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bitterrfruit · 3 months ago

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southpaw

boxer!Ghost x reader, ghost is lefthanded and i won't argue about this cw: dubcon - 18+ mdni So this was supposed to be one long fic but then i got carried away, here's part one of two. forgive me. [read on ao3 if you want]

You met Simon at the pub, on a Wednesday.

It had been an arduous day at work, and a long week, despite having only made it halfway through - and you were on a knife edge, exhausted and sour. It was visible at first sight of you, you wore it like a greasy, raggedy cloak when you leaned slump-shouldered over the bar.

He had drawn your attention like a magnet the moment you spotted him, the towering buzzed-blond behemoth standing alone at a tall table, a half-empty pint glass in his thick fist. You’d shoot furtive little glances in his direction, and each time they were caught.

Caught being the operative word - when you met his eye you were trapped there, forcibly hooked on him as he glowered at you like he was angry. His eyes were shadowed from where you were perched - requesting a gin and tonic, short - and you should have found that frightening. Instead the adrenaline in your belly fizzed like a pinger, a girlish buzz that made your hairs stand on end and your cunt all warm.

You would not have begrudged any male attention, in fact you were long starved of it; but you felt guilty, in a way, subjecting a man to the state you were in. Short-fused and frazzled, thin knitted scarf wrapped tight around your neck, autumn coat slipping from your drooping shoulder. You dug around in your bag for your wallet when the bartender handed you the card reader, scooping frantically through the piles of receipts and hairclips and loose tampons. Offered sheepish apologies to him; so sorry, it’s definitely in there. I’m a mess! Long day, sorry. So sorry. Sorry.

You jumped when you heard the thud of a light slap on the counter, the low huff of an exasperated man, sick and tired. Looking up from your bottomless satchel, you saw the tenner left beside the card reader, and the bartender nodded in thanks before taking it swiftly.

“No problem,” came the gruff voice from above you, implicitly chastising your lack of thanks when you tilted your head upward to blink at him.

He was pretty - your first thought - in a dirty, brutish sort of way. Heavy-browed and amber-eyed, with thick blond lashes and a deep golden stubble. He was adorned with freckles and little scars, slivers of pink and white, some fresh and some old. And when he smirked knowingly at your silence, a dimple pulled in his cheekbone, the crater of an injury once sustained.

He had just been to the gym, you could smell it on him; ripe and heady, a musk you should have been more repulsed by than you were. Instead you savoured it like some little animal, turned your head at the raw pheromones as though a doe sniffing out her stag during the rut. You could also tell as much from his gym gear, grey marled wife-beater under his unzipped black hoodie, stained with dried sweat, navy blue sport shorts that sat high on his hefty thighs and strained over their magnitude.

“You didn’t need to do that,” you said abashedly, giving him an awkward smile in the hopes of concealing your flustered embarrassment.

“I didn’t,” he agreed, and he leaned on the bar by his elbow to get a shred closer to your height. Through a haughty growl, he insisted, “You gonna thank me?”

His brazen arrogance should have put you off. You quickly got the sense he was well used to these encounters - a presumption that you’d be grateful for his interest, a raffish ease that reeked of habitual sex. You wouldn’t have called him well-practised, nothing about him was suave or carefully preened. No, instead, he was viciously masculine in a primal sort of way, rugged and unkempt around the edges. A cold gaze and a serrated smile. The kind of man that oozed testosterone and potent virility without needing to utter a word in his own favour. The unashamed lack of effort was bait in itself.

You might have dismissed him if it were a Saturday, and you had friends to discourage you and drunkenness to embolden you. But, worn-out and sober, you felt obliged to entertain the man that had paid for you. Besides, something about him gave you the impression his attention was non-negotiable.

And once you had thanked him as requested, soon followed a superficially understated conversation, though every word felt laden with some lude prescience. A simple question, then a simple answer, each delivered with more weight than the last. I’m a mechanic. Was in the army. This one’s from a scrap, got hit with a chair. From Manchester. Don’t normally come here on Wednesdays, maybe I should more often. No, not married. Yourself?

Minutes bled quickly to hours, and you didn’t spend a cent on your own alcohol. Soon you had migrated to a booth, and your sticky table became the graveyard of three gin and tonics, tired lime slices floating in the melted ice as you mindlessly prodded at them with a soggy straw. You ogled him shamelessly from the other side of the table, resting your tilted head in your palm, elbow extended on the wooden tabletop.

He was a gladiator. Broad shoulders, pure meat - every part of him was thick with muscle and padded with a warm layer of fat. Winter bulk. You imagined his mammoth arms would be soft and pillowy if you were to squish them with your hungry hands, but that they’d turn as solid as rock if he were to engage them more forcefully.

You asked him if he normally did this, went to pubs on weekdays to prey on bored working women and got them drunk so he could fuck them.

He shrugged, shook his head. “Don’t need to get ‘em drunk.”

His tone was cocksure but insincere, and you didn’t yet have a good enough read of him to determine whether or not he was joking. It wouldn’t have surprised you if he were something of a lothario, given how quickly you had been sucked into his orbit despite his astonishing apathy - and yet, something told you he was more of a prowling wolf than a peacock. The kind of man that sets his eyes on his quarry and is unsatisfied until he has her between his teeth. It made your heart shiver to imagine yourself that meal.

“Just me, then?” You bit back, thanking the bartender when he brought over a fourth gin for you and a third pint for the Mancunian.

He dropped his pint glass down hard after he took his hefty swig. “You’re putting up more of a fight than they usually do.”

“Fighting the inevitable, am I?” You teased, facetious but not entirely unserious.

“You tell me.” Is all he said.

When you checked the time and decided it was far past your bedtime, seeing four fuzzy hands on your watch, he offered to walk you home - never know who’s out this time o’ night. You decided to take him up on it, the plentiful alcohol pumping through your blood blurred your already dubious sense of self-preservation.

His vast hand travelled boldly down your back while you walked, and in a more sober state you would have told him off. Instead you giggled demurely, flicked his hand away half-heartedly just to test how quickly he’d put it back. And when he took an audacious and greedy handful of your ass you yipped at him, falsely agog, but you did nothing more to stop him. He grinned as he did it, sharp teeth, kneading your soft flesh as though evaluating how it felt in his thick fingers. Determining its adequacy.

Arriving at your door he stood behind you like a shadow, watching you key the lock and breathing down the back of your neck. Such a lecher, already so bold as to assume you’d welcome him inside, spread your legs for him after so little effort. When his hand slithered to your waist and took a presumptuous grip, so confident, you felt your fortitude begin to waver. Would it hurt?

But as you spun on your heel you blocked him out with your body in the frame, and gave him a sweet and hazy smile. A chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Not lettin’ me in?” He asked, a grumble, with just enough mirth for you to lower your hackles.

You traced along the jamb with your fingernail. “Maybe next time.”

A test, you drunkenly thought, for if he were really an unashamed cunthound you’d expect him to sulk, or to get grouchy, or to call you a fucking bitch for leading him on. Maybe, you wondered, he might dismiss your refusal entirely, shove you into the apartment with an angry paw and make you fulfil your unspoken proposal. Not much of a fight you could put up, if he were such a beast.

Instead, he merely gave you a rakish grin, and brushed your chin with his thumb. “Next time, then.”

Next time came unexpectedly on the Friday, shortly after you had come home from work; freshly showered and lotioned, you answered the knock on your door in only a blue towel wrapped around your torso. Confronted immediately by the gargantuan man on your doorstep, you stepped back in fright.

There were smudges of oil on his ruddy cheeks, grime embedded deep into the fibres of his black work jacket. With his fists in his pockets, a cigarette jutting out of his pursed lips, he sniffed brashly in the cold. “You busy?”

Your eyes scanned him shrewdly for a short moment before the memory came speeding back to you, flew across your face like a slap, and he gave you a fleeting smirk when he saw your eyes widen and your cheeks go red. The stranger from the pub remembered your address. Not something you considered as you stupidly welcomed him to walk you all the way home.

“I’m not inviting you in,” you murmured, adjusting your towel higher on your chest when you felt his gaze warm the cleavage it failed to conceal.

“Come out, then.”

His imperious persistence was another warning you should have heeded, bright red and clear as day. Not often a man so obstinate is worth pursuing. Better avoided. His resolute silence compelled you, though, made unspoken demands that you dared not refuse. He wasn’t asking, he was telling.

You didn’t recall his name until he reminded you, after you had already gotten yourself dressed and met him out the front of your apartment; Simon. You smothered your more rational counterpart with a pillow, shutting her up when she warned you about going out with the man that showed up uninvited on your doorstep - particularly this one, who had your intuition screaming at you so ferociously. Play stupid games.

He hadn’t planned a date, no prior effort had gone in beyond the sudden compulsion to come and try his luck.

“Didn’t want you to forget me,” is what he told you when you asked.

You went with him to get fried chicken - his choice, an option wasn’t given - and ate it together on a park bench. Unsophisticated and to the point, a din of crunching and sucking on toothpick bones, broken up occasionally by your coy laughter. He made no effort to conceal a potently authoritarian nature, one you had as yet only caught glimpses of, and you were ruefully drawn to it. Reared its head when he told you where to sit, how fast to walk, what not to talk about. When you had demurely requested a single small punnet of hot chips from the food truck, and he had snorted at you; “Don’t take the piss. More than that.”

You shared a cigarette with him, sat under the bare elm tree and observed the chipmunks that came to feed on the crumbs of fried batter. Talked about nothing until the sun had set and the frost began to settle.

After returning you home he quickly had you trapped against the front door of your flat, laving your flushed neck with his ravenous mouth, tongue under your jaw like he was tasting you. Palmed your cunt through your jeans with a thick hand, uncaring of passersby, and you let him persist, just for a little bit - selfishly, you thought, because you weren’t going to let him sink his cock into you yet.

It was simply an experiment, you told yourself. Some part of you was well aware of the fire you were playing with, warning you vociferously about what happened to the curious cat. And that you were - dangerously eager to know for how long he would pursue you if you abstained from presenting your cunt to him off the cuff. What might happen if you dangled your prizes in front of his nose and continued to withhold them.

His hand was so big, warm, strong like he might lift you up by it. He knew exactly where to press the heel of his palm to push a needy whine from your throat, right at the throbbing crux of your heat. If you had let him continue kneading you unfettered you’d have pathetically come inside your jeans before you had even taken him inside.

You clutched his wrist to thwart his efforts, flustered and out of breath. Sheepishly warned him; “I - I don’t put out until the third date.”

Not a conviction you’ve ever held firm on, but it has been a long while since the last time you had taken a man home. You were slightly fearful that the second you let him fuck you, he’d be satisfied and spent and move on to the next helpless woman at the pub who couldn’t find her wallet. And, in truth, you relished in starving him. Delighted in the appetite you could see swelling in his belly, frothing at his jaws when he glowered at you under dark lids.

He huffed mournfully, patience waning, as he removed his hand from between your legs with a purposeful swipe. Grumbled huskily, “You’re really testing my strength o’ character.”

You chuckled breathily as you fondled the door handle behind you, letting out a puff of relief when it gave way to you and you stumbled onto your back foot into the foyer. You could guess what he implied from his crude remark - barely a veiled threat, and yet you were only more eager to peer under the shroud.

“Mustn’t be very strong if you can’t wait a little longer,” you prodded, emboldened by the false safety of being indoors.

He nodded, gritting teeth as he adjusted his jacket. “You make it weak.”

Your throat nearly closed at that, the air suddenly warm and acrid. “Well, I hope you can hold strong till then.”

He let out a hoarse groan, rubbing his neck with stiff knuckles. Dints pulled in his temple as he clenched his jaw, exerted no effort to mask his frustrations.

“Wednesday count as date one?” He asked stiffly.

You pursed your lips as you thought of a response, conscious that if it were the first ‘date’ - in heavy quotes - he’d expect your cunt on the next. You would likely not have bemoaned that, given the thumping you felt already in the peak of your swollen bud, the slick that you felt soak into the gusset of your underwear after such moderate attention. But it was a bit of a game, now, wasn’t it? A creature within you, one whose nature was perhaps a cause for concern, wanted to see if he would crack. Wanted to know what he would do to you if he did.

“No,” you told him.

With a terse nod, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and left.

Date two came to pass on the Sunday, as presumptuously as the first, but he had at least sent you a text from an unsaved contact beforehand; picking you up in 10.

You didn’t recall giving him your number, but wistfully assumed you must have put it in his phone on the drunken night you met him.

With nothing better to do, you replied, what am I wearing?

Dress.

Following his blunt text like it were an instruction from your manager, you dug through your closet for a dress that would suffice - nothing too dressy, you didn’t want to expend too much effort - and nothing too provocative, lest you provoke him. Settled on something plain and black, dense cotton with a bit of flow and sat low on your neckline, but not too low. Once you were dressed you snapped a photo of yourself in your floor-length mirror, concealing your face with your phone, and sent it to him for his approval.

He replied after a few minutes; No stockings.

You frowned as you typed out your answer. It’s cold though.

He never followed up, and you took off the stockings.

When he arrived to pick you up in his black off-roader pickup and you hopped inside - he didn’t open the door for you - you immediately spotted a big purple welt protruding from his cheekbone, fresh and throbbing and speckled with broken capillaries. You asked him if it was the result of another ‘scrap’, so he called it, and he shook his head.

“Match last night,” he told you, before shrugging it off. Then joked - or, intended to joke; “You should see the other lad.”

“Match?” You asked him to clarify, perhaps stupidly, as he revved the rumbling engine of the four-wheeler and drove off like he was in a hurry.

The cab of his truck smelled like tobacco, and the redolence of old sweat embedded in his seat; from how often he’d hop in unshowered after working out, you guessed. There was a tired old Evian bottle in the cup-holder of the centre console, next to it a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a clear orange lighter. The passenger seat was stiff and dusty, you must have been one of very few people to have sat in it.

“Boxing,” he answered.

A boxer, you thought to yourself, eyes clinging to his bulky arm as it gripped and shoved the gearshift; forearm turning stiff as you had imagined it would, where it peeked out from the rolled sleeve of his black crewneck. Thick veins ran in webs under his skin. Tendons bulged in the back of his hand. Now that you looked more closely, you could see the bruises on his knuckles - some turned ochre yellow with age, others fresh and plum and looked tender to the touch. He’d have to have been a heavyweight, given the fucking size of him. Built like a bear, wide set and heavy and so comically tall that he looked too large for the cab of his own truck.

He took you out for dinner, a proper date, he called it - a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant with four tables and a single waitress. Far more of a date than his last two attempts - you briefly considered counting this as date number one. He ordered himself two meals, an unsurprising quantity, and requested that both be as hot as the chef could make them.

You asked him about his boxing, and he said that he made some money from it but not quite enough to live on. That you probably wouldn’t have seen him on the telly, because he usually fought in the undercards and didn’t like the cameras.

Told you under his breath that he made more cash when the games were ‘under the table’. What that meant you weren’t certain, and he kept it thrillingly vague. “No gloves,” was how he explained it, “and no referee.” You told him that sounded illegal and he only gave you a shrug.

“Are you any good?” You asked with a kink in your brow.

He smirked at you, mouth full of rendang. “I’m alright.”

Something in his tone told you he was being humble. You felt a little giddy. “You ever knocked someone out?”

“Did last night,” he admitted indifferently.

You questioned him a little more. “Are you a violent person?”

He tilted his head either way as though considering his answer, shovelling a hunk of beef folded in naan into his mouth and chewing it thoughtfully. “Not all the time.”

A little shaken, you asked if you should be worried.

“I can be gentle,” is what he answered, with a lidded glare and the faintest smirk that flickered in his lips. You didn’t believe him.

After he paid for your meal - told you crudely to shut it when you offered to split the bill - he put you in his truck ostensibly to drive you back home. But when he missed the turn that he should have taken, you shuffled disquieted in your seat, lacking the bravery to mention it just yet. Perhaps he was simply taking an unfamiliar route.

He must have noticed your unease, because he turned his head to look down at you, but he did little to assuage your discomfort.

“Takin’ you to mine,” he declared bluntly, as though reminding you of a fact you already knew.

You blinked at him, felt the prickles of adrenaline creep down your neck like a nettle sting, an alert from your primal subconscious to a looming threat. “This is only the second date,” you diffidently reminded him.

“I know,” he said, through a toothy grin, apparently amused by your skittishness, “‘m not ready to let you go just yet.”

You nodded stiffly, chewing on the inside of your cheek and picking your nails in an anxious habit. You weren’t frightened of him - despite the awareness that you should be - if you truly were, you’d kick up much more of a fuss. But he was quite unreadable, purposefully so, and what could you possibly do if he decided he wasn’t interested in waiting any longer? Win stupid prizes.

“Don’t panic, love,” he asserted, reaching his burly arm over and taking hold of your knee, thigh dwarfed by his hand as he gave your meat a quick squeeze. “Not interested in takin’ what I haven’t earned.”

His terraced flat was modest and unadorned, a skinny three-storey house sandwiched between rows of similar boxes. Two windows per floor. A layer of tan stucco smeared over its brick. No garden, only some moss and a few sprouting weeds, and a wrought iron fence that lined the sidewalk out the front.

He pulled his pickup to a stop on the side of the road, killed the engine and barked an order at you as he opened the door, “Out y’get.”

The street was barren and dark, and every breath you let out echoed in the lifeless silence. Not even after nine in the evening and the neighbourhood seemed to be devoid of inhabitants, only one or two windows glowed from within - an indication of at least some life. You felt a chill as you stepped out onto the road, tightened your arms around your torso as you wandered bashfully behind him to his front step. He huffed impatiently as he jammed his keys in the lock, shoving and shimmying them loudly until the door reluctantly gave way to him.

He marched into the depths of his flat, swallowed by the darkness within - didn’t bother to turn on the light. You only saw which direction he had headed once a yellow light flickered on in a distant room down the hall. Shutting his front door behind you, leaving it unlocked, you quietly walked in the direction of the light.

His flat was painfully undecorated. Raw, messy with clutter and miscellaneous belongings, in stacks and piles, on tables and chairs. Torn open envelopes, old socks, misplaced boots. Jackets hung over the bannister and sweaters over the backs of his seats. You found yourself in an open kitchen and living room, bare save for the odd piece of secondhand furniture and empty bottles of beer dotted about the place.

You found him leaning into an open fridge, illuminated by its dim bluish light. “Can I getcha somethin’?”

“Um,” you pondered, failing to conceal your unwelcome nerves, a shiver in your voice. “No - thank you, I’m okay.”

He shrugged as he shut the fridge door with his elbow, a bottle of Carlsberg dwarfed in his hand. Stuck the top in his open mouth and popped off the cap with his teeth in a horrid crack, spat it aimlessly into the kitchen. “Suit yourself.”

He left you standing like a fool as he went to sit himself down on his sofa, landing in it with a gruff and satisfied sigh. Sunk into the cushions and spread his knees to make himself comfortable, big enough that he took up two seats of the three-seater. He reached for the remote and turned on the telly, volume low, but audibly some football game or other.

His eyes fastened on you, though - narrow and pointed as though you had been caught in his crosshairs. He tipped his beer into a jutted jaw, took a noisy and insouciant sip.

“All shy now?” He asked.

A defensive no caught in your throat and it emerged as a quiet hiccup. You wanted to smack yourself. “I just - I’m not sure why I’m here.”

He huffed testily. ”Want to go home, do you?”

You knew you should say yes. “No - no it’s not that. I’m - I’m okay.”

He cracked a grin, a flash of teeth before it vanished. “Do I make you that nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” you retorted, voice higher-pitched than would otherwise be convincing.

“C’mere, then.” He gestured a lazy hitherto with three fingers, an edge in his glare.

Your feet were moving before you disputed. “What for.”

“Siddown,” he grunted.

Better judgement hammering at you, you hesitated before you obeyed, standing in front of him but just out of reach.

“What’re you so afraid of, sweethear’,” he asked richly, and you blinked at him before looking down at your hands.

“I’m not,” you insisted. “Just not - not really used to this sort of thing.”

“No?” He questioned with aplomb, pride oozing from him like crude oil. “Been a while, has it?”

You fawningly shrugged. “Guess so.”

“Am I taking you home, then?”

The second time he had offered it, though this time there was something discerning in his tone; cocksure yet challenging, a last call. Resolved, you sat down mousily in the cushion next to him. Shrivelled so that you took up as little space as possible, held your arms tight to your body.

You shook your head, steadfast. “No, that’s okay.”

He let slip a grin at your answer, canines sharp and catching the glint of the dim television in front of him. You thought he might hang his mammoth arm over your shoulder, or rest a hand on your thigh; might test the waters with a noncommittal touch to see how you reacted to his crossing of the boundary.

But he had no such subtlety nor restraint - instead he slipped his hand behind you and hooked you by the waist, hoisting you one-armed from your distant spot with the ease of picking up a house cat. You let out a sharp gasp as he plonked you on his left knee so that you straddled it, back firm against his side as he riveted you in place with his forearm.

You yelped as you were made to forcibly bestride his thigh, left tongue-tied in your shock and momentarily unable to utter a word of dispute. Heart set to panic, scarcely able to subdue your hurricane of thoughts, you exerted all effort wriggle out of his grip - bucked and twisted and pulled, all painfully futile.

His strength was unfathomable and frightening, the muscles of his only restraining arm hardly even tensed to hold you in place. It was easy for him. He briefly leaned to the side to dump his beer on the side table.

You barked; “Simon - let go of-”

Me was muffled by the right hand that swiftly sealed over your mouth, fingertips burrowing into your cheeks, the top of his hand tucked under your nose and barely allowed you to suck in a breath.

He shushed you quick and sharp, and you let out a defeated moan as you persisted in your attempts to writhe free. You clamped your legs closed around his thigh as if you might seal off your cunt from him, but he simply let out a breathy chuckle - lightly bounced his knee to remind you that he had you wedged open as he pleased, and the force beared down on your centre with each jolt had you squeaking like a mouse into his palm.

“Settle down,” he chided, stern-toned, you felt the coarse stubble of his jaw scrape down the side of your face as he craned his head beside yours. “Don’t you kick up a fuss now.”

His colossal paw raked up your thigh, hitching the forgiving fabric of your skirt along with it and leaving pointy gooseflesh in its wake.

Still you squirmed, but your defensive tenacity was rapidly fizzling away - doused with the sobering knowledge that you had made the very bed he was now forcing you to lie in.

“You knew what you were after when you came out, didn’t you,” he snarled, accusing, lifting the hem of your skirt up to your belly.

You shook your head as ferociously as he allowed you to, his suffocating hand stifling both your movement and your breathing. You whined into his clammy palm, hoping he’d be able to translate the sounds you made in place of words; not yet.

Whether or not he understood, he ignored you; his fingertips clawed over your mound, catching in the thin fabric of the plain underwear you wore under your dress - dug into the leg hole where the hem sat against your groin, before yanking it to the other side. He tugged at the elasticated cotton, shimmying the gusset so it was entirely out of his way; cunt bare and exposed, your vealy lips rubbed raw against the rough denim of his jeans.

“Like a cat in heat, eh?” He grumbled, feeding his imperious hand between your legs where they were held open by his titanic thigh. Jammed his thick fingers into your folds without hesitation, indifferent to your whimpering.

His solid nose buried under your ear, right into the underside of your jaw, and he took a deep and wolfish sniff. “Can fuckin’ smell it on you.”

You winced as he pressed the pads of two fingers against your twitching opening, not yet slick; nudging at the precipice as though hoping to milk you of your nectar - but he didn’t puncture you. Instead, he languidly dragged them back up to your timid bud where it was hidden under its hood, used your scant fluid to barely lubricate his incursion.

He bucked his knee, making you bounce into a better position for him. Began chafing circles with the tips of mean fingers, kneading out your clit with a steady pressure that made you sob into the palm of his restraining hand.

He was deft, knew how to make quick work of you - you felt your watery blood turn viscous and hot, it flooded down the middle of you as though spiralling an open drain. Pumped warm right into the centre of your bud and made it shudder and swell, twitched with hypersensitivity.

Morally, you spurned it, fought against it viciously - the man so arrogant and cruel as to forcibly pleasure you despite vehement protest. But your feeble body spoke far louder, betrayed you with its carnal appetite. Your acrid resistance turned to pudding under his abrasive hand.

No longer wrestling, your hips leaned into him, spine arching and curling, flesh so pathetically desperate for purchase that it begged implicitly in spite of your expressed dispute.

He sensed your blossoming acquiescence, heard your grunts and moans of defiance melt into high-pitched, needy whines; you felt his wrenching grip of you soften and a rough smile curl against your cheek.

“Tha’s it,” he purred, low voice thrummed directly into your skin. You could only mewl into his palm like a trapped animal, his hand growing wet against your mouth. “Tha’s what you were after, eh? All that whingeing.”

A wanton oh, fuck, was muted by his palm as he slowed and eased his pace, no longer toiling to subdue you. With two fingers flat against the crux of your folds, he ran them up and down your seam - uncovering your puffy clit with each upward stroke and making you flinch with the shock.

You tightened your legs around his thigh on reflex, curling your pelvis away from his touch as you grew so sensitive it began to burn - but your range of motion was sorely limited, and relief you could not find.

He removed his smothering hand from your mouth and smoothed it down your waist, finding the meat of your hip and taking a fastening grip. Anchored your pelvis still and held you down, exacerbating the pressure on your cunt; parting it like a butterfly and grinding his coarse denim against flushed lips, you felt your slick seep out of you and soak the fabric underneath it.

You rocked your head back against his collarbone, feeling its rigidity at the back of your skull, and your eyes fluttered shut; you felt his hot breathing on the side of your head, an airy chortle at your whimpering capitulation. He only slowed his infliction, gently grazing your yearning clit as though to tease it, to force you to debase yourself as you pleaded for his brutality.

“F-fuck-” You mewled, face flustered, skin febrile - you were suddenly so infuriatingly close, wracked by a surging current that shuddered into your core and made you spasm and shiver. The dawning heat was abruptly overpowering, and you leaned desperately into his hand to chase it. “Simon - Please - I-”

Every attempt you made to speak or complain was bitten off by an indulgent sob, weak and pleading cries, begging him to release you.

“Please, what?” He gloated deeply, you could hear his smug grin without having to see it. “Speak up.”

Your mind was frayed, and your tongue was fat and heavy in your mouth. You squeezed out your answer through a strained whine; “I’m - I’m going to-”

“Y’gonna come, are you?” He mocked, voice rumbling and cruel. Seemed to find immense satisfaction in your pathetic desperation.

He pressed down on your scalding clit and forced a pained cry from your throat when you failed to answer him.

“Y-yes,” you bawled, driven close to pitiful tears.

He pinched your plump and angry bud between his fingers and made you jolt, before he let out a chuckle, and his hand glided out from between your legs. Left glossy trails of your syrup up your mound, your belly, as he abandoned you.

An agonised groan lept from your chest as you buckled forward, wrecked with desperation, suddenly and brutally hollow.

“Taste o’ your own medicine, eh?” He crooned, haughty, he smacked the side of your thigh with two firm pats as if to reassure you. “I don’t put out easy, either.”

You only sobbed, deafened by the thunder of your throbbing blood in your ears, cunt still so ravenous you were rendered a slave to it. You were unconsciously grinding your cunt on his thigh, rocking your hips, hissing at the abrasion of the denim on your clit - but it was better than nothing.

“Look at you,” he snorted, leaning back on the sofa with his arms hung over the back, as if to enjoy the show. As he reached for his abandoned beer, he chided; “Fuckin’ needy slut, aren’t you?”

He glided a hand up your spine as you rode his leg like a little animal, and maybe you could finish yourself off like that, if you tried hard enough - but his claw settled at the back of your neck and took malicious hold. He yanked you back by it so that your head knocked against his shoulder, the angle he had you at starving your clit once more.

“‘Nuff o’ that, sweethear’,” he muttered into your temple. “You can wait, like me.”

You whimpered, the humiliation finally having caught up to you - it rained over you cold and bitter, and you suddenly wanted to run and hide.

He put both paws on your hips, then, and hoisted you up and off of him - dumped you into the sofa cushion beside him and you landed with a bounce.

You grunted bitterly, still panting. “You’re such a-” you breathed, twitching. “Prick.”

“Careful,” he grumbled, scolding you, and you sealed your lips.

After a short and breathless silence, you heard him chuckle to himself as he stuck his beer between his lips, swallowing a frothy sip as if he hadn’t just left you a wreck.

You glanced at him, to see what was so funny - and you saw him swipe his thigh with his thumb, a mortifying patch darkened by your slick, more than you had thought, soaked through.

“Fuckin’ mess you made,” he jeered, voice low and harsh as though distracted. He grunted out a tiresome sigh. “Gonna be tough to wait for date three, eh?”

You only nodded, mind blunt and blurry, suddenly remembering the rule you had set.

“What’ve you got in mind,” you puffed, shimmying your dress back over your thighs to regain some of your stolen decency.

He sucked his teeth, rocked his head as he took another sip of his Carlsberg.

“Come watch me fight,” he said.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #bitterfruit fics #bitten-fruit

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fruittt-punchhh · 3 months ago

Text

(18+, toji smut ahead)

was thinking about sleepy! toji all night lowkeyyyyy

like when he gets home and he’s so tired he doesn’t even greet you, just grumbles and huffs like the old man he is??? kicks off his stupid boots and takes off his sweaty shirt as he draaaaags his feet to the couch??

sleepy! toji who needs comfort in a way only you can give. so tired he doesn’t tell you what to do and doesn’t ask either.

sleepy! toji who grabs your ankles, pulling your legs sideways on the couch before he finds place between them, stomach flat on the couch as he takes in your scent through the panties he bought you last week.

sleepy! toji who pulls your panties to the side just enough to get his tongue on you, diving nose first into your heat as he drinks straight from the source.

sleepy! toji who’s too tired to care what he looks like, all sweaty and mangled from work, his face buried in your cunt just how he pictured earlier in his shift - the pure filth that he was tainting the beautiful image of you, lost in pleasure with your soft skin all blushed and slick with sweat, just for him.

sleepy! toji who’s even too tired to care what he sounds like, moaning like the slut he is at heart as he enjoys his long-awaited meal.

sleepy! toji who gives you no time to recover after your orgasm, pushing your legs up by your face before he pulls his heavy cock through his zipper.

sleepy! toji who fucks you rough into the couch in missionary - not a usual contender on his list of favorite positions. his words are slurred, all drunk and dazed from his exhaustion - “let me see my pretty girl’s face, yeah?” he says after you cover your face in your arms, embarrassed at the display of intimacy that was usually absent.

sleepy! toji who still, at his most intimate, has you arching off the couch with each orgasm as you scream cries of his name, leaving you feeling so loved and simultaneously so fucked out of your mind.

sleepy! toji who’s noises are so much more present than usual, moans all drawn-out and loud as he loses himself in your sex. he begs you to cum again for him with a ‘please’, a word you haven’t heard from him in months.

sleepy! toji who’s fully gone now, panting out breathy praises as he watches you take all of him so well.

“so fuckin’ good, honey”

“take me - mmph, so well”

“this pretty.. fuckin’ cunt’s gonna.. make me cum,”

“jesus… christ, y/n”

sleepy! toji who pumps his load deep into your guts, still fucking you with lazy drags of his hips as he stares at you, lip bitten and eyes hooded before he pushes into you fully to give you a kiss goodnight.

(sleepy! toji who actually finds a towel for you first this time, stripping his remaining clothes with a ‘you comin’, baby?’ as he heads upstairs)

(sleepy! toji who is def the lil’ spoon tonight)

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witchywcmans · 7 months ago

Text

FORBIDDEN FRUIT. | LAIOS TOUDEN

synopsis ━━ laios can't seem to get enough after he first tastes you. but the lines in your friendship are beginning to blur. it's only when your party happens upon your ex-lover in the dungeon that laios realizes what he should've communicated all along. (laios x f!reader.)

content warnings ━━ cunnilingus, praise, size kink, jealousy, classic missionary, unprotected sex, creampie, mutual pining/confession, laios and reader are not good with communication (but they work it out v well), laios is self concious but reader is so kind to him !!, monster facts as dirty talk. nsfw (minors + ageless blogs dni).

word count ━━ 4.8k

song inspiration ━━ awkward, sza / cherry, lana del rey / hunger, florence + the machine

author's note ━━ TECHNICALLY, this could be a part 2 to please, eat, so I'm just going to link as a part 2. you don't have to read please, eat before this, but if you like laios then obvi you should read it anyway!! I'm SO SORRY it took me so long to post another laios x reader 😭 I was trying to finish the manga before I wrote something else dungeon meshi-related, but life gets the way. oh well. also, this might be controversial, but in this fic I’m refuting the “laios is a virgin” allegations. SUE ME. I simply don’t believe he’s been adventuring so long and hasn’t been with anyone, that is crazzzy to me !! but that's just me 🤗 we all have our fave headcanons! my goal when I finish the manga is to write something for laios at the end of the story hehe. I hope you guys enjoy part 2! this one-shot is dedicated to @satoogojos 🫶

🪽 part i: PLEASE, EAT. / part ii: FORBIDDEN FRUIT. / part iii: TOO SWEET.

Catching feelings for your friend was truly a fickle thing. But you guessed it was bound to happen with what you and Laios were doing behind everyone’s back. Each night, after your party tucked themselves in their bedrolls, Laios would so delicately lace your arm through his and you two would find a private area … before he completely buried his face between your thighs.

He was fixated on the way you tasted, the way he could get you to cum so easily on his tongue. You were the only dessert he wanted after every dinner. Some nights, he would have you writhing from overstimulation, but he just wanted more of you – so much more.

It was a little confusing, though, how he didn’t ask for anything in return. Laios seemed to grind against the cold, dungeon floor as his tongue lapped at your essence, sometimes cumming in his pants and moaning between your legs. Or he would politely excuse himself after he was done, taking care of himself as you cleaned yourself up. You didn’t quite understand it, and maybe neither did he. You both were just too awkward to broach the subject.

The incident with the sea serpent had changed your friendship forever. Not only did Laios save you from becoming one, but the intimacy you both now shared seemed to open you up more. You found yourself divulging more secrets to him, leaning on him when you needed someone, even being more impartial to Senshi’s monster meals. And you liked the way he smiled, how he looked at you. You liked how fearless he was. You liked how protective he was over the party, especially you. You … really liked him. Far more than a crush. In fact, you wished you could go back in time and just have a crush. But your feelings for him became deeper as you crept lower and lower into the dungeon together. Your goal was still to come out of this dungeon alive, but now … you hoped that you would make it out alive together.

What a foolish girl you had become.

You tried to remain focused on the path ahead of you, but you were clearly lost in thought today. The party had reached floor 6, which meant you were closer and closer to the deepest part of the dungeon and hopefully rescuing Laios’ sister, Falin. The last thing you expected to see on floor 6 were other adventurers, let alone your ex.

You were hesitant to call him an ex, since you two had never really been anything but a warm body in each other’s beds while living on the surface. But when your bodies collided and your eyes met his, you realized why you had taken a liking to him in the first place. He had been a butcher’s son, handy with an axe, and you had liked his big, strong hands. You almost fell right into him from the slippery dungeon floor, but those strong hands seemed to catch you like you were made of air. “It’s you,” he chuckled, setting you up straight and tucking a stray hair behind your ear. “Look at you … feels like it was just yesterday when we were on the surface, huh?”

Marcille looked like she didn’t want anything to do with your ex and his party, but Senshi was very kind to offer them food, if they needed it. Chilchuck seemed neutral, and Laios … you still couldn’t read Laios as easily as the rest of the party. He watched your ex like a hawk, standing behind you as if to protect you. Your ex’s hands were big, sure, but Laios was tall, his shoulders wide and intimidating even without the armor. Laios narrowed his eyes slightly whenever he saw your ex’s gaze roam over you, like he was undressing you with his eyes. And you weren’t sure if you caught it – it only lasted a second – but did Laios clench his hands into fists?

There wasn’t enough time in the world to dwell on it. Especially when you had ghosts seemingly pulling you into another area of the dungeon and waking up on a dirt path, a beautiful golden castle mounted ahead of you. Your party was initially confused, walking into the village and seeing monsters living harmoniously with humans. After becoming acquainted with the village, you and your friends were offered a warm, delicious meal with Yaad, the lord of the Golden Country. After Yaad explained the history of this village, you all were each given rooms to rest in for the night. The beds were small and cold, but far better than a bedroll.

You were used to Laios initiating with you every night, but by the time everyone went to sleep, he still didn’t call upon you. So you stood from your bed, adjusting the nightgown given to you, and walked across the hall to where Laios’ room was. You knocked on his door, and you heard the slip of a sword into a sheath behind the thin wood. He had been inspecting Kensuke for some reason, probably mulling over Yaad’s words. When he opened the door, he was dressed in loose pants and a linen shirt, droplets running down his neck. He must’ve just bathed. You couldn’t stop yourself from digging your nails into your palm.

“Can I come in?” You asked in a hushed voice, and he moved out of the way for you to step inside.

His room looked exactly like yours, but the sheets were ruffled from lack of sleep. Laios walked around you and sat on the edge of the bed, leaving you more confused than ever. You played with your hands as you stared at him, contemplating. “Is something wrong, Laios?” You inquired, stepping closer to him. “You’ve been acting weird even before we got here.”

His brow furrowed for a moment. “How do you figure?”

“Well, you …” Your tongue clicked. “You didn’t come to find me after everyone went to bed.”

He seemed to concede, shoulders dipping at your answer. Shifting on the mattress, he propped himself up against his pillows and moved Kensuke to lean against the wall. His silence was even more perplexing. This had to be the longest time Laios went without talking. He was a blabbermouth.

“I don’t understand,” you continued, walking over and sitting on the end of his bed. “Are you … are you angry with me?”

“No, no,” Laios was quick to reply, “I’m not angry with you. I’m just …”

You raised a brow, eager to hear his answer.

“That man you recognized. On floor 6,” he finally said, his fists clenching again at the memory. “I didn’t … I didn’t like the way he looked at you. And his tone. It was disrespectful to you. Unless I’m reading this all wrong.”

You were taken aback by his honesty. So he had been bothered by your ex. “Oh,” you replied, “well … me and him, we do have history, Laios. But it’s in the past.”

“I could tell.” He was picking at his nails now, any excuse not to meet your eyes. “Everyone has a life before the dungeon. It’s not about the past. I just … I didn’t like him. Or how he looked at you like … like he still wanted you. Or something.”

“Or something,” you repeated, nodding your head. A slow smile crept onto your lips at the realization. “Laios, are you jealous?”

His head jolted up, his eyes glued to his hands, searching for something unknown. Realization washed over his face, as if he hadn’t even considered this possibility. “Oh, gods,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “This whole day I’ve been trying to reconcile with what I’m feeling and I knew I wasn’t mad at you – maybe just mad at the circumstances – and none of it made sense, but now …” He finally met your eyes, a chuckle slipping past his lips. “I was just jealous. How did I not realize?”

“Maybe because we didn’t talk about it,” you offered in a low voice, reaching out and lacing your fingers with his. A jolt of electricity ran through your fingertips and all the way up your arm. You wished you could hide your reaction, but it was clear as day, making Laios shift in his spot. “Laios, we should talk –”

“You’re not leaving the party, are you?” His grip on your fingers went tight, and he didn’t even realize it.

“No,” you laughed, scooting closer and running your free hand over his face. His cheeks flushed instantly when you touched him. “I think … we should talk about what’s happening between us.”

Laios’ gaze went narrow as he processed your words. “Oh,” he said blankly, and then his eyes went wide. “Oh.”

“I just … because we’ve been doing this every night … it’s hard not to feel …” You sighed, unable to get the words right. But he seemed to understand, quick-witted as ever, squeezing your hand in encouragement. And then he smiled at you, all dopey and kind, and your heart began to pound. “I can’t help but think that the lines are being blurred between us. My feelings for you are … much deeper than what they were initially. And if you don’t feel the same way, that’s okay. I needed you to know. I’m sorry if this hurts … whatever our relationship is.”

He was still smiling, his other hand gripping your waist, pulling you even closer. “Well, I think –”

“And now I can’t help but wonder if maybe – just maybe – you feel the same way,” you started rambling, terrified to know how he was going to reply. “Because why would you feel jealous if you didn’t … I shouldn’t make assumptions. But I still wondered. And I can’t stop talking. Again, I don’t want this to ruin anything and I’m sorry if it does. My ex doesn’t mean anything to me anymore and he won’t ever again –”

Out of nowhere, Laios used his upper body strength to flip you onto your back, pinning you to the bed. Now your cheeks were flushed, completely caught off guard by the action. He sat in between your legs, his fingers just brushing over your waist, as he said, “I do. Feel the same. I feel like I’m the one who could’ve ruined this because I didn’t realize it sooner.”

You gave him a sad smile, reaching up to cup his chin. “You couldn’t ruin anything.”

He leaned into your palm when your hand moved to his cheek, humming under his breath. He then leaned down, his body just barely pressing against yours, as if he craved your body heat. Like a moth to a flame.

“Can we not talk about your ex ever again?” He muttered, his hands running up and down your sides. “Because when I saw him today, all I could think about was …” He stopped himself abruptly.

“What?” Your curiosity peaked.

“I’m going to sound like a jealous brute,” he sighed dramatically, nose brushing against yours as his hands moved higher, thumbs grazing over the underside of your breasts. The material of your nightgown was so thin that your peaked nipples were already visible. “I just … couldn’t stop thinking about all the times I’ve tasted you that he hasn’t. I wondered if he knew exactly how you liked it, which places made those funny sounds come out of your mouth. And then, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and all I wanted this whole day was to get you alone.”

You shuddered when his thumb brushed over one of your taut nipples, making your heel run down the back of his leg. His words alone made tingles run down your spine, but the second his hands were on you, you were properly soaked. The both of you lay there for a moment: him on top of you, nuzzling your nose, rolling his fingers over your nipples through your nightgown, eliciting breath hitches from your lips.

It was so slow, so patient, so good, but had you wanting more. And you couldn’t stop the words coming out when you blurted, “I want to have sex.”

He paused, opening his eyes for a moment, making sure he heard you properly.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you said quickly, feeling awkward. But why were you so shy all of a sudden? It’s not like he didn’t have his tongue deep inside your pussy every night. Maybe it was because there was a question still lying underneath the surface. “Why ... why don’t you want me to help you finish after you eat me out? Sometimes you just … walk away to take care of yourself.”

Laios’ face went bright red, and then he buried his face in your neck. “I’m so embarrassed.”

Your hand pushed back his cropped, blonde hair, trying to soothe his racing heart. “Why are you embarrassed?”

“Because it’s … it’s big,” he sighed and lifted his head. “There. I said it. It’s just big. And the last person who saw it made me feel super self-conscious about it.”

You couldn’t help but snort. “You’re embarrassed because you have a big dick?”

His pretty golden eyes were serious, but it looked like he wanted to laugh with you. “Please, don’t make it sound trivial.”

“It’s not trivial, it’s just …” You went to cup both his cheeks. The way he looked at you was unlike anything you ever experienced. You wondered why it took you so long to realize he felt the same. “I would never make you feel self-conscious about anything. I like everything about you, Laios.”

Your words had him melting, leaning back down into you and kissing you slowly. It was only when his tongue slipped into your mouth that his hand snaked down between your legs, just cupping your soaked entrance, the one thing he loved to eat more cheesecake. Realizing that you weren’t wearing any underwear had him reeling. “Gods …” He moaned into the kiss, his fingers simply running down your soaked folds.

As his lips broke away from yours, you asked in a tone as sweet as barometz, “Do you want to have sex, Laios?”

“Yes,” he replied, voice desperate. “Yes, please.”

Your hands went to the hem of his loose, linen shirt, breaking your kiss again to lift it over his head. For the first time, you were able to see what he looked like underneath all the armor. His shoulders were wide-set, his torso soft while also being oddly defined. Most tall-men your party encountered thought Laios was on the slender side, not believing how strong he was. But once your eyes beheld his biceps, you knew how wrong they all were. He was built and muscular and – gods, you could admire him for hours.

Laios stopped your hands from going any further, a pleading look in his eyes. He pushed your nightgown up and bunched it at the waist. “Can I taste you first?”

You nodded quickly, already intoxicated by the way he kissed you, the way he smiled at you, all eager and excited to bury his face in your pussy. It didn’t take him long; he was lightning fast, moving down your body and lifting your legs on his shoulders so he could eat you out easier. His tongue dove into your folds immediately, and he groaned at the first taste. You were acutely more aware every night that he could do this for hours, just lapping at you lazily, bringing you to orgasm over and over again. No monster compared to the way you tasted.

His nose bumped your clit as he tongued your leaking hole, practically whimpering at every drop of your wetness that reached his mouth. Large, calloused hands wrapped around your thighs, making sure they didn’t close and digging into your flesh. Your own hands fisted into the sheets, your ass lifted off the bed, but you could still grind your hips against his face. Soft whines left your lips, nothing compared to the groans Laios was making as he ate you like he didn’t have a three-course meal just an hour ago. You almost wondered if you should tell him to quiet down, afraid of the others hearing, but you were too lost in the pleasure to care.

It was clear to you the closer you got to reaching your peak that Laios wasn’t keen on stopping. And as much as you truly wanted to cum all over his tongue, you thought it was important that you both have this new experience together. It took you a few seconds to finally gather the courage to say something, his tongue feeling too good as he swirled it around your sensitive clit. “Laios,” you called, and then a little louder, “Laios.”

He lifted his head, your juices dripping down his chin. A primal urge made him want to dive back into you, but he controlled himself. His tongue licked at your essence around his mouth, and you shuddered at the sight.

“I want you inside me,” you whispered. “Is that okay?”

“Yes, yes,” he muttered hoarsely, placing your legs so delicately back on the bed, as if they were made of glass. “Of course.” He so desperately wanted to taste you again, but he was even more excited for this, to finally feel something other than his hand wrapped around his cock. You were the first person he ever tasted, but it had been quite a while since he was truly intimate with someone, to slide into someone and feel them clench around him.

As you tugged off your nightgown, Laios began to work at the ties of his pants. But his hands stopped as they came undone, glancing up at you with hesitation. You looked so pretty sitting in the middle of his bed, waiting for him, naked and vulnerable. He felt silly for feeling so self-conscious, especially when you were so beautiful like this.

“Laios,” you cooed, caressing his arm, “there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. And if you don’t want to, then we can stop.”

He almost choked on a laugh. “Trust me,” he replied, “I want to.”

After another beat of stalling, Laios finally stepped out of his bottoms and blushed pink from ear to ear. His cock was … well, it certainly was big. You sympathized with him; if anyone told you something about your body during sex, you would focus on that forever. But there was nothing for him to be embarrassed about. Truthfully, most males would kill to have what he did. His cock was thick and long, a few veins trailing down the shaft, curving up at his pretty red tip that was dripping with precum. You got even more wet just from staring at it, wondering what he would finally feel like inside of you.

Your mouth opened to say something, anything to make him feel better, but he was already talking: “I need a distraction so I don’t think about you staring at it.” He crawled back onto the bed and between your thighs, immediately pressing his lips to yours. You could taste yourself still on his mouth, and your arms wound around his shoulders instantly. His teeth tugged at your bottom lip, and he asked, “Can I just … ramble about monster facts for a minute?”

You blinked, not expecting that. Laios released your lower lip and sighed, clearly still nervous. “It’ll help me get over this feeling. I swear. Or if you want to stop this, we can. I’ll … I’ll understand –”

“Laios,” you huffed, your mouth pulling back into a sweet smile, “I want you to do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” he muttered, nuzzling his face back into your neck, placing sloppy kisses. “Did you know that … that harpies almost exclusively have the head of a female human and it is unknown if male harpies exist?”

His voice was muffled against your neck, but you could tell he was desperate and aching. You felt his hard length against your stomach, smearing precum on the exposed skin. “Really?” You breathed out, trying to engage with him but completely failing when he licked a stripe up your neck. A moan escaped your lips.

“There’s also … there’s, uh …” He was struggling to talk now, grasping his cock and giving it a few quick pumps before teasing the head against your dripping wet folds. Your legs instinctively opened wider for him, hoping to whatever gods were out there that you could take his cock. “There also exists a seabird variant of harpies called … called, Sirens. Their wings and … their – their tail look like a seagull’s.”

You could hardly breathe as you asked, “What else, Laios?”

He began to push inside you slowly, letting you adjust with each inch. “Okay, okay … uh … bicorns … bicorns hate – oh, fuck.” Just the feeling of your tight warmth wrapped around his cock had him biting into your shoulder, like you were the forbidden fruit. He could hardly string together a word, could hardly think, as he sank deeper and deeper into you, his whole body shaking. “Bicorns hate … hate virtue. They prefer – shit – immorality. It is believed that … doing all seven deadly sins will … will allow an individual to approach a bicorn – fuck. Fuck. It feels –”

When he was finally buried to the hilt, all he could do was breathe into your neck. You whined, locking your legs around his waist. The stretch was unbelievable; your walls gripped him like a vice. But it was even better than you could’ve imagined. If you had thought originally that the night would go this way, you would’ve at least brushed your hair. Laios didn’t care though, inhaling the flowery scent as he nosed your pretty strands. You couldn’t even comprehend – whether it be from the stretch of his thick cock inside you or the overwhelming amount of butterflies in your stomach – how you were so lucky to have found him.

Not to mention, you felt even luckier that this wasn’t happening on a cold dungeon floor.

With one hand carding into his hair, you chuckled under your breath, “Had enough of reciting monster facts?”

“Mmhmm …” He groaned, unable to form a sentence. You finally felt him pull back before pushing into you in one fast, deep thrust, making you shiver. Your body was hardly used to feeling this full, but you wanted him so badly that it was humiliating, a pink blush tinting your nose. “You feel so good,” he muttered.

You pulled on his hair, and his head lifted from your neck. His lips were swollen from kissing you. Yours probably looked the same. But that didn’t matter right now as he held your gaze and began thrusting into you a little faster. His eyes were the color of melted gold, flecked with amber and brown, and you felt like you could stare into them forever while he fucked you. Laios lifted one of your legs higher on his waist, but his other hand stayed around your middle, keeping you nestled against him.

“Laios,” you whimpered, feeling him nudge your clit with each roll of his hips. Despite his desperation, his pace was tender and relaxed, making sure you were adjusting to his size. He knew he was big – clearly, it was something he’d been self-conscious about for a while – but the way you were looking at him right now … he’d never felt more at ease, more special. This was all he ever wanted: to be close to someone like this, to find intimacy with someone he had true feelings for. All the other times had been stepping stones, leading to this moment with you, where your warmth enveloped him so nicely and your gaze made him want to cum on the spot.

His hips began to move a little faster, pushing even deeper inside you, as his mouth swallowed your moans in a hungry kiss. Face going hot, you trembled, and his cock pulsed inside you with each pass. Your nails dragged down his shoulder blades, leaving marks for him to examine later, like a predator with its prey. Goosebumps raised on his skin, feeling himself get closer … and closer … and closer. If you kept digging your nails into him like that, he’d surely lose his grasp on reality. But you just felt so good, so warm, and he craved you. Craved you like you were his last meal.

“Laios,” you croaked out when his lips broke from yours, “Laios, are you close?”

He could hardly say anything else but, “Mm …”

You thought you could get there by now from his tongue teasing you earlier, but you needed a little more friction. Bumping against your clit wasn’t enough. “Okay, okay,” you rambled, reaching down between your legs to touch yourself. “Just hold off for another minute. I’ll get there.”

Laios opened his eyes, realizing what you were doing, immediately envious of your own hand. “No, let me,” he murmured, voice like honey, and found your clit easily. “Then I can taste you on my fingers after.” His excitement made you laugh, which brought a smile to his own lips.

He shifted a little, pulling back so only his tip rested inside you, and fucked back into you at a different angle, one that brushed against your special spot. The stimulation of both your clit and g-spot had your back arching, whimpers slipping out of your lips like a chant.

“Is … this … better?” He asked, panting after each word.

Your voice was strained when you answered, “Y—Yes.”

His balls slapped against the underside of your ass, and he knew how close he was, but all he cared about at this moment was cumming together. He needed to see that look on your face when you reached your peak. He only got to see it a few times, when he lifted his eyes while tasting you, watching the way your lips parted and sweat ran down your forehead.

His fingers rubbed tight circles on your aching clit – knowing exactly what you liked – and you were close. So, so close already. Laios had a way of touching you that felt inquisitive, yet effortless. Like he wanted to learn which spots made you moan the loudest, while also already knowing without even touching you. You grew to like him not just because of his dopey grin, his protectiveness, or his positivity, but also for the way he was willing to learn with you, the way he needed you. And right now, he needed you to cum more than anything.

Tension coiled in your lower abdomen, making you gasp out, “Laios – fuck – Laios, I’m gonna –”

“I know, I know,” he rasped. His pace was nearing on brutal, his whole body shaking as he held off his release for you. “Together. We’ll – together.”

And then, your muscles tighten. You clenched around his cock, and it only took one more thrust against your g-spot to have you falling apart underneath him. You put a hand over your mouth as you cried out, careful of the rest of the party hearing. Your eyes rolled back, his fingers stroking your clit through it, and it all just felt too, too good. Your orgasm went on forever, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you. As your walls spasmed around his cock, he groaned low, finally spilling into you. His hips stuttered. His mouth gasped for air against your lips, as he felt a ripple of relief from emptying himself inside you. He bit into your shoulder again to muffle his own noises. Your pussy convulsed, milking every last drop, and you were pretty sure you saw stars.

Once the aftershocks hit you both, he slumped against you, breathing in the scent of your hair again. Your fingers traced small circles onto his back muscles, your chest rising and falling with the fast beat of your heart. When his cock went soft inside you, his fingers finally left your clit and he brought them to his mouth. Your eyes were half-lidded as you watched him wrap his lips around his fingers and suck the juices off, moaning at the taste. He looked like an intricate painting; you couldn’t help but admire the sight.

His fingers left his mouth with a wet pop, and he whispered in a voice so soft you almost didn’t hear him, “You just taste so, so good.”

Laios kissed you again, slow and full of affection. You didn’t even care that he was still inside you; you could stay like this forever, pressed into his warm skin. Gods, you liked him so much that you immediately whimpered as his tongue slid into your mouth, and when he shuddered at your fingers on his back … you couldn’t believe you once questioned if he returned your feelings. You had both been so oblivious.

His mouth moved away from yours and he cupped your cheek. He took a moment to memorize the dusting of red across your face, the way your eyes hardly opened after sex, and then said, “Are you hungry? I think we both need a snack. It’s been a long night already.”

You giggled. “You had me at hungry.”

#my fics #fic: forbidden fruit #laios touden x reader #laios touden smut #laios x reader #laios touden x reader smut #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi x reader #dunmeshi #laios touden #laios dungeon meshi #one shot: forbidden fruit #fic: please eat

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tokkosoap · 7 months ago

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X-men but foods

I got this idea at like 10 pm yesterday and spent ages drawing them all so have fun(some of the foods make sense, some were just cus they looked cool)

List if anyones curious:

Logan:Durian(stinky spikey man)

Scott and Jean: Cherries

Remy: Dragonfruit

Rogue: Coconut

Kurt: Blueberry

Jubilee: Pop rocks(specifically bubblegum)

Morph: Yellow pear

Storm: Star fruit

Cable: Mangosteen

Hank: Blue plum

Ft jean and Scott connected

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floofcatalogue · 6 months ago

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sumikko gurashi apple plush x x x x

#plushie #sumikko gurashi #sanx #food #fruit #apple #plushies #plushcore #kidcore #soft toy #stuffies #stuffie #toycore #san x #plushblr #png #transparent png

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livstarlight · 7 months ago

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I changed my mind about the headcanon of Zoro kissing Sanji right after defeating Mihawk and becoming the world's greatest swordsman. No, I have one better. Zoro yes defeating Mihawk and getting the title BUT instead of... you know, kissing Sanji, he full blown proposes.

"Cook!"

"What?!"

"Marry me!"

"... excuse me WHAT?"

"I said marry me!"

"What the fuck are you on, mosshead! Did Mihawk hit your head too hard or something?"

"I'm serious, cook! I am the best in the world, you can't not marry me."

"How... how does that have to do with anything... THIS IS NOT HOW YOU PROPOSE TO SOMEONE YOU DUMBASS."

All of this with Zoro completely dripping in blood and Sanji screaming his heart out while everyone just watches completely dumbfounded.

"WHAT? DID YOU WANT FLOWERS OR SOMETHING?"

"WELL A LITTLE EFFORT WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE YES. DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT WOOING YOU BRUTE-"

Usopp is the only one who dares to speak: "Is he... is he considering it... they are not even together..."

#he ends up saying yes btw #for obvious reasons #the crew is beyond itself but they are happy for them #nami is just there collecting the fruits of the bet everyone had going on #zosan #zoro x sanji #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #one piece #one piece fanfiction #one piece headcanons

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starchaser45 · 2 months ago

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The pendragon siblings are so fruity I can't with them Arthur offers to compete in a death match instead of Merlin and Morgana going to basically reveal herself to Gwen to give her a chance to survive by her side in one episode COME ON YOU GUYS ARE GAAAYYYYYY!!!!

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ylangelegy · 18 days ago

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babe for the weekend ❄️ soonyoung x reader.

Everybody thought that you and Kwon Soonyoung were a foregone conclusion, but then he had to go and change the ending. Six years after the breakup, he decides to come home for the holidays— and now, you’re stuck between your pride, his dreams, and the road not taken. ‘Tis the damn season, indeed.

୨ৎ pairing: dance studio ceo!soonyoung x lawyer!f!reader. ୨ৎ genre/warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, romance. alternate universe: non-idol. mentions of food, alcohol consumption, swearing/cussing. post-breakup dynamics and quarter-life crises. high school lovers to exes. law terms. spiteful reader. rated T for languages and themes. title and synopsis shamelessly reference taylor swift's t'is the damn season. ୨ৎ word count: 16.6k ୨ৎ footnotes: this is part of @camandemstudios's winter with you collaboration! ´◡` thank you so much for trusting me with soonyoung. also eternally grateful to @shinwonderful and @biniaiahs for beta reading. may revisit this to do edits in the future, but for now, we settle.

in the words of a, i am the 'harbringer of doom and angst.' happy holidays, everyone! + tag list in the comments.

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ winter with you masterlist ┆ my masterlist ┆ the official babe for the weekend playlist.

This has to be the universe’s idea of a joke.

It’s like the time your professor refused to round up your grade in college and you almost got set back a semester. Or that one day at work, where the forecast said it would be sunny— only for you to get caught in a downpour on your way home.

The universe had to be an aspiring amateur comedian, because why else would Kwon Soonyoung be in front of you right now?

“What?” Soonyoung chirps. “No ‘hello’ for your favorite ex?”

Six years. It’s been six years since you last saw each other, and those are the opening words he decides to go with.

You’re torn between smacking him upside on the head and strangling him. Maybe both, you muse, as you survey the ways he’s changed over time.

His hair is blonde now. His once-pale skin is a little more tan. And— as much as you loathe to admit it— he looks more fit. You can vaguely make out the muscles straining underneath his casual wear.

Dancer’s build, you begrudgingly concede.

When Soonyoung calls you out in a bid to snap you out of your daydream, you physically flinch. Your name still rolls right off his tongue like honey. You don’t have the right to call me that, a small, bitter voice says in the back of your mind. You don’t have the right to talk to me at all.

“Hellooo,” he sing-songs, waving one of his palms inches away from your face. “Did you have a stroke or something?”

That prompts you to speak.

After all that time, your first words to Soonyoung in six years are cold and curt: “Get out.”

A corner of Soonyoung’s mouth twitches upward. The infuriating bastard. He probably anticipated a reaction like this from you.

He straightens until he can shove his hands into the pockets of his winter coat. “I don’t see any signs that say I’m not allowed to be here,” he says. “Did I miss it?”

He makes a whole show of looking around your family’s restaurant. A part of you is grateful that you’re the only one on today’s shift; your parents would’ve undoubtedly had over-the-top reactions to Soonyoung’s sudden reappearance. It’s only through years of conditioning that you’ve learned to keep your reactions under control, even when the world throws you curveballs such as these.

Your expression is perfectly blank as you dryly note, “There’s a sign out on the front, actually.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Yeah. No strays allowed.”

Soonyoung shakes his head. “Brutal,” he says, but there’s still that hint of a smile on his face.

If you strained your ears, you might hear the trace of affection in his tone. The thought of it— of Soonyoung holding any sort of fondness for you— makes you want to scream.

You manage to tamp that urge in favor of jerking your head towards the front door of the restaurant. “Out,” you repeat, your gaze briefly flickering to the CCTV in the corner of the store.

Your father would probably kill you if he found out you were turning someone away. A supposed family friend, at that. But this wasn’t just a customer, and you weren’t sure if you could still call Soonyoung a friend, and it’s been six years, damn it.

“Is that any way to treat a customer?” Soonyoung goads.

“You’re not a customer.”

“You haven’t given me the chance to be.”

“That’s because you’re not welcome here.”

“It’s pretty bad for business that—”

That wasn’t going to fly. You weren’t about to take business advice from Kwon Soonyoung of all people.

One minute, you’re behind the counter with your hands clenched into fists. The next, you’ve closed the space between you and Soonyoung. He falters as you approach, looking almost like he’s holding his breath.

It’s not a slap that greets him. Most definitely not a hug, either.

Instead, one of your hands dart out until you’ve got a firm grip on his ear.

Soonyoung is still taller than you, but he folds over at your rough tug. “Ow, ow, ow!” he screeches, his own hands flying out of his pockets in a futile attempt to either push you off or shield himself.

In his split second of indecision, you manage to haul him back over to the entrance. Because you had been manning the fort, you hadn’t even noticed that it had started to snow. The first of the year.

You don’t have the time to appreciate it. Your focus is entirely on channeling your energy to shove Soonyoung out of the restaurant. He stumbles out on the sidewalk where he rubs his offended ear with a scandalized expression on his face.

A lesser man might have snapped back, might have demanded an explanation for being manhandled so shamelessly. To your sheer annoyance, Soonyoung only laughs.

It’s a full-bodied sound, one that practically bounces off the street. He laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs, clutching at his stomach like this is the funniest thing in the world.

Remember how, earlier, you thought you might scream? Now, you truly almost do. Because the years have passed— but Soonyoung still laughs exactly the same.

You don’t stick around to find out if you do end up yelling. Instead, you march right back into the restaurant with your chin jut up in a show of confidence. You can hear him trying to choke out words between his laughing fit, something akin to, “Hey, wait—,” but you’re not about to hear him out.

Not today, not ever.

It’s the most satisfying feeling in the world, getting to slam the door in his face.

“Why did you come home?”

“I got hungry.”

“ — tried to give me business advice! Me, business advice!”

You punctuate your exclamation with a slap to your office table. Jihoon and Wonwoo are a little too familiar with your fits of passion to be surprised; Wonwoo barely looks up from his round of Block Blast, while Jihoon only shakes his head.

“Sounds like something he would do,” Jihoon offers empathetically.

You lean back into your chair, your expression contorted into one of utter frustration. The three of you rarely meet in your office, but you had called a DEFCON 1 situation in light of recent events. Jihoon and Wonwoo lounged leisurely in front of you as you ranted your heart away for the past thirty or so minutes.

“Who does he think he is?” you seethe. “Showing up here unannounced!”

Wonwoo pipes up. “It wasn’t unannounced.”

Jihoon silences Wonwoo with a warning glare. You can only glance between the two boys before Jihoon heaves out a sigh and admits, “We knew that he was coming back to visit.”

The look of betrayal on your face must be clear as day, because Wonwoo guiltily pauses his game to flash you a sheepish grin. “We met up with him— yesterday, was it?”

Yesterday. “And you didn’t tell me?!” Your voice is a little shrill and a whole lot incredulous.

Ever the pragmatic one, Jihoon quips, “You’ve always said that you want nothing to do with him. I presumed that involved knowing whether or not he was coming home.”

Damn it. Jihoon got you there.

You’re not sure what you would’ve even done, really, if you’d been given a heads up. Would you have boarded up the doors to your home? Would you have sought him out yourself in a prideful bid to maintain some twisted sort of upper hand?

You’re still mulling it over when Wonwoo delicately says, “Look at the bright side. You probably won’t run into him again.”

Jihoon attempts to distract you by getting you to talk about your most recent client— a stubborn chicken shop significantly behind on mortgage payments. You give in, if only because you want so very badly to believe in Wonwoo’s words.

You should’ve known better, really, because of course your friends would lie to you.

That’s the only thought on your mind as you keep your eyes firmly ahead and away from the smirking blonde in your peripheral vision. Already, you’re contemplating the bodily harm you’ll cause Jihoon and Wonwoo for leaving out this vital piece of information.

But you can’t be wrathful. Not in front of the kids.

The gaggle of twenty-something elementary students sit cross-legged on the floor, their gazes all trained on the newcomer. They’re whispering excitedly among themselves, so much so that Teacher Kang has to clap more than thrice to recapture their attention.

“Now, everyone,” Teacher Kang announces. “Do you remember what I said about having a very special guest for today?”

A high-pitched chorus of “Yes, Teacher Kang,” resounds throughout the auditorium.

“Very good. Can we please give a warm welcome to Teacher Kang’s friend, Soonyoung?”

Soonyoung makes his way to the front of the gaggle with an easy grin and a relaxed gait, like he belongs here. And maybe a part of him does. This was his turf once, too.

“‘Soonyoung’ is a bit long, isn’t it?” he says, speaking to both Teacher Kang and the kids in front of them. It’s a small grace that he isn’t calling you out just yet, though you wouldn’t put him past it.

“Everybody!” Soonyoung proclaims. There’s a bit of a flourish in how he moves, how he looks down at the awe-stricken kids with a bright, wide smile. He puts up one hand to his face and bends his fingers in an imitation of a paw. “You can call me Hoshi!”

The kids echo it back to him— “Teacher Hoshi!” “Hello, Mr. Hoshi!” “What’s a Hoshi?”— while Teacher Kang only smiles fondly. For your part, you keep your expression perfectly controlled, even though you’re telepathically trying to get Soonyoung to combust.

It’s one thing for him to waltz back into your life like it’s nothing. It’s another thing for him to come around and introduce himself with the pet name you used to have for him.

Suddenly, you’re teenagers again, visiting the zoo on a field trip. The two of you had tried so hard to hide from your chaperones that you were holding hands in the pockets of your winter coats. In hindsight, it had been the most obvious thing in the world.

Soonyoung had excitedly pointed out the Bengal tigers lounging in their enclosure, and you joked about how similar he looked to them. 호랑이의 시선. Horangi-ui siseon, the tiger’s gaze.

Soon after, you took to calling him Hoshi when he was on stage, when the two of you were arguing over something petty, when you wanted to be affectionate. Hoshi, let’s get ice cream today. Hoshi, take me to the library. Hoshi, I love you!

Something that was once yours alone was now everybody else’s, too. It bothers you more than you care to admit.

You’re so caught up in reminiscing that you almost miss Teacher Kang saying, “Soonyoung— er, Hoshi— is going to help us with the Christmas showcase. He’s a very popular dancer in Seoul, so we’re happy to have him here.”

The betrayal that rises up within you is sharp albeit short-lived. Teacher Kang didn’t owe you a warning the same way that, say, Jihoon or Wonwoo might’ve. But still. Any indication at all would have been nice.

One of the younger students— an absolute sweetheart by the name of Iseul— tugs at your pant leg. You lean down so she can cup her little hand over your ear.

“Do you know Mr. Hoshi?” she whispers conspiratorially.

How fitting, for a five-year-old to pose the million-won question. It’s a loaded gun of a query even though there’s technically no right or wrong answer.

Of course you knew ‘Mr. Hoshi’. Your mothers were best friends. The two of you were in the same classes. You dated him throughout high school. You knew him well, like the back of your hand.

That was before he got up and left without so much of a glance over his shoulder, though.

You give Iseul a tight-lipped smile. “I knew him once,” you answer. It’s not quite the truth, but it will have to do for now.

“Why did you come home?”

“Took a wrong turn and ended up here.”

“Are you going to ignore me the whole time, or…?”

You answer Soonyoung’s prodding by ignoring him.

The past week has been largely uneventful, sans Soonyoung’s occasional effort to poke his nose into your business. He at least had the decency to not show up at your family’s restaurant again, and whether or not he knows of your office is yet to be seen.

Your interactions with him have been largely limited to the one-hour a day that you’ve dedicated to Yangjeong Elementary School.

Yangjeong was yet another thing that the two of you shared. You were once a pig-tailed menace who outran all the boys on the playground, and Soonyoung was your snot-nosed partner-in-crime.

Planning Yangjeong’s Christmas showcase has been your yearly commitment for as long as you can remember. Even when you were off at college, you had made it a point to set aside time for it. Volunteers have come and gone throughout the past, though this year’s volunteer was undeniably one of the more annoying ones.

“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually, you know.” Soonyoung practically flops himself onto the desk in front of you, the sudden weight of him making the table creak. As you turn your face away, you catch sight of the pout beginning to form on his lips.

You almost snipe at him, something along the lines of stop that or grow up or that doesn’t work on me anymore. You hold your tongue, in favor of wordlessly getting up to move to a different chair.

Soonyoung is right. You will have to talk to him soon enough.

But as you sit as far away from him as possible, readying yourself for the day ahead, you can at least decide that today will not be that day.

Preparations for the showcase involve discussing the program with the teachers and readying the students for their performances. It’s never anything spectacular— just your run-of-the-mill rotation of tone-deaf singing and middling dances— but the town’s overzealous parents are always more than happy to indulge the show.

Today, you and Soonyoung are set to meet with Teacher Kang to discuss the showcase’s overarching theme.

The sixty-something-year-old woman had been your teacher as well, and so it’s understandable why she’s eyeing the pair of you with poorly concealed amusement. There’s a palpable tension between you and Soonyoung, though a significant majority of the awkwardness is likely from your end.

“Have the two of you not kept in touch?” Teacher Kang asks as she sets down two mugs— coffee for you, hot chocolate for Soonyoung.

“No,” the two of you say simultaneously.

Soonyoung steals an all-too obvious glance. You keep your eyes on the coffee in front of you.

Teacher Kang— bless her heart— decides not to push it. She settles in her own seat, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea.

“The principal wants all the kids to do a number. Nothing too flashy, but something that will give everyone a chance to be on stage.” The elderly teacher sips at her drink before going on. “That’s why I called you in, Soonyoung.”

“I’m the reinforcements,” he jokes.

Teacher Kang gives a short laugh in response. “Something like that.”

She turns to you, then, with that same motherly simper that you’ve never been able to say ‘no’ to. You wonder if she’s doing this on purpose— pulling all the stops to get you to agree to what she’s going to say next.

“I know your hands are going to be full with the program and the staffing,” she starts. “But you’ll work with Soonyoung, won’t you?”

What kind of person would you be if you said ‘no’? If you threw a fit and demanded for Soonyoung to be thrown out?

“Of course,” you say, the word gritted out through your teeth.

At your side, Soonyoung lets out a loud cough to disguise his grumble of ‘bullshit’. You fight the urge to kick him in the shins.

The beguiling expression on Teacher Kang’s face is merciless. At this point, she’s no longer hiding the way that she’s watching you and Soonyoung’s heatless bickering. And when she comments on it, when she says “You two haven’t changed,” you almost walk out then and there.

I’ve changed, you want to insist. He’s changed. We’re both changed; we had to.

Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been worth it. The breakup, the distance, all of it.

Soonyoung recovers before you do.

“Ah, before I forget!” He digs for something in his pants pocket, which he eventually holds out for Teacher Kang. “You asked me for this, the last time we saw each other.”

Despite yourself, you can’t help but try and crane your neck to catch sight of what had been handed over. Soonyoung catches the small shift and huffs out a laugh.

“You could just ask, you know,” he says, reaching back into his pocket.

Your protest of “I don’t—” is cut off by him shoving the same thing in your hand. Your fingers close around the calling card bearing the illustration of a tiger and a string of unfamiliar numbers.

Hoshi, A.K.A Kwon Soonyoung, it also says. Chief Executive Officer, Eye of the Tiger Dance Studio. B1, 47, Dogok-ro 27-Gil, Gangnam-Gu, Seoul.

“So you know where to find me,” he says with the world’s most obnoxious smirk.

“Why did you come home?”

“I forgot something.”

“From six years ago?”

“From six years ago.”

Everybody thought that you and Soonyoung were a foregone conclusion.

It had been your stereotypical small town romance. You were kids together and then you were teenagers together. Some might have blamed it on forced proximity, but you like to think that the attraction and affection was real. That it wasn’t a matter of not having any other choice.

You had chosen Soonyoung happily. He had chosen you right back.

After an awkward dance of ‘will-they-won’t-they,’ the two of you started dating in your freshman year of high school. It was the type of thing that had everybody— your respective families, your mutual friends— breathing a sigh of relief. Something akin to finally.

For nearly four years, Soonyoung was it for you.

He was the one walking you home, the one you messed around with behind the library building. The two of you shared nearly every first that mattered. Every first that a high schooler could afford, anyway.

First date.

First kiss.

And, so it goes— first heartbreak.

Soonyoung had worn his heart on his sleeve; it was abundantly clear to everyone what he cared about. Two things in particular defined him: You, and dancing.

If you really tried, you can still remember the first time that Soonyoung had choreographed a dance himself. He had been young, scrappy, hungry— all the qualities that made it possible for him to tear up the stage and leave the rest of you in awe.

He went on to be president of your school’s modern dance club. He went on to compete, both in groups and by himself, and win.

You picked up on it, too, if only to indulge him. The two of you had your fair share of semi-viral dance covers and podium finishes at local contests. It was yet another testament to your partnership, to what everyone presumed would spell out endgame.

Except you only loved to dance, while Soonyoung lived for it.

“Come with me,” he had invited you the night before your high school graduation.

The two of you were supposed to be in bed, but your phone buzzed underneath your pillow and you couldn’t resist one last act of rebellion. You climbed out your window and met up with Soonyoung at your typical halfway point— the derelict playground the two of you have long since grown out of.

“To where?” you asked, your sandaled feet dragging through the sand beneath the swing. Uncharacteristically, Soonyoung hadn’t kicked off at all, instead opting to remain still.

His fingers had been tightly clenched around the rusting chain of the dated swing. You remember that much. In hindsight, he looked nervous.

There is a timeline where he might have proposed to you that night, might have asked for an early hand in marriage, with how on edge he was acting.

But, instead, you had prompted, “Have you finally decided on a uni?”

A beat.

His voice— soft and vulnerable— broke the silence of the February evening. “I’m not going to uni.”

You should have stopped swinging, then. Should have ground to a halt and grabbed Soonyoung by the shoulders. Should have called him crazy, insane.

Maybe you should have asked him to reconsider. That might have changed things.

Except you only kept on pushing. Back, forth. Back, forth. Like this was just a normal conversation and not a relationship-defining, life-altering moment for the two of you.

“I’m going to Seoul,” he elaborated, desperate to fill your silence. “I’m going to try and be a dancer. You— you could, too.”

Your answer was immediate. “I’m not as good as you.”

“You are,” he argued. A muscle in his jaw jumped, then. You’d known him for long enough to recognize his little tells and ticks, and that had been one of them. An indicator of a lie.

“I’m not.” You kept swinging, kept your face angled away from your boyfriend who was slipping through your fingers. “I’m going to uni, Soonyoung.”

“But—”

“But what?”

You’ll never admit this, but you had been cruel back then. You know that now.

There are things you would have done differently. You wouldn’t have snapped. You would have looked at him.

You were young, though, and angry. Your heart had been shattering in your chest and the only thing you could do was go back and forth on that creaking swing as Soonyoung tried to get through to you.

It hadn’t been that much of a surprise. Soonyoung’s general disinterest in college applications— and his constant rumblings about city life— had given you some idea of what his plans might be.

You just thought you would be more involved in it. That you wouldn’t be simply handed the decision, as if it were something you would have to accept.

Young, angry, and selfish to boot.

“Nothing.” Soonyoung eventually said. His words sounded like a concession, like some form of twisted acceptance. “You’ll go to uni.”

“And you’ll go to Seoul.”

In your peripheral vision, you had seen Soonyoung tilt his head away as if trying to hide his face from you. Six years is a long time ago. You can’t tell if he had cried, or maybe you’ve chosen to erase that from your memory.

“I’ll go,” Soonyoung repeated, an edge of defeat in his tone.

You swung, and swung, and swung, like it was the only thing keeping you tethered.

Back, forth. Back, forth.

The quiet had stretched, giving you a chance, an opportunity. To convince him otherwise. To change your own mind.

But—

“And I’ll stay,” you had responded.

That’s the thing about endings: They’re susceptible to change.

The first civil words you utter to Soonyoung are “Yeah, I think the kids will enjoy Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

He’d been spewing out prospects for the showcase’s group dance, though each idea had to be delicately shot down by Teacher Kang. Jingle Bell Rock? Performed three years ago. Baby, It’s Cold Outside? Perhaps not the most appropriate for children.

You can see from a mile away, the signs of Soonyoung’s growing frustration— the downturn of his lips, the furrow of his brows. When he recommends the Maria Carey classic, you throw him a bone. Just to try and wipe that look off his face.

You immediately regret your kindness, because Soonyoung’s head whips around and he looks at you with the most disbelieving, wide-eyed expression. You return the overreaction with a half-hearted glare.

“What?” you ask defensively.

“It’s—” He pauses, his eyes flicking to Teacher Kang. “Nothing, nothing.”

His jaw ticks. All that time apart and he’s still never learned how to get better at lying.

You don’t have to poke and prod to know what’s coming. Once your little meeting draws to a close— Teacher Kang eventually agreeing with Santa Claus Is Coming to Town— Soonyoung makes a beeline for your side, his excitement barely concealed.

“Is the world ending?” he asks you.

You attempt to shoulder past him, but he only follows you out of the classroom, sticking to your side. “You said we would have to talk eventually,” you point out. “Here’s your ‘eventually’. Don’t be too happy about it.”

“But I am happy about it,” he responds, his tone almost like that of a whining puppy. “Not too much. Just an appropriate amount.”

So help me, God.

You keep your gaze ahead as you walk out of the school. Soonyoung matches your pace, humming underneath his breath. You better watch out, you better not cry. You better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why.

Once the two of you are out the front doors of the school, you’re greeted to a light dusting of snow on Namyangju’s sidewalks.

“So,” Soonyoung says casually as you pull out your phone to check the weather for the rest of the day. “You don’t work full-time at your parents’ restaurant, do you?”

Involuntarily, a derisive snort of laughter escapes you. “Small talk? Really?”

There’s a boyish grin on Soonyoung’s face. “Gotta take advantage of you being chatty,” he shoots back, which only prompts you to shake your head.

You could ignore him, like you always have. You probably should. That had always been Soonyoung’s style.

Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.

And yet—

“No,” you grumble, your eyes still absentmindedly scanning your weather app. “I only work at the restaurant part-time.”

“The rest of the time?”

“I didn’t realize this was going to be a talk show.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m primetime’s most charming host—”

“Law. I work at a law firm.”

The answer is ripped from you in a bid to avoid Soonyoung’s theatrics, and you find yourself blinking with mild surprise, like you hadn’t prepared to divulge the detail at all. Soonyoung notices, and his lips curl in a smug smirk.

“I know,” he says simply. “Jihoon told me.”

You make a mental note to berate your mutual friend as you exasperatedly say, “Why did you ask, then?”

“Because I wanted to hear it from you.”

Soonyoung lets his words hang, linger, before he goes on. It’s just four words, what he utters next, but it still threatens to tilt your world on its axis.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’ve heard your fair share of the platitude throughout the years. From Jihoon and Wonwoo, when you first got into law school. From your parents, when you passed the bar exam. From Teacher Kang, every December, when the Christmas showcase is pulled off.

This is something entirely different. This has you shoving your phone back into your bag, just to hide the way your hand had begun to twitch at the words.

“You can’t say stuff like that to your ex,” you snap.

Soonyoung’s answer comes without a moment’s hesitation. “Why? Being exes doesn’t take away the fact that I’m proud of you.”

Too much, too much, too much. It’s too much for your pride, your emotions, your heart. You wish you could take this for what it is— a compliment, some kindness— but the history goes deep, and the words feel like a scab being picked.

You do what you do best. You turn on your heel and begin to walk away.

Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn’t follow you. But he’s nothing if not vexatious, so he squeezes in a sing-song cry of “Byeee, attorney!” as you leave.

You quicken your pace just a little bit more.

Jihoon has the tendency to look like a kicked puppy when he’s being told off.

He doesn’t pout, no, but the expression on his face is a close thing as you give him grief over telling Soonyoung about you. Wonwoo, stuck in the middle as per usual, only calmly cuts into his lunch.

“Why did you have to tell Soonyoung about my work, huh?” you demand as you slice a little too forcefully into your bulgogi. “Giving him free ammunition or something?”

Jihoon finally gets a word in edgewise. “It’s because he asks about you,” he deadpans.

The thought of it is so insane that you bark out a laugh. The retort— bullshit!— is right on the tip of your tongue, but it dies out when Wonwoo bobs his head up and down.

Wonwoo has always been the less likely of the two to lie to you. You’re still a bit baffled even as the bespectacled man confirms, “Yeah. He asks me, too.”

“Asks what?”

“How you’re doing.” Wonwoo is so nonchalant about the whole affair that you’re tempted to call him out, too, but the lack of teasing in his tone gives you some sense of where his head is at. “What you’re up to. Stuff like that.”

Kwon Soonyoung has kept tabs on you.

In the years that you’ve tried to bury the memory of your friendship, of your relationship, Kwon Soonyoung has kept tabs.

“He—” You clear your throat when your voice comes out a little more high-pitched than usual. If Jihoon and Wonwoo notice, they mercifully don’t call you out.

You manage, “He could have just reached out to me.”

Jihoon, who had taken advantage of the reprieve to shovel some spoonfuls of rice into his mouth, swallows hard before speaking.

“Would you have answered?” he inquires, one eyebrow arched upward.

The truth— rarely plain, never simple— lies in a single, two-lettered word. No. No, you probably wouldn’t have answered. And even though you want to defend yourself, to claim otherwise, both Jihoon and Wonwoo would only do what you had wanted to do earlier. Call bullshit.

You let out a groan of defeat, slumping forward until your forehead has planted on the table in front of you.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Wonwoo chirps, and though you can’t see him, you can already imagine the smirk that he’s sporting.

“Why did you come home?”

“I thought there would be a high school reunion. I think I got the date wrong.”

The abundance of existing routines for Santa Claus Is Coming to Town makes it somewhat easier for you and Soonyoung to dumb it down for the kids.

You spend the next week keeping the students in line as Soonyoung teaches them how to shimmy, how to slide, how to do jazz hands. Every so often, you catch him at a loss— like when one of the younger boys tries to eat a crayon, or when the kids go into a scream-filled debate about the existence of Santa Claus.

These are things you’re used to. These are things you can handle.

Taking the crayons away or assuring the kids that Santa Claus is real is far, far easier than being in forced proximity with the one that got away. You’re reminded of that, now, as Soonyoung taps out for a breather and you sub in to go over the routine with the kids once more.

They’re more prone to listening to you, and so you easily get one run of the song down without a hitch. In the years that you’ve voluntarily choreographed for the showcase, you’ve never thought too much about the technicalities of your skill. You danced well enough to teach, to pull off a decent, child-appropriate routine. That had been enough.

But with the scrutinizing eyes of dance studio CEO ‘Hoshi’ following your every move, you feel that simmer of competitiveness in your stomach.

After three more runs of the number with the children, you let them go. As you go to catch your breath over one of the auditorium’s bleachers, you’re surprised by a hand holding out a Cool Blue Raspberry Gatorade.

“Is this still your poison?” Soonyoung asks with a hint of amusement as he settles into the space next to you.

You don’t answer. Briefly, your mind goes to those days— the salsa competitions, the random play dance events. How Soonyoung’s backpack always had his Game Boy Color, a change of clothes, and a blue Gatorade. The last one, always for you.

You uncork the drink, tilt your head back, and take a long swig. It’s as close to a confirmation that you’re going to give him.

The two of you sit in silence as the children begin to file out of the auditorium. Once the only two of you are left, Soonyoung speaks up, the words far too quiet in the otherwise empty room.

“You really are good, you know.”

It takes you a beat too long to realize that he’s talking about your dancing. If the two of you were on better terms, you might have teased him about that night on the playground, many years ago, when he had fibbed about you being as good of a dancer as he is.

As it is, you can only respond with an equally soft, “Thanks.”

Being the bigger person lasts for all of fifty seconds, though, because Soonyoung’s next words prickle.

“Could’ve been much bigger.”

“Excuse me?”

He freezes, an oh shit type of expression crossing his face. Even so, he doubles down. “I'm just saying,” he starts, his tone growing slightly more defensive. “You could have done much more—”

Your words are cold as your fingers close tighter around the half-empty bottle of Gatorade. “Am I not doing much where I am right now?”

“You’re twisting my words,” he shoots back.

“Those are exactly your words,” you fume.

It’s an old wound, one that Soonyoung poked with something sharp the second he returned home and made his presence known. You’ve done everything you can to ignore it, to keep the ache and the bitterness at bay, but you can’t help the way that it rises in your throat like bile. Something acidic, and foul, and unwelcome.

You get to your feet, leaving the offered Gatorade on the bleacher. “Sorry not all of us moved to the city and had a big break, Kwon,” you say as you begin to gather your things.

“Jesus Christ.” Soonyoung’s cuss is punctuated with a laugh, but it’s not like any of the laughs you’re used to from him. The sound is annoyed, pained. Almost hurt, even, though you try not to dwell on that.

Your relationship, your breakup, is an old wound that hasn’t completely healed. It’s been on the edge of festering ever since you lost contact with him.

And, now, as you leave him stewing in his emotions, you figure that it’s only going to fester some more.

Back then, the two of you had dubbed each other The Great Pretenders.

Dating in high school required a certain level of delicadeza. While your relationship was largely accepted and acknowledged, there were still a number of things you had to hide from your families and friends. Tear-stained faces after petty arguments. Hickies under the collars of your school uniforms.

It’s been years, but The Great Pretenders makes a reappearance when the pair of you have to face Teacher Kang the next day.

It goes unspoken that whatever the hell is going on between you two shouldn’t affect the showcase, shouldn’t be obvious to anyone that matters. And so the two of you update her on the kids’ progress, and sip the warm drinks that she offers, without any indication of having had a spat.

The check-in winds to a close after a couple of polite exchanges. Teacher Kang seems pleased with preparations so far, though she looks even more happy about you and Soonyoung’s perceived civility, which damn near bowls you over.

“By the way, Soonyoung,” Teacher Kang says conversationally as the three of you pack up for the afternoon. “How’s the studio?”

“All good.” He pauses, like he realized he hadn’t given that sufficient of an answer. “We’re usually busy around this time of year, but I have one of my staff keeping watch while I’m here. I plan to head back once the holiday season is over.”

You should’ve seen it coming, but something beneath your rib cage still twinges at the thought. You ignore the feeling in favor of shouldering your backpack.

“You shouldn’t wait so long before coming back again,” Teacher Kang half-jokes.

Soonyoung’s chuckle— a dry, unconvincing huff of ha-ha— is chased with the cool delivery of “I’ll try to make it a more regular thing.”

In the corner of your eye, you catch what Teacher Kang misses. The most imperceptible tick in Soonyoung’s jaw.

Liar, you think. Liar, liar, liar.

You and Soonyoung had mastered the art of pretending, sure, but you could never quite get away from each other.

“Why did you come home?”

“I’d forgotten the sound of my mother’s voice.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The snow returns with a vengeance.

It’s that time of winter where the streets are blanketed with white, where the sleet and rain makes conditions horrendous. You have no choice but to soldier through the soft hail as you make your way to the school, which you’re committed to reach come rain or shine.

Except when you get to the front doors, you’re greeted by a bemused-looking Soonyoung.

You pat down your snow-clad clothes as you look him up and down. “Where are you going?”

He answers your question with one of his own. “Haven’t you heard?” He holds up his phone. “Practice is cancelled today. Everybody’s snowed in.”

You were rarely the type to walk and text, so your phone has been sitting pretty in your pocket this whole time. When you go to check it, you find messages from Teacher Kang. Canceling showcase preparations in lieu of the weather. Stay safe and dry.

“I just found out myself,” Soonyoung says delicately.

Ah. That explained why he was the only other person around.

Disgruntled, you glance at your surroundings. There’s barely anyone present, and the snow is only seeming to fall heavier with each passing minute. You’d be lucky to get a cab at this rate—

“Or I could just drive you.”

You jump a bit. At what point had you started saying that last thought out loud?

“That’s not necessary,” you start to say, but Soonyoung is already fishing for his car keys in his jacket pocket.

“I know you hate my ass,” he responds bluntly. “But that hatred isn’t worth freezing to death over, no?”

His face is turned away from you, so there’s no way for you to tell what expression he’s sporting. It’s a small grace. Even though you dread the thought of being stuck in a small space with nothing but your thoughts and an old ghost to keep your company, you do hate the prospect of hypothermia even more.

That’s how you end up in the passenger seat of Soonyoung’s beat-up Hyundai Pony, which stutters and bucks every time he has to take a turn. It’s the very same car that you both learned to drive in, though it’s looking significantly worse for wear.

While nostalgia has proven to be a bitch, you can’t resist the jab on the tip of your tongue. “Jesus,” you breathe, your fingers tightening around your seatbelt as Soonyoung barely makes a corner. “I can’t believe this thing’s still alive.”

“That makes two of us,” he quips with a grimace.

Once the car miraculously makes its way past a snowed-out road, Soonyoung notes, “Remember when my dad first taught us how to get through rain?”

The memory brings the flicker of a smile to your face. “You were so scared you might run a squirrel over,” you say.

“You swore up and down that you’d never drive on a wet road,” Soonyoung shoots back.

“I still don’t,” you respond, glancing out the window for the lack of a better thing to look at. “I ask my dad to drive whenever it’s raining.”

Soonyoung’s next words make you pause. “Your dad hated me,” he huffs.

You let out a snort of laughter. “That’s not true. He really liked you.”

“He always left the room whenever I came in,” Soonyoung argues.

“He wanted to give us privacy.” You can’t help the sigh that slides past your lips, the sound edged with annoyance. “Really, you’ve got to stop blaming other people for why we didn’t work out.”

The words hang heavy in the din of the car. You wonder, for a second, if you’d been too callous, but there’s something like a rueful smile that tugs at Soonyoung’s face.

“Sorry. Coping mechanism,” he responds, and you don’t push any further.

An awkward couple of moments follow. Unfortunately for you, Soonyoung has never learned the art of tact— always pushing it just a little bit, right to the point where the tension is drawn like a rubber band.

“You know, my mom has been asking about you,” Soonyoung says conversationally as he turns into your neighborhood. “Says I should invite you over for lunch.”

Your grasp on the seatbelt is white-knuckled. It wasn’t like you were actively avoiding the Kwons; you were perfectly polite when you saw them in public, when you ran into them in the supermarket or at church. But it’s been years since you last stepped foot in their house, and for obvious reasons, too.

“I’m not ready for that,” you answer tersely.

Soonyoung is either oblivious to your agitation or ignorant of it. Regardless of which, he goes on, “I said the same thing. I guess she still thinks—”

“Let’s not go there.” Your tone is just cutting enough to give Soonyoung pause, to have him stammer to a halt as he pulls to a stop in front of your house. “I’m hot having this conversation with you, Soonyoung.”

He doesn’t apologize, though he does back down. “Right,” he mumbles as he parks. “Right.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt, careful to keep your gaze trained away from Soonyoung. “Thanks for the ride.”

Soonyoung is graciously quiet as you step out of his car, though that lasts for all of ten seconds— just enough for you to almost close the door on him— when he speaks up.

“Hey. For the record,” he starts, leaning over the center console to get in the last word. “I don’t blame anyone else for our breakup. I know whose fault it is.”

You raise an eyebrow. He throws you an infuriating grin before reaching over to pull the door close himself.

Soonyoung peels away, once again leaving you with more questions than answers.

“Why did you come home?”

“It’s cold in the city, during the winter.”

You and Soonyoung find yourselves doubling your efforts as the date of the showcase looms.

You spend more of your time with Teacher Kang. You extend a little more patience to the kids. You dance— dance the routines, dance with Soonyoung, dance around the truth.

But when the elephant in the room is as big as it is, ignorance is not an option. And Soonyoung never did learn how to keep his mouth shut.

It’s late in the evening, the two of you having pulled extra hours to work on decor. You’d felt like it was going a little too well with the way that the two of you were uncharacteristically cordial throughout the afternoon. But of course that was too good to be true, because just as you were packing up for the night, Soonyoung had to go and say—

“Are you happy here?”

You freeze midway into packing away the multi-colored, Christmas tree-shaped banners. That familiar flash of frustration, that inkling that he’s looking down on you, rises up again.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you say, and he’s immediately prickly.

“It’s nothing.” He shoves some of the props behind the stage, hasty in his pursuit to end the conversation as fast as possible. “Forget I said anything.”

“Come on,” you bristle. All the while, you’re also putting things back in place— your movements just a little more forceful than necessary. “Spit it out. You started it.”

“I was just asking.”

“You’re never ‘just asking’. Go on, say it.”

“You—”

The two of you are glaring at each other, now, your face red and Soonyoung’s fists balled at his side. When you speak, it’s with a tone that could cut through ice.

“Just because I chose to stay,” you say. “It doesn’t mean my dreams are smaller than yours.”

Soonyoung looks dumbstruck. His voice is impossibly tight; his words, reverberating in the otherwise empty hall.

“I wasn’t going to say your dreams are small. It’s just… We—” He backtracks, like the pronoun had been a scalding slip of the tongue. “You could’ve sold out auditoriums.”

Your answer is immediate, if not a little strained.

“A sold out auditorium doesn’t matter if the one person you want isn’t at the recital,” you say. “Some people find happiness right where they are, and this is mine.”

And that’s always been the crux of it, hasn’t it? Soonyoung has tried to make a name for himself in cities, in rooms full of people cheering his name. His definition of success was only achievable in quantity, in scale. Yours was different, and he could never really quite accept that.

There’s a moment where Soonyoung doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with a pinched expression on his face. He opens his mouth like he might say something—

“Oi! You two!”

You and Soonyoung jump, the tension that had been simmering between you two disappearing at the interruption. The school’s ancient janitor lingers by the door, squinting at you two.

“Whaddya think yer still doin’ here?” the old man croaks, wielding his broom in a fashion that still makes you recoil. “It’s past curfew! Geddout!”

Never mind the fact you and Soonyoung were now in your late twenties and long out of high school. The two of you still cower and meekly mumble, “Sorry, Mr. Cho.”

It’s snowing again when the two of you step out. Soonyoung’s face is set in stone as he mumbles, “Get in my car.”

Right. Like that was going to happen.

With a wordless huff, you begin to march in the opposite direction to him. “Hey,” he calls out. “Where are you going?”

“Home!”

“In this— hey, it’s snowing!”

“That’s what happens during the winter!”

You’d be a little more conscious about having a screaming match in the streets if it wasn’t nearly midnight. Something about the incessant snowfall and the cloak of darkness gives you just a little more courage to speak your mind, to toe that line that the two of you have so haphazardly drawn.

Soonyoung marches after you, his own misgivings about the weather momentarily forgotten. He’s raring to fight, and it shows in the way he stomps through the snow like an overgrown child.

“So that’s it, then?” he hollers from a couple of paces behind you. “You’re just going to stay here for the rest of your life, playing it safe? Work at the family restaurant because of filial piety? Marry— I don’t fucking know— guy-next-door Joshua Hong, and have babies, and—”

“What is your problem?!” you snap, rounding on Soonyoung. He skids to a halt, stopping himself from completely barreling into you. “Why are you acting like you know me?”

“Because I do!” His voice cracks on the last word. “I know you!”

“No, you don’t.”

“I know you very well.”

“From what? Jihoon and Wonwoo’s stories?” There’s a muscle straining in your neck from the way you’ve raised your voice, but you can’t find it in yourself to back down. “Think that’s enough to fill a six-year gap?”

That seems to get Soonyoung. “You never reached out to me! Not once!” he seethes.

“Well, neither did you!”

“I didn’t think—” His breath catches. He pushes on. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”

“That’s a bullshit excuse and you know it.”

“What’s your excuse, then?” he shoots back. “Come on. I’m dying to hear it.”

What’s your excuse, he’s asking. Why haven’t you reached out? If you were so angry and upset about the radio silence, why did you do nothing about it?

Several answers occur to you at once. There was Soonyoung’s own flimsy reasoning. I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.

There was something close to the truth, something a little too vulnerable to be spoken out loud. I was mad at you. I hated you for a bit. I think I still hate you even now.

There was the whisper of something treacherous, something damning. I was scared that I would only end up asking for you to come back.

None of those words come out. You stay standing across from Soonyoung in the wake of his challenge, your face flushed, your gaze narrow. He glares right back at you, unyielding in his pride and his pain.

The silence stretches. It becomes an answer in itself.

“Exactly,” Soonyoung says with a heavy exhale. There’s a spark of flint in his eyes, a flicker of something that could almost be likened to hurt. “It takes two people to break up. You always seem to forget that.”

As he begins to stalk away, you’re overcome with that feeling again. That heavy weight in your chest, put there whenever you know he got the last word, whenever he turned out to be right. Soonyoung has only taken about three steps away before you’re bending down and cupping some snow in your hands.

The hastily-made snowball hits Soonyoung on the back of his head. It splatters against his hair, leaving tiny, glistening flakes tangled in his blonde strands.

He freezes, but only for a moment. In the blink of an eye, Soonyoung is already crouching down to retaliate. He’s quicker and much more savage, and his revenge soars through the end to land squarely in your chest.

You stagger backward, the gasp catching in your throat. Oh, it’s on.

What ensues is the most ruthless snowball fight that your small town has seen. Snowballs are hurled with reckless abandon, the ice crystals getting everywhere from your clothes to your socks. Neither of you even bother to try and hide from the onslaught. The two of you take each other’s attacks, every hit punctuated with heatless insults that have simmered too long.

“You never called—” Soonyoung screeches, sending a cold sphere against your shoulder.

“You didn’t visit—” you shriek as you shape ammunition in your gloved hands.

“You deleted every photo of me off your Facebook—” A snowball to your side.

“You talked to Jihoon and Wonwoo, but not me—” Another square hit to Soonyoung’s chest, sending a puff of powdery snow up into his face.

“Coward!”

“Asshole!”

It feels like hours before the two of you let up.

The two of you are covered in snow from head to toe; your chests heaving from exertion, your cheeks ruddy from the cold. The heat of the exchange leaves you both puffing breaths that cloud the air between you.

There’s a hint of something in your stances. Something that feels like it belongs to another time— before the breakup, before the distance.

Quietly, Soonyoung starts to laugh.

His hands are on his hips and his head is tilted back. The flakes catch on his eyelashes, his hair, but he keeps his face upturned to the sky as he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

That old, familiar sound. The one that warms you up from the inside, whether or not you care to admit it. You’re doubled over, your hands on your knees, as you watch him look more and more like the boy you loved and lost.

“I hate you,” you choke out, though a corner of your mouth has twitched upward.

He doesn’t even look at you as he responds.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Missed you, too.”

“Why did you come home?”

“Am I not allowed to?”

“Soonyoung says you two kissed and made up.”

You shoot Jihoon an unamused glare.

From across you, he raises his hand in a defensive gesture. “I didn’t believe him, of course,” he insists, though you don’t miss the way he and Wonwoo try to discreetly exchange money under the table.

Wonwoo catches your suspicious expression and gives you an apologetic grin in return.

“Made a bet,” he says.

“You two suck,” you groan.

Your three’s weekly lunch has gone mostly swimmingly up to the point that Jihoon had brought up Soonyoung. Now, though, with the topic broached, neither of your friends see the need to be discreet about it.

“I do wonder why Soonie decided to come home now, after all these years,” Wonwoo muses aloud, toying with his chopsticks as he speaks. “Seems a bit out of the blue, doesn’t it?”

“He came home because Teacher Kang asked him,” you point out.

One of Jihoon’s eyebrows cocks upward. “Teacher Kang has asked him every year for the past couple of years,” he says. “So it’s not just that, I’m sure.”

Wonwoo chimes in with, “Must be something real important, then.”

Jihoon nearly smirks. “Or someone.”

What feels like your nth groan of the evening escapes you. “Put a sock in it, you two,” you grumble, drawing snickers from your friends.

Jihoon mouths something to Wonwoo. You can’t make it out for certain, but it looks suspiciously like a wordless grumble of Bet’s still on.

Civility is a rare thing to share with Soonyoung.

With the showcase mere days away, it’s a welcome development. At least it’s easier for the two of you to iron out the chinks in the routines, to ensure the program is up to par with the school’s standards.

But with civility comes an even more fragile thing— hope.

It’s in the way Soonyoung will hold open doors for you or haul the heavier props on your behalf, much to your chagrin and to Teacher Kang’s amusement.

It’s in the way Soonyoung starts to make small talk about everything from your day job to your parents, never minding much that he’s the one who has to carry half the conversations.

It’s in the way Soonyoung tries to make you laugh, and how, one afternoon, he finally succeeds.

You can’t even remember what it was. Some terrible joke about the kids, maybe. All you know is that a snort of laughter had slid out of you, the sound not quite the derisive giggles you’d been giving him the past couple of weeks.

You’re still chuckling when you see Soonyoung’s face.

Immediately, you sober up. “What?” you ask, because he’s staring at you with his jaw slack and his eyes slightly wide.

He tries to rearrange his expression into something more acceptable; it’s too late, given that you’ve already caught him. Soonyoung may have not always been honest, but he was expressive.

You glare at him, indicating that he’s not about to escape, and he huffs out a defeated sigh.

“It’s just— I forgot, okay?”

“Forgot what?”

“How good happiness looks on you.”

Who the hell says something like that on a random Thursday?

Soonyoung still has that vaguely dazed look in his eyes, even though you’ve begun to stare at him like he’s insane. As he walks away to go and refill his water bottle, he nearly collides with one of the auditorium’s poles, drawing raucous laughter from the kids.

You shush them, the tips of your ears beginning to flame.

“Why did you come home?”

“It was about time.”

It’s nothing short of a miracle, how you, Jihoon, Soonyoung, and Wonwoo all end up at the same table at Taco Joe’s.

Jihoon had been the one who proposed the idea. So casually, too, like he was readying himself for one of your infamous tirades or a flurry of your punches. Soonyoung wants to grab drinks with all of us.

To Jihoon and Wonwoo’s surprise, you had only responded with, “When?”

Neither boys want to look a gift horse in the mouth, so they’re extra careful in playing their cards right. Wonwoo vows to be the designated driver. Jihoon holds back on making any jokes about the whole affair. And, Soonyoung— well, he’s just happy to be there.

“This place really hasn’t changed, huh?” Soonyoung snickers as he sips at his beer.

There’s not a lot of bars to choose from in your small town, making Taco Joe’s something of an institution. Its low lights, Top 50’s playlist, and cheap drinks attract more of the mid-twenties crowd, though there had been a time in your teenage years when you’d all tried and failed to sneak in.

“Joe threatened to ban us for life when we first stepped foot in here,” Jihoon reminisces.

Wonwoo pushes his glasses up his face by the bridge of his nose. “Worse,” he says. “He said he would tell our parents.”

Simultaneously, the four of you shudder. A small smile tugs at your lips as you extend your cocktail for the boys to cheers with.

“To vindication,” you announce.

There’s a ripple of laughter among your friends.

“Vindication,” they echo, clinking their bottles and glasses with yours.

A part of you is suspicious at how pleasant the night is going. The conversation is easy, if not a little on the safe side. The drinks are good. The music is more often a hit instead of a miss. It’s shaping up to be a decent evening, though there are a handful of interruptions here and there.

Kwon Soonyoung is a bit of a local celebrity, after all.

Everybody and their mother knows about his swanky dance studio in the city, about the idols and celebrities he’s met in his line of work. Every so often, someone will stop by to greet him, to exchange a word or two with him.

Soonyoung is perfectly amicable to all of them. His smile, practiced; his words, cool and smooth. After the fourth or so person has come up to say hello to the Hoshi, Jihoon voices out what you’ve all been thinking.

“It’s so exhausting hanging out with you,” Jihoon says dryly.

Soonyoung giggles mid-swig of his alcohol. “Can’t help it.” He fakes a tired sigh, his shoulders rising in a shrug. “Everybody wants a piece of me.”

“I’ll tear you to pieces if anyone else comes up to us,” Wonwoo warns.

Your gaze flicks over Wonwoo’s shoulder, towards someone approaching your corner table. “Get those claws ready, Wonu,” you say.

When Joshua Hong saunters up to your group’s table, though, his greeting for Soonyoung is cursory at best.

“Nice to see you back, Kwon,” the man says politely before turning his attention to you. “Hey, you.”

You straighten in your seat. Jihoon and Wonwoo exchange a look. Soonyoung’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he gives a grumbled ‘hello’ to Joshua’s lackluster greeting.

It’s apparent that Joshua isn’t there for him, because Joshua is instead smiling at you. “Hey,” you respond in kind. “What’s up?”

Joshua had been an upperclassman during your school days, part of the infamous trio featuring troublemaker Yoon Jeonghan and varsity captain Choi Seungcheol. But Joshua was more on the mild side, known for his volunteer work at the local choir. He wasn’t any less unattainable, though, and you’re reminded of why Soonyoung so callously threw his name out during your more recent spat.

Prior to dating Soonyoung, you did have a raging crush on Joshua, after all. You’re briefly reminded of it as he flashes you a warm smile. “I was hoping I could buy you a drink,” he says. “For… you know.”

There’s absolutely nothing coy in Joshua’s words. He’s not suggestive, not trying to come on to you. All the same, the three boys at your table react like Joshua had just proposed.

Jihoon bites back a grin. Wonwoo cocks his head to one side. Soonyoung shoots back a quarter of his beer.

For… you know, Joshua is saying, and you know exactly what he means even though the rest aren’t privy to it. You’re already getting to your feet before you can register it. “Yeah,” you say, nodding towards the bar. “Let’s go.”

None of your friends say a thing as you step away with Joshua, but you can feel their eyes on your back. You know you’re going to get hell for it later— but, for now, you focus on the small talk that Joshua has to offer.

He lets you pick out your cocktail of choice. As the bartender goes to make it, Joshua smiles down at you. There had been a time where you might’ve keened over at the sight of it; now, though, it only makes your heart flutter a bit.

His voice is just loud enough to be heard over the thumping music, but low enough that it’s just for the two of you.

“Thank you for your help,” he says. “Really. You’re a life-saver.”

Your expression softens underneath the lights of the bar. “How’s your dad?”

Joshua’s smile is a little tight, but not any less sincere. “Better,” he responds. “It’s rough, of course, but he’s coping.”

Earlier in the year, Joshua’s father had been one of your firm’s clients. It had been a lot more challenging than you thought, working with someone you personally knew. The arduous process had involved unsecured debts, scarred credit scores, and seized collaterals, but you were ultimately able to help the Hongs in closing down their music school.

“I’m glad.” You pause, as if realizing that’s not quite the right thing to say. “I’m not glad about what happened—”

Joshua’s laughter cuts through your tirade. Your shoulders ease when you realize it’s not a particularly mean laugh. More of an amused sound at your panic.

“Don’t worry, I get it,” he reassures as the bartender slides your drinks to you. Joshua gives the other man a nod and a mumbled promise of tipping later.

“I don’t want to keep you,” Joshua says. “Just wanted to show my appreciation.”

“You didn’t have to.” Your fingers wrap around the drink he brought you. “But thank you, anyway.”

Joshua nods, grins. The lines are clear as day. He’s not flirting, not trying to get in your pants or anything. The drink is exactly that: A show of gratitude. Nothing more, nothing less.

Some old version of you might have been disappointed. Tonight, you are only oddly relieved. The two of you talk a little more— about things that are neither here nor there— before Joshua lets you go.

Upon your return to your table, you’re greeted with a sight for sore eyes.

Somehow, in the fifteen or so minutes that you were gone, Soonyoung had already shot back his first bottle of beer. As you slide back into your seat next to Wonwoo, your bespectacled friend quietly divulges, “That’s his third one.”

“Third?” You glance toward Soonyoung, your eyebrows raised quizzically. “Are you trying to get alcohol poisoning or something?”

Soonyoung only flashes you a grin before taking another swig. He ignores your question in favor of chatting Jihoon’s ear off; the latter throws you a bemused look before going back to his conversation with Soonyoung.

You huff out a sigh as you go to nurse the cocktail that Joshua got you.

“I wonder what’s gotten into him,” Wonwoo says, his tone just a little too smug for his own good.

You shoot him a sideways glare. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, hiding his blooming smile behind a sip of his soda.

As the night wears on, you begin to feel that familiar buzz in your system. The telltale signs of your tipsiness leave you pleasantly sated— your laughter a little less restrained, your brain a lot more empty. So when Soonyoung leans across the table to yell at you, “Let’s dance!”, your first instinct is not to say Fuck off.

The words that come out instead are “To what song?”

Soonyoung is already standing up and moving around the table to get to your side. An intoxicated Jihoon and sober Wonwoo only watch on, spectators to this impending dumpster fire, as Soonyoung reaches out to tug you out of your seat.

“Any song,” he breathes. His face is flushed a deep shade of red, but his eyes are as bright as ever. “Anything you want.”

There’s a right thing to do in this situation.

The right thing to do would be to let Soonyoung down politely. To tell him no, you’re not interested in dancing. You’re happy to drink with him and your friends, but you’re not about to indulge him with the thing that once made the two of you so close. You don’t think your heart can take it.

But you’re two cocktails in. The music is good. And Soonyoung is looking at you with that absolutely incandescent expression, faring not any better than you in the game of sobriety. How could you deny him?

You let him pull you to your feet. His hand stays wrapped around your wrist as he drags you out onto the dance floor, as he leans over to the DJ and yells, “Do you have any GD?!”

The current track transitions into the unmistakable beats of Good Boy. Soonyoung’s face lights up like a firework.

You’re drunk enough to laugh at him, with him, as you easily fall into the decade-old dance routine. No matter how long it’s been, it seems like your body still remembers every step, every hand movement.

You’re drunk enough to not care that Wonwoo is not-so discreetly filming the two of you, that Jihoon is wearing a knowing smirk. Come tomorrow, your friends will have a lot to say about this moment. But, right now, it’s all inconsequential.

You’re drunk enough to dance. To dance in a way that isn’t simply for Christmas showcase purposes. To dance and remember why you loved it so much in the first place.

To dance with the boy who got you into it in the first place.

Good Boy spins into Home Sweet Home, then Fantastic Baby, then Gee. You and Soonyoung dance through it all. Honestly, you’re no longer built for this the same way that you once were, and you’re certainly not up to par with Soonyoung.

His drunkenness does nothing to dampen his energy or his dancing skills. He moves across the floor with the practiced ease of a professional, putting everyone to shame without even trying. His toothy smile never leaves his face as the two of you swing and pop and glide.

By the time the DJ starts to play more modern pop, you call for a time-out. Soonyoung stumbles after you and the two of you collapse onto a nearby couch, boneless from the non-stop dancing.

Wonwoo is off to one side, chatting with a girl, while Jihoon is nowhere to be found. You wouldn’t hold it past the latter to be on a smoke break of some sorts; nights out always tended to drain him, after all.

“Insane,” Soonyoung croaks out. Blonde strands of his hair stick to his face due to sweat. You resist the urge to fix it.

“I haven’t danced like that in ages,” you say, rolling your shoulders to fight off the growing ache in your body.

Soonyoung tries to laugh. The sound comes out more like a wheeze. His next words are mumbled in between attempts to catch his breath. “You’re good, babe.”

Come Back Home is thumping through the speakers. You try to focus on that instead of Soonyoung’s Freudian slip; you fail miserably, and it must show on your face because Soonyoung sucks in some air through his teeth.

“Sorry.” He’s laughing, but the sound is a bit rough around the edges. “Moment of weakness.”

A beat. “Wanna dance some more?” he prompts.

Whether it’s a desperate bid to run from his words or a sincere offer by a man who simply lives to dance, you don’t question it. “Yeah,” you say a little too quickly. “Let’s dance.”

You dance until you feel like your feet are going to fall off. Soonyoung matches your pace, never missing a beat. When he needs to take a break, he drinks some more— an endless cycle of dance floor shenanigans and drawn-out sips of beer.

It’s probably why he’s swaying by the time that you’re all calling it a night. Wonwoo and Jihoon flank Soonyoung on either side, the blonde still somehow having the tenacity to chatter while dragging his feet. He’s talking out of his ass about one thing or another, like music these days “not being as good as the OGs,” and you can sense Wonwoo’s exasperation over the whole thing.

“Living in Seoul has done absolutely nothing for your tolerance,” Wonwoo grumbles, prompting Soonyoung to go into a long-winded rant about the cultural differences in drinking culture.

The relief on Wonwoo’s face is palpable as he shoves Soonyoung into the backseat of his car.

Jihoon gives a nod of his own. “You’ll be good to drive?” he asks Wonwoo.

“Didn’t drink a drop,” Wonwoo chirps. “You?”

“Sobered up, like, two hours ago,” Jihoon says wryly. He gives you a vicious side eye— wordlessly blaming you for not being able to go home any earlier, since he was your designated driver— and you raise your shoulders in a half-shrug.

“You were the one who invited me out to drink.” Your voice is hoarse from all the alcohol, from the physical exertion of non-stop dancing.

You’re somehow lucid enough to register that Soonyoung is calling for you. There’s a slight pout on his face, like he’s upset to be missing out on the conversation. He’s bracing himself against the frame of the car door, his legs swung over the seat, as you gingerly approach.

“What?” you ask.

This close, you can smell his faint cologne, mingling with the scent of alcohol and sweat.

This close, you can see the way his eyes are slightly unfocused; his mouth, still bearing the hint of a glowing smile.

“You—” he croaks out.

His gaze darts to your lips. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. You don’t miss it.

Your breath stills in your chest, and Soonyoung is looking up at your face like he’s searching for something. Denial? Reciprocity?

He must not have found what he was looking for, because the words he grumbles are, “I’m going to hurl.”

Wonwoo’s panicked shriek cuts through the otherwise quiet parking lot.

“Not in my fucking car, asswipe!”

Soonyoung’s hangover the next day is comical.

You can’t help but snicker as he rolls up to the showcase’s dry run with shades over his eyes and a large cup of coffee in his shaking hands.

“You suck,” he hisses to you as he slides on to the bench next to you. Teacher Kang is busy heralding the students, getting them into their costumes and places, so the two of you have a minute alone before the hubbub strikes up.

“You’re the one who can’t hold down his alcohol,” you respond, eyeing his slumped form with amusement.

Soonyoung mumbles some incoherent cusses, his free hand reaching up to rub at his temples.

“God, my last memory was Hong coming up to the table,” he grouses.

You’re reminded of the inordinate amount of alcohol he downed in your brief absence. I wonder what’s gotten into him, Wonwoo had said.

“That clears,” you say sympathetically.

There’s a moment’s pause before Soonyoung tentatively asks, “Did the two of you ever…?”

You don’t immediately register what he’s asking about Joshua. When it hits you, though, you find a startled laugh sliding past your lips. Because there’s Wonwoo’s answer, even though you don’t recognize it then and there.

“Hong? No, no.” For reasons you can’t quite explain, you feel compelled to tack on, “I haven’t really had the time to date.”

“Oh.” It kills you, how Soonyoung almost sounds relieved. “Me, too. I mean— me neither.”

“Ah.”

“Running a dance studio is a lot of work.”

“Right.”

“And I’m sure— law school, right? That was a lot of work, too.”

“Right, yeah.”

It’s a stilted conversation, one heavy in its implications. The real things that the two of you want to say, want to address, linger on the surface, but neither of you seem to want to break that ice.

You settle, instead, for this moment. For the negligible distance between the two of you on the bleachers and how it closes, slow but steady, like the ticking hands of a clock.

Your shoulder just barely presses against Soonyoung’s.

Neither of you move away.

“Why did you come home?”

“Because I love you, and I miss you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Only one of those is a lie, actually.”

You’ve always liked being front of house during the showcase.

You’re a familiar face to the parents of the children, to the community members who attended the event every year. Their warmth is a welcome reprieve from your nerves.

You make small talk. You usher people to their seats. You try not to wonder where the hell Kwon Soonyoung is.

Despite having his calling card, you haven’t deigned to reach out. It’s tucked away in a drawer at home; you don’t quite know what to do with it. Maybe you’ll actually save his number one of these days.

You’re entertaining the thought when you feel a hand at your elbow. The smiling face of Iseul’s mother— the pompous but well-meaning Mrs. Hwang— greets you.

“There’s no need for that,” she says with a chuckle as you fold into a bow. You don’t miss the way she nonetheless preens at your formalities. It’s why you keep up with it.

You let her link your arms and, out of instinct, you begin to lead her to one of the free seats in the auditorium. “Are you excited for this year’s show, Mrs. Hwang?” you ask conversationally.

“You know it,” she answers. “Iseul has been talking non-stop about her performance, but she refuses to tell me what song to expect!”

You’d recognize Mrs. Hwang’s baiting tendencies from a mile away. With a curt giggle, you tell her, “You’ll find out soon enough, Mrs. Hwang. I promise it’ll be worth the suspense.”

The older woman gives you a disapproving frown, but it smooths out as she seems to realize a change in topic. The auditorium is notably a little more packed this year, enough to have the volunteers bringing out additional Monobloc chairs.

“I guess people want to see what the Kwon boy has done to the showcase, hm?” she notes, speaking into existence the fact that you’ve neglected to acknowledge so far.

Surprisingly, you don’t feel bitter about it. People were showing up to assess Soonyoung’s choreography, to bask in the product of his labor. There’s a twinge of something in your chest. It could almost be mistaken for pride.

Mrs. Hwang tacks on, “Mighty shame.”

That throws you off. “Pardon?”

She doesn’t respond immediately, her eyes zeroing in on an empty chair by the front of the stage. She practically drags you there as she continues, “It’s really so unfortunate. The whole thing about his dance studio tanking.”

The whole thing about his dance studio tanking.

What the hell was she talking about?

The universe, once again, had to be messing with you. You’re convinced this is some skit. Some buildup to a joke.

But the punch line never comes, and you end up admitting, “I don’t think I’ve heard about that yet, Mrs. Hwang.”

Your voice is surprisingly even for someone whose world was closing in. If Mrs. Hwang can sense the trepidation in your demeanor, she makes no indication of it. You’re grateful for her obliviousness, even, because she only keeps talking as she settles into her seat.

“My girls are always talking about it,” she says, referring to the group of forty-something-year-old women who like to gather and gossip in the town’s sole Italian restaurant. “That’s why he’s back. Couldn’t hack it out there.”

When she glances up at you with a scrutinizing expression, you just know you’re not going to like what she says next. You’re proven right when she says, “We thought he’d ask for your help, actually. Isn’t liquidation your specialty?”

You can’t be bothered to correct the woman over the technicalities. You give her a tight smile, a nod of your head, a polite ‘goodbye’ as you take your leave.

There are much more pressing matters, you think to yourself, as you go to greet more guests, make sure the music is all queued up, check in on the host’s script.

You didn’t spend over a month preparing for tonight only to lose yourself before it’s even begun. You refuse to let the new piece of information trip you up, even though it has your heart acting like a caged animal underneath your ribs.

The showcase goes by without a hitch. The children are more than phenomenal; they’re perfect.

The audience is enamored. The teachers are overjoyed.

You want nothing more than to go home and tear up Soonyoung’s calling card.

As the showcase wraps up to enthusiastic applause, Teacher Kang snatches the microphone from the host for one last announcement.

“This wouldn’t have been possible without two of our very tireless volunteers,” she says, and— from backstage— you wince. Before you know it, you’re being pushed out onto the stage.

Soonyoung exits from the other stage wing.

He’s managed to evade you the entire showcase, and now you realize why. In his arms, he holds a monstrous bouquet. Yellow acacias, striped carnations, bunch-flowered daffodils. Your first thought is how expensive it might have been, to find out-of-season blooms in the thick of winter.

Your second thought is that you want to hurl, but that’s neither here nor there.

As Soonyoung strides in from the other side of the stage to meet you in the middle, he sees it. He sees the hint of trepidation underneath your practiced grin, sees the way your eyes flash momentarily. His own grin drops ever so slightly.

But the two of you are in an auditorium, on a stage in front of Namyangju’s best and brightest. Neither of you can afford to give voice to what you feel.

Soonyoung hands you the bouquet. You nod in acknowledgement.

The two of you instinctively reach for each other’s hands.

You hadn’t noticed that the crowd had gotten to their feet. A standing ovation. It feels like an echo of the past, a cruel reminder of an alternate universe.

Even so, your smile never wavers. Neither does Soonyoung’s. He raises your hand. The two of you take a bow.

The Great Pretenders put on their best show yet.

“What was that?”

A part of you is surprised that Soonyoung found you. The moment the showcase officially concluded, you were booking it out of the auditorium before he could even get a word in edgewise. Gracefully, the dozens of people hounding him for photos and small talk let you widen the gap.

Still, he caught up. Just as you were passing by the godforsaken playground that had witnessed the ending of it all. Oh, the universe and its jokes.

Soonyoung is red-faced, like you’d embarrassed him somehow despite the convincing act you both put on. Your fingers tighten around the bouquet he gave you.

“What was that?” he repeats, and what little restraint you had left snaps.

“Why did you come home?” you ask point blank.

“Teacher Kang—”

“Don’t,” you snipe. “Teacher Kang asked you last year. And the year before that. Why did you come home now, Soonyoung?”

The question hangs heavy in the early December evening. You and Soonyoung are staring at each other, mere paces away from the swing set where the two of you made your choices.

He doesn’t answer right away, so you prompt him with, “Is it because of me?”

Soonyoung misinterprets the question. You can see the way his eyes light up, the way his lips part like he’s just about to say something of consequence.

You almost feel guilty about the next words that tear out of you. “You’re going bankrupt,” you say, and the hope on his face fizzles out like a popped lightbulb.

“Who told you—” he chokes out.

“So it’s true?”

Kwon Soonyoung is struck dumb.

Soonyoung, whose mouth ran faster than his brain. Soonyoung, who was full of quick quips and witty remarks.

Soonyoung, who is now staring at you like you’ve told him the world was about to end.

You contemplate throwing his bouquet in his face. It will make for a dramatic, pretty picture— the petals falling onto the soft snow, the fuck you loud despite being unspoken. For now, you only clutch the arrangement closer to your chest like it's a lifeline.

“And here I thought—” Your breath hitches on a scoff, the puff of air visible in the chill. “I was a fool who thought you came back for me.”

The truth cuts. Your laugh bitterly as you go on, “I guess you still did, though, huh? Because you need me. What? Were you hoping to avail of cheap services, Kwon?”

“That’s not—”

“That’s exactly it!” Your tone is shrill. Soonyoung always did bring out the worst in you. “You were away for six years, and now you’ve come crawling back—”

“Do you think I wanted to fail?”

Soonyoung’s voice rises, his frustration bubbling over to match yours.

“I starved out there,” he bites out. “Ate cup noodles for a year so the studio could afford rent for one more month. Sold half of my stuff so I could pay my employees. It was so hard.”

The way Soonyoung’s voice breaks on the last word makes something in your heart clench. For a moment, you think it might be pity, but you kill the feeling as soon as it tries to make itself known.

You don’t want to pity Soonyoung, which is both an insult and a grace.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask instead, even though a part of you already knows the answer.

A sound that’s almost like a delirious laugh escapes him. “Not when I was the one who made it out,” he responds.

You never realized how much you’d prefer Soonyoung’s cocky, self-assured self over this version of him. This boy— man— who is defeated and resigned. Even in your anger, there is a small part of you that wants to do something to wipe that look off his face.

“I made it out,” he repeats wearily, like it’s taking everything in him to face the truth of being Namyangju’s failing poster boy.

He continues, “I gave up everything to be there. I gave up you.”

Your grip on the bouquet tightens. There’s a faint prickle behind your eyes, but you refuse to let those tears fall. “You did that like it was easy,” you mumble, your voice just loud enough to carry.

Soonyoung meets your gaze. He looks like he’s on the verge of sobbing himself, but his tone brokers no arguments.

“It wasn’t,” he says.

And that was that.

You’ve never been able to stand not having the last word. You clear your throat, attempting to speak through the lump forming there. “Yeah, well,” you say shakily. “You’re not the only one who lost something.”

It’s a shitty comparison and you know it. Soonyoung’s sacrifices dwarf yours. You weren’t the one who moved away, who bore the weight of an entire city’s pride.

Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn’t call you out on it. He only takes a sharp exhale and turns his gaze away, his eyes fixed on the swings.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Almost like the words are an afterthought. “For the record— that night?” he says. You don’t have to ask for clarification. You know exactly which night he’s talking about.

“I was hoping you’d change my mind,” he confesses.

A physical blow to the chest would have hurt less. You stagger, but you try to mask it like you’re taking a step back. Like you’re walking away, even as your eyes never leave Soonyoung’s face.

“And I was hoping I’d be worth staying for,” you say with a humorless laugh, the distance between the two of you growing, growing, growing.

Your parting words are the proverbial nail on the coffin: “I guess we both didn’t get what we wanted.”

“Why did you come home?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

For once, Jihoon and Wonwoo have nothing to say.

No wisecrack. No jab. No exchange of money in some backhanded bet.

They listen as you recount the salient points of the argument. You keep the personal stuff out of your own retelling, focusing only on the broad strokes. The biggest concern lies in one nagging question.

“Did you know?” you ask, your hands bracing the table in front of you.

“No,” Jihoon says immediately.

Wonwoo chimes in with a quiet “Me neither.”

You know these boys. You’ve seen them lie to their parents about their homework, lie to their girlfriends about where they were.

They’re not lying now. You know that much.

A shaky exhale escapes you. It’s been three days since the fight and you’ve yet to run into Soonyoung. You wouldn’t hold it past him to avoid you, either by steering clear from the places you frequent or getting on the first bus back to Seoul.

“When he asked about how you were doing,” Jihoon says gruffly. “I thought it was just— yearning or some shit.”

“Me, too,” Wonwoo adds.

Yearning or shit. The words almost make you laugh.

The pinched expression on your face prompts Wonwoo to ask, “Are you upset?”

‘Upset’ feels like too light of a term to describe the maelstrom of emotions within you. There are facts: You wish you had known. You could have afforded to be kinder. You are afraid that you will never stop being angry.

You answer Wonwoo’s question with a mumbled, “Would it be cliché to say that I’m just disappointed?”

“Ah.” His face is thoughtful, understanding. “Because you expected something from him.”

“That’s not it,” you say dryly.

It is.

The three of you lapse into contemplative silence. Jihoon breaks it after a couple of moments, his tone soft and serious.

“I know it’s shitty,” he says. “But I do hope that he’s okay.”

That would be the mature thing to do. Even Wonwoo is nodding his agreement, willing to set aside his own gripes in favor of well wishing.

You can’t bring yourself to do the same. The platitude sticks in your throat until you feel like it will suffocate you.

Soonyoung has an alibi for not showing up to Teacher Kang’s post-processing session.

You’re grateful that the elderly woman doesn’t go on about the details of his absence. She mentions something about him being busy with the holidays, and you take it in stride.

You try not to picture the way his jaw might’ve twitched before sending out the text, before lying to get away.

“Everybody loved the show,” Teacher Kang gushes. “I’m so proud of you, dear. I really do hope we can have Soonyoung on board more often.”

An offhand joke of “we’ll probably be seeing a lot more of him in the near future” crosses your mind, but you hold it back. You may be calloused, but you’re not heartless.

You nod. You agree with Teacher Kang. You hold it together, up until you’re halfway out the door and she calls you back for one last word.

“You know,” she starts. “I remember the two of you when you were kids.”

You’d been dreading this— the inevitable trip down memory lane. You thought you had escaped it, but now you’re facing it with one of the world’s fakest smiles.

“That was a long time ago,” you say.

“It was.” There’s a glimmer in Teacher Kang’s eye. Something unbearably tender. “Soonyoung always made you smile a certain way. You’ve started smiling like that again. It’s nice to see.”

You don’t know how you manage to laugh it off, to bid Teacher Kang goodbye and make your way back to your car. Your hands are shaking as you slide into the driver’s seat of your car.

The school’s parking lot is gracefully empty. It’s a good thing, because then no one can hear you as you fold in half and screech.

You scream until your voice goes hoarse, until the windows shake.

You scream until you can’t hear the way your chest is caving in on your heart.

Your theory of running into everyone but Soonyoung is proven when you’re sooner to cross paths with Mama Kwon.

Your carts nearly collide in the pasta aisle of the grocery store. You’re already bowing, apologizing profusely, when you realize that you recognize the woman holding a can of pesto.

She says your name with the fondness that could rival your own mother’s. It takes everything in you not to bolt at the sound of it.

“What a coincidence,” she says with a tinkling laugh.

You know in your heart of hearts that it’s exactly that. A coincidence. Still, you can’t help but think some higher power is out to get you. Call it karmic justice.

“How have you been, Mrs. Kwon?” you ask, feeling the slight nip of not addressing the woman as you typically might.

She notices too, if her slightly furrowed brow is any indication. She manages to rearrange her expression into something more neutral as she answers.

“You know how the holidays are,” she says, wielding her pesto bottle in an absentminded gesture. “It’s a full house!”

That stings.

You’ve heard from your mother how the past couple of years, Mama Kwon would complain about her household feeling empty during the holidays. The seat at the dining table stayed vacant for the son that refused to come home.

You don’t know how much she knows about the state of the dance studio, so you decide to play it safe. “I’m sure it is,” you say.

The small talk is tearing you up from the inside, but you don’t want to be rude. Don’t want to be a stranger to the woman who once cared for you so deeply— who probably still cares for you, if you really thought of it.

The question is out of you before you can hold it back. “Are you with Soonyoung?”

What would you even do with that information? Would you have booked it if she said ‘yes, he’s right around the corner’? Would you have cried if she revealed that he headed back to the city?

You’re not sure.

Here’s what happens instead: A sigh nearly breaks out of you when Mama Kwon responds, “He’s in the next shop over, getting some repairs for the car. We’re meeting at Italianni's for lunch.”

Still here, a small voice murmurs in the back of your mind. Hasn’t left for Seoul just yet.

You shake the thought away as Mama Kwon delicately prompts, “Would you like to join us?”

Mama Kwon is probably not inviting you solely out of politeness. She’s making the offer because she wants you to be there. She wants you to be at the same table as her family, sharing a pizza and whatever the restaurant’s special for the day is. She wants you to sit next to Soonyoung and play nice, even though you currently can’t stomach the thought of being anywhere near him.

For some reason, it makes you want to cry.

To lose somebody in a breakup is painful, yes. To lose all the things that came with it— like the family that you might have learned to love yourself?

A different type of ache all together.

Your smile is so painfully fake, almost hurting the edges of your mouth, as you try to let her down gently. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” you say. “But thank you for thinking of me.”

For once, The Great Pretenders is met with negative reviews.

Then again, nothing ever really escaped Mama Kwon’s scrutinizing gaze. She surveys your expression and purses her lips. You can practically see the way that the cogs turn in her brain, as if trying to decide on the response that will do the least amount of damage.

It doesn’t matter how gentle she tries to be. The words that she eventually extends still hurt like a bitch.

“He still talks about you a lot,” she muses.

Oh.

“Oh?”

“Nothing bad,” Mama Kwon says quickly. She laughs again, smiling very much like how her son might.

“Just—” She leans in. Your body autonomously mimics the action.

You’re reminded of being younger, of when she’d do the exact same thing to whisper you some ‘secret’. I got Soonyoung new shoes for Christmas. The car side mirror is busted because of me. I packed you extra of those choco pies you like.

Today, she whispers, “I think he came home for you.”

“Why did you come home?”

“I had a nightmare that I visited and I couldn’t recognize a thing. All the street names were different. The buildings were new. I kept running, trying to look for something familiar, and I just— I was just lost. And that sucked. This was mine once. You know?”

“It still is.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. It isn’t anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

“You know, I really have missed your mother’s cooking.”

You smile ruefully at Soonyoung’s words.

He’s digging heartily into your mother’s signature kimchi jjigae, and you have half the mind to tell him to close his mouth as he chews. Instead, you let him devour the dish.

It had taken a little bit of masterminding to pull this off. Maybe it would’ve been easier to send Soonyoung a text of Let’s meet up, but your blasted pride was one of the last things you had left. You’d be damned if you were going to give that away, too.

You enlisted Jihoon and Wonwoo’s help in orchestrating this, in convincing Soonyoung that he could sneak into your family restaurant undetected. Sure, the blonde had been more than a little miffed when his friends ditched him and left him with you, though his irritation was short-lived in the face of the food he had been craving for God-knows-how-long.

“Maybe that’s because you’ve only been eating shin ramyun,” you point out.

Soonyoung barely looks up from his bowl as he shovels more food into his mouth. “Low blow,” he says in between bites.

You wince. “Sorry.”

“You’re not really sorry.”

“No, I am.”

That drags Soonyoung’s attention away from his stew.

His guarded expression slots right back into place, like he’s realizing you have some ulterior motive beyond feeding him. He rests his spoon against his bowl and leans back into his chair. With one eyebrow raised, he says, “This feels a lot like the lead-in to a breakup.”

A bark of laughter escapes you. Of course Soonyoung would make a joke like that.

You reach into your pocket until you’ve found what you’re looking for. Wordlessly, you slide it across the table until it’s resting by Soonyoung’s hand.

“I’ll give you a discount,” you tell him. “But only, like, fifteen percent. Anything more than that is just pushing it.”

Your calling card stares up at him. It bears your name along with your firm’s address, your phone number, and your title. Consumer bankruptcy lawyer.

Even now, Soonyoung can’t help but be expressive. His wide eyes are fixed on the card you’ve laid out. For a moment, your offer hangs in precious balance, but you don’t have a single urge to take it back. It’s entirely, wholly for Soonyoung to take.

He asks the question that you know is coming. “Why are you doing this?” he says, his words like a raw nerve.

You almost smile. Almost.

In the past week that you’ve mulled it over, you’ve reached at least a dozen different answers.

Because Jihoon and Wonwoo worry about you.

Because it’s the right thing to do.

Because Teacher Kang talks about you like you hung the stars and the moon.

Because I owe you one.

Because I don’t want you to let Mama Kwon down.

Because I’ve missed you, and I want you to be happy, even if that happiness has nothing to do with me.

The answer that eventually, finally comes to you is none of the above.

You simply say, “Because you’re my favorite ex.”

The call asking for your help never comes.

A couple of days after that lunch, you find something on your desk. Your calling card.

If it weren’t for one small thing, you would’ve thought that it was a stray card of yours that you’d forgotten. But then you catch sight of a doodle in one corner right before you’re about to tuck the card away in your closet.

A crude drawing of a tiger, with crescent-shaped eyes and a toothy smile.

You instantly know what it means. Sure enough, you hear from Jihoon that same evening.

Kwon Soonyoung has left as quietly as he arrived.

There is relief. There is regret. How you feel ultimately doesn’t matter, because you knew it would always come to this— a choice being made.

He left. You stayed.

The world spins madly on.

The last of the snow is melting on an unassuming Tuesday afternoon when your phone pings in your pocket. You fish it out to find two texts from an unknown number. The first is a link to a news article.

You’re suspicious, but curiosity always did kill the cat. The article loads and fills your screen.

Eye of the Tiger Dance Studio To Start Offering Child-Friendly Dance Lessons

By: Xu Minghao

SEOUL, South Korea – Eye of the Tiger Dance Studio, founded by renowned choreographer and performer Kwon Soonyoung, better known as HOSHI, is expanding its mission to inspire a new generation of dancers. The studio announced it will officially begin offering child-friendly dance lessons following a successful pilot program last month.

Parents and young aspiring dancers can look forward to the official launch of child-friendly lessons early next year. According to HOSHI, the initiative aims to “nurture the joy of dance from an early age and build a foundation for self-expression and confidence.”

The studio piloted its first all-children dance classes in January, offering a creative and supportive environment for young dancers to explore movement. The program’s success has led to an upcoming showcase featuring the children at the KB Art Hall in Gangnam.

HOSHI, celebrated for his innovative choreography and passion for dance, revealed the inspiration behind this new direction.

“There was a time I felt lost, like I had lost my purpose for dance,” HOSHI shared, reflecting on a challenging period in his career. “I was going through the motions, using dance as a way to distract myself from everything else, rather than embracing it as a part of who I am.”

“But I realized something important recently,” he goes on. “Dance shouldn’t be an escape or a vacation. It should be a homecoming.”

And that’s exactly what they hope to do with their upcoming showcase. Details on the event can be found here.

The second text bears only a couple of words, but it changes the ending of everything.

There’s only one seat that will matter in that auditorium, it reads.

Please make sure it’s not empty.

“Why did you come home?”

“Home had you.”

#winterwithyoucollab #svthub #mansaenetwork #soonyoung x reader #hoshi x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #soonyoung imagines #hoshi imagines #soonyoung fic #hoshi fic #soonyoung angst #hoshi angst #svt fic #seventeen fic #( <3 here it is! my love my light the fruit of my labor etc. )#( annotations/editing are imminent. but for now know i was insaneee over this )#(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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