#why is it so weird to laugh in public

[an-imaginary-person6]

Dan and Phil made me laugh hysterically in public with people looking at me like I am crazy.

I do not mind being crazy, but don’t fucking look at me.

[obsessedoverwater]

Born to draw Knuckles and Espio making out.

Forced to have shaky hands that can hardly write letters.

This may or may not be a reference to Sonic Highschool.

[marblebees]

I opened twitter for a second to look for judo gifs on my browser and like man. You really couldnt make up half of twitters user base its so so funny.

[todayisafridaynight]

def made a post bout this before but Heaven Knows Im Not Hunting For It anyway how public. yall think sawashiro was once aoki became governor right.... like do we know what im asking rn.......

[zincbot]

me: i'm like chill and joking and relaxed

someone i don't know very well: tries to touch me in a very normal way

me: (is suddenly possessed by the spirit of a roadkill deer)

[honeyhaeya]

Sucker For You

Jeon Wonwoo x F!Reader

genre / tags: smut, romance, humor, slice of life, wonwoo x reader, college au, slow burn to fast burn, mutual pining, friends to lovers, cockwarming, gamer wonwoo, subtle dominance, light degradation, reader insert, cute dynamics, playful teasing, soft/dom wonwoo, loser!wonwoo x popular!reader. warnings: explicit sexual content (18+; MDNI), light degradation (terms like "slut" used in consensual play), semi-public encounter (storage room smut scene), cockwarming while gaming, swearing, mention of overstimulation and rough sex, mutual pining, unprotected sex (wrap that boner !). smut warnings: detailed explicit content (penetration, oral, cockwarming), rough sex in semi-public and private settings, use of pet names and light degradation, safe, consensual sexual activity between characters, descriptions of body reactions and sensations. wc: 8,793 (porn with little plot) a/n: to my beloved @kpoppiesofinternet , thank you for giving me the idea. seventeen taglist: @archivistworld <33 Preview: Wonwoo never thought he’d end up here, in his dimly lit apartment, with you perched on his lap, his gaming chair squeaking softly beneath the weight of both your bodies. The glow from his monitor illuminated your face as your cheek rested against his shoulder, your warm breath fanning over his neck. “You’re really good at this,” you murmured, voice laced with awe as his fingers danced skillfully across the keyboard. His lips quirked upward. “I told you, I’m not always a loser.” The way his cock twitched inside you at the sound of your soft, teasing laugh almost had him losing his grip on the game. The warmth of your body around him made every movement sharper, every second harder to concentrate. “Wonwoo, how do you even focus like this?” you whispered, your tone edged with playful disbelief as you clenched around him. His hand stuttered over the mouse for the briefest moment, a hiss escaping his lips. “You’re going to make me lose,” he muttered, jaw tightening. “You said you wouldn’t,” you shot back smugly, your hands sliding up his chest as your thighs flexed around his. “Be quiet, or I’ll make you regret it,” he growled softly, the mic on his headset still live.

Wonwoo stood awkwardly near the corner of the elevator, clutching his phone like it was his lifeline. He didn't even know why he was here—okay, he knew why. Mingyu asked him to get his stuff, but fate decided to test him today.

You. Running toward the elevator, hair bouncing lightly with each step, the pleated skirt swaying just enough to make his brain short-circuit. And that smile you threw him when he awkwardly reached out to hold the elevator door? That should've been illegal. You looked like a dream—pink blouse, effortless charm, and some sort of aura that made every neuron in his head shut down.

Now, he was trapped. Trapped in the best kind of torture.

You stood just a few feet away, scrolling through your phone, seemingly unaware of the chaos you were causing in his head. The sweet scent of your perfume filled the elevator, wrapping around him like a vice. It wasn't overpowering—no, it was subtle, delicate, but absolutely maddening. Wonwoo inhaled slowly, trying not to make it obvious that he preferred your perfume over oxygen right now.

What was he supposed to do? Say something? Compliment you? Laugh at some imaginary joke and hope you joined in?

Instead, he stood there, silent, practically glued to the wall like the loser he was. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the elevator mirror and winced. His hair was slightly messy from running around earlier, his hoodie slightly wrinkled. Meanwhile, you looked like you had stepped out of a movie scene.

The elevator dinged, signaling someone's floor, and Wonwoo almost panicked, realizing it was his. He took a step forward but froze. Should he say goodbye? No, that was weird. Should he—

"Wonwoo, right?"

Your voice broke through his internal monologue, and he turned so fast he almost sprained his neck. You were looking right at him, smiling that same radiant smile, and he swore he might pass out.

"Y-Yeah," he stammered, cursing himself for the crack in his voice.

You tilted your head, eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity. "You were at the festival earlier, right? I think I saw you near the game booths."

Oh. My. God. You noticed him?

"I... uh, yeah. I was just... helping out. Nothing big," he managed, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

"That's cool," you said, the elevator dinging again. The doors opened, and you stepped out, turning to face him briefly. "See you around, Wonwoo."

The doors closed before he could respond, leaving him standing there, wide-eyed, as your scent lingered in the elevator.

"See you around?" he whispered to himself, the tiniest, stupidest grin forming on his lips.

God, he really needed to get his act together. But maybe, just maybe, this wasn't a complete disaster.

Wonwoo didn't know what was worse: the fact that he forgot why he was on this floor in the first place or the fact that you had just casually walked out of nowhere and into his life with the audacity to smile at him like that. Like you knew exactly how your charm was working on him.

He'd stepped out of the elevator to grab Mingyu's bag—it was lying near the corner of the hallway like someone had abandoned it—and then bam, there you were. The sound of your voice, light and teasing, stopped him in his tracks before he even realized it.

"Hey, Wonwoo!" you chirped, juggling a camera, a bouquet of flowers, and a handful of props. How you managed to look so effortlessly composed while holding so much stuff was beyond him. "Did you get lost or something?"

Lost? Yeah, definitely. But not in the way you were implying.

"I... no, I'm just grabbing Mingyu's stuff," he said, his voice a little too quiet, a little too awkward. He shifted on his feet, trying not to meet your eyes for too long because if he did, he might just melt into the floor.

Your grin widened. God, why were you so unfair? "Of course, Mingyu. I see you with him all the time. You two are pretty close, huh?"

Wonwoo blinked. Oh. That was why you noticed him. Mingyu. Of course. Who wouldn't notice Mingyu? Tall, confident, handsome Mingyu, who had a way of commanding attention without even trying. Compared to him, Wonwoo might as well have been a ghost.

He nodded stiffly, biting back the disappointment tugging at his chest. "Yeah, we're friends."

You hummed, a soft, melodic sound that made his stomach twist in knots. As the two of you started walking toward the elevator, you adjusted the camera in your hands, your fingers brushing against the petals of the flowers you carried. "The festival's been fun, huh? I've been running around so much, but I'm definitely going to check out the game booths later. You're helping out there, right?"

Wonwoo felt his heart skip a beat. You knew that he was helping out? You knew something about him that wasn't tied to Mingyu? His brain scrambled to process it, and for a moment, he just stared at you like an idiot before managing a weak, "Y-Yeah, I'll be there."

You smiled again—this time softer, sweeter—and stepped into the elevator with him. The small space felt a little too intimate, your perfume lingering in the air again, and Wonwoo swore the temperature rose by a hundred degrees.

The ride down was quiet at first, save for the soft hum of the elevator. Wonwoo clutched Mingyu's bag tightly, his knuckles white as he tried to act normal. But it was impossible when you were standing right there, so close, your presence making it hard to think straight.

As the elevator dinged, signaling the ground floor, you turned to him with a mischievous glint in your eyes. "See you at the game booths, Wonwoo," you said, stepping out before he could even think of a response.

He stared after you, rooted to the spot as the elevator doors closed again. His reflection stared back at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

"Idiot," he muttered to himself, adjusting his grip on the bag. But even as he walked toward the festival grounds, his heart raced at the thought of seeing you again. Maybe, just maybe, being a loser around you wasn't the worst thing in the world.

Wonwoo was pretty sure he was about to have a heart attack.

Your booth was the most popular one in the festival—of course, it was. The crowd seemed drawn to you like moths to a flame, and why wouldn't they be? You stood at the center, effortlessly charming, laughing, and engaging with everyone who passed by. You were magnetic, the kind of person people gravitated toward without even realizing it.

But for Wonwoo, it wasn't just your charm that had him spiraling—it was you. The way your hair caught the light, the way your voice carried over the noise, the way your smile lit up the entire space. And now, thanks to Mingyu's insistence, he was walking straight into the lion's den.

"Come on, Wonwoo. Don't be weird," Mingyu had teased, dragging him toward your booth. "She's cool. You're cool. Just... be normal for once around her."

Normal? Wonwoo felt like he was about to combust.

When the two of them finally reached your booth, you were busy helping another group of students, but the second your eyes lifted, they landed on him. Not Mingyu. Not the crowd. Him.

Wonwoo swore time slowed down for a moment. Was he imagining it? The slight glint of recognition in your gaze? The tiny smile that tugged at the corners of your lips? He couldn't help the way his heart stuttered in his chest.

"Wonwoo! Mingyu!" you called, stepping closer to the front of the stall, holding a bunch of roses in your hands. You looked so natural, so perfect, standing there surrounded by flowers and festival decorations. "You guys finally made it!"

He wanted to respond, maybe say something clever or funny, but his brain had completely shut down. All he could do was nod stiffly, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, while Mingyu carried the conversation like the social butterfly he was.

But then, something unexpected happened. Instead of handing the roses to Mingyu—like Wonwoo had braced himself for—you turned directly to him.

"These are for you," you said softly, holding out three perfectly bloomed roses.

Wonwoo froze, his eyes flicking between the roses and your face like he couldn't believe what was happening. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out to take them, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment.

He thought that would be the end of it, but then you grabbed a Polaroid camera from the table and grinned up at him. "Come here. Let's take a picture."

"A—A picture?" His voice cracked, and he could feel Mingyu silently laughing at him, but he didn't care. His entire world had narrowed to just you and that camera in your hands.

Before he could process what was happening, you grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, positioning him just beside you. The proximity was almost too much—your perfume, the warmth of your hand on his arm, the way you were so effortlessly close.

"Smile!" you said cheerfully, leaning slightly toward him as you held up the camera.

Wonwoo tried. He really did. But the second the camera clicked, all he could feel was the way his breath hitched, his heart racing as if it wanted to escape his chest.

When you handed him the freshly printed Polaroid, your smile softened. "A little keepsake," you said, like it was the most normal thing in the world to turn him into a blushing mess.

Wonwoo stared at the picture in his hands, the image of the two of you together making his chest tighten. You looked radiant, as always, while he... well, he looked like someone who was trying desperately not to pass out.

"Thanks," he managed to mumble, clutching the photo and the roses like they were the most precious things he'd ever owned.

As Mingyu dragged him away a few moments later, laughing about how he'd looked like a deer in headlights, Wonwoo couldn't stop glancing at the picture.

Maybe he was a loser. Maybe he didn't have a chance. But for a brief moment, it felt like he was the luckiest guy in the world.

Wonwoo froze in his tracks, the sound of your voice ringing in his ears like the opening notes of his favorite song. He wasn't even sure why he stopped—it wasn't like he hadn't heard you talk before. But this time, there was something different. Something that pulled him in before he could even process it.

And then the words hit him.

"I thought Wonwoo was like the type who would be dominant."

He blinked. His brain short-circuited. What?

You said his name. You were talking about him. And not just in a passing, "Oh, that guy in my class" kind of way. This was... something else.

Wonwoo wanted to walk away. He really did. He wasn't the type to eavesdrop, especially on something so clearly private. But his feet refused to move, like they were rooted to the spot. His heart was beating so loudly he was sure you could hear it from where you were.

"So? You're like, obsessed with the guy. Ask him out already."

That voice—your friend's, probably—snapped him out of his trance. But only for a second, because then the full weight of the sentence hit him like a truck.

Obsessed?

No. No way. There was no way you—the girl who practically lit up every room you walked into, the girl he could barely string two words together around—liked him. That was impossible. He must've misheard.

"Yeah, but, what if he doesn't like me?" Your voice was quieter now, a little unsure. "He sounds... well, I guess, uncomfy around me?"

Wonwoo's heart sank. Uncomfortable? No, that wasn't right. That wasn't even close. If anything, you made him feel so many things that his brain just shut down when you were near. He regretted every awkward pause, every stuttered word, every time he'd avoided your gaze because he thought it'd be too obvious how much he liked you.

"I dunno," your friend replied casually. "Better find out."

Wonwoo barely had time to process those words before he heard footsteps—yours and your friend's—approaching. His body went into panic mode, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he forced himself to move, walking a little faster and trying not to look like a total weirdo.

But his mind? It was chaos.

You liked him.

Or at least, that's what it sounded like. But could he trust what he'd overheard? What if he'd misunderstood? What if it was some kind of cruel joke?

And yet, as he made his way down the hallway, heart pounding in his chest, one thought drowned out all the others:

I need to talk to her.

Wonwoo didn't know how he ended up back at the festival booth with Mingyu. His legs had carried him here automatically, but his mind? His mind was still replaying your words on a loop.

"What if he doesn't like me?" "He sounds... uncomfy around me."

The guilt was eating him alive. Was that what he'd made you feel? Uncomfortable? Because if you knew how many times he'd stayed up at night thinking about you, if you knew how much he wanted to talk to you but just couldn't seem to get his stupid, nervous self together, you'd know it wasn't you. It was him.

"Dude, you okay?" Mingyu's voice cut through his thoughts like a slap to the face.

Wonwoo blinked, realizing he'd been gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were white. He quickly loosened his hold, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

"You sure?" Mingyu squinted, suspicious. "You look like you've just seen a ghost. Or maybe you've finally realized how insanely hot Y/N is. Honestly, about time—"

"I don't need your commentary, Mingyu," Wonwoo muttered, his cheeks turning crimson at the mention of your name. He couldn't deal with Mingyu's teasing right now, not when his heart was already doing acrobatics.

"Alright, alright," Mingyu said with a laugh, throwing his hands up in surrender. "But if you're crushing on her—"

"Mingyu, stop."

Unfortunately, Mingyu didn't stop. If anything, the grin on his face widened. "Look, Y/N's literally over there. If you have something to say, just go say it. You're so tense, it's giving me secondhand stress."

Wonwoo followed Mingyu's gaze, and sure enough, there you were, standing by your booth, chatting with a group of students. You looked... radiant. Even in the middle of a crowded, noisy festival, you stood out like a beacon, your smile brighter than all the string lights strung across the campus.

And then, like fate—or maybe just the universe playing tricks on him—you turned your head. Your eyes locked onto his.

Wonwoo froze.

You didn't. Instead, you smiled. That same smile that made him forget how to breathe. And to his absolute horror, you started walking toward him.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

"Hey, Wonwoo!" Your voice was warm, light, the same voice that had just a few minutes ago said... those things.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay rooted to the spot even though every instinct screamed at him to bolt. "H-Hey," he stammered, cursing himself for the way his voice cracked.

You tilted your head, holding a clipboard in one hand. "Can I ask you a favor?"

Wonwoo blinked. "A favor?"

"Yeah." You stepped closer, and he swore he could smell your perfume again—the same scent that had completely ruined him in the elevator earlier. "I need someone to help me carry some of the booth supplies to the storage room after the festival. You seem pretty strong. Think you could help me out?"

Strong? Him? Wonwoo felt like he was going to combust.

"Uh, yeah," he managed to say, though it came out more like a squeak. "Sure. I can do that."

Your smile widened, and if he thought his heart couldn't race any faster, he was wrong. "Great! You're the best, Wonwoo."

The best? Him? He wanted to laugh—bitterly, nervously, something—but he didn't. Instead, he just nodded like a fool, watching as you handed him the clipboard.

"I'll come find you when it's time, okay?" you said, your tone so casual, so sweet, like this was no big deal. Like you didn't even realize what you were doing to him.

And then you were gone, back to your booth, leaving Wonwoo standing there clutching the clipboard like it was a lifeline.

"Dude," Mingyu said, clapping him on the back. "You're so in. Don't mess this up."

Wonwoo didn't reply. How could he, when his brain was still screaming one thing over and over?

You liked him. You really liked him.

And now, he had to figure out how to not be a complete loser long enough to tell you he liked you too.

The moment you pulled Wonwoo into the storage room, he swore his brain short-circuited. It was just the two of you in this small, dimly lit space, surrounded by forgotten boxes and leftover props from past festivals. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure you could hear it.

"Alright," you said, scanning the shelves for something. "I just need to find these last few things, and we're done."

But he was done. Done for. The way you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the subtle sway of your body as you moved—it all felt so deliberate, so... seductive. His eyes trailed down your frame without meaning to, lingering on your pleated skirt and the soft curve of your waist.

"It's getting kinda hot in here, don't you think, Wonwoo?"

The sound of his name rolling off your lips—soft, teasing, and just a little too intentional—sent a shiver down his spine. He didn't know if the heat you mentioned was literal or if you'd turned the temperature in the room up just by existing.

"Uh... yeah," he stammered, tugging at his collar like some kind of cliché. God, pull yourself together.

You turned to look at him, that same damn smile on your lips, and stepped closer, the soft click of your shoes on the floor echoing in the quiet room. "You've been awfully quiet, you know. I was starting to think you didn't want to help me after all."

"N-no, I—" He choked on his words as you closed the distance, your eyes locking onto his.

"You know," you said, tilting your head, "I kind of like this side of you. Quiet. Nervous. It's... cute."

Wonwoo's brain went haywire. Cute? Did you just call him cute?

Before he could even process that, you reached up, your fingers brushing against the side of his face as you adjusted his glasses. "But you don't always have to be so shy, you know. I wouldn't bite. Unless..."

His breath hitched as your voice dropped to a whisper. "You want me to."

And that was it. The last thread of his self-control snapped.

In a move that shocked even himself, Wonwoo grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer until there was barely any space left between your bodies.

"You think I'm shy?" he asked, his voice low, surprising even himself with the confidence that came out of nowhere.

Your eyes widened slightly, but the smirk that followed was enough to make his knees weak. "Aren't you?"

"Not right now," he murmured, and before he could lose his nerve, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was all pent-up desire and raw, messy emotion.

You froze for a split second before melting into him, your hands gripping the front of his shirt as you kissed him back, matching his intensity.

It was everything Wonwoo had dreamed about during countless sleepless nights, and yet, it was so much more. The way your lips moved against his, the quiet little sound you made in the back of your throat, the way your body pressed against his like you were made to fit together—it was overwhelming in the best way.

Somewhere in the haze of it all, your back hit the shelf, and a box toppled to the floor with a loud thud, but neither of you cared.

"Wonwoo," you gasped against his lips, your voice breathy and filled with something that made him shiver. "I—"

He didn't let you finish, his lips trailing down to your neck, his hands roaming up and down your sides, trying to memorize every curve and dip of your body.

"God, you're driving me insane," he murmured, his words muffled against your skin. "Do you even know what you do to me?"

Your laugh was soft, teasing, and entirely too addictive. "Maybe. But you're not as much of a loser as I thought."

That made him pause, just for a moment, pulling back to look at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. "You thought I was a loser?"

You grinned, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair. "Not anymore."

Whatever shred of composure he had left was gone. He crashed his lips against yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just pure, unfiltered want.

Wonwoo froze for a moment, his breath hitching as you ground yourself against him, your movements slow, deliberate, and absolutely maddening. His head was spinning, and it was like something inside him snapped. He wasn't going to hold back anymore.

He grabbed your hips roughly, pressing you firmly against the shelf, his lips ghosting over your ear as his voice dropped an octave. "You really like testing me, don't you?"

Your breath caught, and before you could reply, his mouth was on yours again, demanding, relentless, leaving no room for anything but him. His teeth caught your bottom lip, pulling it gently before he let it go, smirking when he saw your dazed expression.

"Look at you," he murmured, his hands sliding up to cup your waist as you clung to him. "Acting all innocent, but you're nothing more than a needy little slut, aren't you?"

The word sent a jolt through you, heat pooling low in your stomach as you met his gaze, half-lidded and full of fire. "Wonwoo..."

"Say it," he growled, his fingers digging into your hips as he pressed himself harder against you. "Say you like it when I take control."

You hesitated, your pride battling with the undeniable heat coursing through you, but when his lips trailed down your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses that made your knees weak, you couldn't help but gasp out, "I like it."

"Good girl," he murmured against your skin, his tone dark and dripping with approval. His hands moved to your blouse, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons one by one, exposing the soft curves of your body.

"You're so desperate for me, aren't you?" he teased, his lips brushing against your collarbone. "I see the way you look at me—don't think I haven't noticed."

You let out a soft whimper as his hands slid under your skirt, gripping your thighs with a possessiveness that made your heart race.

"Wonwoo, please," you whispered, barely able to think straight with the way he was touching you, his hands, his mouth, his everything overwhelming your senses.

"Please what?" he asked, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was intense, burning with a mix of hunger and control. "Use your words."

You bit your lip, your cheeks flushing as you struggled to find the words, but when his hand slid higher, you couldn't hold back. "Please... f- fuck me."

His smirk widened, and he leaned in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "That's what I thought."

He didn't hold back after that, his hands and mouth everywhere, leaving you breathless and entirely at his mercy. The shy, hesitant Wonwoo you thought you knew was gone, replaced by someone who knew exactly what he wanted—and wasn't afraid to take it.

And you? You didn't stand a chance.

Wonwoo felt the pool of wetness of your cunt through the fabric of your underwear. He pulled it aside before inserting two fingers in you. "You're already wet with just a few kisses?"

You gasped, moaned at the feeling of his long, lean fingers entering you in and out slowly but roughly. He already found that spongy spot that made you almost lose your balance. Luckily, his other hand kept you in place. "You're fucking unbelievable."

Your moans filled the room as he edges you through the feeling of his fingers in you. It wasn't long before he has you cumming on his hand, squirting. "W- Wonwoo.." You whimpered, gasping like crazy.

He held you before pulling his fingers out, smirking before sucking on his damped fingers. Before you could say anything, he kissed you, intentionally wanting for you to taste yourself. 

Your head was spinning, but you knew you wanted more. So you held the bulge from his pants, his cock hard and long. You dropped to your knees as you hastily try to take his pants off. 

Wonwoo could just smirk as he looks at you with a mix of awe and smugness. Who knew you'd be like this to him? 

You pulled his pants and underwear down and his cock sprung. It was big, too big for you to handle. But you didn't think of anything else, just Wonwoo. 

You opened your mouth, held his cock with both of your hands before stroking it as you lick the tip of his cock. You put him in and you had him grunting, grabbing a bunch of your hair as he helps you bob your head over his cock. "F- Fuck, you're good at this."

He loved the warmth of your mouth too much, he almost felt like he was cumming. Your tongue swirled over his cock as your hands humped his dick, and that was it, he cummed in your mouth.

It was hot, and you swallowed the most you can and a little spilling over your lips. 

He carries you up, and you wanted to beg him to just fuck you right there. Your inner thighs were glistening by the wetness your pussy was making. 

"P- please help me..." You whimpered as Wonwoo's lips bit the skin of your neck. He smirked before aligning himself in between your thighs, cock meeting the entrance of your soaked cunt.

"You're hopeless," Wonwoo replied, before grabbing your thigh, raising it over his waist and finally enters you fully. 

Wonwoo grunts, your moans like a melody to his ears. He started roughly. It was making you lose your mind. He knew how to position himself to make things a hundred times better.

He thrusted so roughly you felt like you were about to pass out. His name came out from your lips, like a praise.

"You're amazing," Wonwoo says as his hips snaps back and forth. The sounds in the small room sounded too unholy. Too lustful. Skin-to-skin slapping each other with each squelch and pounding.

Your walls were swallowing his cock. Wonwoo held your back, his other hand still carrying your thigh as he uses it to pull you even closer so he can thrust easier.

"You're so fucking tight," Wonwoo growled, his voice low and strained as his hips snapped relentlessly into yours. The pleasure was overwhelming, his cock filling you perfectly with every thrust. Your body arched against him, your nails digging into his back as he continued to hit that perfect spot that made you see stars.

Your moans grew louder, unfiltered and raw, each one driving Wonwoo closer to the edge. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Look at you," he murmured, his tone dripping with condescension. "Begging for me like a needy little slut. You wanted this, didn't you?"

You whimpered, unable to form a coherent reply as he continued to pound into you, his hand sliding from your thigh to your waist, gripping you tightly to keep you exactly where he wanted you. The new angle made you cry out, your walls clenching around him in response.

"You're taking me so well," he praised, his voice husky. "God, you feel so fucking good." His lips found your neck again, leaving marks that you knew you'd see later, but in that moment, you didn't care.

Your hands slid up to his hair, tugging at the dark strands as you moaned his name like it was the only word you knew. Wonwoo groaned at the sensation, his thrusts becoming even rougher, more desperate.

"You're mine," he growled, his hand moving to grip your chin, tilting your face up to meet his intense gaze. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasped, the words spilling out without hesitation. "I'm yours, Wonwoo."

A dark smirk spread across his lips as he claimed your mouth in a bruising kiss, his hips never faltering. The room was filled with the sound of your moans, his grunts, and the obscene slap of skin against skin. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, and everything you never knew you needed.

Your body trembled as you felt the knot in your stomach tighten, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak. Wonwoo could feel it too, the way your walls fluttered around him, and he growled in approval.

"Come for me," he demanded, his voice rough and commanding. "I want to feel you fall apart on my cock."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless pace of his thrusts sent you over the edge, your climax washing over you like a tidal wave. Your walls clenched tightly around him, and the sensation was enough to push Wonwoo to his limit.

"Fuck," he groaned, his movements becoming erratic as he chased his own release. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you, his body shuddering as he spilled into you, his grip on your waist tightening as he rode out his high.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, the only sound in the room your heavy breaths as you both came down from the intensity of what had just happened. Wonwoo leaned his forehead against yours, his dark eyes searching yours as a small, satisfied smirk played on his lips.

"Still think I'm a loser?" he teased, his voice low and slightly breathless.

You couldn't help but laugh softly, your cheeks flushed. "No," you whispered, pulling him down for another kiss.

The rest of the world ceased to exist. It was just you and him, tangled together in the dim storage room, your laughter and gasps filling the space.

For once, Wonwoo didn't feel like a loser to you. He felt like the luckiest guy in the world.

Wonwoo finally pulled back, his lips brushing your forehead softly—a stark contrast to the firestorm that had just taken place. His hands stayed on your waist, steadying you as you struggled to catch your breath. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy with the weight of what just happened.

"Um..." you finally murmured, your voice still breathy, and his gaze flicked to yours. "That was... unexpected."

Wonwoo chuckled lowly, the sound reverberating through his chest. "Yeah, no kidding."

You both shared a small, sheepish laugh, the tension melting ever so slightly as reality began to settle in. But before you could even begin to overthink what had just transpired, Wonwoo brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering a little longer than necessary.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice softer now, his concern evident in his tone.

You nodded, the corners of your lips lifting into a small smile. "More than okay. That was..." You trailed off, biting your lip as heat rushed to your cheeks. "Let's just say you've got nothing to worry about in the loser department."

Wonwoo snorted, shaking his head, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed his confidence. "Yeah, well, don't go spreading that around. I've got a reputation to maintain."

"Oh, trust me," you teased, poking his chest playfully. "Your secret's safe with me."

As the two of you began to straighten yourselves out—fixing clothes, smoothing hair, and trying not to look too disheveled—Wonwoo found himself stealing glances at you, the glow of your post-climactic state making you look even more radiant.

When you caught him staring, you raised an eyebrow, smirking. "What? Regretting it already?"

His eyes widened, and he shook his head vehemently. "No! God, no." He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just... wondering how the hell I got so lucky."

Your heart fluttered at his words, but you played it cool, rolling your eyes with a grin. "Guess you're not such a loser after all."

Before either of you could say more, a loud knock at the storage room door startled you both, followed by Mingyu's unmistakable voice. "Hey! Wonwoo? You in there? We need those props ASAP!"

Your eyes widened, and Wonwoo groaned, his head falling back as he muttered under his breath, "Perfect timing, as always."

You quickly gathered the remaining items, trying not to giggle as Wonwoo shot you an exasperated look. "Guess we'll have to finish this conversation later," you whispered, brushing past him on your way to the door.

But before you could open it, Wonwoo grabbed your wrist, pulling you back gently. "Wait," he said, his voice low.

You turned to face him, your breath catching as his dark eyes bore into yours. "Can I see you later? I mean, outside of this," he gestured vaguely to the props and the chaos outside. "Like... for real?"

Your lips curved into a soft smile, and you nodded. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Fast-forward a few days later...

The awkwardness between you and Wonwoo didn't last long—not after he made it a point to text you later that night, asking if you'd gotten home safely. That small gesture opened the door to something more, and over the next few days, the two of you found yourselves gravitating toward each other more and more.

From stolen glances in the hallways to whispered conversations during class breaks, it became clear that whatever spark had ignited in that storage room wasn't going to fizzle out anytime soon.

Wonwoo surprised you with his wit and dry humor, and you loved how his quiet confidence contrasted with your own lively personality. He'd walk you to your booth during the festival, lingering just long enough to make your heart race before retreating to his usual spot with Mingyu.

But the best moments were the ones you shared when no one else was around—like the late-night coffee runs where he'd listen intently as you rambled about your latest project, or the times he'd let his guard down and tell you about his favorite video games and why he loved them.

One evening, as the festival wound down, you found yourselves sitting on the steps of an empty amphitheater, the cool night air wrapping around you like a blanket. Wonwoo handed you his hoodie when he noticed you shivering, his fingers brushing yours in the process.

"Thanks," you said softly, pulling it over your head and inhaling the faint scent of him that clung to the fabric.

"You look better in it than I do," he murmured, his gaze fixed on you in a way that made your cheeks heat up.

You nudged him playfully, breaking the moment with a laugh. "Careful, Jeon Wonwoo. You're starting to sound like a total simp."

He smirked, leaning back on his elbows. "Maybe I am."

Your laughter died down as you looked at him, the vulnerability in his expression making your heart swell. "For what it's worth," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, "I like this version of you—the one who's confident enough to go after what he wants."

Wonwoo's lips curved into a small smile, and he reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "And for what it's worth," he replied, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, "I'm really glad you think so."

You didn't expect to end up in Wonwoo's apartment after the festival. Well, maybe you did—it wasn't like he hadn't been hinting at it all evening. But still, sitting on his couch in his slightly-too-big hoodie (the same one he let you borrow earlier), surrounded by shelves lined with games and a setup that screamed gamer aesthetic, you couldn't help but smile to yourself.

"What's so funny?" Wonwoo asked, glancing at you from where he was setting up his console. His glasses perched on his nose made him look ridiculously adorable, and you couldn't stop staring.

"Nothing," you replied with a sly grin. "Just thinking how your apartment is exactly what I imagined—complete with the snacks and random figurines everywhere."

He rolled his eyes but smirked anyway. "Yeah? And what did you expect, a penthouse?"

"No," you teased. "Maybe something with fewer RGB lights."

He scoffed. "Hate on my lights all you want, but you're the one about to lose at Mario Kart."

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back into the couch. "Oh, you think so? I'll have you know I'm a beast at this game."

Wonwoo chuckled, handing you a controller. "We'll see about that."

It started innocently enough—both of you yelling at the screen, throwing blue shells, and arguing over whether or not banana peels were strategically placed. But then the stakes got higher.

"If I win this round," you said, your competitive streak showing, "you owe me dinner next time."

Wonwoo smirked, leaning closer to you. "And if I win?"

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Fine. You get to pick the next game we play. But I'm warning you, I'm not going easy on you."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Alright, deal."

The game started, and for the first few laps, you held the lead, much to Wonwoo's frustration. "No way. How are you this good?" he muttered, his fingers flying over the controller.

"Skill, baby," you replied, sticking your tongue out at him.

But then, in the final stretch, he managed to throw a red shell at you, sending your character spinning out of control just before the finish line. Wonwoo's triumphant laugh filled the room as his character crossed first.

"No way!" you yelled, throwing your controller onto the couch. "You cheated!"

"Cheating? That's just strategy," he replied smugly, leaning back and crossing his arms like he owned the place.

You huffed, crossing your arms. "Fine. What's your pick for the next game, loser?"

But instead of answering, Wonwoo leaned closer, his smirk softening into something more genuine. "I think I've got something better in mind," he murmured.

Before you could react, he closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was somehow both soft and desperate. Your surprise melted into eagerness as you kissed him back, your hands reaching up to tug at the hoodie he was wearing.

"Wonwoo..." you breathed as he pulled back, his eyes dark and hooded.

"You said I'm a loser," he muttered, his voice low as he pushed you gently against the couch. "But if I'm a loser, I'm your loser."

You let out a soft laugh, but it quickly turned into a gasp as his lips found your neck, his hands wandering under the hem of your borrowed hoodie.

"You're really full of yourself tonight, huh?" you teased, your fingers sliding up the back of his shirt, nails grazing his skin.

Wonwoo smirked against your skin, his teeth nipping at your collarbone. "What can I say? Winning feels good."

Your banter dissolved into something much steamier as he pulled the hoodie over your head, his hands roaming your body with newfound confidence. His touch was deliberate, teasing, and so much more dominant than you expected from him.

"You talk too much," he murmured, his voice rough, as he captured your lips again, his hands gripping your thighs to pull you onto his lap.

"Make me stop," you challenged, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

Wonwoo growled softly, his hands sliding under your shorts as he pressed his forehead against yours. "Oh, I will."

The room was filled with sounds of teasing as the two of you made out, kissing, giggling.

And from there, any semblance of restraint between you two disappeared. The games forgotten, the only sounds filling the room were soft gasps, hushed whispers, and the occasional murmur of each other's names.

It changed when Mingyu texted Wonwoo to play league with him.

You didn't think this is where the night would go—sitting on Wonwoo's lap, his cock buried deep inside you, while his hands moved deftly over his keyboard and mouse. The glow from his monitor illuminated the room in a way that made the scene feel even more illicit, like you shouldn't be here, doing this, but neither of you cared.

"Stay still," Wonwoo murmured, his voice low but commanding, the same tone he'd used earlier when he coaxed you into this position.

You swallowed hard, your hands gripping the edges of his desk to keep yourself steady. Every slight movement sent a shiver through your body, and you bit your lip, trying to stay quiet.

Wonwoo's focus was split—one part on the game playing out in front of him, the other on the way your walls clenched around him every time he moved slightly. His mic was on, and his teammates' voices filled the headset, unaware of the situation he was in.

"Wonwoo, you good?" Mingyu's voice crackled through his headphones. "You're quiet tonight."

Wonwoo chuckled softly, his voice steady despite the way his hands had momentarily gripped your waist to still you when you squirmed. "Yeah, I'm good. Just focusing."

Focusing? That was a lie. How could he focus when you were here, squirming on his lap, your breath hitching every time he adjusted in his chair?

"Stop moving," he muttered, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Unless you want them to hear you."

You glared at him, but your resolve crumbled when his hand slid up your thigh, squeezing it lightly. It was a warning, and you knew better than to test him right now.

"Wonwoo, watch the top lane!" one of his teammates shouted, bringing him back to the game.

"I'm on it," he replied smoothly, his fingers moving with precision as he skillfully navigated the game. His calmness was infuriating, especially when you were struggling to keep your composure.

Every time his hips shifted, even slightly, it sent sparks through your body. He knew it too, the smirk on his lips giving him away.

You bit down on your lip to stifle a whimper when he adjusted his position again, the movement causing him to press even deeper inside you.

"Something wrong?" he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. "You look like you're struggling."

You wanted to snap back, but you couldn't trust yourself to speak without making a sound that would give away what was happening.

Instead, you clenched around him intentionally, earning a soft grunt from him.

"Careful," he warned, his voice dropping to that commanding tone that made your stomach flip. "Don't start something you can't finish."

You wanted to test him, but the sound of Mingyu's voice pulled you back to reality.

"Wonwoo, you're carrying this game, man!"

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through you. "What can I say? I'm just that good."

You rolled your eyes at his confidence, but you couldn't deny that watching him play with such ease was undeniably attractive. His focus, his skill, the way his hands moved—it all had you feeling more heated than you already were.

When the game ended, and the victory screen flashed on the monitor, Wonwoo finally leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on your hips.

"Guess I'm a winner after all," he teased, his voice low and smug.

You turned to glare at him, but before you could say anything, he shifted his hips, drawing a gasp from you that you quickly stifled with your hand.

"Careful," he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck. "We wouldn't want them to hear, would we?"

"God, you're insufferable," you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled, his hands tightening on your hips. "And yet, here you are."

Wonwoo's breath hitched as you shifted slightly on his lap, your walls squeezing him involuntarily. His hands gripped your waist tighter, the control he was trying so hard to maintain beginning to falter.

"Careful," he rasped, his voice low and strained, his forehead pressing against yours. "You don't want to push your luck."

You tilted your head innocently, even as a sly smile spread across your lips. "What's wrong? I thought you were supposed to be 'dominant,' Mr. Pro Gamer."

His jaw clenched at your teasing, and the veins in his neck became more pronounced. The challenge in your tone, coupled with the sensation of your warmth around him, was driving him insane.

"You're playing with fire," he growled, his fingers digging into your hips as he tried to steady you—but it only made you grind against him slightly.

"Am I?" you whispered, leaning closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "Because it seems like I'm the one in control right now."

That was it. The last straw. Wonwoo's patience snapped.

His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them firmly as he lifted you slightly, only to slam you back down onto his length, making you gasp. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"

The sudden force made you cling to his shoulders, your fingers digging into his skin as a moan slipped past your lips. "W-Wonwoo—"

"Shh," he cut you off, his voice commanding as he kissed along your jaw, biting softly before moving to your neck. "Be quiet. You wouldn't want my teammates to hear how desperate you sound, would you?"

Your breath caught as his words sank in, but before you could respond, he lifted you again, this time at a torturously slow pace, making you feel every inch of him as he lowered you back down.

The friction was unbearable, your body trembling as he set a rhythm that was deliberate and punishingly slow, as if he was determined to prove a point. His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, his voice dripping with smugness. "Look at you... so cocky earlier, but now you're nothing but a messy little thing in my lap."

"Wonwoo, please," you whimpered, the slow pace driving you to the brink of insanity.

"Please what?" he taunted, his movements halting completely as he held you in place, his length buried deep inside you. "You want something, you're gonna have to say it."

You bit your lip, refusing to give in to his game. But when he flexed his hips ever so slightly, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body, you broke. "Please... I need you to move."

His lips curled into a smirk, and he raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Without warning, he snapped his hips upward, a sharp thrust that made you cry out. He didn't give you a chance to recover as he set a relentless pace, his hands guiding your movements as he worked you over his length.

The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the room, accompanied by the muffled noises you tried desperately to suppress. Wonwoo's name fell from your lips like a mantra, each syllable laced with desperation and need.

"You're so tight," he groaned, his head falling back as he tried to keep himself from completely unraveling. "Fuck, you feel so good."

The heat pooling in your stomach was reaching its peak, and you could tell from the way Wonwoo's thrusts were becoming more erratic that he was close too.

"Wonwoo, I—I'm gonna—"

"Me too," he grunted, his grip on you tightening as he buried himself as deep as he could, his movements becoming sloppier. "Come for me, baby. I wanna feel you."

With one final thrust, the coil inside you snapped, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. Your walls clenched around him, drawing a guttural moan from his throat as he followed you over the edge, his release spilling into you in hot spurts.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, your bodies trembling and pressed together as you caught your breath. Wonwoo's forehead rested against yours, his chest heaving as he let out a breathless laugh.

"Still think I'm a loser?" he teased, his voice hoarse but playful.

You smiled weakly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "Maybe a little... but you're my loser."

His grin widened, and he pressed a soft kiss to your lips, the tenderness of the gesture a stark contrast to what had just transpired. "I'll take it."

And as you nestled against him, the warmth of his arms around you, you couldn't help but think that being with him like this felt exactly right.

Wonwoo gently leaned back in his chair, his arms still wrapped securely around you as he tried to catch his breath. His lips brushed over your temple, a soft chuckle escaping him. "You really do know how to distract me, huh?"

You giggled, nuzzling into his neck, still feeling the aftershocks of what just happened. "Distract? Please. You're the one who can't keep his hands to himself."

He raised an eyebrow at you, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Says the one who begged me to move."

Your face flushed at his teasing, and you smacked his shoulder lightly. "Shut up, Wonwoo."

He just laughed, the sound deep and warm, before finally shifting under you. The sudden movement made you gasp softly, and your eyes widened as you realized he was still very much inside you.

"Wonwoo..." you whispered, the heat rising to your cheeks.

He smirked at your reaction, his hands resting on your waist as he adjusted you in his lap. "What? You're comfortable, aren't you?"

"I—" You bit your lip, your gaze darting away from his. You couldn't deny it; there was something intoxicating about the feeling of being so close to him, of him still filling you completely.

"Good," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his fingers traced slow circles on your bare thighs. "Because I'm not letting you go just yet."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and before you could protest, he reached over to his desk, grabbing his headphones and slipping them over his ears.

"Wait, what are you doing?" you asked, your voice a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

He turned to his computer, the familiar sound of a game loading up filling the air. "I've got a match in five minutes," he said casually, as if you weren't still perched on his lap, his cock nestled snugly inside you.

Your jaw dropped. "Wonwoo, are you serious right now?"

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Dead serious. But don't worry..." He adjusted his microphone, the green light signaling that it was on. "You just have to sit there and be quiet. Think you can manage that, baby?"

You stared at him, torn between disbelief and amusement. The audacity.

"Wonwoo," you hissed, your voice low to avoid being picked up by his mic. "You can't just—"

"Shh," he interrupted, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before turning his attention back to the screen. "Game's starting. Be a good girl for me, okay?"

The heat in your cheeks intensified, and you squirmed slightly in his lap, only to freeze when you felt him twitch inside you. His grip on your hips tightened, and he shot you a warning look.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Unless you want everyone to know exactly what we're doing right now."

Your eyes widened, and you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay still as he started his game. The sound of his teammates' voices filled the room, and you could hear Wonwoo's calm, composed replies as he coordinated their strategy.

Meanwhile, you were doing everything in your power to keep your breathing steady, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. The sensation of him still inside you was overwhelming, every slight movement or shift making you hyper-aware of just how intimate this was.

But what drove you even crazier was how unfazed he seemed, his focus completely on the game as if nothing was out of the ordinary. His calm demeanor, his steady voice—it was infuriatingly attractive.

Every now and then, his hand would leave the keyboard to rest on your thigh, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine. It was as if he was reminding you who was in control, even in the middle of a match.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the soft whimper that threatened to escape when he shifted slightly in his chair, the movement sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

"Wonwoo..." you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "I said be quiet, baby. Or do you want them to hear how good I make you feel?"

Your breath hitched, and you shook your head quickly, your cheeks burning.

He smirked, pressing a kiss to your temple before returning his attention to the game. "That's my girl."

As the match continued, you couldn't help but marvel at how effortlessly he played, his movements precise and skillful. But no matter how focused he seemed, you knew you were still on his mind.

It was in the way his hand would tighten on your thigh whenever you shifted, in the way his lips would twitch into a smirk whenever he felt you clench around him.

And when the game finally ended, his team celebrating their victory, Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, his hands settling on your waist as he looked at you with a satisfied grin.

"See? Told you I could multitask," he teased, his voice low and smug.

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "You're insufferable."

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "But you love it."

And as his hands began to roam again, you realized that the night was far from over.

Earlier, during Mario Kart

What you didn’t know, of course, was that Wonwoo had let you win. He’d spent most of the race holding back, deliberately missing items and slowing down just enough to let you get ahead. Watching you gloat about your supposed victory had been worth every second.

“Did you really think you’d win that easily?” he’d asked, his smirk betraying the truth.

But he didn’t mind letting you have the spotlight. For now, at least.

a/n: hope y'all enjoyed :]] feel free to send some reqs ilyall

[mina-org]

part one - part two - part three (you're here!) - part four - part five- six

simon can't believe how far hes fallen.

Lurking outside high street underwear shops, stealing your phone, worst of all? He’s sipping tea in an overpriced coffee shop, you used to always want to meet him in the place opposite but he didn’t fancy a public indecency charge so he’d let you sit there for while, order drinks for the two of you and wait, when his tea turned told and yours had been drank you usually got a text saying to come over, he didn’t feel like going into town.

Your not even with him explaining that matcha is actually really good and he should try it, no your fawning over johnny and he’s watching his bird. He hopes this is rock bottom but he feels like it’s not.

"lass if I dinnae know better, I'd think ya' was avoiding me" his playful tone doesnt hide the hurt, he wants you to feel bad for ghosting him, and you do. Johnnys never been mean. Never mistreated you, why are you punishing him for Simon’s mistakes?

"im sorry, I know you and simon are close but he really did number on me and I just, I just don't wanna risk bumping into him." he can praticularly smell the the anxiety coming off you.

"Aye he’s been going mad, wants his wee bird back." Johnny says feigning sadness for his mate. in honestly Johnny was enjoying it, you were talking to him, looking at him, while simon gawked at you two from across the road.

you laugh, "no he wants a warm hole." you blurt out, causing Johnny to laugh, he expecting you to cry or something but not be that blunt.

“Lass hes just nae used to-” johnny tries to defend him but you cut him off, frustrated, you were what? a decade younger and knew how to treat people well.

“Used to what? He’s 40.” You snap back, Simon was old enough to know better.

“He’s nae 40 yet hen, and he’s not used to tiptoeing, ya know?” He laughs at you adding years to him, he’s sure Simon is seething but he can’t quite make out his expression

“Tiptoeing?” You question. You can accuse Simon of a lot of stuff but tiptoeing? Not fucking one of them, if stomping on people was an Olympic sport he’d be bringing home a gold medal.

“Yeah like your so sensitive lass and he’s nae really used to it.” Johnny says simply and when your face drops he knows his choice of words could maybe use some work especially when you excuse yourself to the bathroom.

Johnny cant help himself. he can see simon through the window, sipping on his tea as he watches this little pre date. So he calls him up, simon was saying earlier he misses that pretty voice well he actually complained about how much you used to talk at him and how the peace and quiet was actually nice.

However Johnnys an expert in simonisms and that means he miss you and wants you to come back to him, he gets the same treatment, they all do. telling him to be quiet.

when you rejoin the table his phone is face or screen down, speaker pointing towards you, next to a another drink for you.

How sweet of him:)

"had to keep ya here somehow," he explained as he asked how you were doing, you had left the flat so defeated. He hated to see a pretty girl so sad.

his eyes seemingly look pass you though, getting lost out the window. Usually he was attentive maybe he didn’t want to slag off Simon, but he keeps pushing, asking how you’re feeling, what you’ve been doing and though his eyes drift back to the window but you can ignore it, for now.

"I don't know,“ you stare into the drink you stir it, the ice clinking against the glass. “It just hurt and I feel so stupid.” It’s practically a whisper, you look like a kicked puppy and Johnny, Johnny’s staring out the window with a smirk on his face. Does he find it funny? Is he gonna tell Simon? Why would you slag off Simon to his best mate?

Anxiety starts to bubble, and you just wanna leave before you embarrass yourself anymore.

Your gaze follows his out the window, now you don’t have binoculars but that looks a little like Simon, weird. It would look too weird if you were to pull out your phone and zoom in with the camera. You start to feel for your phone but it’s not in your pocket, you must’ve slipped it into one of the bags.

“Johnny do you have the time?” You ask softly and before he can react, you’re flipping over his phone and greeted by Simon’s caller ID. What the fuck?

“Johnny what the fuck? “

“Lass-“ johnny doesn’t have time to concoct a lie, your up and glaring down at him, he’d never seen you angry but it was hot, he just wished it was in different, more come backable circumstances.

“No johnny what the fuck, has Simon been on the phone this entire time?” Your voice cracks and your lips tremble, embarrassed you opened up to him, Simon’s best fucking mate, embarrassed Simon knew how much he hurt

“No I don’t give a shit Simon can go fuck himself and so can you” you cut him off again, he can choke on whatever he was gonna say.

Before johnny can ask for his coffee in a to go cup you’re out the door, rushing home, tears stinging at your eyes once again. You just want to sprint home once you hear johnny belt out your name and you speed up, darting down an alleyway.

You wipe your tears before colliding into a wall you swore wasn’t there on the walk into town, a fleshy, human wall.

Its Simon.

Once again! How perfect .

taglist: @skeletonsucker @supernova2205 @wh0re4-alexademi @grr457 @gh0st-spid3r @sweetlittleblackrose @aceywaycy @mooievis @theadultoedge @cheese-pull @imtherain

[neo127]

⠀⠀⠀✿ ⿸⿱⠀⠀𓈒⠀𓈒⠀🪼🫧 using dorky pet names with them

when you call your boyfriend a…different?? pet name pairing. enha x gn!reader genre. hcs, fluff, established relationships cw. nothing rlly…reader is slightly older than riki in his part!

HEESEUNG | “my honey bunch!” you called in a singsong voice as you approached heeseung who had been sitting on the couch. he looked up at you with a raised eyebrow, a confused laugh tumbling from his mouth.

“honey bunch…?” he asked, his arms instantly moving to settle around your waist when you settled yourself in his lap.

“yes, because you’re my honey bunch.” you replied before poking his nose and giving the man an innocent smile.

“why can’t i be…hot stuff or something like that…” he mumbled which caused you to burst out laughing.

“hee, i was only joking. do you actually want me to call you that?” you asked in between giggles. heeseung became flustered immediately, avoiding your gaze.

“no…”

“it’s ok, hot stuff. you don’t have to be embarrassed.”

JAY | “dinner’s ready.” jay announced as you walked into the kitchen, the smell of different spices and sauces filling your nose. you smiled instantly, a small idea coming to mind as you walked up behind jay.

“thank you, my boo bear.” you said loudly, giving jay a wet kiss on the cheek. the man laughed and tried to dodge you, but you held on to his waist tightly.

“boo bear…?” he asked, turning to look at you with an amused smirk. you smiled wide and nodded your head eagerly.

“yup! that’s what you are.”

“then i wear that title with pride.”

JAKE | your boyfriend was honestly too adorable for his own good sometimes. it wasn’t even on purpose with his puppy- like head tilts or dorky things he indulged in. sometimes you just couldn’t take it and felt cuteness aggression toward the man.

“my honey bunny, you’re so cute.” you cooed, grabbing jake’s face with both your hands before placing small kisses on his nose. he giggled and shyly backed away from your touch.

“interesting pet name. i would rather be called your unbelievably sexy and hot boyfriend.” jake replied while raising his eyebrows suggestively. you jokingly rolled your eyes, before grabbing his face again.

“but you’re my honey bunny.” you pouted, making jake hide his face in his sweater.

“nooooo…”

SUNGHOON | your friends never believed it when you told them how clingy your boyfriend could be at times. sunghoon never tended to show his affection much in public, but when the two of you were alone then it was a completely different story.

the man was totally sleep deprived, clinging onto you as if you were his lifeline as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

“my cuddle bug is tired, hm?” you cooed softly, softly running a hand through sunghoon’s hair. he hummed in response, barley registering what you had said. but suddenly, it clicked and he began to lift his head from your shoulder.

“no, shhh, it’s ok go back to sleep.” you pushed his head beck down to your chest and suppressed a laugh. you knew that sunghoon would definitely bring the nickname back up the next morning.

SUNOO | “shnookums, come here!” you called out to your boyfriend who had been finishing his skincare in the bathroom. you had to hold back a laugh when sunoo looked into his bedroom with a bewildered expression.

“what did you just call me?” he asked, walking over to the bed where you were sitting cross legged.

“shnookums.” you replied, trying your best not to cringe from saying it out loud again. sunoo caught your guilty smile immediately and lightly tackled you onto the blanket.

“you’re weird.” he mumbled into your neck before placing a small kiss there.

JUNGWON | “my jellybean, i missed you!” you greeted your boyfriend as you tugged him into a tight bear hug.

“we saw each other yesterday. and jellybean…?” jungwon replied, his voice trailing off in confusion as he closed the door to his apartment. you honestly had no idea how to explain the pet name, it just randomly popped into your head when you saw the man.

“you don’t like it?” you asked, putting a fake pout on your face. jungwon’s teasing smile dropped and he grabbed you in his arms.

“no, ofc course i love it. if my favorite person in the world wants to call me that, then i don’t mind.” jungwon said, a small smile on his face. you smiled back at him before placing a kiss on his cheek.

“i love you a lot.”

RIKI | you didn’t have many pet names for your boyfriend, it just wasn’t something you had really thought about. but one day, one came to mind.

“baby boy, can you pass me my charger?” you spoke up, poking riki’s shoulder. he reached over to the side of the bed he was sitting on, unplugging the charger before handing it to you with a raised eyebrow.

“excuse me?” he asked, his expression almost comical. you stifled a laugh before fully turning your body to face him.

“i said what i said.” you shrugged before reaching over to grab his face. riki dodged your hand and pretended to gag.

“is it because i’m younger than you?”

“it’s a pet name, riki.”

“choose a better one.”

“nope! this one is staying.”

[yougavememyopia]

Continuation of this. A bit suggestive at the end.

Loser yandere was on his knees, begging for forgiveness. He got ahead of himself. Sucking your fingers like a perverted freak. He looked up at you with glassy eyes, pouting just slightly. He didn't mind your pity. In fact, he wanted it. The worst he made himself look, the more you let things pass.

You sighed, ultimately having no choice but to forgive him. He looked so sad, so lonely. Like a stray puppy begging for attention. Why wouldn't you spare his feelings? He had no real friends. It made sense that he didn't know how to act properly.

Except he did. He was just manipulating you, saying the right things to make you cave and hang out with him. He would speak with a certain depressed tone that would melt your heart, and when you agreed, he would become extremely happy. Cheering and overreacting. A great excuse to excitedly hug you. Throw his arms around your shoulders and get lost in your scent.

He was strangely smart. Using both negative and positive reinforcement. Getting you to say yes to avoid making him sad, and making you feel content by his contagious smile. All part of his plan that'll eventually end with you two happily engaged.

Even if that strategy didn't work, he'd just whine and beg. He knew you couldn't take it. You would glare at him, and he'd feel a strange sensation through his body. Sometimes, he wondered how being hit by you would feel like. Or maybe with your hand wrapped around his throat.

Given how much he bothered you, it was a miracle you were still friends with him. It wasn't all that bad. You somehow had fun hanging around with him, laughing at his silly jokes. He'd take you to so many places. Always making sure you were enjoying your time so you'd come back for more!

When you weren't in public, he'd get clingy. It was obvious he was touch-starved and a big attention seeker. He wanted to have you touch him, get close to him, and pay attention to him. Only him.

"I can't get this stupid button undone... Can you help me take this shirt off? Come onnn, it's way too hot in this room..."

"Look how good I smell. Come on, sniff my neck. It's a new thing I bought. It smells like your favorite!"

"I'm so hungry, and my hands are all tired. Ughh.. Can you feed me a snack? I'll open my mouth wide for you. Aaah~"

He'd still bug you about the kiss. Not ever talking about the incident afterwards. Those few months of reinforcement should've made you softer to him. He should've been able to get you to agree. But you stayed determined to deny him.

"I want a kiss already... Why can't you, my bestest friend, show me how it feels~? All of these movies have one. I'm being reminded of how much of a loser I am every single day." He grumpily said to himself as you both watched a weird horror movie. The scared couple on the screen made out to relieve their stress... or something. It was a strange movie he (purposely) picked.

"Can't you fucking understand?! It'll change this whole relationship. I told you that a million times." You crossed your arms, darting your gaze from the movie to him.

He sighed. You sighed. Then you exchanged a look. "Alright. Fine. You're not gonna stop asking, are you? Just promise me you won't act all awkward after it."

He lit up, nodding eagerly. "Really?! Oh, wow! Thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou! You're the best! Seriously. A life saver~"

"Shut it." You groaned, watching the last bits of the movie with the characters escaping.

"Yes, ma'am. You got it." He climbed on your lap. That made you stiff a bit, looking at him with a confused look. He set his legs on your sides, his arms wrapping around your neck. "How is this gonna work? Can you please do it very slowly?"

"Eh...? Okay. Whenever you're ready." You wrapped your arm around his waist, not knowing what else to do with them. He hummed happily. His face came closer to you, and somehow, you felt nervous. You shrugged it off, letting him kiss you at his own pace.

"Here I go..." he whispered, his nose rubbing against yours.

He pressed a small peck on your lips as if to test out how it feels. Before you could correct him, he kissed you again. This time longer and harder. You squeaked at the suddenness, forced to lean back against the couch as he began to lick your lips, asking for entry.

You reluctantly opened your mouth, and he wasted no time. Pushing his tongue inside your mouth. Lapping at anything he could find. Your tongue brushed against each other, eliciting a moan from him. His hand held the back of your head to keep you from pulling away. Shifting a bit on your lap, whimpering against your lips.

He kept licking your tongue, sucking on it. He moaned again when you finally returned the kiss. His movements were clumsy, making it easier for you to take control. After a minute, he pulled away, panting as he buried his face into your neck. He seemed embarrassed, and so you hugged his waist tighter.

He moaned against your neck. "Ah.. that felt so nice. Mmh, shit..."

"Yeah... you got a little ahead of yourself, y'know. It was supposed to be a simple kiss. I never said tongue was allowed." You pointed out. Rolling your eyes, because you knew he didn't care.

"You never said it wasn't." He sat up to look you, tilting his head innocently. "I would've listened to you if you said it."

"No, you wouldn't have." You mumbled.

"You also didn't say I can't go for another one~!" He leaned in again and captured your lips in another kiss. You protested, hands gripping his shoulders now to push him away. He whined, sucking your lips as if that would change your mind. "But, please, just one more. I still haven't learned the proper technique yet."

You were beginning to understand that he had a different reason for overstepping boundaries. The way he kissed you, the way he tried to savor your taste, the way his pressed his body against yourself. It was like he was trying to devour you. Trying to be one with you.

He moaned loudly when he pulled away. His body was shaking a bit, his eyes dilating. Something pressed against your stomach. You didn't need to look down to see what it was. "Um... Oops?"

[lexalith]

FRIENDS || Choi Su-Bong (Thanos)

summary: after late-night sexting with your best friend, everything changes. the bond you thought was purely platonic starts to feel deeper. were these feelings always there, hidden beneath the surface? or did something just… click? is this the start of something real, or the beginning of a mistake that could ruin everything?

warnings: aged up female reader (they’re both in their late twenties) (MDNI), smut (masturbation, fingering, public sex, p in v, oral sex (f and m), sexting, edging, praising, unprotected sex (don’t be silly)) semi and minsu are victims of the reader’s and subong’s freakiness, angst (name calling, miscommunication, pushing, throwing things, lying, deception, fear of commitment, reader refuses to help him at some point, slapping, slutshame remarks), overuse of the words ‘fuck’ and ‘fucking’ (lmaoo), subong should be a warning himself, fwb dynamic, reader uses someone to forget subong, drug use and addiction.

a/n: i’ve never ever written anything here on tumblr before, so i don’t really know what i’m doing, help. also, english isn’t my first language, so mistakes should be present!! lowercase is intentional. this is an au with no games. text messages are in different colors (orange for the reader, purple for subong). the reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, this is LOOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs that inspired me to write this: friends — chase atlantic || back to friends — sombr || heartbeat — childish gambino || casual — chappell roan

this fic was also inspired by @jedisupernova ‘s writing, check out her page and fics!!! (they’re soooo good)

you’re still thinking about what that guy said. it wasn’t even a big deal, not really. just some random jerk at the club who’d had a few too many drinks and decided to share his unfiltered thoughts about your body. “you’re not really my type,” he’d said, like you’d asked. then he’d laughed and added, “not many guys would go for that.”

it shouldn’t bother you. you know it shouldn’t. but now, a few nights later, it’s stuck in your head, looping like a song you can’t turn off. so, lying in bed, scrolling aimlessly, you do what you always do when something’s bugging you—you text him. your best friend.

subong. are you awake?

yes ma’am. why?

i got a random question. but like, it’s not that deep

???

do you think i’m attractive?

you fire it off without overthinking, like it’s no big deal. it’s not weird to ask your best friend something like this. right?

it takes him a few minutes to reply.

what kind of question is that?

just answer

i’m too high for this shit, bro

you’re not high🙄 liar

i wish i were

omfg can you just say yes or no? please? but be honest, i promise i won’t get mad

yeah, i think u are

really?

sure thinggg, u’re hot mama

dude quit playing, i’m being serious over here

i’m not fucking playing

okay you think i’m attractive but like… what kind of attractive? cute attractive? like awwww. or i’d-fuck-you-raw attractive?

what are we even talking about

why can’t you just answer?😭

what is this for?

for my knowledge

tf is that supposed to mean?

you stare at the screen, mentally deciding whether you should tell him about what happened or not. you hadn’t told him before, not wanting to give it more attention. but this time, you decide to.

ugh, remember i went clubbing the other day? well this dude was being an asshole to me and he said some stuff and i can’t stop thinking about it so just be fucking honest and answer my question

some stuff? what stuff?

he said, and i quote ‘not many guys would go for that’. ‘that’ is me, btw💀

who tf is this dude?

bruh idk, some random guy, it doesn’t matter

it does?

are you gonna answer my question or no?

yeah. i think u r both kinds.

good, good, you think to yourself. his reply makes you relax a little, the knot in your stomach loosening. he thinks you’re attractive. of course he does—he’s your best friend, and best friends are supposed to hype you up.

for a moment, you stare at your phone, chewing on your bottom lip. you know you should leave it there, let it go. but something keeps tugging at you.

so, hypothetically, would you… yk, with me?

the second you hit send, panic sets in. your pulse skyrockets, and you almost want to throw your phone across the room. why did you do that? why couldn’t you just shut up? but you don’t have time to spiral, because the dots appear almost immediately.

are u serious?

and you freeze. your fingers hover over the screen, but you can’t bring yourself to type anything back. what kind of answer is that?

alr, imma be honest. yeah i would

your heart stops. you blink at the message, reading it again and again, like the words might change if you look long enough. you weren’t prepared for this.

subong’s typing…

would u? with me?

you want to lie, to brush it off, but your fingers move before your brain can stop them.

maybe

the dots pop up again. then disappear. then pop up again.

maybe?? that means yes. cmon i’m hot as hell, baby, u know it. u’ve probably touched yourself thinking about me at least once

wtf bro you’re giving me the biggest ick rn 💀

but have u?

and you? i bet you jerk off to my insta photos, perv. don’t even start lmaoo

can’t help it when u look that good💯

you stare at his message, your mind scrambling to process it. you feel your breath catch in your throat. the shock should be overwhelming, but instead, you feel a strange warmth spread through you.

you didn’t expect this. the idea that he’s been thinking about you like that… it sends a shiver down your spine. you should probably tell him to stop, tell him it’s too much, but instead, you feel yourself leaning in, pulled toward this conversation in a way you didn’t think you would be.

i may or may not have done the same with your insta pics

i knew itttt señorita 🙏🏼

shut up

how many times?

why do you wanna know?🤨

i answered ur stupid ass questions, now u answer mine

maybe like idk, two?

no fucking way, just two????????

you think it’s not enough or what???? how many times have you done it?

more than u wanna know

how bad are we talking?

so bad i’ve lost count. u really want me to get into details?

maybe i do

bro, let’s just say that everytime u post i’m over here fighting a battle

you do realize i’m your bestfriend right?

yeah, so?

so aren’t there any girls to jerk off to instead of me???

yeah but they don’t make me as hard

you stare at the screen, your heart pounding, your legs squeezing together instinctively. what the hell is happening right now? and then another message comes through.

even saying this shit is getting me worked up

what???😭 you’re hard??

yeah bro, what's a guy supposed to do when his best friend asks if he would fuck her?

it was hypothetical

hypothetically speaking, if a guy was attracted to his best friend, he'd probably be rock fucking hard right now. so yeah, i'm fucking hard, girl

your stomach flips at the bluntness of his words. you can feel the blood rushing to your face as you stare at the message.

too much info, subong

nahhh, u asked. u wanted details, so here they are

okay… should i leave you to it?

fuck no

damn alr, suffer then🙄

could u help me out?

help you out?????????????

with a pic of u or smth

boy whatttttttttt

what?

i’m not sending you fucking nudes wtf 💀💀

no one asked for that, stupid. just a pic of u

just a pic of you. the request feels so simple. he’s your bestfriend—it’s not that big of a deal, right? especially after everything you’ve both just confessed to each other.

your eyes flick toward the mirror in your room. you’re in your pajamas. no bra. you know how it looks. it’s the kind of thing you wouldn’t think twice about wearing around him in person, but now, with this conversation, it feels different. your legs carry you to the mirror almost on autopilot. you pick up your phone and angle it toward your reflection. you shouldn’t even be entertaining this. but instead, you snap the picture. you stare at it for a moment, biting your lip. it’s not explicit—it’s just you. but still… you know exactly how he’ll see it.

your thumb hovers over the send button, hesitation gripping you. a hundred reasons not to do this race through your head, but one single thought drowns them all out: you want to know how he’ll react. before you can second-guess yourself, you hit send. the moment it delivers, your stomach drops, a mix of adrenaline and regret washing over you. you sit down on the edge of your bed, staring at the screen, waiting for his response, your heart pounding louder with every passing second.

hoooooooooly shitttttttttt

it’s just a pic

yeah, a pic of u looking like that

im just in my pajamas

and i’m hornier now, if that’s even possible

subong you can’t just say stuff like that

why not? we always tell each other everything

i should’ve thrown on a hoodie

i’d still be thinking of what’s underneath

well, glad i could help your horny ass🫡 enjoy or whatever

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

you watch the dots—flickering like they're mocking you. you can't help but wonder what he's typing—or if he's second-guessing whatever bold thing he's about to say. but then, they disappear. nothing. you frown, staring at the screen, waiting a few more seconds. still nothing. you realize exactly what he's probably doing. you bite your lip, heat creeping up your neck as the image forms in your mind: him, sitting there, hand wrapped around his dick, staring at the picture you sent.

you feel like you need to do something—anything—to distract yourself. you toss your phone onto the bed and reach for the remote, flipping on a random tv show. you let the noise fill the silence, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. it's a few minutes later when your phone dings. the sound cuts through the room like a knife, and you hesitate for a moment, staring at the screen, before finally reaching for it.

it's him. he sent a picture.

these are my pajamas. now we’re even, baby

him, standing in front of the mirror, shirtless and wearing only a pair of tight black briefs. the way he's posing is so over the top... he's trying way too hard. his expression is almost comical, like he's not really sure if he's pulling it off but is hoping you'll think he is. you can't help it—you stifle a laugh. but then your eyes drop, and that laughter dies in your throat. the bulge is so obvious, pushing against the fabric in a way that's impossible to ignore. it's not just visible, it's big. big enough that your pulse spikes, and you forget to breathe for a second. that laughter you were holding back? gone. you glance back at his goofy grin in the mirror, but it's no longer funny. shit. you’re wet.

you don't even know how it happens. one moment, you're staring at his picture, then a teasing comment here, a bold reply there—and before you know it, you're lying on your bed, your phone clutched in one hand and your other slipping between your thighs, pressed against the growing ache he's stoked with every message. you've never gone this far with him before—always ignoring his obvious flirting. but you can’t stop now. and he isn’t shy about it either, telling you with detail everything he would do to you.

u'd look soooo fucking good begging under me, baby

and what if i don’t?

then i'd make u

mhmmm, how?

fuck, i’d bury my face between those thighs and eat u out until u can’t take it anymore

a soft gasp escapes your lips as you read, your body reacting to the vivid images his words paint in your mind. you know you shouldn't be doing this—not with him—but the way he's describing everything makes you forget about all the reasons why. you’re far past the point of feeling shy too. you bite your lip, barely believing yourself as you hit send.

i wish you could feel how wet i am just thinking about you fucking me from behind

god damn girl, i’d stretch that pussy so good my dick is the only thing u’d think about for weeks

and then, it's not just texting anymore—you're sending pictures, even though you swore you wouldn't. the first one is a close-up of your fingers, glistening with your juices. his reply comes almost instantly, not as a text but as a voice message. “shit, baby, you're f-fucking killing me... mhmm... look at that. you're so fucking wet f’me, I can almost taste it through the screen... fuck...” his voice is low and rough, broken by soft, shaky breaths. you can hear him stroking himself, moans slipping out between words. you're losing your damn mind over it, replaying the voice message again and again—fingers curling inside of you as you push them in and out, wishing it were his fingers instead of yours.

he sends a pic too. this time, he leaves nothing to the imagination. it’s a selfie, his face barely visible at the corner. the center of attention is his hard dick, hand wrapped around it, tip leaking precum. and the only thing that comes to your mind right there and then is just how badly you want to take him in your mouth.

one picture leads to another, the messages growing dirtier with every exchange. his words are filthy, his photos even filthier, and the way he talks about your body—what he'd do to it, what he's imagining—fucking hell. your breathing quickens, your body burning with need, and before you know it, that familiar tension starts to coil low in your stomach.

shit, subong… i’m close

u’re gonna cum for me? cmon pretty girl, let me hear you

you hit record just as your orgasm crashes over you, moaning his name loudly as you cum on your fingers. after a few minutes, he sends a voice message back “you sound so fucking good… shit, look what you’ve done t-to me… mmm… fuck, fuck, fuck… i’m gonna cum thinking about fucking you, baby. i’m gonna cum thinking about you making those… s-sounds while i fucking pound into you.”

the next few days are a blur. he hasn’t texted, and you haven’t either. but no matter what you do, you can’t stop thinking about what happened. no matter how hard you try to shake it off, it’s there. his voice, the way he sounded saying your name, the damn nudes, the way your heart raced as you typed those things to him.

you don’t know how to feel about it. on one hand, you can’t deny how much you wanted it in the moment. but now? now you’re not sure. did you cross a line? did he? part of you regrets it, wishes you could just rewind and stop yourself before things spiraled. but another part—one you’re trying to ignore—remembers how good it felt, how right it seemed in the moment.

and then there’s the friendship. years of it. he’s been your best friend for a few years now. he knows things about you no one else does and he’s seen you at your absolute worst. like that night you showed up at his door after a horrible breakup. mascara streaked down your cheeks, and he didn’t say a word—just handed you a blanket, put on your favorite movie, and sat there with you until you fell asleep on his shoulder.

but it wasn’t always serious. like the time he tried rapping one of his freestyles for you, all cocky, and you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. or like the time you tripped over absolutely nothing at the mall, and he laughed so hard he cried, then spent weeks reenacting it whenever you were around. or when he clogged your toilet and tried to fix it himself instead of just telling you. or when he picked a fight with some guy at a club because the guy bumped into you and didn’t apologize. he got all puffed up and said, “you got a problem, man?” like he was some kind of action movie hero. but the guy was huge, like, rugby player huge, and before you could drag subong away, he swung and missed, and the dude took him down in one hit. he spent the rest of the night with a bloody nose and ice pressed to his face, grumbling, “he got lucky.” you still remind him of how he ‘lost a fight in one punch,’ and it always makes him groan.

you’ve got a thousand stupid inside jokes that no one else would understand, like how you always text each other ‘don’t die’ instead of ‘goodnight’ because of some dumb horror movie you watched together. or the fact that he nicknamed you ‘señorita’ when you said you wanted to visit spain one day.

he’s a walking disaster, an endless source of secondhand embarrassment, and somehow, that’s what makes subong… subong. being around him has always felt easy, like slipping into your favorite hoodie—comfortable, familiar, safe.

but friends don’t do… that. what if it’s never the same again? you’ve always been comfortable with him, never overthinking what you said or did around him. now, you can’t imagine looking him in the eye without thinking about what you two did together. you keep telling yourself that things will go back to normal, but deep down, you’re scared they won’t. because you’re not sure you can go back—not after knowing what it felt like to be wanted by him in that way. not after letting yourself want him back.

one day, out of the blue, he texts you like nothing happened. just casually, like you didn't have your hand between your thighs while listening to him moan your name a few nights ago.

yoooo, wanna hop on call and play videogames? i’m bored

at first, you stare at the text, because... what does this mean? is this his way of brushing it under the rug? of pretending nothing ever happened? still, you say yes. because what else can you do? you hop into the call, and there he is—joking, laughing, completely normal. like the two of you didn't cross every possible line. he's so good at acting like nothing's changed, it almost convinces you. you match his energy, responding with the same casual ease. maybe this is fine. maybe you're fine.

then the group chat lights up a few days later: a cinema meet-up. everyone's throwing out ideas for what movie to watch, talking about snacks, debating over showtimes. he's there, throwing in jokes about popcorn sizes and his infamous sweet tooth, and you're sitting there trying to decide if you can handle seeing him face to face. you hesitate, debating if you should just make up an excuse not to go. but then he replies to the chat, tagging you specifically.

u better be there señorita

i will🙃

the day arrives faster than you’d like, and before you know it, you’re standing outside the cinema, stomach flipping as you spot namgyu, minsu, gyeongsu, and semi waving at you. you force a smile and walk over, doing your best to focus on their chatter and ignore the nerves crawling up your spine. but then you see him—subong, leaning against the wall, vape in hand. and when his eyes land on you, he smirks. he knows damn well. he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and he’s not going to make this easy for you. “finally,” he says when you’re close enough. “i was starting to doubt you’d come.” “why wouldn’t i?” you reply. he shrugs, taking a puff from his vape “thought you might’ve had better things to do.” the way he says it feels loaded, but he doesn’t give you time to respond, turning his attention to namgyu instead.

when it’s time to head into the cinema, you try to position yourself far from him, making a beeline for a seat between minsu and semi. you settle in, thinking you’re safe, but of course, subong has other plans. “yo, minsu, my boy,” he says as he walks down the aisle, stopping directly in front of you. “mind scooting over? i’ll sit here.” “uh, sure,” minsu says, shifting down without hesitation. you open your mouth to object, but before you can say anything, subong is sliding into the seat next to you, drink in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other. “hope you don’t mind,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer than necessary. you grit your teeth, keeping your gaze locked on the screen as the previews start. “not at all,” you mutter under your breath.

you think that’s it. but, of course, it doesn’t end there. he shifts in his seat, his arm brushing against yours every now and then, like he’s waiting for you to react. you swear you catch him smirking out of the corner of your eye multiple times. you try to focus on the movie, but it’s impossible when his presence is so loud. every little movement, every tiny glance, has your nerves on edge. and he knows it.

then, you feel it. his hand—light at first— rests on your bare thigh, the heat of his palm sending a jolt through you. you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. what the hell is he doing? his fingers trace a soft line along your skin, caressing just above your knee. you stay still, unsure of what to do, but your body betrays you, not pulling away.

his touch grows bolder, creeping higher up your leg, slipping under your skirt. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. he's still watching the movie, acting like nothing is happening, like his hand isn't inches away from your clothed pussy. “what are you doing?” you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper. he turns his head toward you, looking innocent, like he's just minding his own business. “nothing.” “subong—” “i'll stop if you want me to.” you don't answer, torn between wanting to push him away and not wanting him to stop at all. “do you want me to stop? be honest,” he says, still waiting for your response. “no,” you reply, looking away with embarrassment. he chuckles softly—hand rubbing the inside of your thigh.

you drape the thin jacket you brought over your legs, a flimsy attempt to shield his hand from semi’s view. every nerve in your body screams that you shouldn’t be letting this happen, but you don’t stop him. he spreads your legs with his hand for better access, and soon you feel two of his fingers pressing against your clit over the fabric of your panties. your breath hitches, and you try not to move—not even a sound escapes you—but your lips part at the feeling of his touch. he moves them slow—too slow—in a way that has you shifting against him, your hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more. and he gives it to you. his hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and a low chuckle leaves him when he feels just how wet you are.

subong knows what he is doing. he rubs your clit in circles, gently but with enough pressure to have you biting your bottom lip. and god, his fingers feel so much better than you ever imagined. when he quickens the pace, a soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly slap a hand over your mouth, pretending to be focused on the screen. but the rapid rise and fall of your chest betrays your so-called calm. before you can collect yourself, semi leans in. “are you okay?” “mhm,” you nod quickly, forcing a smile. “yeah, don't worry, i—” your words falter when his fingers move faster. you bite your lip, trying to hold it together, but he's clearly enjoying watching you struggle. “i-i'm fine,” you manage to stutter. semi raises an eyebrow. “you sure?” “yeah,” you nod. “alright,” semi says before shrugging and turning her attention back to the screen.

you let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through you. your head snaps toward subong, eyes narrowing in a glare that’s meant to convey exactly how ridiculous he’s being right now. you dig your nails into his wrist, “are you crazy?” but he only pauses for a second, leaning in close enough to whisper, “relax, girl. no one noticed.” the audacity of him sends heat rushing to your face. but he doesn’t back down, his fingers resuming their slow, torturous movements. and just as you’re about to reach your orgasm… he stops. your body jerks in frustration, and you whip your head toward him, confused. his smirk only deepens as he pulls his hand from under your skirt, bringing his fingers to his lips and licking them clean. “what the fuck?” you whisper, a soft groan escaping at the loss of his touch. “what?” he whispers back, feigning innocence. “you know what.” “i don't. you'll have to spell it out for me.” “subong—” “tell me what you want.” the frustration wells up in your chest. to him, this is probably hilarious—you being so desperate. but for you? it's humiliating. pathetic. begging your best friend for something like this. still, the need outweighs your pride. you lean in, your lips almost brushing his ear, “i wanna... i wanna cum. please, make me cum.” “yeah? be fucking quiet, then.”

his fingers slip back under your skirt. your breath catches, and you press your lips together, your body already trembling from how close you were before—gripping the armrest, barely able to keep still. every nerve in your body feels like it's on fire, and when his fingers circle just right, you're done. the release hits hard, and you muffle your moans by biting down on your lip so hard it stings.

the days after are... strange. again. no texting, no acknowledgment, no teasing, nothing. it's like it never happened. and when he does text again, it's so casual it throws you off. he sends a random picture, a meme he has found on instagram.

this shit is so funny bro loooololol

i fear your humor is broken😐

naahhh u just don’t get ittt babyy

you reply like everything's fine because, well, isn't it? you don’t even know at this point.

another day, he messages the group chat:

pentagon this weekend?🔥

the replies come fast. namgyu’s working that night. semi has plans with her girlfriend. gyeongsu says he’s too exhausted for it. minsu doesn’t even reply. everyone has an excuse, and eventually, the chat goes dead. then, a private message from subong popps up.

wbu? still down to go?

you and subong had gone clubbing together hundreds of times. hell, most nights it was just the two of you, dancing until your legs gave out, taking blurry selfies, and laughing over cheap drinks. it was normal. so, you type:

yeah, sureee

bet. see u saturday, señorita

when the night comes, your phone buzzes as you’re double-checking your look in the mirror.

outside

outsideeee

outsideeeeeeeee

hellooooooooooooooooooo

one minute, let me grab my jacket

i’m freezing man

one minute my ass

patience is a virtue ❤️

cmooooooooon

u knitting the jacket or what

girl i just hit retirement age waiting for u

you’re so dramatic

and u r so slow, balance baby

you grab your jacket and head out, the bass from his car already thudding through the air when you step outside. you see him leaning against the passenger door, dressed in his usual baggy style—a loose graphic tee, cargo pants, and sneakers that probably cost more than your entire outfit (the only damn thing he saves up for…)—vape dangling lazily from his fingers. when he sees you, his eyes trail over you for a second too long. “you’re overdressed,” he teases with a smile. “you’re underdressed,” you shoot back.

the drive to club pentagon is easy, filled with a mix of rap tracks and subong’s singing. when you finally pull up, the line’s already stretching down the block, but subong doesn’t even blink. “namgyu’s working, right?” he asks, sliding out of the car. you nod. “yeah, he’ll let us in.” inside, the music is already pulsing, bass heavy enough to shake the floors. subong grabs your wrist. “drinks first?” “obviously,” you answer. you follow subong to the bar, the pounding music buzzing in your ears. “what are we starting with?” he asks, leaning against the bar. “shots,” you say, already reaching into your bag. he raises an eyebrow. “you’re paying?” “you’re broke,” you remind him, rolling your eyes before ordering four shots of tequila. when the glasses arrive, he grabs two and hands you one. “guess i’ll owe you,” he says, clinking his glass against yours. “you already do,” you reply, downing the first shot without hesitation. the familiar burn of tequila trails down your throat, and you chase it with a quick breath.

you can feel his eyes on you as you throw back the second shot. you don’t meet his gaze, but you can feel it—the weight of it, the way it makes your stomach flutter. shaking it off, you slam your glass on the counter and signal for one more round. “last one,” you say, mostly to yourself, pulling out more cash. he doesn’t argue, just picks up his shot, watching you as you pick up yours. you both toss back the final shot, and the alcohol is just enough to loosen the knot in your chest. but the way his gaze lingers as he sets his glass down makes it tighten again. “dancing?” you ask. he nods. you push through the crowd till you find a spot on the dance floor. the techno track thuds through your chest as you sway to the rhythm. subong moves with you, not particularly in sync with the beat, but in his own way that somehow works. every now and then, his eyes catch yours, and you have to force yourself to look away.

the music builds, and you let yourself get lost in it, the alcohol buzzing through your veins and the tension from earlier slowly dissolving into the haze of the moment. after a while, he stops moving and pulls his phone from his pocket. you glance at him, curious, as he squints at the screen. whatever he sees makes him smile faintly before he shoves the phone back into his pocket. “i need to hit the bathroom!” he says, leaning close so you can hear. you blink at him, confused. “right now?” he nods, gesturing for you to follow. you don’t argue—it’s not exactly safe to hang around the dance floor by yourself. reluctantly, you let him lead you off the floor.

he disappears into the men’s room, leaving you standing against the wall, arms crossed. you tap your foot, watching drunk strangers stumble past. a few minutes later, the door swings open, and subong walks out, a small smirk playing on his lips. “what took you so long?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. instead of answering, he holds up a small plastic bag between his fingers. your stomach flips when you see the little colorful pills inside. “what the hell is that?” you ask, but you already know. he grins, tilting his head. “new stuff.” your brows furrow. “what?” “my plug got these,” he says, holding up the bag slightly. “said they hit different. figured i’d try.” he slides one pill between his fingers, studying it like it’s no big deal. then he brings it to his mouth, about to toss it back. “wait,” you say, grabbing his wrist. he scoffs. “what? you want it instead?” you glare at him. “no, subong. what are you even doing? you don’t need that!” he rolls his eyes, freeing his wrist from your grip. “come on, it’s nothing. we’ve had worse.” “worse?” you scoff. “you’re really gonna compare getting blackout drunk and smoking pot to this?” “you’re fucking overthinking it. it’s just one pill. just tonight. trust me.” he says.

you glance at the bag again, at the little pills that seem so harmless yet scream bad idea. “subong…” you start, but your voice trails off. “look,” he cuts in, his voice softer now. “we’re having a good fucking time, yeah? it’ll be just this once, okay? i promise.” “okay,” you say suddenly, lifting your chin. “but if you do one, i’ll do one.” his smirk falters for half a second. “no.” you frown. “what do you mean, no?” “i mean no. you’re not taking one.” “but you can?” you challenge, crossing your arms.“yeah.” you scoff. “that’s bullshit.” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “this isn’t your thing, señorita.” “since when it’s yours?” you snap. “if you’re gonna do it, then so am i.”

he looks at you, really looks at you. then, with an exasperated groan, he reaches into the bag. “fucking stubborn,” he mutters, pulling out another pill. “just this once.” he holds it delicately between his fingers before stepping closer. “open up,” he says, his voice dropping a notch. you hesitate for a second but eventually part your lips, sticking out your tongue. he places the pill gently on it. “there you go,” he says, stepping back and popping his own pill. you swallow it quickly, trying not to think about what you’ve just decided to do.

you move back onto the dance floor, the pill's effects creeping in like a warm wave washing over you. the flashing lights seem brighter now and everything blurs together—colors, sounds, the heat of the crowd—but it feels good. better than it should. your limbs feel lighter, like you're floating, and the energy buzzing inside you pushes you to move. subong is right there beside you, dancing with his hand raised, and you can't stop staring at him. his messy hair sticks to his forehead, sweat glistening on his tanned skin.

before you know it, your arms are around his neck, pulling him in like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. his eyes burn into yours for half a second, like he’s daring you to close the distance. then his hands are on your waist, rough fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and he drags you closer until you’re pressed against him. the music is pounding, but it feels distant—like the only rhythm you can hear now is the way your bodies move together, hips rolling in time, every brush of his skin against yours making you burn.

his breath fans across your lips, hot and tasting of tequila and something bitter—maybe the pill he took earlier—and it makes your head spin. then your mouth crashes into his. there’s nothing soft about it. it’s messy and sloppy, urgent—like you’re both too far gone to think about anything but this. his lips part against yours immediately, and your tongues meet in a dizzying clash of heat and need. his hands slide up your back, fingers threading into your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

you tilt your head, chasing the kiss even deeper. you feel the sharp graze of his teeth against your bottom lip, a bite that makes you whimper before he soothes it with his tongue. the sound you make pushes him further—he groans into your mouth, his other hand gripping your jaw, tilting your face exactly how he wants it.

you’re not sure where the desperation is coming from, but it feels like if he stops touching you, you’ll shatter. your fingers clutch at his shirt, twisting the fabric as you grind just a little closer, a little harder. he’s breathing just as heavy as you are, lips red and swollen from kissing you like he never wants to stop.

you’ve kissed people before but nothing’s ever felt like this. nothing’s ever felt this fucking good. the two of you stumble out of the club. your legs feel like jelly as you hold onto subong, and his arm wraps around your waist to steady you. his car is parked a few streets over, tucked away in a dark, hidden corner under some trees. “thank god for this spot,” he mutters as he unlocks the doors.

you barely make it into the backseat before he’s on you again—his lips crashing into yours like he’s been waiting for this forever. his hands are all over you, rough and desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. but you’re not going anywhere. his fingers dig into your thighs as he pulls you into his lap, and the second you straddle him, you feel it—hard and thick, pressing right against the heat between your legs. a soft gasp slips out of you, but he swallows it with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. fuck, he’s good.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling as your hips start to move, grinding down on him. his grip tightens immediately, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he guides your movements, rocking you against him harder. the friction creates a delicious, aching pressure that makes you whimper against his lips. “fuck,” he breathes, breaking the kiss just long enough to let his head fall back against the seat. his fingers squeeze your ass, dragging you down against him rougher. “keep doing that.” so you do. you roll your hips, slow at first, letting yourself feel everything. you’re already soaked, already throbbing for more, and from the way his hands are gripping you, the way his breathing is getting heavier, you know he feels it too. “i need to eat you out,” he says, trailing kisses down your neck. “want you to cum on my tongue.” you do exactly what he wants—legs spread wide, thighs trembling as his head dips between them. his breath is hot against your soaked pussy, teasing, before his tongue finally makes contact—slow at first, a long, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit that makes your whole body jolt.

you gasp at the feeling, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard, but it only makes him groan against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure straight through you. he doesn’t hold back. he devours you, eating you out like a man starved, his tongue flicking against your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. and when two of his fingers slip inside you, curling deep, pressing against that perfect spot, you swear you see stars. “you taste so fucking good,” he groans against you, his lips slick with your arousal before he flattens his tongue and laps up every drop. the way he’s working you—his mouth, his fingers, the filthy sounds coming from between your legs—it’s too much, too good, and your whole body is trembling, hips rolling against his face, chasing more. “shit—subong!” your voice breaks as the pleasure crashes over you all at once. your thighs clamp around his head, your body arching off the seat as you cum hard against his mouth. but he doesn’t stop—his tongue keeps moving, drinking you in, dragging out your release until you’re shaking.

when he comes back up to kiss you—chin shining with the evidence of your release— your hand instinctively moves to rub him through his pants, the hard outline of his dick impossible to miss. he hisses at the contact, his hips bucking eagerly against your touch. “you got a condom?” you ask. he pauses. “yeah, hold on.” reluctantly, he pulls away and starts patting his pockets. his brows furrow in concentration as he checks one side, then the other. finally, with a relieved grin, he pulls a condom out and holds it up. “got it,” he says before kissing the wrapper, making you chuckle.

he looks so fucking hot as he rolls the condom onto his cock, his chest rising and falling with anticipation. but nothing gets him off more than watching you climb back onto his lap, your soaked folds teasing the head of his dick as you line yourself up. his breath stutters, his hands gripping your thighs, barely holding himself back. “fuck, you’re so wet,” he says, voice tight with restraint. then, slowly you sink down onto him. inch by inch, he stretches you open, filling you up until there’s no space left between your bodies. “shit,” he hisses, watching as your slick coats him, making every movement easy, effortless—like your body was made to take him. and when you start moving, lifting your hips before sliding back down, a broken moan escapes his lips. “fuck, baby,” he breathes, hands roaming up your back, gripping your ass, anything to ground himself as you ride him. “you feel so f-fucking good—look at you, taking me so… mmm… so fucking well.” his voice is needy, and when you slam down harder, his hips jerk up to meet yours, pushing even deeper. “oh my—fuck, subong!” you cry out, your walls clenching around him so tight it makes his whole body tense beneath you.

he almost fucking loses it the second he feels you clench around him, his face twisting in pleasure, jaw going slack. his hands grip your hips, guiding you—faster, rougher—eyes locked on where your bodies meet, watching his cock disappear inside you over and over again. he forces himself to meet your gaze, even though his eyes keep threatening to roll back. “fuck, if i’d known how fucking good this pussy is… i would’ve f-fucked you sooner.” he moans as you move faster, bouncing on his cock—every thrust making obscene, slick sounds that only turn him on more. his eyes drop to your tits, bouncing perfectly in time with your movements, and fuck, he can’t decide what he wants more—to keep watching you ride him like this or to flip you over and ruin you.

but then you tighten around him, your rhythm stuttering as you throw your head back, moaning so loud he swears the whole damn neighborhood can hear you. “fuck— i’m gonna—! i-i’m gonna cum!” you cry out, your whole body trembling, thighs shaking as you cum around his cock. and that’s it. that’s all it takes to break him. “shit—ngh!” his body jerks beneath you, his abs tensing as he spills into the condom, his head falling back, mouth open.

his hands are still gripping you, holding you down against him as he rides out every last pulse of his release, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. and fuck—you’re still wrapped around him, warm and wet and perfect. you end up laughing for a solid twenty minutes after that, still too high to fully process what the fuck just happened between you two. but even in your haze, every single detail stays with you the next day.

fucking your best friend while high as fuck one night might’ve been an accident. but then it happens again. and again. and again. and you can’t call it an accident anymore.

it happens everywhere.

in his car, where the windows are always fogged up, your moans echoing in the tight space. in your apartment, where he barely gets the door shut before he’s got you pinned against it, hands rough and greedy, yanking your clothes off like he’s been waiting all fucking day for this. sometimes he doesn’t even make it past the kitchen—he just lifts you onto the counter, knocking over whatever’s in his way, too impatient to care as his mouth moves down your neck. in his bed, where the sheets are always a mess, tangled from how hard he fucks you into the mattress, his hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head. even in a club bathroom, right after he gives a show, still high off the energy, sweat dripping down his temple. you’re barely inside before he’s got you bent over the sink, hiking your dress up, shoving your panties to the side, fucking into you so deep you have to bite your hand to keep from screaming his name.

wherever. the second you’re alone, it’s happening. it becomes a thing. a need.

you always figured subong would fuck good. he never shut up about the girls he’s been with, the shit he’s done, bragging like he was the best lay any of them ever had. and every time he talked about it, you’d feel heat pool between your thighs, wondering if he was really that good or just full of shit.

now you knew. and fuck, he wasn’t lying.

he’s rough and passionate—the kind of lover who takes without hesitation but gives just as much, maybe even more. he loves watching you squirm, loves the way your body responds to him like it was made for this. like it needs this. his fingers trail down your skin, barely touching, making you shiver before he finally gives you what you want. and fuck, he lives for it—the way you gasp when he finally presses his mouth between your legs, the way your back arches when he fills you up, stretching you wide, making you take every inch.

some days, he drags it out, torturing you with slow touches, lazy kisses, making you beg before he finally gives in. he’ll tease you until you’re trembling, hands gripping at him desperately, “please, subong… need you so bad.” and then, maybe then, he’ll give you what you’re begging for. other days? he doesn’t bother waiting. before you can say a word, he’s got you pinned to the mattress, yanking your legs apart, pressing himself against you, making you feel just how hard he is. “been thinking about this all fucking day.” then he’s inside you, fucking you like he’s been starving for it.

it’s been months now—this thing between you and subong. but you don’t talk about it. not once. there’s no late-night confessions, no whispered ‘what are we?’ between tangled sheets. he doesn’t ask who else you’re seeing, and you sure as hell don’t ask him. but the uncertainty lingers. because he’s still your best friend. you still laugh at his dumb ass jokes, roll your eyes when he’s being his cocky self, and feel that weird, warm twist in your stomach when you catch him watching you from across the room.

and yet, there are a bunch of little things that scream something more. like that time you sat on his rumpled bed while he was writing a song, and you helped him hammer out stupid-ass verses—even when he swore they’d never work. you teased him for his cheesy lines and then watched his face light up like he’d just discovered a new fucking world. hell, he even calls you his muse sometimes, and you hate how damn proud that makes you feel.

or that stormy night. the rain was lashing against the windows, and you two were locked in his tiny studio apartment. one minute you were laughing, taking silly pictures of him with a digital camera while he smoked, and the next, he had your face pressed against the wooden table as he fucked you from behind—your ass cheeks burning from his vigorous spanking. after, he pulled you close, running his fingers through your hair as if trying to memorize every inch of you.

that one night he showed up at your door at 2 a.m., high off his ass, slurring your name with that cocky grin, his knuckles tapping too fast against the wood. “couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled, leaning against the doorframe. “fucking missed you.” you should’ve told him to fuck off, should’ve rolled your eyes and slammed the door in his face because he promised he wouldn’t do that shit again. instead, you let him in, let him collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, pulling you down with him. his arms caged you in, the scent of his cheap cologne filling your senses.

then there was the time you caught him staring at you while you were getting ready. you were fixing your hair in his mirror, wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt, and when you turned around, he was just standing there—arms crossed. “what?” you asked, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. he just shook his head, smirking a little. “nothing,” he said. “you just—you look good in my clothes, mama.”

and when you called him crying after a shitty day at work, voice shaking so bad he could barely understand you. you didn’t even have to ask—he just showed up, no questions. drove way too fucking fast to get to you, and pulled you into his chest so tight it felt like he was trying to hold you together. “who do i need to punch?” he asked, half-joking, half-dead serious. and you laughed, even through your tears, because that was him—always trying to make you smile. he let you cry into his hoodie, let you hold onto him like a fucking lifeline, and then, when you finally calmed down, he kissed your forehead like it was second nature. “you’re okay, baby” he murmured. “i got you.” he always had you.

or the night he took you to some shitty underground concert, knowing damn well you didn’t even like the band. “it’s not about the music,” he told you, grinning like an idiot. “it’s about the experience.” you rolled your eyes, but you still let him pull you into the crowd, still let him wrap an arm around you when the pit got too wild, still let him hold your hand. afterward, sweaty and breathless, you sat on the curb outside, sharing a cigarette while he rambled about how sick the show was. “you should play up there one day,” you told him, nudging his shoulder. “your songs have gotten better.” “you think?” “yeah. you’re good, bong-bong.” the nickname made him laugh. a week later, he showed you something he wrote. something raw and messy and fucking beautiful. he let you hear a part of him no one else ever did.

you even helped him rebrand himself. it started with him pacing his room, muttering to himself, stopping every few seconds like he was about to say something, then changing his mind. eventually, you sighed, rolling onto your stomach while watching him from his bed. “are you having a breakdown or just being dramatic?” he ignored you, still pacing. and then, out of nowhere, he stopped. snapped his fingers. looked at you like he just discovered the secret to life itself. “i’m gonna dye my hair purple.” you stared at him for a long second, waiting for him to laugh or tell you he was joking. but he just stood there, completely serious, shoulders squared like he was about to go to war.

within twenty minutes, you were in his bathroom, gloves on, a box of purple dye sitting between you. you didn’t even ask how he got it so fast. knowing him, he’d probably been sitting on this idea for weeks, just waiting for the right moment to drag you into it. he sat on the closed toilet lid, legs spread, while you stood over him, parting his hair and working the dye through. up close, he looked smug as hell, like he knew he was onto something. the whole rap game was about standing out, and he was done waiting for people to notice him.

the name ‘thanos’ caught on faster than you expected. at first, it was a joke—you called him that to be annoying, and then he used it in a song, and suddenly, people were saying it back to him. dms started piling up. more people started listening. before you knew it, subong wasn’t just some guy making music in his bedroom—he was thanos. and, of course, he acted like he knew it was gonna work all along.

and fuck, the time he brought you home to meet his family. his mom fussed over you like you were the perfect daughter-in-law, laying on your favorite dish and insisting you have seconds. then, saying, “he talks about you a lot”, making subong choke on his food while his sister goaded him about how he treats you like his damn girlfriend. you felt so out-of-place and yet so damn loved by the way he proudly introduced you to everyone, as if you were the missing piece in his fucked-up puzzle. he even opened up to you about his dad—how he never gave a shit about him, never looked at him unless it was to point out everything he did wrong. maybe that was why he kept stealing glances at you like he was trying to make sense of it—of being wanted, of being next to someone who actually cared.

and later that night, when you were both lying on his couch, full and sleepy, he nudged your knee with his. “thanks for coming, señorita,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “they liked you.” you turned your head to look at him, saying, “of course they did. i’m fucking amazing.” he smirked, but it faded quick, his gaze lingering on you a little too long. “yeah,” he murmured. “you are.”

nights that weren’t about sex at all. the ones where he just wanted you close, his hands resting on your back, his lips pressed to your shoulder, his voice low and sleepy in the dark. “you’re warm,” he’d mumble, pulling you closer. “don’t leave.” “i work tomorrow, baby,” you’d say. “i’ll drive you… stay with me,” he’d always replied.

and you did. every single time.

and there were the nights he fucked you like he meant it. not just like you were some girl he was hooking up with, but like you were the only one who had ever mattered. like he was trying to prove something with every touch, every kiss, every time he pressed his sweaty forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer.

like he loved you. but he never said it. and neither did you.

so instead, you settled for the quiet moments—for the way he always pulled you into his lap at parties, his hands resting lazily on your thighs; for the way he let you pick the music when you drove anywhere, even though he always bitched about your taste; for the way he let you steal his fries, let you doodle on his lyrics notebook, let you wear his hoodies even when you didn’t ask; for the way he texted you ‘good morning, baby❤️,’ and it made you smile for no damn reason; for the way you woke up to find him still asleep beside you, hair a damn mess on the pillow, and traced lazy circles on his chest while he mumbled some half-remembered melody. for the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

you can’t help but hope that one day you’ll both just say the damn words and finally admit that all these little moments mean something. you hope that maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll stop wondering if you’re more than just friends with benefits.

are u busy?

no, why?

good, i’ll be there in 10

i’m on my period

who gives a shitttt, i sure as hell don’t, mama

subong.

yeah?🙏🏼

not in the mood❤️

oh

alr cool👍🏼💯

can i still come over tho? we could watch a movie or something

yeah okayyy, bring snacks (or else i won’t let you in)

i’m the only snack u need, girl

you don’t expect him to show up with anything, but when you open the door, subong’s standing there, hands full—one holding a plastic bag, the other gripping a bottle of soda. “what’s all this?” you ask, raising a brow. he steps inside without waiting for an invite, kicking off his shoes. “you said ‘bring snacks’, didn’t you?” he says, dropping the bag onto your coffee table. “figured you’d want something sweet.” you peek inside—chocolate bars, a pack of strawberry pocky, even a container of sliced fruit. your chest tightens at the thought of him actually remembering the little things you like.“what, no painkillers?” you tease, flopping onto the couch. he scoffs, collapsing next to you, way too comfortable in your space. “what do i look like, a pharmacy?”

you give him a knowing look, and his lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. grabbing the remote, you ask, “so, what are we watching?” “something i won’t fall asleep to,” he says, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. “which means no boring indie shit.” you nudge his thigh with your foot. “first of all, my movie taste is elite. second, if you fall asleep, i’m taking pictures.” he grins, lazy and cocky. “yeah? what will you use them for?” heat rushes to your face, and you smack his arm without thinking. “shut up.”

the movie plays, and for a while, it’s normal. easy. you snack on the pocky while subong steals pieces of fruit from the container, acting like he’s doing you a favor by eating the ones you don’t like. he stretches out on the couch, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. goddamn.

it's barely been a few minutes when you find yourself on your knees in front of the couch, his strong hand fisting in your hair as you hungrily suck his dick like your life depends on it. you couldn’t help it. he just looked too fucking good. you take him deep, your nose pressing against his abs, gagging slightly but refusing to back off. he lets out a groan as you take him, the head of his dick hitting the back of your throat. His hand tightens in your hair, guiding your head up and down. “fuck, just like that baby... show me how much you love this dick.” his hips thrust forward, making you gag slightly. “you're so f-fucking good for me... mmm such a pretty little mouth, choking on my cock.”

drool slips down your chin as you struggle to breathe but maintain eye contact, wanting him to see how much you love taking him in your mouth. the wet, obscene sounds of you slurping and gagging fill the room. he watches you intently, pupils blown wide with lust, his dick throbbing against your tongue. moaning around him, the vibrations make his thighs quake. "shit... you’re gonna make me fucking c-cum," he breathes out. “you gonna… you gonna let me cum in that s-sweet mouth of yours, hm?” “mhmm,” you purr around his length, looking up at him with hooded eyes. you double your efforts, sucking him hard and fast, your hand pumping what you can’t reach. he holds your head in place as he comes, making you to swallow every last drop. you take a moment to catch your breath, wiping your mouth before sitting back up.

the bathroom lights hum to life as you rinse your mouth and splash cool water on your face, trying to shake off the heat thrumming through you. you press your palms against the sink, inhaling deep in an attempt to look less flustered. the movie’s still on when you come back. you get comfortable, leaning into subong just slightly. he doesn’t say anything, just lifts his arm and lets you settle in against his side. the warmth of him seeps into you, and you rest your head on his shoulder. subong smiles at you before kissing your forehead, something that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow does.

you shift slightly, but he just pulls you in closer, his body solid and warm against yours. your heart stutters in your chest, and the thought of what you are—what you actually mean to him—becomes impossible to ignore. the longer you sit there, the harder it is to pretend this is normal. your heart is beating too fast, your mind racing with thoughts you’ve been shoving down for months. finally, you tilt your head to glance up. “subong,” you start, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. he hums, eyes still on the screen, but you can tell he’s listening. you swallow, suddenly nervous. “what… what are we doing?” that gets his attention. “what do you mean?” you sit up a little, putting some space between you—enough to see him clearly. “this. us. it’s been months, and we’ve never talked about it.” “what’s there to talk?” “i mean, is this just sex to you?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his jaw tenses, his eyes flicking away for a second like he’s weighing his words. “does it feel like just sex to you?” he finally asks. your chest tightens. “no.” his lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily. like maybe he’s been trying to convince himself of something different. “right. it’s not just sex, we’re friends, too,” he says. “then why are we acting like this?” you push. he rubs a hand over his face. “i don’t know.” he leans forward, elbows on his knees. the silence stretches thick between you, but you refuse to let it suffocate you. you need to know. “what do you want this to be?”

subong exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. he looks frustrated, like he doesn’t even want to have this conversation. like you’re ruining something by asking. “why do we have to call it something?” he says finally, and your stomach twists. you blink, sitting up a little. “because it’s been months, subong. because we’re not—we’re not just fucking and then going our separate ways. because we’re sitting here, cuddling, watching a damn movie, and it feels like more.” his jaw clenches, his fingers tightening around his knee. “it doesn’t have to mean anything.” that stings. worse than you were expecting. you swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “it does to me.” his face twists, like he hates hearing that. “shit, don’t fucking do this,” he mutters, shaking his head. “why can’t we just keep things the way they are?” “because i’m tired of pretending this is casual when it’s not,” you snap, your voice cracking. “not for me, at least.”

he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, like he’s trying to hold something back. when he looks at you again, his expression is unreadable, but his next words hit like a punch to the gut. “then maybe you shouldn’t have let it get this fucking far.” you feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. “what?” “i never promised you shit.” the words cut deep, sharper than anything he’s ever said to you before. you open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. because he’s right. he never did. but the way he touched you, the way he held you after—none of that felt like nothing. you shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your voice steady. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he hesitates for a second too long. and that’s all you need to know. you force yourself to nod, pressing your lips together. “okay.” his brows furrow, like he wasn’t expecting you to take it like that, but you don’t give him the chance to say anything else. you grab the remote, press stop on the movie, and push yourself off the couch. “you should go.” “are you fucking serious?” you cross your arms over your chest, fighting to keep your composure. “yeah, i’m serious. get the fuck out.” “we have one fucking shitty conversation, and now you don’t want me here?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “what the fuck do you want from me, subong?” your voice shakes, and you can feel it crack, but you force it out. “sit here and pretend like i didn’t just fucking tell you how i feel? pretend i’m not fucking hurt because you—” you stop yourself, biting your lip so hard it almost bleeds. his jaw clenches. “what?” you let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “because you don’t fucking care.” “i never said i don’t care.” “you might as well have,” you snap, voice breaking with frustration. “you just don’t give a shit enough to do anything about it.” he presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, breathing hard through his nose. “just because i care doesn’t mean we have to slap a fucking label on it!” “and i just have to be okay with that?!” you snap, your voice rising. “i have to sit here like a dumbass and pretend this is fine when it’s not?”

he throws his hands up, his face twisting in frustration. “for fuck’s sake, why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult?” “difficult?!” you let out a humorless laugh. “you’re the one acting like a fucking idiot, subong! you want to fuck me, cuddle me, act like i’m your fucking girlfriend, but the second i ask you to be honest about what this is, suddenly i’m the problem?! you even introduced me to your damn family!” he freezes for half a second when the words leave your mouth, then he stands up, jabbing a finger in your face. “what the fuck did you just call me?!” you swat his hand away, your glare burning into him. “don’t fucking point at me like that!” his jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare like he’s barely keeping himself from snapping. “you wanna talk about being a fucking idiot?! look in the fucking mirror!” he spits. “you’re the one acting like some needy little bitch because i won’t say what you wanna hear.” “fuck you, subong!” you don’t say anything else. you just turn on your heel and walk out of the living room, heading straight for the kitchen. your hands are shaking, your chest tight, and you just need to put some distance between you and him before you completely fall apart. behind you, you hear him scoff. “seriously? you’re just gonna walk away mid-fucking-conversation?”

you grip the edge of the counter, squeezing your eyes shut. maybe if you stay quiet, he’ll take the fucking hint and leave. but of course, he doesn’t. you hear his footsteps as he follows you in. “you always do this shit,” he mutters, his voice dripping with irritation. “running off the second things don’t go your way.” you whirl around, your eyes burning. “what should i do, then? hm? get on my knees and suck your fucking dick again?!” he clenches his fists at his sides, his mouth opening like he’s about to argue—but then he hesitates. because the truth is, you do mean something to him. he just doesn’t know how to fucking deal with it. subong has never done this before—never been in something that wasn’t just fucking around, never had to deal with real feelings, real expectations. and the idea of fucking it up? it scares the shit out of him. but instead of admitting that, instead of being honest for once in his life, he just does what he does best—pushes, lashes out. it seems easier than dealing with what he feels when he’s around you.

“why do you care so fucking much about not calling it something?” you ask, your voice softer now. “if we’re not seeing other people, if we’re always together, if you do care about me, then why?” his throat bobs as he swallows hard. and then—because he’s a fucking coward—he lies. “who says i’m not seeing other people?” you freeze. his face is unreadable, but you can see the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he already regrets saying it. “you’re lying.” your voice is quiet. he just shrugs, “i’ve been seeing this girl.” “who?” you raise your voice, taking a step closer as tears start falling down your face. “who?!” “i’m not fucking telling you!” “are you serious?! aren’t we supposed to be friends too?! we used to tell each other everything!”

his eyes flick to yours, and for a second—just a second—something flashes in them. something like guilt. but then he shuts it down, scoffing as he shakes his head. you continue, “but we’re not even friends anymore, are we?” “don’t say that.” “why not? it’s true, isn’t it? friends don’t do what we do,” you wipe at your face, even though the tears won’t stop fucking falling. he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, pressing it against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to hold something back. but then he just shrugs again, voice flat. “guess we’re not fucking friends either, then.”

your vision blurs as you cry, no matter how hard you try to keep it together. “get the fuck out, subong.” your voice breaks on the last word, and you hate how fucking weak you sound, how pathetic. and the second the first real sob rips out of your throat, something in him shifts. “fuck. no, i—” he exhales, raking a hand through his hair, his voice softer now, like he’s realizing he went too far. “i didn’t mean it. i’m sorry—i’m sorry, baby.” “don’t fucking call me that!” “you gotta listen to me!” you shake your head, taking a step back, your whole body trembling. “no. i’m done listening to your fucking bullshit.” “baby, please.” his voice cracks, and his hands reach for you—hesitant, like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him touch you. “please.” you slap them away instantly. “don’t fucking touch me.” “you’re really just gonna shut me out like this?!” “you shut me out first!” “i fucking care about you!” “not enough!” his breath catches in his throat, and for a second, he just stares at you. “you’re being fucking dramatic.” “get the fuck out of my house, subong.” “why are you being such a fucking—” “say it.” your voice is a challenge, daring him to go there. he doesn’t hesitate. “bitch. a fucking bitch. you—you’re acting like a bitch.”

you’ve had enough. without thinking, you shove him—hard. he stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but you don't stop. you shove him again, your palms flat against his chest. “you’re a fucking asshole! fuck you! get out! get the fuck out!” his jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, like he wants to throw something else back at you, but you're already stepping forward again, grabbing his arm and shoving him toward the front door. subong wrenches his arm away, but you don't let it stop you. you push him again, shoving him past the threshold. but he’s not moving, so you grab the nearest thing—his damn sneakers—and chuck them at him, one after the other. the first one bounces off his chest, the second one catches him square in the shoulder. “what the fuck, man?!” subong barks, flinching back, his face twisting in irritation. he barely catches the second shoe before it can hit the ground. “you’re a crazy bitch!”

“fuck off!” your voice cracks again, but you don’t care. you’re already stepping forward, already reaching for the door—and you slam it in his face. the sound echoing through the room. for a moment, silence. a long, awful pause where your breath hitches, where your chest tightens so much it feels like you’re suffocating. then—“open the door. c’mon, open—open the fucking door!” he slams his fist against the wood. “stop being so fucking childish!” “you’re calling me childish?! grow up, subong! you’re twenty six, you don’t know what you want and you still dress like a fucking kid!” he bangs the door. “you’re one to talk, girl! always dressed like a damn slut!”

you squeeze your eyes shut and stumble to your room until your knees hit the bed, and then you’re collapsing onto it. the first sob breaks out of you before you can stop it, and then another, and another. you curl into yourself, pulling the blanket over your head, pressing your hands against your ears. but it doesn’t block him out. “fucking talk to me!” another bang. you hear the doorknob rattle. “baby, please! i’m sorry, okay?! c’mon, don’t do this! we’re fucking friends!” your voice is muffled when it finally comes, thick with tears, but loud enough for him to hear you. “go away!” “not fucking happening! open the damn door!” “go away or i’m calling the fucking cops, motherfucker!” that seems to work. you curl tighter, press your face into the pillow, and sob until the sound of his fists against the door fades away. he did this. he made you feel this way. and he fucking hates himself for it. but it’s too late.

the next few days are absolute shit. you barely leave your bed at first. your body feels too heavy, your chest too tight, your eyes too sore from crying. when you do finally move, it’s only to go through the motions—brushing your teeth, pulling on the same oversized hoodie, forcing down a few bites of food even when everything tastes like nothing, and going to work. you don’t check your phone at first. you can’t. but eventually, the screen lights up, and you don’t have to look to know who it is. subong. you let it ring. he calls again. and again. when it finally stops, the texts start.

pick up the fucking phone

cmon baby please

i fucking miss u

don’t do this shit to me

u make me so fucking angry

bro istfg

please

you turn the phone face down. but he doesn’t stop. every time you glance at your screen, his name is there.

i know u r reading these

don’t fucking ignore me bro

at least tell me u r okay

minsu asked why u didn’t come with us today

just fucking answer

is it that hard?

years and years of friendship man and u throw it all away like that?

u r fucking selfish

i hope u know that

the texts keep coming. always at random times. but the worst ones come at night. one day, at 4:12 a.m., your phone buzzes against your nightstand. you try to ignore it, try to pretend you’re asleep, but something tells you to look.

im highhg as fuvckk bro

look whatu vdone to me

fukcing bittvhhh

its urA fault

i mis uu

u r myybhaby❤️❤️❤️❤️

its fucking 4am. i wake up at 6 to go to work, stfu and leave me alone

can i cone over? plewaasse

answer bitchj

fuck you, subong. i don’t want to see you again

come bsck

i loveyouy

you block him, roll over, and squeeze your eyes shut. but sleep doesn’t come easy. not when the last words he sent are still glowing behind your eyelids, burning into your brain.

blocking him should have brought peace. should have been the final step, the clean break. but it doesn’t feel like that. instead, it feels like holding your breath underwater, waiting to resurface, except there’s no hand to pull you up this time. the first few days, you keep checking your phone out of habit. unlocking it without thinking. but there’s nothing. you still reach for him in small ways—almost texting him when something funny happens, almost turning to tell him about your day. but you can’t do that. you won’t do that. so you keep yourself busy. you pick up a book, let your eyes scan the words without really absorbing them. go on long walks, let the cold air bite at your skin, hoping it shocks you out of your thoughts. start journaling, writing down everything except his name, except the way your chest still feels hollow. you even try new things—take a yoga class with a friend, bake cookies at 2 a.m., cut your hair just to feel something different. but memories of him are stitched into the fabric of your life.

you hear his voice on the radio sometimes now, when they play a song of his that went viral. see him in the reflection of dark car windows, like he’s just a step behind you. hear a joke and immediately think about how he’d laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkling at the edges. you tell yourself that eventually, you’ll forget. but some nights, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s staring at his too. if he’s thinking about you. and the ache doesn’t go away.

your phone rings one night, when you’re already in bed. you almost don’t answer, but when you see semi’s name flash across the screen, you pick up. “hello?” your voice is groggy, tired. “hey,” semi says. “sorry, did i wake you?” “no,” you lie. “what’s up?” there’s a pause. hesitation. then, “it’s subong.” your stomach drops. “we’re worried about him.” she rushes the words out, like she’s been holding them in for too long. “he’s been acting weird lately—worse than usual.” you close your eyes, already knowing where this is going. already knowing what she’s about to say before she even says it. “he’s been taking those pills,” she continues. “the ones he used to mess with sometimes, but now he’s on them all the time. it’s like he’s not even—shit. he was out,” she says, frantic. “namgyu couldn’t wake him up at first, it was fucking bad, dude. and now he’s still high as hell, barely making sense, and he keeps—” she hesitates. you frown. “he keeps what?” “he keeps mumbling your name.” you feel like you’ve been punched in the chest. you press your fingers to your temple, trying to stop the pounding in your head. “fuck.” “he’s not okay,” she says. “he’s barely sleeping, barely eating. he looks like shit. well, he always does, but you know what i mean. and when he does talk, it’s like he’s—like he’s not there.”

you take a shaky breath. you shouldn’t care. you don’t care. he’s not your problem anymore. but your stomach still twists at the thought of him like that. “maybe you could talk to him?” semi says, hopeful. “when he feels better. i think he’d listen to you. gyeongsu is gonna take us to the hospital in a few minutes, maybe you could come too? we’ll pick you up. we’re at namgyu’s apartment, we had to take him—” “we’re not friends anymore, semi,” you cut off, swallowing down the lump in your throat. silence. “what?” she says. “what do you mean?” “he hasn’t told you?” “told us what?” “it doesn’t matter,” you say finally, letting out a heavy sigh. “i can’t help him.” “but—” “i can’t, semi.” the words come out sharper than you mean them to. she falls quiet. after a long moment, she sighs. “alright, okay,” she says, voice heavy with disappointment. “i just… i didn’t know.”

and even though you tell yourself it’s not your problem, even though you tell yourself you did the right thing—you don’t sleep that night. maybe you’re the most horrible person ever. for not helping him. that’s what you think to yourself as the days go by. you don’t go to see him. you don’t text semi back. you tell yourself that there’s nothing you could have done, that he made his choices, that you’re not responsible for saving him. but the guilt sticks to your ribs.

you keep moving forward. and then, somewhere along the way, you meet him. he’s nothing like subong. not really. but sometimes, in the way he leans back in his chair, in the way he runs his fingers through his hair, in the way he laughs when he’s had one too many drinks—he almost is. (he even likes rap!) and maybe that’s why you let him take you out. why you let him kiss you. why you let him press his hands against your skin and pretend it feels right. it doesn’t. but you let it happen anyway. because it’s easier. because when you close your eyes, you can almost pretend it’s subong. it’s fucked up. you know it’s fucked up. but you tell yourself it’s fine. that it doesn’t matter. that this is what moving on is supposed to look like. but it’s not fair. you know you shouldn’t be doing this. and when he asks what’s wrong, why you get quiet sometimes, why you look at him like you’re seeing someone else—you just smile. shake your head. press a kiss to his lips and hope he never realizes that you don’t mean it. hope he never realizes that no matter how hard you try—subong is still the only one you see.

he invites you to a show one night, says it’ll be fun. you don’t really know much about it—just that it’s some rap battle tournament called ‘rap battlegrounds’—but you’re bored, and it’s something to do. you don’t ask too many questions because, honestly, you don’t care that much. he picks you up, and you follow him through the neon-lit streets to a club you’ve never seen before, the bass already thumping from inside. he leads you through the crowd to a small corner of the club. it’s dark, gritty, with exposed brick walls and dim, flickering lights that barely cut through the haze of smoke hanging in the air. the floor is sticky. it’s the kind of place you usually avoid, but tonight, you let it slide.

you're barely paying attention, your eyes drifting over the crowd, the noise just background filler. the battles blur together, the hype not really doing anything for you. you're zoning out, tapping your foot to the rhythm of the beat, hoping this night will pass quickly—regretting all your life choices when he wraps his arm around your shoulders. when suddenly, a voice crackles through the mic, cutting through the noise. “yo, yo, yo, we got a real one up next! fresh off that new heat, straight killin’ the game—make some noise for ‘thanos’!” you freeze, snapping your head to the stage as the crowd cheers. “…and he’s goin’ up against the beast, the local legend, the one and only jace ‘the hammer!’”

there’s no way. you blink, trying to process it, but everything’s too dark, shadows everywhere, making you second-guess yourself. but then, you hear it—his voice. your stomach sinks. this is real. subong is here. for a second, you think you might pass out. he’s standing there, center stage, all cocky confidence, rapping like he owns the room. you wish you could ignore it, wish you could pretend he’s just another guy on stage, but he isn’t. and you can’t. and then it happens. his eyes sweep across the crowd, like he’s eating up the attention, and then they land on you. he freezes. just for a second—just long enough for his flow to falter, the words dying on his tongue. the beat keeps going, but he doesn’t, and the guy he’s battling jumps in, taking advantage of the opening. subong blinks, shakes his head, tries to recover—but it’s too late. he’s lost the rhythm, lost the momentum, and the battle ends with subong’s opponent eating up the win. the crowd erupts, but subong doesn’t hear any of it. he stands there for a second, chest rising and falling like he can’t believe it—like he can’t believe he actually lost. then, without another word, he shoves the mic into someone’s hand and disappears behind the stage.

someone else takes the spotlight almost immediately, the next rappers stepping up, music booming through the speakers again. you turn to the guy beside you, grabbing his wrist. “i wanna leave.” he frowns. “what? why?” you glance toward the side of the stage, your stomach twisting. subong won’t just leave it alone—you know him. “i’m just—i’m kinda tired.” the nervousness in your voice alarms him. “are you okay? what’s wrong?” “nothing. i just don’t wanna be here right now.” he studies you, and you can tell the exact moment he realizes how tense you are, how your shoulders are stiff, how you haven’t stopped glancing over your shoulder. his expression softens, just a little. “hey,” he says, voice quieter now. “it’s okay. i’ll take you home.” “yeah?” “of course.” you don’t move when he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. and it feels like… nothing. just lips on lips, a fleeting warmth that barely registers. your chest feels tight, like you need to shake something off, drown something out. so you kiss him back, harder this time, pressing in, searching for something. maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the way seeing subong on that stage messed with your head, knocked you off center. maybe you just want to prove to yourself that you can feel that rush with someone else. but you don’t. no matter how deep the kiss goes, no matter how much you try to lose yourself in it, there’s nothing there.

and just a second later, he’s ripped away from you—shoved back so hard he stumbles, nearly knocking into the bar behind him. and when you look up, you already know. subong stands there, shoulders tense, and his eyes locked on you. “what the fuck are you doing?!” “me?! what the fuck are you doing, subong?!” the guy composes himself and goes back next to you with a strained expression, one of his hands caressing his side. “what’s your problem, man?!” “who the fuck is this?” subong demands, his eyes never leaving yours. you exhale sharply. “just leave me alone.” disbelief flashes across his face like you’ve just insulted him. “nah, what the fuck is this?” he gestures vaguely between you and the guy. “this who you’re with now?” the guy straightens up. “is there a problem?” subong laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “yeah, there’s a fucking problem. who the fuck are you?” “just go, subong.” you cut in quickly. “no. i’m not fucking leaving.”

the guy beside you steps in, placing himself between you and subong. “you know this asshole?” he asks you. you sigh, “he’s… we used to be friends,” you reply. “yeah, and i’ve probably fucked her more times than you have, bro,” subong adds, a smirk on his face. “don’t listen to him,” you tell the guy before redirecting your attention to subong. “you’re being more than ridiculous right now. stop it. leave us alone.” he just stares, like he didn’t even hear you. like you didn’t just tell him to fuck off. “ridiculous?” he repeats, like the word itself it’s funny to him. “you wanna know what’s fucking ridiculous? you showing up here with—” he finally looks at the guy, eyes dragging over him like he’s barely worth acknowledging “—this.” “enough! i said… leave us alone.” “no, we need need to talk.” “she told you to leave, man.” the guy interrupts. wrong move. subong’s lips curl into something mean. “and who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” he sizes him up, scoffing. the guy doesn’t back down. he squares his shoulders, keeping himself between you and subong like he actually thinks that’ll stop him. subong steps closer, just enough to invade his space. you step forward, grabbing the guy’s arm. “seriously, let’s just go—”

subong’s hand shoots out, grabbing his collar. the guy shoves him back instantly, and that’s all it takes. subong’s always been quick to anger, and now he’s pissed. “relax,” the guy says, lifting his hands like he’s trying to de-escalate, but subong’s past that. “relax? you want me to relax when you’re out here kissing my girl?” the guy exhales through his nose. “you wanna fight me over her that bad?” he shakes his head. “man, you already lost once tonight.” subong’s expression shifts in an instant. his shoulders go tense, his nostrils flare, and his jaw locks so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. he snaps, swinging first. it’s fast, a punch aimed straight for the guy’s jaw, but he dodges, stepping back just in time. the guy doesn’t waste time. he drives forward, ramming his shoulder into subong’s chest, sending him stumbling back. for a second, you think it might end there—but of course, it doesn’t. subong recovers quick, too quick. he surges forward, grabbing the guy’s shirt and yanking him down just to throw a knee into his ribs. the guy grunts, shoving him off, and then they’re both swinging. fists connect, curses fly, and you can barely keep up. the guy tries to hold his own, landing a few hits, but subong barely flinches. he’s fueled by something else, and he’s not stopping. one punch lands hard against the guy’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. another follows, a brutal hit to his jaw that makes him stumble. then another. and another. the guy grunts, arms coming up to shield himself, but subong doesn’t let up. he grabs the front of his shirt, yanking him forward just to slam his fist into his face again.

blood splatters. and that’s when you snap out of it. “subong, stop!” he doesn’t hear you. “subong!” he pulls back for another hit, and you move before you even think. you grab him by his shirt, using all your strength to shove him back. he stumbles, losing his grip on the guy, his eyes wild when they snap to yours. “what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, chest heaving. subong’s nostrils flare, hands still clenched into fists like he’s seconds away from going back for more. the guy groans, wiping blood from his face. “you broke my fucking nose, man! you’re insane!” he yells. “shut the fuck up,” subong spits, but before he can go at him again, you shove him harder. “leave him alone!” his breathing is heavy, his eyes dark, burning into yours. for a second, you think he might listen, that the fight might finally be over. but then, in one swift movement, he grabs your wrist. “what are you—” you barely get the words out before he pulls you with him, dragging you through the crowd, past the stage. “let go of me!” you struggle against his grip, but he doesn’t stop. people turn to look, but no one moves to intervene. they just watch. before you know it, you’re backstage, away from the lights, away from the eyes—trapped in a space that feels too small.

subong finally stops, shoving you back against the wall. you barely have a second to catch your breath before you’re shoving him off. “what the fuck is wrong with you?! what the fuck was all of that about?! huh?!” you slam your hands against his chest, but he barely moves. his jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “what the fuck is wrong with me?! you’re really asking me that?! when you’re the one out there acting like a desperate fucking slut?!” your head jerks back, a bitter laugh ripping from your throat. “are you fucking serious right now?! you just beat the shit out of him, and you’re mad at me?! for what?! for moving the fuck on?!” “yeah, i fucking am!” he snaps. before you can react, he steps in, closing the space between you in an instant. his hands come up, slamming against the wall on either side of your head. your whole body tenses. he’s seething, breath ragged and reeking of cheap liquor and god knows what else. “why?!” “because you’re mine!” “yours?! fuck off!” you shove at him again, hard. “and take a goddamn shower while you’re at it. you smell like a fucking alleyway.”

his nostrils flare. “yeah? well, you smell like a cheap whore.” rage flares hot in your chest. “right, because you’d fucking know, wouldn’t you?” you sneer. his head tilts, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “at least i don’t pretend to have fucking standards. what’s his name, huh?” your stomach turns, but you don’t let it show. instead, you smile. “why? you jealous? go cry about it, asshole.” he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “you know he’s just using you, right? you’re nothing but a warm hole to him.” your hand flies up before you can think better of it, shoving his face away. “yeah. like that wasn’t exactly what i was to you too, motherfucker.” he stumbles back a step, running a hand over his jaw. “we never talked about what the fuck we wanted, or what we expected from each other. so don’t—don’t—” “that’s what you tell yourself? that you didn’t lead me on? that you didn’t fuck with my head for months?!” you cut him off. “you’re a fucking coward, subong. too fucking scared to admit you wanted me, but the second i move on, suddenly you give a shit?” “move on? to who? that fucking loser? you think he actually gives a shit about you?” “and you do?” “you can’t just act like we never fucking happened!” “we didn’t happen, that’s the thing!” you shoot back. “you didn’t want to be with me like that,” your voice wavers, but you force yourself to hold your ground. “so you don’t get to fucking act like this. you don’t get to be jealous, you don’t get to start fights over me, and you sure as hell don’t get to drag me back here like you own me.”

his throat bobs as he swallows. he looks away for a second, like if he doesn’t meet your eyes, this won’t sting as much. like he can pretend this isn’t hitting him the way it is. his fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to hold onto something—maybe the last shred of whatever this used to be. his breath comes sharp through his nose, the kind that’s meant to steady him but doesn’t do a damn thing. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, voice rough around the edges. “i don’t—i don’t own you.” but there’s something bitter in the way he says it, like he hates that it’s true. like he hates that he ever let it get to this point. you’re not his anymore. you never were, really. “then stop acting like it! don’t try to ruin everything just because you can’t handle the fact that i moved the fuck on!” for a second, he doesn’t say anything. his eyes flick over your face, tongue running over his teeth like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something worse. but then— “if you had, you wouldn’t have let that motherfucker shove his tongue down your throat right in front of me.” you scoff. “you think i did that on purpose?” he steps in, too close, and you instinctively take a step back. “fuck yeah, you did. you wanted me to see it. you wanted to fucking piss me off.” “you piss yourself off, subong! newsflash! not everything is about you! get over yourself.” “get over myself? you made me look like a fucking idiot out there!” “what the fuck are you talking about?” his eyes flash. “you made me lose the fucking battle, man!” you blink, caught off guard for half a second, then roll your eyes. “first of all, i’m not a man. second of all, don’t blame that shit on me.” “right. it’s never your fucking fault, huh?” he shakes his head. “you just get to do whatever the fuck you want and act like it doesn’t affect me.” you throw your hands up. “if you weren’t such a fucking asshole, maybe this wouldn’t have happened!” “yeah?!” “yeah!”

and then there’s silence. thick, heavy silence. his breathing is still ragged, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. your heart is pounding, your own fists clenched just as tight. then subong scoffs, shaking his head. “you’re so fucking full of shit.” “excuse me?” “you wanna talk about me being an asshole when you’ve been ignoring me for months? like i didn’t fucking exist.” the pain in his voice is evident and it catches you off guard. “i wasn’t—i didn’t ignore you. i was trying to heal. you’re seriously throwing that in my face right now?” “yeah, i am. don’t act like you’re the only one who got hurt.” “don’t do that.” “do what? tell the truth? you fucking blocked me, girl!” “no! don’t—don’t twist shit around just to make yourself feel better,” you snap. “you know exactly why i did it. don’t act like you’re the fucking victim.” “who is it then? you?” he scoffs. “oh, eat shit, subong! you never fucking came to see me!” you throw your arms out, exasperated. “not once! you could’ve fixed this, but you didn’t.” his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away. “you think i didn’t want to?” “i don’t know what the fuck you wanted!” your voice cracks, but you don’t care. “i called! and texted you every single fucking day!” “and you think that’s enough?! after everything?!” "i almost fucking overdosed!" he yells. "i was at my fucking lowest, and you—" he lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "you weren't there." you shake your head, anger bubbling in your chest. "don't put that on me, subong. you did that to yourself," you snap, voice sharp. "don't fucking guilt trip me with that." "are you serious?" “what do you want me to say? did you expect me to just forget everything and come back to you like nothing happened? you promised me—how many times?—that you weren’t gonna do that shit anymore, and here we are! and not only are you trying to make me feel like a fucking piece of shit for it, but you’re also acting like this—all of this—is my fault? when you were the one who decided i wasn’t good enough to be anything more than a fuck buddy?”

his expression falters—just a flash of something almost guilty—but then he scoffs, masking it with anger. “you’re really trying to act like you didn’t fucking replace me the second i was gone?” “replace you?” you repeat, incredulous. “you can’t be serious right now. i wasn’t the one fucking other people when we were…. whatever we were!” he freezes, his face draining of color for a split second. “don’t bring that shit up.” “oh, I’ll bring it up, alright. because you can’t say that shit to me when you were too busy screwing around while i was waiting for you to call me your fucking girlfriend.” he opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a group of people walk past, glancing over at the scene. a couple of them whisper, eyes flicking nervously from you to subong. his face hardens, irritation flashing across his features, and without warning, he grabs your wrist. “what the fuck are you looking at?” he snaps at them. the group quickly averts their gazes, pretending they weren’t just watching him. he yanks you away and you struggle for a moment, trying to free yourself from his grip, but he doesn’t let go. you’re too caught up in the heat of the moment to really think about where he’s taking you. before you know it, you’re being shoved through a door into a dimly lit room backstage, the door slamming shut behind him with a force that echoes in the silence. the room is small, cluttered with his belongings—bags, jackets, and scattered items. a mirror with round vanity lights casts a dull glow over the space, reflecting the mess on the counter: a half-empty water bottle, energy drink cans, his vape, a lighter, a bunch of candy wrappers and a few crumpled papers.

“you need to stop doing that!” you snap. “dragging me around like i’m—i don’t know—like i’m some puppet!” he ignores your words. “listen,” he says, “i tried to make it right, okay? i did.” “calling me? texting me?” you scoff, disbelief laced in your voice. “that’s what you think making it right looks like? all you ever did was send bullshit messages—half insults, half nothing at all.” you shake your head. “if you actually meant it, you would’ve come to me. you know where i live, where i work—you had every chance to show up, to prove that you actually gave a damn. but you didn’t.” his voice shakes now. “i thought… i thought you didn’t fucking need me anymore! i thought you’d be better off without me!” “better off without you?! that’s the dumbest excuse i’ve ever heard!” before you can stop yourself, you shove him, hard enough that he stumbles back a step. “you were my fucking best friend, you idiot!” your voice cracks as a tear rolls down your cheek, and you have to look away. “and i…” the words tangle in your throat. you swallow hard, forcing them out. “i fucking loved you.”

the words hit him like a fist to the gut. he swallows, his throat suddenly dry. because he knows. he knows exactly how that feels. he’s loved you too—probably longer than he even realized. but he’s never said it. not properly. not in a way that mattered anyway. and now? now it sounds like it’s too fucking late. “loved,” he repeats. “past tense?” you don’t answer. “you don’t—you don’t love me anymore?” the words slip out before he can stop them, and he hates how pathetic they sound, how fucking vulnerable they make him. “subong i—i’m sorry, i can’t… i can’t do this,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “answer me,” he presses, stepping closer, his pulse thundering in his ears. “please.” “i’m not talking about this,” you say firmly, reaching for the door. but he moves faster, pressing his hand against it, keeping you trapped in the small room with him. you squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply. “i don’t want to see you again, subong.” “i do.” “well, i don’t.” “why not?” “because it fucking hurts!” the words barely leave your lips before the weight of everything crashes down on you all at once. “it… it hurts.” your throat burns, and suddenly, you can’t hold it back anymore. a choked sob rips through you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crying.

subong’s eyes widen for half a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with the sight of you breaking down in front of him. but then, without hesitation, he reaches for you. “i know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “i know, baby.” the warmth of him, the familiarity, the way he holds you…it all feels too fucking good. too safe. too much like home. you sob into his shirt, fists clutching at the fabric, body shaking as months’ worth of pain and anger pour out of you. he holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting firm against your waist. “i’m sorry,” he breathes.

you suck in a sharp breath, realization slamming into you. and just like that, the warmth turns suffocating. “no,” you whisper, pushing against his chest. he stiffens. “what—” “get off me.” he hesitates, grip loosening slightly, but you shove harder, forcing space between you. “fuck, subong, what the hell am i doing?” he looks at you, confused, almost dazed, like he doesn’t understand why you’re suddenly pulling away. “baby—” “don’t call me that,” you cut him off. “i can’t—i can’t do this with you.” his jaw tightens. “you don’t mean that. you know you don’t.” “i do! because you fucking broke me!” you yell, hands trembling. “and i hate that you still make me feel like this!” you pause, trying to catch your breath, wiping at your face furiously. you hate the way the tears cling to your skin. you hate even more that he’s standing there, watching you cry. you force yourself to steady your voice. “i’m leaving.” “no, you’re not.” he’s there—blocking the door. you let out a frustrated breath, shoving at him again, but he doesn’t move an inch. “subong, move.” nothing. he doesn’t even blink. “is he your boyfriend?” the question throws you off balance. your brows furrow, and for a moment, the anger is eclipsed by confusion. “what?” “that guy. is he your boyfriend?” you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you glare at him. “jesus christ, subong, really?” “is he?” “it’s none of your business,” the words are clipped, laced with venom. his eyes darken. “none of my—?” he drags a hand through his hair, like he’s barely keeping himself together. for a second, it looks like he might actually lose it. “seriously? you can’t even say no?” “why does it matter?!” you snap. “it fucking matters to me!” your heart pounds. you don’t know why it’s so hard to answer, why the words feel like they’re lodged in your throat. his patience wears thin. “fucking hell, just—” “no!” you cut him off. “he’s not my boyfriend, okay?!” you shake your head. “did you fuck him?” “are you serious right now?” “answer the fucking question,” he demands, stepping closer. you scoff, shaking your head. “you’re actually insane.” “fucking answer!” “yes!” the word rips out of you before you can stop it. “yeah, i did. happy now?”

for a moment, he doesn’t react. he just stares at you, like the air has been knocked from his lungs. his jaw clenches, his nostrils flare. but nothing can stop the thought from sinking its claws into him—someone else touching you, having you, getting what he let slip through his fingers. it makes him sick. and it’s his own damn fault. he knows he has no right to be angry. no right to feel this way. but the jealousy curdles in his stomach, and before he can stop himself, the words tear from his mouth like a whip. “you’re a fucking whore.” the second he says it, he hates himself for it. but he doesn’t take it back. your fury is instant, white-hot.“fuck you! don’t call me that!” “i’ll call you whatever the fuck i want!” he snaps. he needs to hurt you, to make you feel even a fraction of what he’s feeling. “you really don’t see how fucking pathetic that is? spreading your legs for some guy who doesn’t even matter?” the words taste like acid in his mouth, but he spits them out anyway. he doesn’t know how else to deal with the anger, the self-hatred he feels. it’s easier to take it out on you than to admit the truth—that he ruined everything, that he’s the reason you were with someone else.

your vision goes red. before you can think, before you can stop yourself, your hand swings up and smacks across his face. his head jerks to the side from the impact, and for a moment, everything is dead silent except for the sharp sound of your ragged breathing. then, slowly, he turns back to you, his jaw tightening, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek like he’s tasting the sting of your palm. “did you just hit me?” his voice is low. oh, he’s angry. “yeah, i fucking did,” you say, your hands trembling. “because you’re a fucking piece of shit!” “you’ve got some fucking nerve!” he seethes, shoving your forehead with two of his fingers, forcing your head back slightly. you slap his hand away, your own anger doubling at the touch. “do that again, and i’ll break your fucking fingers, motherfucker,” you warn. “you just slapped me!” “and you called me a whore twice, subong! i wonder how the fuck i was ever friends with you! you’re a hypocrite!” he steps closer, jabbing a finger in your face. “don’t fucking talk to me like that!” “and i told you many times not to fucking point your finger at me!” you yell, shoving his hand away harder this time. so hard his arm jerks back. “who the fuck do you think you are?! you can’t fucking judge me when you’re the one who—”

his patience snaps. he grabs a nearby chair and hurls it at the wall. it hits with a loud crack, rattling from the impact before toppling over. you flinch, but you don't back down. “real fucking mature.” “you don’t fucking get it.” “why do you even care, huh? you have plenty of other girls to fuck, don’t you?” you spit. “so why the fuck does it matter who i’m with? why is it a problem when you do the exact same shit?” he doesn’t say anything. fine. you’re done here. you reach for the door again, shoving past him. “i’m leaving—” “i lied.” his voice stops you cold. slowly, you turn back, brows furrowing. “what?” he swallows hard. “i lied about it. there was never another girl.” you stare at him in disbelief. “i just—i said that shit to piss you off. to make you hate me. but i never—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i never touched anyone else when i was with you.”

your mind spins, struggling to piece together what he’s saying. he’s lying again. he has to be. “you expect me to believe that?” your voice is defensive. “i don’t give a fuck if you believe me,” he snaps back. “it’s the truth.” your throat tightens. there’s something in his eyes, something desperate, something you’re not used to seeing. “why?” he hesitates. his lips part, then press into a thin line. “because i—” he exhales sharply, looking away for a moment before forcing himself to look at you again. “because i love you. i’ve—” “don’t fucking lie to me, subong.” frustration flashes across his face. “i’m not lying, okay?! i’ve—” “sure as hell you aren’t.” “jesus—can i fucking talk?!” you huff, arms crossing tightly over your chest. your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. but you don’t interrupt again. you let him speak. “i’ve loved you for so fucking long, and it scared the shit out of me. you were my best friend and i didn’t—i didn’t know how to do it. how to be with you without fucking it all up.” you shake your head, gripping your arms tighter. “you can’t just say this shit and think it fixes everything,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you loved me, and you never told me. you preferred this… this shit between us rather than just… being fucking honest. you—” your breath shudders and you stop to breathe for a moment. “you’re confusing me, subong.”

he sighs. you can see it in his eyes—the regret, the pain, the anger at himself. then, he steps closer. his hands find your face, fingers gentle as they cup your cheeks. his thumbs move carefully, wiping away the tears you hadn’t even realized were still falling. his touch is soft—so fucking soft it almost breaks you. you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing against the lump in your throat. you shouldn’t let him do this. shouldn’t let him hold you like this, shouldn’t let yourself sink into the warmth of his hands. but you do. because it’s him. “i’m sorry, baby” he murmurs, his breath warm against your face. “fuck, i’m so sorry.” his voice is lower now, and when you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you—his brows furrowed. “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continues, his hands steady on your face. “i swear to god, i didn’t.” “but you did.” “i know,” he whispers. “i was a fucking idiot.” his thumbs still trace slow paths along your skin, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of you. you try to look away, but he won’t let you. his grip isn’t forceful, but it’s firm—just enough to keep you there. “i can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his brows furrowing deeper, like it physically hurts him to admit it. “no matter what i do—it’s always you.” “don’t—” “it’s the truth,” he cuts in, his hands sliding down to your jaw, his fingers just barely brushing your neck. “i wake up thinking about you. i fall asleep thinking about you. every fucking song i write is about you. every stupid little thing reminds me of you.” you shake your head, blinking back tears. “stop it.” “i can’t,” he breathes. “i don’t know how.”

he leans in slightly, his lips barely an inch from yours. “tell me you don’t feel the same, and i’ll go.” your heart pounds so hard it hurts. he’s so close… and the way he’s looking at you, like he’s daring you to push him away, makes something snap inside you. before he can say another word, you grab his shirt and yank him down, crashing your lips against his. subong freezes for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he groans into your mouth, his hands gripping at your waist as he kisses you back just as hard. he barely gives you a second to breathe before he’s backing you up, walking you straight into the wall. the impact makes a sharp gasp escape you, but he swallows it down, one hand threading into your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth moves against yours.

then it happens—your breath catches, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek. he stops. his lips hover just over yours, his chest rising and falling against you, and he pulls back just enough to look at you. “are you okay?” you don’t answer. instead, you pull him back in, your fingers curling around the back of his neck. you kiss him harder, and he lets you—lets you take what you need, lets you pour everything you can’t say into this. his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to pull your head back before pressing his forehead to yours. “tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs, breath hot against your lips. in a broken whisper, you finally say it. “i need you.” he’s been waiting to hear that. for months, it’s been the only thing on his mind—you. every time he got high, every time he tried to flirt with someone else, every time he told himself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter. but it was all a lie. because you did. you always did. and now you’re here, in his arms, needing him. and he’s so fucking mad at himself for wasting all this time, for pushing you away, for pretending he didn’t want this when you’ve been the only thing he’s wanted.

that’s all it takes. he’s on you in an instant, his hands gripping your waist as his mouth crashes against yours. he walks with you, never breaking the kiss, his fingers pressing into your sides, guiding you until your legs bump against the edge of a small table. before you can steady yourself, his hands move to your hips, helping you up until you’re perched on top of it. his lips leave yours, dragging along your jaw and your neck. one hand slides up, fingers curving over your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. the touch alone makes a soft moan slip past your lips. he swallows the sound with another kiss, deep and greedy, before tugging your shirt up, his palms skimming your skin as he pulls it over your head. his other hand moves with purpose, working the clasp of your bra. the second it falls away, his mouth is on you. you gasp when his tongue flicks over your nipple, your head falling back as pleasure shoots through you. “gonna make you feel good, baby,” he promises, his breath hot on your skin as he switches to your other breast, his teeth grazing your nipple just enough to make you squirm. his free hand slides down your stomach, unbuttoning your pants with practiced ease before slipping between your thighs. you spread them instinctively, your breath hitching when his fingers brush against the damp fabric of your panties. “you’re so wet for me already,” he says, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark with hunger.

subong takes his time peeling your pants off, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your knees, your ankles. once they’re gone, he hooks his fingers into your panties, dragging them down at the same agonizing pace, his lips following their path. he tosses them aside without a second thought. then he’s on his knees, hands spreading your thighs wider as the cool air hits your skin, making you shiver. “let me show you how sorry i am, yeah?” you nod slowly in response. subong leans in, his breath hot against you, and you bite your lip, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. and then his tongue is on you, licking a long stripe up your center, parting your delicate folds, exploring your wetness. you gasp when it finds your clit, your hands flying to his purple hair as his tongue swirls around it in slow circles. “f-fuck, yeah, right there,” you whimper, and he hums against you in approval.

he focuses all his attention on it, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub before sucking it gently into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out as he applies gentle pressure. you feel one of his fingers slide inside you, then two, curling them upwards and hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. his tongue never leaves your clit, licking and sucking in perfect rhythm with his fingers, and you can feel that familiar pressure building in your lower stomach. your hand travels to the side of his face, your thumb caressing his cheek as he works you. moans grow louder, your hips bucking involuntarily against his face. “subong—” you try to speak, but the words die in your throat—the pleasure too strong. he smirks, feeling you tightening around his fingers. “that’s it, baby” his voice is muffled against you. “cum for me.” and you do, your back arching, knuckles white from gripping the side of the table, a cry tearing from your throat as you fall apart. his mouth never stops, drawing every last wave of pleasure from you until you’re boneless, panting.

you try to catch your breath as he stands, pulling you into him, his mouth claiming yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. your fingers tremble slightly as they find the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric. he shudders under your touch, muscles tensing before he exhales, letting you lift the shirt over his head. it falls somewhere behind him as your hands roam his chest. this isn’t like before. like the other times you’ve had sex. there’s something different in the way his fingers brush your skin, in the way he watches you like he’s afraid to blink, afraid to miss a second of this. you reach for his waistband, tugging at it, and he lets you, his breathing uneven as he watches your hands work him free. his pants and boxers slip to the floor, and he steps out of them, never once breaking contact.

“do you… do you have a condom?” you ask quietly. he stills, his hands resting on your hips as he looks at you. his brows pull together slightly. “no,” he admits, then asks, “do you?” you shake your head. “no.” “shit,” he exhales, his forehead falling to your shoulder. you can tell he’s frustrated—not at you, but at the situation. “it’s… it’s okay. we don’t need one,” you add softly. his head snaps back up. “you sure?” he asks, and you nod. “i want to feel you.” your words are the confirmation he needs. he grabs your thighs before pulling you closer to the edge of the table, spreading them apart to find room between them. his raw tip presses against your clit and you take a deep breath when he starts grinding against you, his stiff dick sliding across your wet slit. you both moan at the feeling, but nothing compares to the gasp that escapes both of your lips the moment he slides inside of you.

he’s slow at first, letting you adjust to the feeling, his hands holding you in place as he sinks in deeper, stretching you around him. you try to steady yourself, holding onto the side of the table with one of your hands again. his breath is uneven, and each slow, measured thrust makes you ache for more. but then his pace shifts. his grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back and thrusts in harder and faster. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the space between you, mixed with your breathless moans and his ragged groans. when you meet his gaze, his brows are furrowed, his lips parted. you can see it all written on his face: how much he’s wanted this, how long he’s been waiting, how badly he’s yearned for you. he looks like he’s barely holding himself together, like he’s afraid he won’t last because you feel too fucking good. “fuck,” he grits out, voice strained, his fingers flexing against your hips. “i missed you s-so fucking much…” his words cut off in a groan, his head dropping forward, forehead pressing to yours as he fucks you like he’s trying to make up for all the lost time. “i missed this… mmm… missed this pretty pussy of y-yours.” he drives into you harder, like he’s trying to claim you, like he’s trying to erase every trace of anyone else who’s ever touched you—muttering curses under his breath like he’s punishing himself as much as he’s fucking you. your nails scrape down his back, leaving red streaks in their wake, and he groans at the sting, at the way you cling to him. “fuck, baby—” he gasps, voice rough. “was he better than me? tell me,” he demands, his thrusts turning brutal, each one punctuating his words. “did he—did he fuck you like this? mmh? shit… did he make you cum like i-i do?” there’s anger in his voice. not at you—at himself. for waiting too long, for not telling you the truth when he had the chance, for letting someone else have you. you shake your head in response. his hand grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. “answer me.” “n-no!” you whimper “he… he didn’t, baby. only you—mmph!—only you make me f-feel this good.”

his grip on your chin tightens for a second before he releases you, his hand sliding down to wrap around your throat instead. not squeezing, just holding—just feeling you. his pace doesn’t slow, if anything, it gets rougher, like your answer wasn’t enough to satisfy the anger. “that’s right,” he grits out, sweat slicking his skin. “he could never…he could never fuck you like this.” his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he slams into you, making you cry out. you hold onto him, and he loves it—loves feeling you claim him the way he’s claiming you now. and fuck, he needs this, needs to remind himself that you’re here, wrapped around him—that you’re his. “look,” he mutters, commanding. “look how fucking g-good you’re taking me.” your breath hitches as your eyes drop, and fuck—seeing it is different. watching the way his dick disappears inside you, the way your body clenches around him, the way he’s completely buried in you, over and over again… “see that?” he pants. “you were made for me. this was fucking made for me.” his hand moves again, sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, precise circles. “shit—subong!” you let out a broken moan. “y-yeah… fuck, yeah, just like that!” a whimper slips from your lips when subong fists your hair, tugging your head back up until your eyes meet his again. “say it,” he practically pleads. “say that you're mine.” “i-i'm yours!" you gasp, your voice shaking, your whole body trembling from the intensity of him. “i'm fucking yours…mmm… always been.” “i’m yours too, baby.”

his thrusts grow frantic and his breath comes in harsh, uneven bursts. all he can hear is the sound of his name falling from your lips in desperate, breathless moans. he swears he’s never heard something as beautiful. you can tell he is close, holding you in place as he leans over you, his forehead pressing against yours. your body tenses, your gummy walls clenching around him, his fingers still pressed on your clit as he pounds into you, making it impossible for you to hold back. your body tenses, and your free hand clings to the back of his neck with desperation as you kiss him, trying to muffle your whimpering. “gonna cum for me, b-baby?” he whispers, pulling away for a moment. “gonna—mmh! gonna cum on my cock?” you can’t even nod. his words are like a spark, and you can’t hold it back anymore. your body snaps, the pleasure flooding you. “subong!” you cry out, legs shaking. he watches you, his name on your lips, and the sight of you completely undone drives him to the edge. with a final, deep thrust, he follows you, quickly pulling out, his release spilling into your lower stomach. his face contorts, a strangled gasp escaping him as he rides out his own climax. he stays there for a moment, his body pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily, sweat-slicked skin sticking together. “i love you,” you whisper, hands running through his messy hair. “i love you too, señorita,” he smirks, his hand cupping your cheek before leaning in to give you a small peck on the lips. “i missed you.”

subong is a good boyfriend. or at least he tries to be. he still messes up sometimes, still says things without thinking, still gets into fights he shouldn’t, but he’s trying. you see it in the way he waits for you after work, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to play it cool, but you know he’s been standing there for a while. in the way he walks on the outside of the sidewalk, even though you never asked him to. you see it in the way he always grabs an extra drink when he stops by the convenience store, handing it to you without a word, like he just knew you’d want one. in the way he texts you did you eat? before he even says hello. in the way he always grumbles about carrying your bag when it looks too heavy, but takes it anyway. in the way he lets you steal his hoodies, rolling his eyes when you show up wearing one but never actually asking for it back. you see it in the way he lets you mess with his hair, even when he pretends to hate it. in the way he looks at you, like he still can’t believe you’re his. in the way he says your name, soft around the edges. in the way he tells you he loves you—not just with words, but in a hundred different ways, every single day.

there’s no confusion anymore. no second-guessing, no wondering where you stand with each other. he wants you, and he’s not afraid to say it. he tells you all the time, in every way he knows how. sometimes it’s casual, like when he looks at you in the middle of a conversation, something soft in his eyes, and says, “you know i love you, right?” like he just needs you to know. and then there are times when he’s shameless about it. like the time he made it his entire mission to embarrass you in front of both of your friends, throwing an arm around your shoulders and grinning as he declared, “isn’t my girlfriend the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen? no offense to you, semi.” there’s a beat of silence before half of them go “what?!” while the others just exchange knowing looks. “wait—dude, since when?!” namgyu asks. “oh, come on,” semi scoffs, rolling her eyes. “like we didn’t all see this coming.” subong just smirks, pulling you a little closer, dropping a kiss to your cheek. he’s here, and he’s yours, and he makes sure you know it.

you’re still best friends. you still laugh until your stomach hurts, still steal food off each other’s plates, still shove at each other like you’re kids. except now he kisses you after. or before. or sometimes instead of shoving you back. he’s still stubborn, still gets on your nerves more than anyone else. he’s not perfect, but he never pretends to be. and maybe that’s what makes it feel so easy. there’s nothing to prove, nothing to question. just the two of you, exactly as you are, exactly as you’ve always been. just you and him.

if you’ve read this far, i love you, let’s get married pookie ong

[orchidsarchives]

fuck it here’s some dating firefighter!jason headcanons… there’s one suggestive pick up line at the very end, link to pt. ii here

- He often leaves your shared home in a chaotic state— hair disheveled, shoe laces untied and a piece of toast hanging from his mouth

- However despite his hastiness, Jason never seems to forget to kiss you goodbye. His lips would connect with the plump skin of your cheeks first and then travel to your lips. He’d mutter small a “I’ll see you tonight,” and send you a quick wink before running out the door

- He laughs at your jokes and always continues the bit. If you make a fire joke/pun, you know he’s about to make a million more

- “I don't need a fire alarm to tell me that you're on fire.” “Jay come up with something better please”

- Jason works late at the station, so on days where you have some free time, you bring him a shawarma from his favourite restaurant. He’s always surprised, but so unbelievably happy at the same time. If he’s not too busy, you’ll stay and steal a couple bites of his wrap while he tells you about his day

- He brags about you to his coworkers. Like a lot. They all know you by name and they often tease Jason for not shutting the fuck up, they’re tired of hearing about you (actually they’re just jealous)

- Jason is really protective over you, especially in public spaces. He always has his hand on the small of your back or has your hands interlocked. He guides you through crowds and makes sure to keep close. On the off chance that you’re not near him, his eyes will still be on you. It’s never weird or overbearing though, he’s protective, but he’s not over the top

- he regularly watches crime and law enforcement shows with you and has a habit of pointing out inaccuracies (especially when the fire department’s involved). It’s annoying because he talks a lot, but also, it’s so cute when he gets worked up over the small details

- “The fire escape isn't the only thing I want to go down on.” “JASON WHAT THE FUCK WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT…!! ;)”

[boricuasirena25]

cute little painfully nerdy 2000s ellie williams x popular bimbo fem reader part 2

in the girls’ locker room the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. perfume clouds thick in the air. flat irons sizzle, flip phones chirp, and someone in the corner is crying over their boyfriend breaking up with them.

you’re standing in front of your locker. glossy lips pursed, sidekick phone in the pocket of your low rise jeans, your hands pulling your tank top off slow, dramatic, giving the girls (and let’s be real, mostly one girl) a show. dramatic push up, leopard print, hot pink VS bra on full display.

now that girl? ellie williams. corner bench goblin. hoodie up. knees turned in. glasses slipping, lip bitten raw, sketchbook trembling in her lap.

she’s not even pretending anymore. just fully drawing you. boobs front and center. pink glitter gel pen already on standby. there’s a little bubble by your nipples that says:

“soft?? or dangerous??”

then she gasps. you turned your head and looked at her. and because the universe hates her, her stupid clammy hand jerks—

sketchbook goes flying.

sprawled open on the tile.

right at your feet.

you look down. brows furrow. blink. then, slowly, you bend over—boobs still out—and pick it up with two manicured fingers like it’s covered in germs.

“…what the actual f*ck is this.”

ellie’s already stammering. “i-i was just—it’s for a project—i’m in—uh—figure drawing—?”

you hold up the page. “is that supposed to be me? are these my tits?”

she’s practically vibrating. “they’re—they’re really distinctive.”

now, the whole locker room is watching. girls whispering. dina’s jaw is dropped. someone’s filming on their pink razr.

you flip through the sketchbook. pages of you in different bras. different outfits. one of you in a bikini you haven’t even worn yet.

you hold one up. “why am i in a schoolgirl skirt with whipped cream on my chest?”

ellie squeaks. “i—it’s symbolic?”

you raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “symbolic of what? your weird little loser nut fantasy?”

she shrinks.

“geez,” you mutter. “you’re so pathetic.”

that made ellie wet as if she wasn’t already. she opens her mouth. closes it. opens it again. “i think I’m in love with you,” she says.

you burst out laughing. “no sh*t, perv.”

ellie freezes. she looks like you just stabbed her in the chest with a glittery gel pen.

“wait—hold on—please,” she says, voice going higher than her GPA’s ever been. “you can’t—you can’t keep that.”

you arch a brow, already flipping to the next page. “i absolutely can. possession is, like, nine-tenths of the law. ever heard of it?”

ellie lunges forward instinctively—then thinks better of it. hands up, like she’s in a hostage negotiation. “okay. okay. let’s talk. we can talk. that sketchbook—it’s not safe for the public. you haven’t even seen the worst pages.”

you pause, intrigued. “oh? there’s worse?”

she twitches. visibly. “page sixteen is a crime. i drew that at 3AM while watching wild things and—i wasn’t in my right mind. please.”

you start turning the page. she yelps.

“i’ll pay you!” you glance up. “with what? your lunch tokens?”

“i’ll sell my PS3. i’ll—i’ll do your homework—“ you hold up a page. “is this me… as a sexy vampire?”

ellie visibly short-circuits. “okay, that one was experimental.”

you smirk. “you gave me fangs.”

“it was a metaphor!”

“for what?!”

she just breathes. hard. ragged. “desire?”

you’re wheezing now, flipping faster. “why am I in a maid outfit on this page?”

she slaps her forehead. “that one’s not done! you’re supposed to be stepping on me!”

you look up, stunned.

“i was in a weird place, okay?!”

you cackle, stepping back as she reaches forward again. “if you touch me, i will literally call coach vera and tell her you’re having a pervert episode.”

she groans, dropping her face into her hands. “i was gonna burn it. i swear. i had a lighter and everything and then i remembered i have asthma and the fumes might kill me—”

you flip another page. pause. “is that… my bra on your head?”

she’s now just crouching behind a bench like a feral animal. “i was doing character study.”

you tuck the sketchbook under your arm and fix her with a smile that’s all teeth. “i’m keeping this.”

ellie just whimpers.

you lean in, giggle mockingly, casually evil. “i’m putting sticky notes on the ones i like best.”

she makes a strangled noise. and not in the usual creepy, horny way—this one’s real. “page seventeen has smudges—don’t judge me by that one!”

her shoulders slump. glasses fogged beyond saving. she’s blinking a lot, like she’s trying not to cry. it’s giving tragic victorian orphan. if victorian orphans wore spider-man boxers and thought about your boobs 24/7.

you pause.

“huh.”

it’s not like you feel bad, exactly. but it’s… visible. pathetic, even for her. she’s gone quiet. staring at the floor like the sketchbook was her only shot at happiness and now you’re gonna frame it above your bed like a serial killer trophy.

you sigh. loudly. dramatically. like it pains you to be merciful.

“my goodness, fine.”

you shove the sketchbook toward her chest. “take your little porn diary, freak.”

ellie grabs it like it’s a newborn baby. cradles it. whispers, “thank you” like you just pulled her out of a burning building.

“i don’t want your loser fantasies anyway,” you mutter, tossing your hair, adjusting your bra strap. “half of them didn’t even make sense. why was i riding you with a neon penis in thigh-highs?”

ellie doesn’t answer. she’s too busy clutching the book to her chest like it’s her oxygen supply.

you roll your eyes. “ugh. you’re welcome or whatever.”

she looks up at you, eyes glassy behind her crooked frames.

“…you have a really beautiful soul,” she says.

you just pat her head like a dog. “clean your glasses, williams. you’re fogging up again.”

and with that you flip your hair over your shoulder and start walking away back to your locker, muttering just loud enough for her to hear:

“sick in the head. go draw a tree or something, loser. get a grip.”

just like that, you’re gone—lip gloss shining, the kind of exit that belongs in a teen movie finale. girls part like the red sea. you don’t even look back.

ellie just stands there. silent. cradling her returned sketchbook like it’s the ark of the covenant. knees weak. boxers sticking.

she flips open to page sixteen. stares at the half-finished drawing of you in a silk robe that’s barely on, licking frosting off your finger in a kitchen that says “boobie bakery” on a pink neon sign in the back. you’re surrounded by cupcakes. in the bottom corner, ellie had scribbled in shaky handwriting:

“i’d let her eat me like dessert. respectfully. or not.”

her hand trembles. she closes the sketchbook gently. holds it to her chest. eyes wide. flushed.

you’d seen it. maybe not that one, but enough. enough to know.

and you still gave it back. called her sick in the head, sure. but didn’t kill her. ellie sinks to the bench.

her chest is tight.

her glasses are fogging again.

she’s pretty sure her boxers are ruined forever.

she whispers, “she noticed me…”

then slowly slumps against the locker, eyes wide, cheeks pink, heart doing backflips.

she’s never been more down bad in her life.

and tragically? she’s only gonna get worse.

taglist : @deliciouslydeviantsatan, @valeisaslut, @lovelessswan, and @dollinrehab. lmk if uu wanna be added. :)

[dabisbratz]

𝒫𝒪𝑅𝒞𝐸𝐿𝒜𝐼𝒩 ; eren jeager x male reader

w.c: 2.3k

𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒯𝒜𝐼𝒩𝒮: miscommunications, eren’s short temper, dumbification, asphyxiation two (2) uses of the f-slur (nonsexual), dirty-talk, exhibitionism + vouyerism, public masterbation, orgasm denial, spittin, one (1) use of the word ‘boypussy’, mean rennie

sonny says . . . rare short sonny post in da wild!?!? was missin nerd rennie n his jock boyfie ૮꒰ ྀི๑⃙⃘´༥`๑⃙⃘ ྀི ꒱ა thinkin about how long it takes for you t’realize y’like -like him . . .

Eren is. . . Weird.

That’s not an unknown fact, nor is it an uncommon conclusion. If anything, it’s a given. He smells strange, but not unpleasant, his voice goes nasally when he’s not making an effort to smoothen it out, his glasses are always smudged with fingerprints and a thin, barely noticeable layer of grease. He snorts when he laughs, too, in some sort of stereotypical way, and it’s almost endearing, but. . . That’s not why he’s weird.

It’s not his physical traits, no. Not the two moles decorating his neck, or the constant pink flush to his cheeks. Not his warm, brown hair that frames his soft cheeks. It’s not the acne at his forehead— you can tell he’s spent countless nights scrubbing away at it, picking apart his appearance— or the pudge to his body. Found on his cheeks, his arms, his stomach, his thighs— no, it absolutely isn’t anything physical.

Even as you look at him, your eyes trained on the movement of his pen as he writes something down— you’re not even sure what subject you’re supposed to be working on, anymore— you can’t place it. Ink travels along the sheet of paper, bleeding into it as his letters loop and his vowels curl. His lips are chapped, dusted a pretty shade of pink as his tongue swipes over the surface of his pillowy lips, they part as if to speak, and—

“What?” He asks, his voice only ever sounding soft now, for the first time since you’ve met him. He peers at you over the rim of his large, round glasses, his hazel eyes brightening beneath the fluorescent study-hall lights. Eren squints, like the opacity pains him, but his gaze never falters in kindliness. He’s. . . pretty.

Its certainly not the first time you’ve had that thought— he’s fucked you sideways, backwards, and maybe even upside down, so the thought crossed your mind amongst countless other opportunities, but this is different. It’s mundane. It’s. . . casual. Natural, like something fundamentally correct.

In a way that makes your heart want to wring itself dry.

Eren breathes through parted lips, a habit he’s working on, thick eyebrows furrowed as his gaze trickles toward your empty notebook. “What?” He repeats, this time much more nasally. The growing irritability in his voice proves palpable— but it’s not Eren if he’s not easily riled up. Still, his voice is like molasses, you want to cuddle up beneath it and taste it on your tongue. The sweetness, the bitterness. To feel it spread across your tastebuds, thick and syrupy. He’s just so.. handsome.

“What?” You clear your throat, it’s suddenly scratchy, all the words you want to say stuck in your esophagus as you cough into your elbow. They’re not thoughts you’re used to having— you’ve only ever had girlfriends.. You’re used to floral patterns and sweet scents. . . the stereotypical bubblegum pink and hair ties. The hands you’ve held have almost always been smaller than your own, softer, dantier…

“You’re.. You know, staring at me?” Polar opposite of the former, Eren’s hand swats the air as if gesturing to the general area. You instinctively want to roll your eyes, bratty in nature, just to earn the soft click of Eren’s tongue. Fuck.

“How did you know you were… you know.” Rushed, slipping over your own tongue, your teeth feel like jelly, softening in your own mouth. You suddenly feel small, backed up against a corner and trembling like a deer. Bambi’s got nothing on you, incomparable, you think, a cold tremor cascading past your ribs and down your spine. You’re not supposed to be the one feeling this way.

“You know?” He echoes. Pink, plush lips parting and curling around every letter, your heart flutters with warmth as they curl into scowl. You hate to admit it, but it’s your favorite expression from Eren. He’s always looked a bit boyish— like he carries some sort of sheepishness in him, even with his beginnings of facial hair, but there’s something more established about him when his eyes steel over and his lips press together. “What, gay?”

Lilliputian is the minute that goes by, and yet, it lasts forever. “Yeah,” A long beat of silence as your shoulders tense up to your ears, each flutter of your eyelash against your cheek, each intake of air through your nose.. “That.” Excruciatingly slow, almost.

He notes the way you say it. You know it, you can see the cogs of recognition twisting and turning in his head, you loathe it. You want to hold onto the softness of his face, rub patterns into his cheek and pull him forward, whimpering a soft, saccharine ‘Rennie’ in his ear and watch him crumble. Your fingers twitch, fumbling over themselves at the thought, and before you can lift your hand (just to snatch it away), Eren’s lips part once more.

“You mean a faggot,” He sneers, his pen completely discarded, rolling past the flat surface of the wooden table. Radiating from his skin is the warmth of new tension, he vibrates in his seat as if ready to lash out. . . Not at you, never at you. “That’s what you want to say, right?”

“Eren,” Mumbling, barely making it past your lips, you murmur through your teeth. You distract yourself with your hands, two fingers holding onto one as they twiddle and turn around themselves. Eren’s gaze trails downward, a long, prominent scowl on his lips as he leans back into his seat, thighs spread wide over the stretch of the desk chair. His head tilts back, chocolate brown hair brushing against his jaw as he stares at you through the bridge of his nose. His frame isn’t big, and yet, he looks so.. powerful.

“I didn’t— don’t mean it like that.”

“What the fuck else could you mean, then?” He growls, a mean lilt in his voice that nearly has you shrinking back. A warning, not a threat, as the chair creaks beneath his weight, his hands clasping together as he shifts to lean forward instead. Looking you dead on, even as you avert your gaze. A click of his tongue, you listen to his skin brush against his palms as he raises a hand to snap his fingers. Once, twice, thrice.. And suddenly your attention is back on him. “Only fags take it up the ass like you do, anyway.”

“Eren,” You breathe, a soft melody of a voice, eyebrows pinched as you silently plead. Not even entirely sure what you’re pleading for, it’s just that his tone of voice makes you want to repent. Warmth prickles in your skin, and some sick, divine intervention tunes in to remind you that you’ve never felt more empty without Eren inside you. “Come on, man. I didn’t mean it like that, I just..”

His pretty face twists as though he’d eaten something sour. ‘Man’ — you call him, not something more savory. Baby, sweetheart, sugar, sir, Rennie. . . The options are there, and he’s watching you wade through them. You know Eren likes you. He knows you do, in some unexplainable way— he just needs to hear it.

“Is that what I am to you, too?” He grunts, stubborn. He knows the answer, eyes softening as he watches a frown tug at the corners of your kissable lips.

“Rennie,” You coo, as if you’ve read his mind, and he’s never seen your face so… conflicted. “M’sorry.” It cracks his hardened exterior, anger and tension dissipating into the air as he lets out a groan of a breath.

You’ve never seen Eren angry. Maybe in a different context, toward something else, with the exception of the time he’d discovered football meant you were flexible and he hadn’t put it to use yet. But. . . only sexually charged. You’d imagine it starts slow, a slight simmer building in his veins, gathering in his fingers as he clenches his hands into fists. Then fast, and sudden, crystalline rolling down his cheeks in a thick flow of rivers before your very eyes. He probably cries when he’s genuinely angry, you conclude, watching his chest heave and tense as he steadies his raging breaths.

A new sense of shame raises the hairs on your neck— should you comfort him, or give him privacy? It's all so much, you’re left stunned as he stands, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor as he all but stomps over to grab your chin. Your hand instinctively reaches to cup his own, instead, being met with a firm, but painless, tap to your cheek that makes you straighten up, hands falling back to your lap.

“You’re so. . .” Voice rough and thick, Eren’s gaze follows the shape of your lips as he trails off. Past your cupid's bow, is the curve, following where they meet in a shaky line. You’re pulled into a kiss, his pink lips chapped and bitten, you taste a thin layer of blood and iron on his tongue. His hand moves from your chin to your throat, fingers tracing the skin until his palm presses below your adam’s apple, leaving you gasping as he steals every breath from your parted lips. “. . Dumb boys like you never know what they’re fuckin’ talking about half the time anyway.”

The dig doesn’t hurt, your brain barely catches it, with the lack of oxygen and the pout on your lips, all you can chase after is the urge to kiss him again. Again, again, again. You hear him suck his teeth, but it’s hazy when he speaks once more. “Oh, you liked that?”

“Rennie, I wan’ it—“ Leaves your lips, high and whiney, forlorn to even your own ears, a dull throb between your thighs. It’s so good, you didn’t get hard as quick before meeting Eren, but with his hand wrapped around your throat, you can already feel the ache in your balls, the twitch of your shaft, the milky, sticky precum spilling into your boxers. The brunette scoffs, and that only makes it worse.

“Yeah?” He murmurs, mostly to himself, an almost incredulous lilt to his voice as he straightens up, palming at the clear bulge imprinted in his stained sweatpants. “Since you want it so bad, touch it.”

With a breathy moan, your hands reach to grasp at the thick outline of Eren’s cock straining against his pants, pressing your palm against the warmth of his shaft. You feel it twitch and throb beneath your fingers, jumping in your hand as Eren sucks in a sharp breath. You missed this. He huffs above you, face flushed and glasses askew, but his gaze doesn’t leave your face once— glued to the way your lips part, how you mouth against the cotton of his sweats and leave behind a sloppy stain of drool. How you kiss the head, burying your face deeper and deeper into the fabric, breathing in the musk of his cock.

“M’sorry,” You breathe, handsome face squished against his thigh, and Eren can’t seem to stop himself from grabbing a fistful of your hair, pulling you off his cock with a resigned grunt.

“I knew I was gay,” Eren rasps, his other hand pulling at the elastic band of his sweatpants, diving past his boxers (with suspicious stains, might you add), and straight to gripping his cock, dribbling salty, sticky precum along his knuckles. “When I’d come home from school,” He sighs, eyes fluttering shut with a shaky gasp. “And watch porn, but—” You barely miss it, stuck in his hold as he keeps you still, the weight of his cock slapping against your cheek— and god, that’s all you’ve ever wanted. “I only focused on the men. Especially when they sounded like girls, whining and crying…”

It’s hard to listen to him ramble, when what you want is right in front of you. Your hips rock, pressing your needy cock just barely against the denim of your jeans— it’s not enough, you need more, you want to feel it, you want to take it— “Kinda like you,” He grunts out, nearly crumbling above you, your pretty lips ghosting over his cock as his fist grips the dip of his balls. Blinking up at him, your eyes remain glued to the veins littering his hand as he fucks his fist, nearly losing your composure. “How they gasp after bottoming out,” Lifting your hips up, brushing your clenched fists against your thighs, your eyes flutter shut as he moans, maneuvering your face into different angles— however he pleases. “When they accidentally shoot a load on their own face. Ha, kinda like you.”

You hiccup on your own desperate, breathy sobs, choking on your gasps— in and out, in and out, Eren’s cock squelches as he fucks his fist, gathering pre and smearing it against your cheek.

“And they always take it so good. Pretty, slutty little holes made for taking dick,” He strokes loud plaps of wetness out of the head, finally, finally, pressing it against the plush of your lips. Glazed over and sticky, a thin, sheen layer of pre paints your lips like the prettiest gloss, and your lips part, carrying a thin trail of saliva between them. “They look so stupid, too. Best part was—” Mumbling under his breath, the brunette gathers spit on his tongue. He's salty and bitter, spreading along your mouth, and you can't help but drool. His thighs tense, muscles flexing and rippling as his twitching hand finds the back of your head, and— oh. “I’d make sure they looked like you.”

He’s spitting in your mouth. “You should’ve known when I had your ankles above your head and fucked a load into that boypussy of yours.”

You’re close, you can feel it, a tingling warmth in your spine and your balls, your abdomen tightening and hands reaching down to rub it out, but— Eren swats your hand away, a scowl on his lips.

Repent, repent, repent.

[mypoisonedvine]

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐂𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 | dad's best friend!cillian murphy x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | based on the following request: what would dilf/dad's best friend cillian do if he found your dildo?

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5k (this was literally supposed to be a drabble...)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | smut (18+ only), significant age gap (reader is college-aged, cillian is in his late forties), voyeurism/exhibitionism, semi-public sex, use of toys, praise kink, unprotected sex, very brief/semi sarcastic 'sir' kink, shockingly fluffy??

Not that your parents' anniversary cocktail party wasn't horribly riveting (cue dramatic eyeroll) but you were upstairs, on your bed, on your phone; you'd had enough of 'so how's college going?' and 'what's your major again?' and 'got any boyfriends yet? you must be a heartbreaker' for one evening— or a lifetime, preferably.

It wasn’t even that comfortable to be on the bed in your party dress—a cute, short sparkly one that you’d picked out for tonight—but it was better than standing around and trying to balance in those sky-high heels; those you had kicked off into the corner of the room the second you were alone.

When you heard a small rap on the door, you hummed a quick "Come in!" and didn't even look up from your phone, figuring it was your mom or dad come to find you after you disappeared.

Instead, you heard Mr. Murphy's voice as he leaned in the doorframe; "Sorry to bug you," he said, startling you slightly as you closed Instagram and set your phone down. "Just needed a Tide pen— your mom said you might have one in here?"

"O-oh, yeah," you said, sitting up, "sure— what happened?"

"Salsa fiasco," he joked softly as he shut the door behind him, showing you the dark red stain on his shirt— though the shirt itself was red, so it wasn't too egregious, but still noticeable.

"That's too bad," you chuckled, "I warned them about that salsa— if you serve salsa, there's gonna be a fiasco, that's what I said."

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "They should listen to you more," he agreed.

"I've got a couple stain remover pens in that top drawer," you suggested as you pointed to your dresser.

"Great," he smiled, starting to unbutton the shirt; you got nervous for a second until you realized he had on a black undershirt beneath. It's hard to say why you were nervous about that, since you'd seen him shirtless plenty of times in the years you'd known him...

"Nobody's worried about me going missing, right?" you wondered as he continued working on the buttons, and he shook his head while shrugging slightly.

"Not yet," he replied, "but they're going to want to find you soon, you're sort of the star of the night."

You rolled your eyes, frowning. "It's my parents' anniversary party, I think they should be the focus."

"Maybe they should, but you're the much more interesting one," he informed you.

You pulled your legs up a bit, leaning to the side as you sat on your bed; as much as all this attention from your parents' friends was usually annoying to you, something about being interesting to Mr. Murphy didn't bother you so much. "Is it weird for you?" you asked, lowering your voice a bit; he tilted his head quickly as if to ask what you meant. "Going to an anniversary party after, you know—"

The words hung in the air, seeming to gather around his conspicuously naked ring finger: after the divorce. "Oh, no," he scoffed, taking off his cufflinks. "It's fine; but I'm sick of the questions about it."

You winced. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry," he laughed finally shirking off the shirt; he looked a little too good in just the short-sleeved undershirt. "You can make it even by letting me ask you how college is going."

"Oh god," you groaned, rolling your eyes, and he laughed.

"If I didn't know from your parents that you were acing it, I'd worry that your aversion to talking about it meant you were struggling somehow."

"It's not that," you assured, "it's the people."

"The people?" he pressed. "Or the guys?"

You laughed nervously, looking down at your lap. "Geez, you learn to mindread while I was gone or something?"

He stepped around your bed to get to the dresser, laying his shirt down over it. "No, I just remember that time— somehow. And I remember how much of a headache I and every other young guy was."

"I guess not much has changed then," you smiled.

"What, I'm still a headache?" he grinned as he looked over his shoulder at you.

"No, I meant—"

"I know what you meant, I'm just teasing," he chuckled. "Top drawer you said?"

"Yeah," you nodded, and he opened the top drawer of the dresser; of course, only right then did you remember that you should have specifically said top left. Because the top right was—

Oh shit.

You swallowed thickly as Cillian stared down into the open drawer, and your heart pounded as you somehow hoped and prayed that what was in there had turned invisible or something; but if the look on his face was anything to go by, it was just as visible as ever.

“I—fuck, sorry, I forgot that’s—” you choked out, face burning impossibly hot.  “I never meant for you to see—I’m—could you shut the fucking drawer, please, you pervert?!”

“I’m the pervert?” he laughed thinly, looking at you again finally.  “You’re the one with a massive fucking dildo in here.”

“Well—you weren’t supposed to see that—”

“Yeah, but—fuck,” he choked, “I was just looking for your stain remover and I see your— you have a— are you sure that isn’t technically considered a weapon or something?  How’s a guy supposed to compete with that?”

“That’s the great thing about it: he doesn’t have to compete,” you explained, “that’s sort of the whole idea.”

He looked back at it for a second and you yelped, reaching your leg off the bed to kick him in the hip.  “Would you please shut the drawer?!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he laughed a bit, “but I mean, how am I supposed to react to that?

“Well, you’re not supposed to just stare at it!” you insisted.

He shut the drawer, giving you a look you couldn’t possibly decipher.

“What were you thinking?!” you said, somewhat rhetorically.

“I—well,” he hummed, looking away from you for a second, “I was thinking that I can’t imagine how you can possibly fit something like that.”

You blinked quickly, not sure what to say in response to that.  “Well—I mean, it’s a little big, but… it gets the job done.  Keeps me from calling the guys I shouldn’t be calling.”

He nodded.  “Well, that’s good… none of those college boys could possibly deserve you…”

His eyes were running all over you, and even though you’d picked out this dress just for this party because you loved how you looked in it, you felt a little exposed by his stare.

“I just can’t believe a girl like you—”

“Come on, I’ve never been a saint,” you scoffed, glancing away.

“No, I just mean… the size of that thing…” he trailed off.

“You really can’t get over that part,” you noticed, “is this some kind of… intimidation, Freudian situation?”

You glanced quickly at his pants, and he started to deny it instantly.  “No—come on, it’s not—I just can’t believe you take all that.  For fun.  It looks like it would break you.”

You hadn’t even had any drinks at this anniversary party, and yet you found yourself with this foggy head like you were tipsy; you blurted something out as if you were tipsy.  “What, you want me to prove it?”

His chest sunk a bit, and you were about to take it back when he spoke before you.  “I’d like to see you try.”

Biting your lip, you sat up on the bed, reaching around him and into the drawer.  He didn’t step back or out of the way, just let you grab the toy and lean back on the bed in front of him.

You reached up under your dress, sliding your panties out of the way, finding yourself suddenly plenty wet to fit this toy.

His eyes never left you, though they certainly travelled all over your body as you pressed the toy up to your entrance; it was thick, he wasn’t wrong, and you had to slowly warm yourself up to it whenever you used it on yourself. 

After pushing with enough pressure, the tip finally slipped inside and you let out a small sigh.  He watched carefully, and your lips fell open into a moan as you pushed the toy deeper into yourself.  When the stretch became a bit too sharp, you winced and slowed down, trying to take your time even with your heart racing and hands shaking.

You heard his own breathing picking up, watching you take the toy deeper; you found your gaze wandering over him, even lingering on his groin to see if you could catch a bulge growing there, but nothing was obvious yet.  You stared for a moment at his hands, too, suddenly wishing to have them all over you—well, maybe not that suddenly, you’d sort of thought about this before.  It wasn’t until somewhat recently that you noticed how sexy he was.  Maybe when you were younger, you understood that he was better looking than all the other adults you knew, but only once you left for college did you start thinking about him out of nowhere, imagining what he was really like when he wasn’t just being friendly with you—you even asked your mom once on a phone call if he was dating anyone.  Thankfully, she didn’t seem to get suspicious when you asked that; but she’d be more than fucking suspicious if she walked in now, saw you doing this to yourself under his watchful eye.

Oddly enough, the knowledge that someone could walk in and see this just made you even more desperate, and you gasped as you pushed the toy in deeper.

It still wasn’t all the way in, and you already felt so full… truth be told, he had a point about it maybe being too big for you—when you usually used it on yourself, you only put it in a little over halfway, since that was all you really needed.  You hadn’t put the whole thing inside since you first got it—and yes, you’d ordered it online, because if you’d seen it in person you probably would’ve been as intimidated by its girth as he was.

Your decision not to wear a bra with this dress became very apparent when his gaze settled on your chest; your nipples were hard, and clearly visible under the fabric now.  It was just because it was strapless that you went without, but you were thankful for it when you saw him quickly lick his lips at the sight.  You dared to moan just a little louder as you pulled the toy in and out, picking up your pace carefully.

“How’s it feel?” he asked lowly, his eyes drifting back to where the toy slid into you. 

“Good,” you mumbled, “really fucking good.”

“Can you really take it all?” he pressed, making your walls clench on the silicone.

Instead of answering aloud, you simply pushed it all the way in until your eyes rolled back—it was so deep, pressing heavy and fat against your deepest points until it felt like you might burst.

“Fuck,” he praised—it was just a swear, but the way he whispered it made it sound like a praise.

You sped up slightly, trying to do this the way you normally would without someone staring at you.  But you were even more sensitive with him watching, your walls clenching more and more around the toy until it was almost hard to keep thrusting it in and out.  Sighing, you shut your eyes and laid back on the bed to try to help yourself relax.  The change in angle just seemed to make the toy go deeper, rubbing harder against the spot inside you that made your back arch.

“You’re so wet,” he breathed; you whimpered, nodding in agreement, and kept moving the dildo as deep as you could get it with every thrust. 

Your free arm went back over your head to hold onto the comforter under you, your hand gripping tight for some relief for the pressure inside you.  “Fuck yes,” you whispered, knitting your brows together and fucking yourself faster.  “Feels so fucking good…”

He hummed a little, but you kept your eyes shut, afraid you’d lose your nerve if you looked at him again.  It had been months since you used anything but this, and you had no regrets—the toy performed way better than any of the guys you’d met at college.  But, truthfully, you didn’t like having to do this to yourself.  It felt like you could never move it fast or hard enough, and you needed to constantly have perfect control over the toy to get yourself to come—and when you come, the last thing you want is to take control, you want to lay back and lose control.  Still, it was better than the college fuckboys who smelled like beer and didn’t last more than two minutes.

Thinking about them wasn’t going to help you now, though; it was much better to think about Cillian, about those icy blue eyes running all over your body, about how his hands would hold you down while he claimed you, about how his lips would feel on your neck before he whispered in your ear that you were his…

You let out a sharp and sudden moan as the toy hit harder on that spot; your legs started to shake.  “Good girl,” he mumbled, making you moan even louder because god, those words just sounded right in his accent, with that rough voice—and they sounded right being said to you.

“Fuck,” you choked, “Mr. Murphy, I—”

He laughed a little.  “So polite,” he cooed.  “Open your eyes and look at me.”

Though it made your heart beat even faster, you did as you were told.  His stare was all-encompassing, making you feel completely trapped in a way you enjoyed more than you could’ve imagined. 

“Call me Cillian,” he insisted.

You weren’t sure if he meant to literally call him that right in that moment, but it sort of came out anyway: “Cillian,” you moaned, and the grip he’d taken on the dresser behind him tightened.

“Can you come for me?” he asked lowly.  “Right now?  Can you come on that fake cock?”

You bit your lip and nodded, moving the toy faster and faster— more desperate to come than ever.  “I—fuck, yeah, I’m close…”

“Good,” he praised again.  “Let me see you come, honey.”

Your back arched harder, deeper—your hands were shaking but you kept going, holding on tight to the dildo and forcing it back and forth as your legs began to quiver.

Moans poured from your mouth faster than you could try to quiet them—everyone was downstairs, you just had to hope the music and conversation was enough to drown out your desperate, pleading noises.  “Fuckin’ beautiful,” he mumbled, right as you hit the peak and melted into the mattress, a wave of ecstasy pouring over you.

You felt hot everywhere, but especially between your legs—you could swear you felt yourself leaking out around the toy, soaking it, giving away how needy you’d become and not even having the mental energy to feel any shame for it.

Cillian certainly didn’t look like he was trying to shame you for it; when you opened your eyes again, he had a stunned expression—in the best way.  “You normally come that fast for a toy?”

You laughed a little, but you still couldn’t quite catch your breath.  “No,” you admitted, “it normally takes… a bit longer than that…”

“What was different about tonight?” he mused, and you scoffed and rolled your eyes again.

“Shut up,” you sighed.  “Now I have to figure out how to take this thing out—I’m always sore after…”

“If you can handle putting it in, taking it out shouldn’t be much trouble,” he noticed.

Which, yes, that would make sense, but after coming you always got all tight and sensitive and it could be a little intense.

“How about I help you?” he offered, and your chest tightened.  He waited for you to nod before carefully wrapping his hand around your own, watching your face as he gently guided you to pull the toy out.

Your lips were slack and your eyes were probably glassy and dazed as he looked at you like that, completely enveloping you in his stare as he studied every detail of your expression.  Aside from some heavy breathing you didn’t react much to him sliding the toy out of you, until the ridge of the head reached your entrance and you winced.

“Shh,” he soothed gently, “it’s okay…”

A long sigh of relief emptied your chest when the toy tapered off and you felt the last of it slip out of you; you really noticed then how soaked you were, as a draft in the room seemed to cling to the patch of wetness that had coated all between your legs somehow.

“Lemme see, baby,” he cooed under his breath as he set the toy aside, kneeling down and resting a hand on the inside of your thigh to keep your legs open.

You could barely catch your breath with him doing that; you’d never had someone… look at it like that.  You felt incredibly vulnerable but impossibly sexy as you heard him sigh at the sight.  “Is it all stretched out now?” you wondered.

“No,” he said, “you look… just as tight as before.  Fuck.  That’s incredible.”

You bit your lip, sitting up enough to try to get a look at his face past the puffiness of your dress’ skirt, and he smirked up at you with the loveliest sparkle in his eye.  “Really?” you breathed, and he nodded.

Even though your hands were still shaking you suddenly felt brave; maybe it was just the afterglow, but you grabbed him by the shirt and sat up to kiss him, colliding your lips with his.  He reciprocated instantly, putting his hands on your upper back that the strapless dress left bare.

The kiss was perfect—needy but not too fast, sweet but not too chaste, teasing but not too slow.  The guys in college couldn’t even kiss like this… you were wondering why you ever even tried with them—or, you would’ve been if that kiss left you capable of thinking about anything but him.  “Need you,” you whispered as you pulled him closer, wrapping your arms around his strong shoulders.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your lips, a hand holding your waist while he started to kiss your neck and jaw.  “Not here—your parents—”

“Don’t care,” you whimpered, “I’m so—fuck, Cillian, please—”

“You already came,” he noticed with a small laugh, “didn’t that take the edge off?”

“Not enough,” you whined, getting impatient and running a hand down over his shirt and down to his pants—and you smiled proudly as you felt the hardening bulge beneath.  He choked a little when you touched him there, holding you tighter.  “You want me too,” you noticed.

“Of course I do, but—” he breathed, then stopped himself as he tossed you back on the bed; you giggled as he crawled up over you, pinning you down.  “But we can’t… your parents would have my head on a platter—once they’re done serving crawfish etouffee off of it downstairs.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on telling my parents,” you smirked.  “Were you?”

“No,” he agreed, kissing your neck again as you hummed happily.  “But if they found out—”

“So?  They wouldn’t like if they found out about what just happened, either—and they won’t.”

“But this is different,” he insisted.

“How?”

“Because this…”

He trailed off, kissing down your neck and over your shoulder, until a hand reached up to pull your dress down and expose your chest.

“Shit,” he sighed at the sight of it, and you smiled up at him.

“You were saying?” you teased.

“Right, erm,” he swallowed, “this is different because—because if we do this, you’re gonna be my girl.  Not just a misguided one-time fuck because you were turned on after screwing yourself with your dildo while I watched.”

You felt a little out of breath but nodded up at him.  “Okay,” you agreed.

“Okay?” he repeated, looking a little shocked.  “I tell you that you have to be mine and you just say okay?”

“What was I supposed to say, yes sir?” you joked.

“I just mean—shit, if I knew it would be this easy, I would’ve said something sooner,” he chuckled.  “But I’m, er, not complaining about the yes sir thing either…”

He sat up and started to unbutton his pants, making you wiggle a bit on the bed impatiently.  Even though you’d just gotten filled by your big toy, you felt needier than ever for something inside you—something real. 

Your throat caught when he took it out— it was pale and veiny just like the rest of him; long, uncut, a bead of precum starting to leak from the slit… it was beautiful, honestly.  The artificial fleshy hue of the silicone could never compete.

“Big enough for you?” he asked with a smirk, but you had to swallow before you answered because your mouth was watering.

“Yeah,” you panted, “plenty.”

He kissed you again, laying more of his weight on top of you; your legs wrapped around his hips, keeping him close as he pressed you down into your bed.

One hand found your wrist and held it back above your head, while the other kept a tight wrap around his cock so he could guide it to your waiting entrance.  When he pushed inside, you both sighed with relief like you’d been longing for this for ages—perhaps because both of you had, in your own ways.  “Fuck,” you breathed, “Cillian…”

He whispered your name back to you, heavy and desperate and right by your ear, and you absolutely knew you were his, just like he said.  He only stilled for a moment when he was all the way inside, already starting to rock back and forth—but he was sort of tender about it, watching you move under him as he fucked you.  “So pretty,” he praised quietly, kissing you again, even harder than before.  You both moaned into the kiss, and a warm, rough hand settled on your thigh under your dress.

Soon, the pleasure was too much to even focus on kissing, and your mouth just fell wide open in front of his as needy moans passed through it.  He stayed close, though, watching your face go slack with ecstasy.  The previous orgasm had left you sticky and sensitive inside, still totally dripping for him, everything in you begging for more.  “Oh my god,” you sighed, eyes rolling back, your composure completely slipping already.  He made you feel so good so easily—and fuck, the way he was looking at you, it was just too much to bear.

“Mm,” he hummed proudly, latching his lips onto your neck again until your fingers tangled in his hair.  He moved down and caught a nipple in his mouth, making you whimper as he suckled at it gently. 

“Fuck,” you whined, nearly pulling him along by the hair when he moved to the other one; you couldn’t stop clenching inside, squeezing him until he groaned against your skin. 

“Won’t last if you keep doing that,” he warned you softly. 

“What if I don’t want you to?” you teased, and he growled a little between his teeth, sitting up to look down at you.  He fucked you harder, but put a hand on top of your head and pet your hair for a moment, looking at you like you hung the moon; how could he be so dirty then so adorable within the same split-second?!

“I’ll do whatever you want me to,” he decided, speaking softly, “how about that?  What do you want me to do?”

That was a little too much power to give you, at least in your opinion, but you grinned as you considered it.  “Then I want you to come way too quick,” you decided, “like all those annoying college boys—because you just can’t help yourself.”

He laughed a little, though he stopped to bite his lip as he fucked you even harder—and faster, too.  “Okay,” he breathed, “don’t know why you want that, but—fuck— it won’t be very difficult after that little show you gave me.  You look so pretty when you come…”

“Just keep going and you can see it again,” you promised, holding onto him tighter as he pressed into you and really let you have it—not really rough or anything, you couldn’t risk making any more noise than you were, but still aggressive and passionate and desperate.

He kissed your neck again, burying his face in your shoulder and finding the spot that made you gasp out his name suddenly; your fingers clutched at fistfuls of his undershirt, and your legs began to shake where they were hooked around his hips and half-pushed-down pants.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, the pleasure hitting you again—but it was better than with the toy, it was stronger, and it just kept going because he kept going.  When your head fell back onto the mattress with a sigh, he realized that he’d made you come.

“Wait, fuck, I wasn’t looking,” he rushed as he popped his head up from the crook of your neck, “do it again.”

You laughed breathlessly and pushed against his shoulder a bit; “Shut up, I can’t do it on command.”

“You did it the last two times I told you to,” he reminded you, and that just made you feel even more deliciously dizzy. 

Yes, you were definitely his girl now—totally addicted to him.  You’d never felt like this with somebody—not just physically, but the trust and the laughter and the comfort of it all.  This wasn’t a too-empty dorm room that still smelled like fresh paint, it wasn’t a mattress with no sheets in an apartment with 5 roommates nearby, it wasn’t a guy you vaguely knew from a two-hundred-student class or someone you saw on a dating app and talked with for an afternoon before meeting for ‘coffee’ (it was never just coffee).  This was Mr. Murphy—and that should’ve made it weirder, but somehow, it just made it make more sense.

“So, if I tell you to come again,” he spoke lowly by your ear, a new authority to his tone, “you should come.”

You couldn’t think of anything else to say: “Yes, sir,” you breathed, hugging him close to you and pressing your face against his shoulder.

Of course, it wasn’t quite instantaneous, but just another minute of him giving you those deep, controlled thrusts right into your favorite spot sent you over the edge easily—and this time, he gently guided your face out of its hiding spot and looked at you, watched your pleasure overtake you, tenderly rubbing your cheek with his thumb.  “Good girl,” he praised softly, kissing you again just as the last of it drained from you; you were so numb that you barely heard him whisper something to you—it took you a few seconds to process it.

“I’m gonna come,” he’d whispered to you, “fuck, you’re so fucking warm…”

“Come inside,” you instructed, and for all the concern he tried to perform for you after you said that, his moan was undeniable, as was the way he started to move faster.

“Fuck, really?” he nearly whined.  “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, panting.

“You’re on—”

“Yes, please, just come inside me,” you begged, and he finally stopped protesting and pressed himself as deep into you as he could—you could feel the way his cock flexed, and it made your exhausted walls dig up just enough energy to flex back.

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, holding onto you tightly.

You hummed a little at the feeling, turning your face towards his, hoping to see what he looked like in this moment—but he pulled you into another kiss before you could get a good look.  Even this kiss was different from the others—a little slower, a little more tired in a wonderful, dreamy way.  He was breathing heavy against you, and eventually he found the energy to push himself up with his arms on either side of your head, and you smiled up at him.  He looked really fucking good like this: his face a bit flushed, which seemed to show his freckles and fine lines even more (which you adored); his hair falling down, a little wavier from the slight sweat he’d worked up; his lips swollen and slick from the kisses; and those eyes, they looked as beautiful as always, but they made you feel beautiful, too.

“Is taking this one out gonna hurt, too?” he asked you with a smirk.

“Probably a little,” you shrugged.

“For both of us,” he agreed, “I’m so fucking sensitive now… you really do have me acting like a desperate college boy—but you know, it’s been a while, so…”

“Right, sure—good excuse,” you joked, but you didn’t mind any of it either way.

He did it a little quicker, pulling back as he took a sharp breath in, and you giggled softly.

“Fuck, I can feel it, like… leaking out,” you admitted, biting your lip at the sick satisfaction of the warm gush.

“I think I need to see that,” he said, sitting up and picking your legs up from under the knee to look at you.  This was apparently a habit of his—and you were starting to get used to it already.

“How’s it look?” you asked, wondering if he’d finally stretched you out after that.

He just stared at it for a moment longer, running his tongue over his teeth, before finally looking back at you and saying with a smile: “Looks like you need the Tide pen more than I do.”

[mattrempeswife]

FOR EVERYONE TO SEE

req: yes | anon: maybe launching his gf of years at the family skate for the stadium series but she's extremely private?

pair: luke hughes x f!reader

genre: fluff, romance, established relationship, slice of life.

warnings: anxiety around public attention, some light language, extreme fluff, luke being a soft and proud boyfriend.

summary: after years of keeping your relationship private, luke is ready to show the world who holds his heart. when he invites you to join him at the stadium series family skate, you’re terrified of the spotlight but luke promises to keep you grounded. one public moment. one gentle push. one hand to hold, for everyone to see.

“You’re being weird.”

Luke turned toward you, his expression blank but guilty. Definitely guilty.

“I’m not being weird.”

You raised a brow from across the room, tossing your phone onto the bed.

“You’re pacing.”

“I’m just… walking.”

“You’re pacing and chewing on your thumb like you do when you’re nervous. What are you hiding?”

Luke paused mid-step and sighed.

“Okay. Don’t freak out.”

You immediately sat up straighter.

“Why would I freak out?”

“Because…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, that adorable little sheepish grin starting to creep onto his face.

“I told the team you were coming to the family skate tomorrow.”

You blinked. “You what?”

“I just—” He held up his hands.

“I miss you, babe. You’ve been back home, I’ve been traveling. I want you there. Everyone else is bringing their families, and my family will be there too. And I thought… you could finally come.”

You stared at him, your brain stuttering like a buffering screen.

“Luke. We’ve kept our relationship private for years.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t even soft-launch me.”

Luke winced.

“I was gonna! I swear. But then this happened and I…”

He exhaled hard, voice softening.

“I want you there. I want to skate with you. I want to post a dumb blurry photo and watch the internet lose its mind. I want people to know you’re mine.”

You went quiet.

Luke took a cautious step closer.

“But if you don’t want to do it… I won’t be mad. You know that, right?”

He meant it. Every word.

That’s the thing about Luke. He never forced. Never pressured. He loved you in a quiet, respectful way. In soft touches. In patient silences. In understanding.

But now he wanted to love you a little louder.

And despite the anxiety clawing at your chest, the thought of holding his hand in public, of letting people see how much he adored you it kind of made your heart swell.

You sighed. “I’m going to vomit the entire morning, you know that, right?”

Luke broke into a grin, practically beaming.

“I’ll hold your hair back.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“But cute,” he said, stepping in to kiss your cheek.

“So, so cute.”

The next morning was chaos.

Kids screaming.

Players goofing off.

Families bundled in coats and jerseys.

Cameras flashing. Fans watching from the stands. It felt like a behind-the-scenes movie set and you were suddenly the accidental lead.

You clutched Luke’s hand like it was the only thing anchoring you, and to be fair, it was.

“Breathe,” he whispered as you stepped onto the ice.

“You’re doing great.”

You gave him a look.

“I’m standing still.”

“You’re standing still so hot, though.”

You laughed nervously, but still. And then Luke pulled you further onto the rink, hand steady, grip firm.

The cold bit at your nose, but Luke’s hand was warm. His smile warmer.

The first few photographers didn’t even register. You kept your eyes on Luke, clinging to his every word, pretending the world around you didn’t exist. He spun you gently in a circle, gliding with ease, his grip never faltering.

“You know,”

He murmured, leaning in so only you could hear,

“I’ve pictured this a hundred times.”

You raised a brow.

“Me busting my ass on national television?”

“No,” he grinned.

“Me, skating with you in front of everyone. Letting people know who you are. That you’re mine.”

Your heart stuttered.

God, how did he say things like that so casually?

He kept talking.

“And don’t worry about the cameras. I promise, they’re not the ones looking at you like you’re magic.”

You blinked up at him, warmth pooling in your chest.

“You’re such a sap.”

“For you? Always.”

You didn’t check your phone until hours later, curled into Luke’s side, warm under a blanket, your head resting on his chest.

The posts had started.

Photos of the two of you on the ice. A few blurry shots. One of Luke kissing your forehead as you held onto him, smiling like an idiot. The NHL account even reposted one of them with a heart emoji.

Then came the fan tweets.

‘WAIT LUKE HUGHES HAS A GIRLFRIEND???’

‘the way he’s LOOKING at her. I’m unwell.’

‘she’s so cute I can’t even be mad. good for them.’

You glanced up at him.

“You planned this.”

Luke smirked.

“I may have given the media guy a heads-up.”

“Luke.”

He shrugged, tugging you closer.

“You didn’t want a soft launch, so I gave you a hard launch. No regrets.”

You buried your face in his hoodie, groaning.

But the truth was… you weren’t mad. Not even close.

Because Luke Hughes had just loved you out loud for everyone to see.

And that didn’t feel so scary anymore.