reached her, the monitors cutting off and going black as the power grid gave up. In the dim light of her headlamp, the saws on the ceiling seemed to quiver, and every shadow seemed to have a life of its own.

Maybe it did, she thought, caught between the instinctive need to keep moving, keep her blood pumping, keep warm until help arrived and the animalistic urge to stay still until the threat had passed. Maybe there were things moving in the shadows, things with legs too long and arms too sharp, things with wide, milky eyes rolling in their sockets like they didn't quite fit, things that didn't come from bites, so if Emily had only just fucking left like they'd asked so they could read the stranger's journal in peace -

"You've should've known better," she murmured, her breath barely fogging the air anymore. "You should've known she'd run away. You should've known what would happen if they all laughed at her. You should've stopped it, you could've stopped it, you had every chance in the world and you didn't do anything."

From the table where she lay, curled tight and mostly naked, Emily didn't answer. Didn't try to defend herself. And maybe that was for the best, because as she stared into the darkness above her and steeled herself for the coming days, Sam realized she wasn't sure Emily was who she'd been talking to.

*****

Hannah had made it thirty days. Of thirst, of pain, of loneliness, of unimaginable grief and fear and hunger.

Thirty days. That was a long, long time.

Sam lasted five.

[arcane-ish]

I'm reminded of this video that covered exactly that moment.

Oddly enough, I think this actually shows the shortcomings of season 2 in a way (mind, I'm a relative s2 apologist) ... and it shows how insufficient terms like plot driven and character driven are.

In a lot of shows, when people are angry about "choppy writing" they say it's because the show is too plot driven.

At the same time, I think it's really, really, really clear that Arcane is character driven (we experience this mostly in the fights about character versus politics driven). All the "plots" in Arcane the writers care about are about characters and/or relationships.

When we see more in season 2 I think is that not all characters are created equal. The show cares about the character development of the main characters but not the supporting characters (some people will say that some main characters like Vi were affected, but I'm firmly speaking about supporting characters like Gert or Isha).

Some things in Arcane feel like they happen because some character needs it. Isha exists because Jinx needs to go through the character development of feeling like an older sister. Gert and Jinxers show Jinx veneration in this manner because Jinx needs to experience that kind of support.

These moments feel important for Jinx but they don't necessarily feel all the plausible in this world.

A strength of season 1 was that even most minor characters felt very plausible and recognizable (funny enough: the one I generally disagree about is that Marcus taking of Vi never made any sense other than "it had to happen", but it doesn't stick out becuase Marcus other motivations of "cares about his kid", "is corrupt", "kinda likes his old boss", "chaving against the council" feel so recognizable and normal people still perceive him as a plausible character).

Season 2 has more characters that feel to me like they come out of void to do the things the plot requires rather than in sum feeling like a minor person with a throughline. They just feel too convenient to me.

And no, it's generally not any concrete "this is unrealistic, no person would do that" (ie "a Zaunite kid wouldn't just attach to Jinx like that!"). They do broadly relatable things to the setting ("be angry at and fight Pilties!" or "happy to be rescued"). But to me a lot of them don't quite succeed into fitting together as a full person with their own goals.

It's not enough to make it a bad moment and it is very good if seen from Jinx's perspective. But I feel season 1 I think was a little better in trying to make each action mostly plausible from every angle rather than just from the angle of the main character. Even the various side pieces felt more "within the world of Arcane" rather than "piece in the character development of this character". I think s1 had a better hand in how they used their minor characters (and that goes from characters who only do a small thing (like the enforcers who are mean to Caitlyn or the traders who mouth off to Vander), to characters who do multiple small things but they feel plausible (like Huck selling out Caitlyn and Vi for drugs) to characters who have very vivid characterizations despite having a small role (like Mylo and Claggor)).

While s2 has a bunch of characters who to me feel weird (like Isha) or "well I guess it's still plausible even if it's not well characterized" (like Loris or Maddie or Mel's fake brother). They still have some that are uncontroversial/that are characterized and used about as much as it is needed (like Scar) and some that I think are well used (like Lest).

So character progression is still good, but imo world building is more uneven in s2 (and it's not that weird that maybe they put more effort in in season 1 when selling their world and defining it was likely one of the core goals).

you might have already talked about this but I can’t find it in the tags so forgive me if I’m just asking you to repeat yourself but what are your opinions on jinx becoming zaun’s symbol/hero in season 2? It’s quite divisive as many ppl think that it destroyed her chaos-agent/villainous status and turned her into a boring hero and others think it deserved a lot more screen time and was supposed to be the main focus of her arc? I love reading your thoughts, hope I’m not annoying you

I love getting questions, so thanks for asking! I don't think I've posted about this per se.

I will admit that when I watched the season the first time, I was a little surprised that the show moved on so soon from Jinx's relationship with the rebellion. But I just accepted that they were going somewhere else with the character, and once I saw what they were doing with her, it made sense to me.

Jinx becoming a hero/symbol is almost entirely about the psychological impact the experience has on her, imo.

Jinx's relationship with the rebellion is not about politics. She says outright that winning independence for Zaun was Silco's thing, it wasn't what she actually cared about. She cared about Silco, not Silco's politics. That's made very clear. If her arc was going to focus on politics, then her journey would need to involve starting to care about the struggle. But that's an entirely different journey than the one that she has been on.

Jinx's core trauma is accidentally killing the people she cares about. More broadly, it's the feeling that she's doomed to always screw up and hurt the people around her. Her journey is about dealing with that.

In s2e5, Jinx tells Vi that she sees helping Vander as a kind of do-over. But I think the idea that she could successfully have a do-over started with s2e4, and that was fundamental to her deciding to try to keep up with the do-overs.

Becoming a symbol for Zaun is meaningless to Jinx, because it happened accidentally. But what's not accidental is when she breaks everyone out of Stillwater.

In s2e4 people are in trouble, including someone she cares about. She makes a plan, and successfully executes it. No one is accidentally killed due to her actions. In that way, the experience is a step towards her overcoming her trauma.

At the beginning of season 2, Jinx thinks of herself as a curse. When Sevika tells Jinx that Isha was arrested, Jinx has an episode, again feeling like she jinxes everyone she's close to.

But then when she rescues everyone from Stillwater, there's this moment where everyone looks at her. Jinx is used to putting on a persona, and she tries to do so in this instance as well. "Here I am, your big fat hero." But then everyone looks at her like they really see her. They acknowledge her not as a symbol or persona, but as a person.

She did a good thing. She did a massively good thing. And she was acknowledged for it.

And you can see the impact it has on her. When Gert first puts her hand on Jinx's shoulder, she starts breathing heavily like she's about to panic. She looks both confused and emotional. Like she's never felt something like this before.

(I had to include Jinx's face journey here, it makes me cry).

So yeah, I think the point of Jinx becoming a symbol for Zaun and a hero was to give her that experience. So that she's able to approach Vi again, but this time with a stronger sense of herself, with a greater confidence. So that she and Vi can rebuild their relationship on a new foundation, one where Jinx doesn't invest everything in Vi.

And to a lesser extent, I think Vi seeing other people see Jinx as a hero was important too. And that the chaotic destruction that Jinx tends to bring with her isn't alway a bad thing. When Vi sees that mural of Jinx, placed next to Vander as a hero, that causes a huge amount of dissonance for her, which then pushes her into a confrontation with Jinx, as she struggles to understand who Jinx even is as a person.

Jinx becoming a hero/symbol was not an arc, and it would have never fit organically within what she already had going on. It was a moment in Jinx's ongoing struggle with her identity and trauma. It would not have made sense for it to get more screen time after it had served its purpose for Jinx's character development.

Regarding the notion that Jinx becoming a hero/symbol ruined her chaos agent/villain status, I have very little respect for that opinion, frankly. First of all, Zaun itself is a certain embodiment of chaos, Jinx becoming the hero of Zaun in no way undermines her chaoticness. Second of all, and more importantly, the opinion that Jinx should have been more of a villain, or more chaotic, seems to be based on the expectation that she was going to be a re-skinned version of Harley Quinn (as one semi-popular critical video essay explicitly said). An absolutely MCU-poisoned opinion. A take fit only for babies and philistines. Wild to be mad that Jinx is a complex and layered character.

Jinx's story was always about dealing with her trauma. Both the opinion that she should have been a revolutionary leader, and that she should have gone full-villain, ignore the substance of her story. Jinx being seen as a hero gave her the opportunity to see *herself* in a different light, so that she would have the ability to start making amends with Vi. It was always in service of her personal, individual story.

And like I mentioned above, it makes me cry, so I love it.

Thanks again for the question, I enjoyed answering it!

[findingyourrootscomic]

Finding Your Roots- Chapter 12, Page 85

It took seven years but we made it, hahaha... What a bittersweet milestone.  The first proper catch of my 2018 Omega Ruby earthlocke run, Shelly was... not, the kind of pokemon who impressed. I was p excited to catch nincada since Omega Ruby's early game was so sparse on earthens. Caught on Route 116, she joined Cedar's party just after she defeated Roxanne's gym and evolved. From there... while Shelly did eventually catch up to Cedar in levels, she never quite caught up to ANYONE in terms of, uh. Usefulness. I got her to participate in a couple of battles, such as the Wally fight in Mauville, but even when she had the type advantage, I usually just ended up having to switch her out and get someone stronger in like Cedar or Nauki fjkghjdsfghjdfkg. She did not actually fight Flannery, that was comic only.  When I hit the desert/mountain region and started catching new pokemon, I actually tried to box her more than once. I replaced her with Ember and Copper... and then Copper died. Shelly's back in. Threw Lockheed in to replace Shelly once again. Then Ember died. You see the pattern?? Every time I tried to box Shelly safely away, a spot on the party would open up, and I rathered she at least be there instead of just an empty slot. I felt it was safer. And ultimately... it was.  It happened in Jagged Pass, same as in the comic. But instead of Deoxys threatening me with a party wipe, it was a uhhhh belly-drumming hariyama HAHA. I'm p sure in the party, it was Cedar, Shelly, Nauki, Brawler, Lockheed, and Eclipse. Copper and Ember were both dead at this point, Tuffy had yet to be caught (a lot of stuff happens out of order in this latest arc). I threw out Cedar against the hariyama, aaaand... Same as Brendan lol. Oneshot. So obviously at this point I was FUCKING TERRIFIED cause if Cedar couldn't do it, I was unconvinced anyone else could.  So I. Did something kinda evil fjkghjdfg.  I threw in Shelly. And on the turn she died (OHKO obvs), I used a revive (the item) on Cedar. Cedar and Nauki got us out of that fight after that iirc... But another revive was used, and Shelly went off to the Grave box. We made it out of having a full team wipe, but only because of that sacrifice. Soooo, what about the comic? Well, it was a difficult thing. FYR is ultimately a practice in tone management, but the first catch dying partway through the run? That was a tough one to juggle. Because FYR started out with a highly positive tone, a lot of readers early on did not expect much from this comic emotions-wise. On top of that, some people in the nuzlocke community were giving me a hard time for wanting to tackle serious topics with a cutesy art style. So in the early days, thinking about Shelly's upcoming death usually made me panic haha;;; kjfghkjdfg. I didn't want people to get angry or accuse me of tricking them. Hence I spent. A LOT of time thinking about how this one was gonna play out haha. Shelly's death being a sacrifice was important to me. Without it, we probably would have not made it through this run, guys. I wanted her to save Cedar specifically, to represent how her sacrifice allowed Cedar to live and continue to carry her team through the run. On top of that, I wanted her death to really mean something. It was going to be a major turning point in the run: the comic from here on out is very different from everything that's come before. Even though hardly anyone expected Shelly to make it through, I wanted everyone to grieve her as much as I was inevitably going to. I wanted this moment to matter. So, I buckled down. Book 2 became the Shelly book, and I set out to write her a character arc that kicked into gear at its very beginning and concluded with its climax. This book was very intentionally designed for Shelly's arc. It starts with some major lows as I presented her flaws and what she's dealing with. I threw her challenge after challenge, knowing she would fail to rise to them. Anxious, depressed, and convinced of her weakness, Shelly was not always the sort of girl who would jump motherfucking Deoxys. For a while, some readers actually couldn't stand her, and a lot of folks thought I'd write her out in Chapter 8, signifying her failure to improve or live up to her team. Instead, through the power of Cedar's friendship and kindness, Shelly realized that if she didn't owe it to herself to try and become stronger, she at least owed it to Cedar. She went from holding a lot of resentment towards Cedar, to becoming her self-declared best friend. They grew closer, Shelly grew stronger. In the end, she defeated Flame and paved the way for Team Hearth to take on Team Magma, drawing her strength through the power of connection. After all, friendship and family... its everything. Shelly did not make it very far past that initial win. She was never going to, I knew exactly what point in the story she died. Shelly's death here is both a character arc completed and a character arc forever unfinished. If Deoxys hadn't killed her, who knows how much farther she could've gone? How much stronger she would've become? Those questions will remain forever unanswered... But I think it would be a lie to say that nothing of note here was accomplished. She DID grow. She DID become stronger. And that strength gave her the power to save the life of her best friend. It just, unfortunately, could only come to pass through her death. If Shelly had never gone on her arc, if Cedar had never reached out to her again and again... Cedar would have DIED here. Think about that. Shelly was never the readerbase's favorite character, haha. She's been called obnoxious, toxic, racist; it died down in the last few chapters, but folks were once QUITE VOCAL about their dislike of her haha. Which is fine, of course, I was out to prove a point anyway and she did use to act pretty rotten sometimes. But I have such a soft spot for characters like Shelly, honestly. I originally started this comic to work through a racial identity crisis I was having like many years ago, and Shelly ended up getting handed a lot of my darkest and ugliest feelings at the time. She is a misanthrope, she feels targeted by a racist world and it makes her angry, depressed, prone to lashing out, and... that was me. For many years. That's actually why it hurt when people first started to dunk on her (back in Chapter 4). I was probably more defensive of her in the comments than I should've been, but my friend Zero eventually taught me how to calm down on that front. I watched negative comments pour in about her in Chapters 7 and 8, nothing ever outright cruel but definitely somewhat devoid of empathy for her. I let them all pass, tried not to take it too personal cause I knew I had a good chance to change a lot of people's minds in her final chapters. And again, no one is ever obligated to like any of my characters, I know how they can be lol. But she was always one of my more personal characters in this comic. Her arc of challenging her anxiety is something I have seen so many loved ones work through over the years... That part of her, at least, is a love letter to all my anxious friends and family. And her bitterness, her anger... A love letter to one of the most difficult parts of myself.  I don't think Shelly ever completely overcame that anger. I think she probably died hating elementals, and every other race along with them. But she was able to overcome that seething hatred to become a good friend and positive asset to Cedar and the rest of her team. She hated the world and all the pokemon within it, but still became part of a family that accepted her. That means something to me... I hope it means something to you, too. Shelly will forever live on in my heart as a personal symbol of racial justice. That is what she means to me, ultimately. Thank you so much for showering her with love over the years and tolerating her bullshit haha. I know this was not the easiest character to love, but a lot of folks really opened their hearts to her. I appreciate that immensely, I really do. Goodnight, little hero. We love you, loved you, and we always will.  Rest in power.

--- In honor of the pokemon we lost, the rest of June will be a moment of silence. No further pages will be posted this month. All the comics are back proper in July. See you there!

Chapter Thirteen: The Bottom of Your Heart > Cover Content Warnings If you loved Shelly, please consider supporting me on Patreon!

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

A comment from @hockeytwittereats just made me think of what an unexpected source of comfort it must have turned into for Taylor to have the B stage to start processing her feelings in real time as she was going through things during that first leg of Eras and how that may have even dovetailed into her creative streak (and frenzy) writing TTPD

[shattered-eluvian]

man... I love dragon age.

[fossilizedhysterics]

i dont have the energy to write a whole post abt it so have me live tweeting while i watched the new video 🙏

[bi-writes]

i see people on here getting angry because of how cod writers can make cod men angry, toxic, mean, etc, and idk how to tell people this but…they’re not real

[poisonouspastels]

[madeimpact]

Y'know I think it could be interesting to write a thread where my little man just gets to go completely apeshit. The problem is it takes a LOT to get him to that point. But it can be done