#label things right please

[luvdella]

I just found another one and it said reader but hade brackets around a name and I’m like 😭🔥😡😡 just call it an xOC, I get some people do it for to make it easier but writing y/n isn’t that hard man.

My point is just tag things properly

Me when it says it’s an X READER fic but READER has a name like hello? Not a X READER fic. And it’s always the most horrible names to like Mildred or Winnifred and sometimes there okay but do I look like an Amy to you?

[eatsbooks]

Eris gay awakening hcs

oh yes i sure do have those! so i personally write eris as bisexual with a bit of a comphet/keeping-up-appearances outward preference for females. he’s definitely attracted to both even so — when there is this much beauty around you, something as trivial as gender doesn’t quite matter — and in autumn, there are all manner of bedslaves for royal use. (and all manner of whores for common use.) i think fae across prythian are just generally way more open with sex and freaky shit than humans. kinda like … pleasure is pleasure. why limit yourself in any way over a life so long? the things we would take issue with, they wouldn’t even think twice about. of course there’s still varying levels of prejudice with that, but i think that pleasure is pleasure mindset is very much the case for eris, who i hc is suuuper desensitized to sex and sexual attention from a young age and uses sex with others in a very selfish, masturbatory way. where things get sticky though, especially in a traditional-values, continuation-of-the-bloodline ass court like autumn, is when it comes to romantic attraction.

allat said — i think eris knows very young that he’s sexually attracted to males as well as females. that’s nothing revelatory for him. he’ll take either or both to bed freely, and both will approach for a bite of him/his power. pretty much everyone he knows will take both to bed freely too. (beron doesn’t quite approve of this for his heir, but he’s of the you are a vanserra; you take what you want and do not ask permission mindset. even while expressing his disdain for eris when he takes males to bed, beron would still think it more shameful for eris to be cowed by him when it came to something like this. fucked up guy.) i think eris has a huuuuge hangup with being penetrated though. he associates that with domination, weakness, femininity. sex is always, always about power above all, and he always needs to be the one in control. he’ll play around and indulge himself and get real freaky, but no one is ever getting a leg over on him, and he’s only focused on taking his own pleasure from others, not pleasing them. because if he pleased them, they would be taking something from him.

so the first time he’s penetrated is really pivotal for him in his sexual journey! i (naturally) hc that it’s azriel who pops his cherry in that way. i wrote it in eiteio — but basically their hatefucking culminates into azriel eating eris out, which he has never allowed before, and eris comes in just absolutely record time. then azriel fucks into him (without any prep beyond his tongue which :/) but beyond the pain, which eris wanted out of their interaction anyway, the pleasure was revolutionary. much to eris’s chagrin. like after the fact, no pleasure he takes quite hits the same. (but that’s also cuz azris had been bonding in their fucked up way, and i hc eris as a demisexual who’s pretty much just forced into hypersexuality because of the inherent sex = power mentality among the vanserra boys, courtesy of beron’s parenting. but i digress.) i think that would be the case for any queer relationship eris entered, and this personal revelation would do a lot to help him mentally unpack his sexual trauma — if he’s with the right person.

but romantic attraction! that comes really late in life, and that is a very 🫨🫨🫨 moment for him. one that i think he would fight against initially — because again, that innate fact beaten into him of The Bloodline Must Continue. it happens so late in life though that he’s able to reckon with it eventually, because he’s already gotten to a point of deprogramming himself from beron by then. if it happened when he was still young (maybe sub 100yrs old?) then oh my god i think the crashout would be insane. because he still genuinely thinks proving himself to his daddy is 1) attainable and 2) something to strive for. so he would reject the fuck out of those feelings if they cropped up. BUT i just don’t think he has time for romantic feelings like that, female or male, when he’s young. beron has already shown him that his attention is a liability to those he loves, and those he loves are an external vulnerability he cannot afford to add to. he wouldn’t even be open to the possibility unless he was put in a Situation. but yeah — the gay romantic awakening would be a trip for him.

[falling-mellow]

Mel's yet another reminder to please stop telling other people what to do.

There will be people that don't want to watch ESC. This is perfectly fine. You totally have this right of own choice.

But so do the people that do want to watch. I don't know if I can say 'we', but I think(?) we are not forcing not-watchers to watch. So please also don't force watchers not to watch.

Stop calling people that do want to watch names, bad things, and just let them make their own choice for themselves.

[utter-poison]

when do i get to become an internet clown who makes money

[obligatory-name-change]

Anyway in my opinion professor villainous and lord boxman are dating since pv's first appearance and pv just doesn't like boxman as much as boxman likes him

[starlostseungmin]

now...

reblogging this to my main because why not?

the subtle art of cliche confessions. ksm.

kim seungmin x gn!reader — as aware as you were that life wasn’t like the fictional stories of romance that you enjoyed, a part of you still relished the thought of experiencing it for yourself.

GENRE/S — fluff, humor kinda, maybe fluffy angst but not really, battle of the bands au, lead singer!seungmin, college au, kinda semi-established relationship • 2.5k words

WARNING/S — profanity for humor, some self-deprecation as a result of nervousness but its not that bad, romance is complicated!

( ✒️ ) a gift for @starlostseungmin for successfully completing her big exam 🙇‍♀️🤍 congratulations lovie, you deserve a fluffy seungmin fic !! the ending may be trash im sorry its 1am and i have class in a few hrs

2024 ⓒ starseungs on tumblr. do not steal, repost, or edit.

“Jisung, I think I’m about to pass out.”

The person mentioned comically froze on the spot, his right hand halting from its previous task of double-checking his electric guitar’s condition. Jisung lifted his head up menacingly to look at the offender—who currently looked like he was seconds away from losing all strength in his legs. Despite the concerning comment, life backstage did not stop for anyone. Crew members were still seen running around like headless chickens, desperately trying to keep the show running smoothly even though they, themselves, were already functioning on greater levels of adrenaline than the performers. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Jisung warns lowly. “Kim Seungmin, you are not about to leave us without a lead singer right now!”

Unfortunately, Seungmin was not kidding. At all.

The loud cheers of the crowd from beyond the stage were deafening. It tells him that the band currently performing before them is doing a great job of keeping the audience entertained. Normally, that would’ve set him on fire to do better; bits of his competitive nature steeling his resolve to outdo the competition. And yet, something seemed to be different in today’s specific battle. 

He couldn’t care less about the crowd—no, his mind was only revolving around one thought. Or one person, to be specific. 

This makes him blanch once again. “I genuinely feel like throwing up.”

Chan snickers from his position near the dividers set up to create a makeshift waiting room for the performers. “Are you that nervous?” He asked lightheartedly. “Don’t stress about it too much, Min. We all know Y/N is going to say yes.”

Seungmin wanted to believe him. He really did. If anyone were to be asked about his natural demeanor, he was one hundred percent positive that the word ‘rational’ would come up at least once. He knew that the chances of the drummer’s words were the most probable—after all, he did his best efforts to capture your heart over the past year. And yes, Seungmin did also know that you had romantic feelings for him. That was why he was in this situation in the first place.

“If I were them, I would!” Hyunjin chirps, happily tapping on his bass guitar. “Imagine getting asked out by the lead singer of a band in the middle of their set? Anyone would be over the moon.” Seungmin merely scoffs in response.

“Of course you would, Mr. Hopeless Romantic.”

The bassist chokes out an offended noise. “Says the one doing a public confession,” he huffs. “Glad to know you learned a thing or two from those romance movies I pitch in on movie nights.”

“Yeah, well this isn’t fiction.” Seungmin deflates on his seat. Any more, and his band would’ve witnessed a person merging with a plastic chair. Wouldn’t that be a great memory to live with? “This is so cliche. What if they think it’s cringy?”

Jeongin, the keyboardist, shoots him a look full of judgment. “Why are you only second guessing this now?”

“To be fair, you both are already cringy.” Jisung stands up from his seat to stretch, only to receive a glare from the band’s lead singer. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. It’s a miracle how long you two went on without an actual label. Everyone knows you two have been practically dating since months ago.”

And to that, Seungmin has no retort. What Jisung said had its truths—even he, himself, didn’t know why it took him so long to ask you to be officially his. It definitely wasn’t a commitment issue; he hasn’t even entertained anyone else intimately ever since he met you. There were even nights where he mentally beat himself up for being a coward about this whole thing, only for him to end the torment by convincing himself it was him going through the courting stage with you.

Not that he even asked, but that was what he was doing. Right?

It’s not his fault you always rendered him speechless. Not too much, of course. He wasn’t that starstruck that he’d make an absolute fool of himself. It was just that you made him really nervous and awfully conscious of himself. The way you talked was like music to his ears, and he swears he could listen to you all day. He finds himself wondering if his own voice ruins this fantasy of his.

You had to have noticed his advances as well. There was just no way that you didn't, with how smart you were. He just didn’t know whether to be grateful or frustrated with the fact that you never said a word about it. What if you were actually uncomfortable with the whole thing and were just too nice to tell him. Oh, he should’ve asked. This is terrible. A massive mistake on his part. An angel like you shouldn’t be forced to be with someone like him.

“What if I’m getting ahead of myself and they don’t actually like me like that?”

Jeongin’s jaw drops. “You have got to be kidding me.” He was going to tease Seungmin further, but something about the look on his friend’s face screamed anxiety, so Jeongin was quick to force his mouth closed. “Y/N does. Have you seen the way they act when they’re with you? Heart eyes, I swear.”

Okay, there’s that too. Seungmin wasn’t blind, nor was he dense. If he didn’t think you were interested in him like this, then he wouldn’t have actively pursued you time and time again. He was confident, not someone who didn’t know their boundaries. And fortunately, you seemed to have wordlessly affirmed that he could get close to you over the months you’ve been talking. He was sure that if you had even expressed the slightest bit of disapproval of his advances, he would have pulled away immediately. As well as reassess the situation right afterwards.

Seungmin sighs. “I just want to do this right.”

“And you will,” Chan says. The drummer gives him a firm pat on the back. “Trust in yourself. We’ll also have your back. Go out there and perform like you always do, just that you have your little plan before the bridge comes in.”

All Seungmin got from that was how you were in the crowd. Right, you were in that crowd. The very same crowd he didn’t give a single fuck about at this moment. You were the only audience he needed, and it both comforted and terrified him to remember that he left you to sit in the very front row earlier before the program started. Just where did all his courage go? The bastard who planned a public confession on their campus festival’s Battle of the Bands competition should be the one present to go through all this.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been this nervous to perform ever.”

Hyunjin hums. “Then that means you really like Y/N!”

“Exactly. We didn’t agree to make a whole new original song for this competition just for nothing,” Jisung adds. “Well, I guess it’s also good publicity for when we actually do this band thing for real. Show the public our sound, you know?”

Seungmin finally begins to breathe easily again. He briefly stares at Chan fiddling with his drumsticks, twirling them around with his fingers to soothe his own nerves about their upcoming performance. After all, this wasn’t just a performance that Seungmin was doing alone. The competition also meant a lot to his other members in their own different ways, yet they still gave their full support to him when he told them about his plan.

He had great friends.

“Stray Kids?” A slightly hoarse voice called out. Seungmin knew the figure as Changbin, someone from the student government. The guy was normally a lot more energetic than this, but he guesses the fatigue must be getting to him from being one of the organizers for this particular event. “You guys are up in a few seconds.”

Well, this is it. Seungmin stands up to get ready, clearing his throat to calm himself. There’s nowhere to run now.

The crowd’s enthusiastic roars never seemed to stop after the previous band’s set ended, and it was beginning to tick you off. Granted, you should have been happy that Seungmin’s band was going to be greeted by a happy crowd, but that also meant that they were subject to pleasing an audience whose hearts were clearly already captured by the performers right before them. And you would be nothing if you weren’t competitive. Biased or not, you would die on the hill believing that Seungmin’s band is better than the others.

They had a national treasure of a voice for their lead vocals, so how could they not be the best?

An amused snort came from your left side. You didn’t have to think too hard to figure out that it came from your friend, Felix. He was probably finding humor in the way your face didn’t spare a single effort to even plaster an indifferent expression. What can you say? You were loyal.

“Alright! I see that all of you enjoyed that wonderful performance from Xdinary Heroes!” The program’s host, Lee Minho, came back out to hype the crowd. It was then that your attention snapped back up to the big stage, your eyes watching like a hawk as Seungmin and his friends settled into the equipment. A bubbling giggle found its way out of your mouth at how Seungmin looked so focused on adjusting the height of his mic stand. “A very unique band name, if I do say so myself. But it does look like the new trend, as all of you here might also find interest in our next band’s name.”

“Seriously,” Felix starts, his tone teasing. “You are so down bad.”

You roll your eyes. “Be quiet. It’s starting.”

“Yeah, sure.” Felix laughs at your reaction. “We wouldn’t want to interrupt your longtime dream of being confessed to by a singer in the middle of a set now, would we?” Your face burned warmly at the accusation.

It was such a cliche thing to happen. As aware as you were that life wasn’t like the fictional stories of romance that you enjoyed, a part of you still relished the thought of experiencing it for yourself. There was a reason why these kinds of events were heavily romanticized in the media—they held their own charm. It just so happened that you agreed to the notion that getting a proclamation of love from a singer on stage was one of the more appealing choices.

Too bad those don’t go too well in real life.

“But it’s—”

“It’s cliche. Yes, you’ve already told me countless times that it’s not as good in real life. But we all have our fantasies, Y/N. No judgement.” Felix shrugs. “Good for you, though. You are one determined person to bag an actual singer. In a band, no less.”

“You are so—”

“—over. Give it up for Stray Kids!” Lee Minho’s booming voice cut you off again, letting you know that the performance was about to begin.

It started off like normal, with Chan using his drumsticks as a countdown before the instrumental started. Except this time, the song was surprisingly unfamiliar to you. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. This wasn’t the piece they practiced when you came over to watch a week ago. You didn’t recognize the song in its entirety either, though it was already proving to be a song that fit right with your tastes. Seungmin’s voice echoing through the space was also adding so much to the experience. 

You let the pride you felt at how well he was doing bloom in your chest. It was great to see him shine after going through the rough process of preparation with him. You watched him passionately go through the song smoothly without any mistakes. From the day you first met him until this moment, you’ve witnessed how determined he was to achieve his goals in life. It was then that you knew you’d always be proud of Seungmin, no matter what. You were already the happiest you’ve ever been just by being by his side.

“Did they change their set?” You asked no one in particular. 

Felix bops his head to the beat, clearly pleased with the song. “Don’t know the song, but it’s great!”

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t agree with him. Though the sudden change in song choice admittedly peaked your curiosity more than it should have. Your eyes found their way back on stage, as if telling you to simply enjoy the performance now and ask later. But it looks like fate had other plans for you, as your eyes immediately locked with a certain lead singer’s.

He left no argument as to who he was looking at. It was clearly you, and you couldn’t help the way your breath hitched at the way his gaze alone held the answer to the question that lingered in your head. There were sparks of electricity being mimicked throughout your body, sending you into a mild shock. Like a scene from a movie, everything else in the world just seemed to go on mute.

All except his voice.

“Before we proceed to the bridge, I’d like to share something about this song. Would that be alright?” Seungmin spoke to the crowd, despite his attention still obviously on you. You could vaguely hear them answering back to him in interest, positively telling him to go on. It was difficult to miss the way his smile grew at this. Seungmin looked so stunning when he smiled. You always felt like falling in love all over again whenever he did.

The band continued with the instrumental, albeit toning it down as their lead singer continued on. “So this song is actually an original from us.” Oh, that makes so much more sense. “And it was written as my confession to the person I like.” 

Wait.

In the fuzz of your brain, you could barely make out Felix jumping up and down in excitement while looking at the scene unfolding before his eyes.

“I’ve been contemplating this for a while, wondering when I’d ever deem it the perfect moment for me to ask the important question,” Seungmin adds. “But I’ve realized that I was just dragging things out too much for my liking. So, to the one who my heart yearns for even through the nerves I’m feeling right now—” You felt overwhelmed at the moment, but you couldn’t seem to take your eyes off the way Seungmin looked at you with such fondness and admiration.

“—Y/N, will you give me the honor to be yours?”

And when your voice sings out the answer, the instrumental starts picking up again as Seungmin finishes the song with newfound fervor. You chuckle your happy tears away, with your friend playfully punching your arm.

“Now, what did I say?”

Maybe cliches weren’t so bad in real life after all.

MASTERTAG ━ STATUS: OPEN — ASK OR COMMENT 🫶

@fairyki @hysgf @euncsace @comet-falls @starlostseungmin @ameliesaysshoo @hyunverse @wnbnny @xocandyy @minluvly @moon0fthenight @estellaluna @hanjsquokka @starlostastronaut @minsueng @l3visbby

[frownyalfred]

Okay, another little lesson for fic writers since I see it come up sometimes in fics: wine in restaurants.

When you buy a bottle of wine in a (nicer) restaurant, generally (please note my emphasis there, this is a generalization for most restaurants, but not all restaurants, especially non-US ones) you may see a waiter do a few things when they bring you the bottle.

The waiter presents the bottle to the person who ordered it

The waiter uncorks the bottle in order to serve it

The waiter hands the cork to the person who ordered the bottle

The waiter pours a small portion of the wine (barely a splash) and waits for the person who ordered it to taste it

The waiter then pours glasses for everyone else at the table, and then returns to fill up the initial taster's glass

Now, you might be thinking -- that's all pretty obvious, right? They're bringing you what you ordered, making sure you liked it, and then pouring it for the group. Wrong. It's actually a little bit more complicated than that.

The waiter presents the bottle to the person who ordered it so that they can inspect the label and vintage and make sure it's the bottle they actually ordered off the menu

The waiter uncorks the bottle so that the table can see it was unopened before this moment (i.e., not another wine they poured into an empty bottle) and well-sealed

The waiter hands the cork to the person who ordered the bottle so that they can inspect the label on the cork and determine if it matches up; they can also smell/feel the cork to see if there is any dergradation or mold that might impact the wine itself

The waiter pours a small portion for the person who ordered to taste NOT to see if they liked it -- that's a common misconception. Yes, sometimes when house wine is served by the glass, waiters will pour a portion for people to taste and agree to. But when you order a bottle, the taste isn't for approval -- you've already bought the bottle at this point! You don't get to refuse it if you don't like it. Rather, the tasting is to determine if the wine is "corked", a term that refers to when a wine is contaminated by TCA, a chemical compound that causes a specific taste/flavor. TCA can be caused by mold in corks, and is one of the only reasons you can (generally) refuse a bottle of wine you have already purchased. Most people can taste or smell TCA if they are trained for it; other people might drink the wine for a few minutes before noticing a damp, basement-like smell on the aftertaste. Once you've tasted it, you'll remember it. That first sip is your opportunity to take one for the table and save them from a possibly corked bottle of wine, which is absolutely no fun.

If you've sipped the wine (I generally smell it, I've found it's easier to smell than taste) and determined that it is safe, you then nod to your waiter. The waiter will then pour glasses for everyone else at the table. If the wine is corked, you would refuse the bottle and ask the waiter for a new bottle. If there is no new bottle, you'll either get a refund or they'll ask you to choose another option on their wine list. A good restaurant will understand that corked bottles happen randomly, and will leap at the opportunity to replace it; a bad restaurant or a restaurant with poor training will sometimes try to argue with you about whether or not it's corked. Again, it can be a subtle, subjective taste, so proceed carefully.

In restaurants, this process can happen very quickly! It's elegant and practiced. The waiter will generally uncork the bottle without setting the bottle down or bracing it against themselves. They will remove the cork without breaking it, and they will pour the wine without dripping it down the label or on the table.

[vintageseawitch]

i'm a huge fan of Republicans, conservatives or however you want to be politically labeled choosing country over party. please let me see more stories. it's a brave thing to do this. even if you voted for him in both 2016 & 2020 but you changed your mind now, WELCOME. it's a massive deal to get out of any cult successfully & MAGA is no different. being filled with anger & hatred, & fear is intoxicating & honestly easier than choosing to do the right thing. i'm glad you saw the light.

check your registration status often & don't stop talking about Project 2025. they can pretend they're distancing themselves from it as much as they want but it's absolutely their policy. we can do this though if we just show up & VOTE. we got this 💙

[ham1lton]

X MARKS THE SPOT!

pairings: retired f1 drivers x retired f1 legend!yn.

faceclaim: jessica alba.

summary: being the first-ever female f1 world champion was hard enough. writing a tell-all about it, including all the details of your beef with that former driver? let’s just say the track wasn’t the only place things got heated.

warnings: mentions of misogyny. like a lot. so if that is something that makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read!! your comfort comes first <3

author’s note: ignore timeline issues!! this was all inspired by that one anon who said something about yn writing a tell-all. if you liked this, maybe send me an ask? :D

now part of a trilogy!

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

liked by vogue, jimmyfallon and 2,837,018 others

yourinstagram: it was so fun talking to jimmyfallon about writing my memoir ‘lucky girl syndrome’! i talked about getting the call that i was being signed, getting name dropped in a kdot song (thank you for making me cool to my nephews!) and the legacy i want to leave behind. check it out!!!

view all 298,727 comments

user1: MOTHERRR

user2: omg i’ve already pre-ordered my copy!!

-> user3: i’ve reserved it at my local library 🫡

user4: i hope she spills all the tea. i wanna know exactly who the misogynist motherfuckers are.

user5: she’s the goat female driver idc!! first female championship winner!!

-> user9: during her time in mclaren, jenson was carrying her. but yeah let’s talk about that one rigged championship 😂

user6: she still looks so hot. my first celeb crush.

-> user7: i had pictures of her all over my wall. i think my mom still has them up 😓

user8: worst driver of all time. only there because she looked good in the race suit.

-> user11: if she wasn’t hot, no one would care about her driving.

user10: this was always going to happen when you allowed women into f1. ruined the sport. she was nothing but a distraction on the grid.

-> user12: she was incredible. she clawed her way to a championship when everyone doubted her. she proved that women can do anything. the only distraction are people like you.

user13: please please please tell me she says that her and jenson were a thing. i always used to ship them so bad. the photoshoot for british vogue was imprinted on my thirteen year old brain.

-> user14: ANOTHER JENSONYN SHIPPER!!! baitclaren was my fav mclaren era. y’all can have your twinkclaren!!

-> user15: remember when jenson shut down a misogynistic reporter who tried to imply that yn wasn’t a good driver?? that was his girl frfr!!

user16: i’m so proud of u yn. you’ve been through so much and i’m excited to support you.

*liked by yourinstagram.*

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

“SHE’S NOT THAT FAST — SHE JUST GETS LUCKY SOMETIMES. THAT’S ALL IT IS. RIGHT CAR — RIGHT TIME. LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.” — a senior mclaren engineer.

dedicated to everyone who ever rooted for me. thank you.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

EXCERPT FROM LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.

by yn yln.

when i signed with mclaren in 2013, i thought i was living my dream.

i was the only female driver on the grid, paired with jenson button—a world champion, a household name, and, to some, a certified heartthrob. they already loved calling him “promiscuous” in the press, and suddenly there i was: the pretty young woman who happened to drive fast. to them, we weren’t drivers—we were a brand. two good-looking people in shiny cars. and that label stuck.

from the start, i wasn’t taken seriously. i’d show up to meetings and realize they’d given me the wrong time—jenson would already be there, halfway through strategising with the team. he always looked uncomfortable when i walked in late, knowing i wasn’t told the same things he was.

“you’re here now,” he’d say, smiling politely, trying to ease the tension. i liked him. he wasn’t the problem. he was respectful, and if anyone made an offhand comment about me, he’d interject with a joke to cut through the awkwardness. but even his kindness couldn’t fix what was fundamentally wrong.

my first podium was a moment i’d worked my entire life for. it was a race where i drove faster than jenson, faster than most of the grid. but the photo they posted of me on the team’s social media wasn’t of me crossing the finish line, or holding my trophy.

it was me in the garage, leaning over the car, my race suit unzipped halfway down. the caption didn’t even mention the podium. it was just… my body. i couldn’t stomach looking through the comments.

i’ll never forget calling my dad that night. he was furious. he asked me why i didn’t make a fuss. why i didn’t storm into the team’s office and demand better treatment. but what he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t that simple. you’re the only woman in a room full of men, and they’re already waiting for you to slip up. waiting for you to show too much emotion, to prove them right when they think women are too “dramatic” to handle the job.

so i kept my head down. i smiled at the cameras, laughed at the jokes, and drove my ass off every weekend. and every time i was faster than jenson, every time i outqualified him or finished ahead, they’d say, “she got lucky.” when he beat me, they’d say, “see? this is why she doesn’t belong here.” it was a game i couldn’t win.

being the first woman on the grid wasn’t just about being fast. it was about being everything they didn’t expect me to be: calm, collected, agreeable. i couldn’t afford to push back because i knew they’d use it against me. so i swallowed it all, every little slight, every dismissive comment, every missed opportunity. i thought if i just kept my head down and drove, eventually, i’d earn their respect.

but now, looking back, i realize… they were never going to respect me. not really. not as a driver. they respected what i did for their brand, for their image. they respected how well i played the part. but as a person, as an athlete? i was just another pretty face to them. nothing more. and that’s what hurt the most.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

r/books

Discussion Thread:

“Lucky Girl Syndrome” by YN YLN: Thoughts, Reactions, and the Drama It’s Stirred Up.

──────────────────────

u/checkeredpast: just finished lucky girl syndrome, and WOW. she did not hold back. calling out mclaren for the way they treated her, the “wrong meeting times” sabotage, and the completely inappropriate podium photo… i can’t believe this stuff actually happened.

u/fastlaneandfurious: the part where she talks about the team using her as a “walking brand strategy” instead of a driver broke my heart. like, they wanted her to be the face of the team but refused to actually treat her like a serious athlete.

u/f1fanfiction: let’s talk about the fact that she outsold literally every sports memoir in history. 2 million copies sold in the first week. yn doesn’t just break records on the track, apparently.

u/nosteeringallowed: her calling out the media for labeling her as “lucky” after she beat half the grid is ICONIC. “they didn’t call my male teammates lucky—they called them skilled.” like, yes queen, drag them.

u/ynsthegoat: what got me was the chapter about the infamous team dinner where they wouldn’t even let her speak during strategy talk. then she went out and out-qualified jenson the next day.

u/overqualifiedandundervalued: “they said i was lucky, but luck doesn’t drive faster laps or win races. luck didn’t make me the first woman to win a championship—it was skill, it was hard work, and it was me.” CHILLS. absolute chills.

u/gridgossip: is no one going to talk about the tea she spilled on that one driver? the “polite but condescending” comments she got from him while he constantly undermined her. we KNOW it’s about seb.

u/wheresthefinishline: @ u/gridgossip no no no, it’s def about fernando. she’s been shady about him for years, and the way she described the “overly competitive teammate who couldn’t handle being outpaced by a woman” fits him perfectly.

u/holygrailpodium: the inappropriate photo after her first podium makes me so mad every time. she’s standing there in tears, holding the trophy, and they choose to post a picture of her leaning over the car with her suit half-open?? disgusting.

u/gaslitandgridlocked: her dad being her biggest defender was such a beautiful part of the book, though. “why do you stay quiet when you’re the fastest in the room?” hit me right in the heart.

u/podiumqueen: not me crying over how she kept driving through all of this, knowing they didn’t want her there. like, the strength it must’ve taken to win races when her own team wasn’t even rooting for her.

u/championshipenergy: the way she calls out how different her career would’ve been if she were a man was SO POWERFUL. “they didn’t need me to be fast, they needed me to be pretty. they got both, and they still weren’t satisfied.”

u/mimosasontherace: i can’t stop thinking about the last chapter where she talks about winning her first championship and how no one in her team even hugged her when the cameras switched off. like, they couldn’t even fake happiness for her.

u/driversanddivas: this book isn’t just a memoir; it’s a reckoning. yn exposed everyone who doubted her and proved that no matter what they threw at her, she came out on top. lucky girl syndrome my ass—she EARNED that title.

u/lightsoutandread: imagine being on the grid right now, knowing you were one of the people she called out. the absolute awkwardness.

u/trophiesandtrauma: if you’re on the fence about reading this, DO IT. it’s not just about racing—it’s about breaking barriers, sexism, and resilience. honestly, it deserves all the success it’s getting.

u/checkeredpast: she’s already announced a limited series deal with a streaming platform. you KNOW it’s going to be messy when they dramatize the “wrong meeting times” scene.

u/bookishracer: “lucky girl syndrome” is officially my book of the year. yn didn’t just tell her story; she made sure no one could ever erase it again.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

liked by f1stan, ynstan and 1,837,928 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: f1 legend and now best selling author, yn yln, took to harper’s bazaar to discuss writing and her career. however, her memoir went viral for more than its record breaking sales. yln mentioned that there was a certain driver that would be her biggest fan in public and then undermine her in public. it has been dubbed ‘x marks the spot’, with the hashtag gaining major traction on social media. what do you think ham1ltons? and who do you think the supposed driver could be?

──────────────────────

‘there was one driver who always seemed to go out of his way to remind me i didn’t belong. he wasn’t on my team, but his presence always lingered—sharp, dismissive, condescending. let’s call him x. in interviews, he’d say all the right things, calling me a “trailblazer” and claiming he respected what i brought to the sport. but in the paddock, it was another story. during press conferences, he’d interrupt me, throwing in some smug joke that made everyone laugh but left me feeling small. once, during a rain delay, he walked past my garage and casually remarked to my engineer, loud enough for me to hear, “well, at least she’ll look good sliding off the track.” and when i won my first race, beating him in the process, he didn’t say a word. no handshake, no congratulations—just a quick glance and he was gone. i’ll never know why he went out of his way to belittle me, but in the end, i didn’t care. that win wasn’t for him. it was for me.’

──────────────────────

view all 23,727 comments

user1: it’s definitely fernando. they’ve never liked each other, and he’s always been salty when anyone’s faster than him.

-> user2: nah, it can’t be fernando. he’s competitive, but he’s never outright disrespectful. i’m thinking nico.

-> user1: girl that’s the point 😭 x was never openly disrespectful.

user3: okay but what about lewis? we KNOW their relationship wasn’t always great. remember how tense they were in interviews back then?

-> user4: no way it’s lewis. he’s literally said she’s one of the most talented drivers he’s raced against.

-> user5: lewis can say nice things now, but what if he wasn’t like that back then? she didn’t say the guy stayed disrespectful. she also said x was nice in public, who knew what he was saying in private.

user6: everyone’s ignoring seb, but she’s shaded him before. what if it’s him?

-> user7: yn has ALWAYS defended seb. if anything, he was one of the few drivers who actually supported her. it’s not him.

user8: it has to be fernando. the whole paragraph is giving fernando energy, and you know it.

-> user9: nah, i still think it’s nico. remember when he threw shade at her in a press conference after she outqualified him?

user10: you’re all wrong. it’s michael. she’s talked about how intimidating he was to race against, and she never got along with him.

-> user11: yn literally called michael one of her idols. she’d never write about him like that.

user12: y’all are missing the obvious answer—kimi. he’s the only one who would say something that blunt and not care about the fallout.

-> user13: kimi didn’t even talk to her half the time lol. i can’t see him caring enough to belittle her.

user14: okay, what if it’s no one we’re expecting? maybe it’s some random mid-grid guy like grosjean or massa.

-> user15: yn wouldn’t waste a whole chapter on someone irrelevant. it has to be one of the big names. my money’s on fernando or nico.

-> user1: fernando for sure. yn’s always been lowkey bitter about him, and this just proves it.

-> user2: it’s not fernando!! why can’t you just accept that some drivers are cocky without it being him??

-> user3: okay but if it’s not fernando, who else would it be?? the smug comments SCREAM his vibe.

user5: we’re all arguing, but yn’s probably laughing at us right now. she KNEW we’d be doing this.

user16: yn ‘attention whore’ yln.

user17: at least we know it wasn’t my king jb 😻

user18: idk who tf yn is but this tea is so juicy 😭

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

[setting: thanksgiving dinner, complete chaos. plates of food are half-eaten, wine glasses are full, and cousin jess is recording everything on tiktok. the family is deep into an argument about “x marks the spot,” using jess’s infamous powerpoint as reference.]

uncle bob: jess, i still don’t get why you made a whole powerpoint about this.

cousin jess: because the people need to know, uncle bob. yn’s memoir is the drama of the decade, and you’re welcome for organizing all the evidence.

aunt carol: honestly, it’s that fernando. slide four proves it. all the press conferences where he interrupted her? it’s right there.

aunt fiona: fernando wasn’t that bad. he even congratulated her in, like, 2017. i think it’s nico. slide eight, jess literally wrote “petty king energy” under his name.

uncle hamish: it’s not nico. you’re all overthinking this. i say it’s jenson. didn’t he once call her “intense” in an interview?

cousin matt: jenson literally defended her against the media every other week, hamish. you clearly didn’t listen to slide six.

grandpa: i still don’t understand why this yn person didn’t just punch the guy.

grandma: because she has class, unlike this family. pass the stuffing.

aunt bobbi: wait, what about lewis? slide ten said they were “friendly but complicated.” maybe he was fake-nice to her.

uncle craig: fake-nice? lewis was the only one who liked her, bobbi. slide nine has like five examples of him hyping her up in interviews.

cousin jess: uncle craig, you’re wrong. he was supportive, but there’s that one time he ignored her after she beat him in qualifying. it’s suspicious.

aunt carol: you think it’s suspicious? no way. lewis isn’t smug enough to be x.

uncle hamish: oh please, you’re all just picking names because they sound dramatic. if anything, it was sebastian.

aunt fiona: seb? absolutely not. slide seven shows he called her “one of the best drivers on the grid” multiple times.

uncle bob: that’s suspicious. who compliments people that much unless they’re guilty?

grandma: compliments aren’t guilt, bob. stop eating the cranberry sauce straight from the bowl and get a grip.

aunt carol: you’re all wrong. slide four, people! fernando cutting her off mid-sentence! the man’s guilty as sin.

grandpa: why does anyone care about this? it’s all rich people in fancy cars. sounds like nonsense.

cousin matt: rich people drama is the best kind of drama, grandpa.

aunt bobbi: jess, why is kimi’s slide just a picture of him smoking with “#needthat” written under it?

cousin jess: because kimi’s innocent. everyone knows he doesn’t care about anything but being my dream man.

uncle craig: so why isn’t yn on the slide about drivers who were universally liked?

cousin jess: because she wasn’t universally liked, uncle craig. she was fast, hot, and female in a male-dominated sport. they were all salty.

uncle bob: well, now they’re all posting about how much they respect her.

grandma: of course they are. it’s called covering their asses.

uncle hamish: if i were yn, i’d name names. all this mystery is just fueling conspiracy theories.

grandpa: or she could just leave it alone so we don’t have to argue about it at thanksgiving. what the hell even is f1? is that nascar?

uncle craig: formula 1, dad. jesus, keep up.

grandma (snapping): if someone doesn’t pass me the cranberry sauce right now, i’m gonna be the next x.

[jess pans the camera to her grandma glaring at the table, muttering under her breath as the family keeps arguing.]

cousin jess (whispering into her phone): y’all, my family is losing it over x marks the spot. happy thanksgiving.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

liked by landopriv, ynupdates and 4,738,918 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: an update on the ‘x marks the spot’ speculation. it started over who exactly is x, from f1 legend yn yln’s memoir and it is causing a stir! with former/current drivers taking to social media and journalists to prove their innocence. kimi räikkönen, when asked, said ‘yn deserved every win she got. people talked too much, but she let her driving do all the talking. always respected that about her.’

mick schumacher released a statement via instagram, with a montage of photos of him and his dad with the first female championship winner: ‘my dad always believed yn was one of the most talented drivers he’d ever seen. he admired her strength, her skill, and her ability to prove everyone wrong, time and time again. he spoke so highly of her and what she brought to the sport, and i know he’d be so proud to see her telling her story.’ when sebastian vettel made a rare appearance to the grid, he confirmed that he had bought a copy and thought that he was proud to watch yn ‘make history’.

now the sudden flurry of support is making fans of the sport wonder just who is genuine and who is covering his ass? what do you think ham1ltons?

view all 2,983 comments

user1: the way literally everyone is tripping over themselves to prove it’s not them is SO funny. one of you is lying, and we will figure it out.

-> user20: exactly!! the fact that EVERYONE is suddenly posting/talking feels so suspicious lmao. someone’s definitely guilty, and they’re trying to throw us off the scent.

user2: kimi’s response is so him. short, straight, and unbothered. it’s definitely not him.

-> user22: we’re all analysing this, but kimi’s out here just vibing like always. love that man.

user3: mick’s statement is beautiful and wholesome as always, but also low-key throwing shade at the others?? like, ‘my dad always supported her’ is giving ‘can’t say the same for you lot.’

-> user21: honestly, mick’s post is the only one that feels 100% genuine. his dad was always so supportive of yn.

user4: seb really said ‘i bought the book’ and dipped. man didn’t even deny anything outright. sus??

-> user5: nah, seb’s always been a yn fanboy. remember when he called her ‘the most talented driver on the grid’? it’s not him.

user6: the lewis and nico posts are giving major ‘damage control’ energy. both of them trying WAY too hard to sound supportive.

-> user7: facts. lewis called her a ‘trailblazer’ like we wouldn’t notice how cold things were between them back in the day.

-> user17: tbh, i don’t think it’s lewis. yn has said before that he was always encouraging her, and they’ve stayed friendly.

user8: fernando’s post feels so rehearsed. like, when has he ever gushed over yn like that before??

user9: low-key think it’s nico. man was so salty about literally everything back then, and the ‘petty king’ vibes match the memoir perfectly.

-> user10: yesss, especially the part where she said he didn’t congratulate her after her first win. sounds EXACTLY like something nico would do.

user11: not enough people are talking about jenson. just because he was her teammate doesn’t mean he’s innocent. the whole ‘answer my texts’ thing was cute, but he’s a smooth talker.

-> user12: nah, yn always spoke highly of jenson. he had her back when mclaren was treating her like a sex toy. i’m ruling him out.

user13: so we’re all just ignoring that fernando spent YEARS shading her in press conferences? india ‘13 is permanently engraved in my brain.

-> user18: can’t lie, if it’s fernando, i’ll be disappointed but not surprised. his 2013 energy was… a lot.

user14: honestly, they’re all acting sketchy. the sudden love bomb of support is too much. one of you is x and we will find out.

user15: plot twist: what if x isn’t even one of the obvious names? imagine it’s someone random like felipe massa lmao.

-> user16: watch it not even be one of the main suspects and we’ve been dragging the wrong guy this whole time 💀

user18: it’s giving ‘we need to get ahead of the narrative’ vibes, and i’m here for the chaos.

-> user19: everyone’s pr team is in OVERDRIVE rn lmfaoooo

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

— all works taglist: @luvsforme @yelenasloverrrrr @donttouchthegnote @chelle1306 @bloodyymaryy @km-23mr @stinkyjax @f1kenzzz @ctrlyomomma @aliciaablueprint @theblueblub @namgification @tallrock35 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ariellovelynn @shhhchriss @lifeless-firefly @xylinasdiary @evie-119 @itseightbeats @landososcar @yongi-lee @velentine @m1892 @blushmimi @evans-dejong @nixisracing @lethalvenus @sainzluvrr @santanasaintmendes @idontknowlmaoo @sainzluvrr @tetetoni @ssprayberrythings @heavy-vettel @tashisgf @daniskywalkersolo @c-losur3 @lestappenslover @linoscrly (see yourself tagged when you don’t wanna be? or you want to be and don’t see yourself? send me an ask!)

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

[fading-event-608]

Listen, I know, you all have been seeing fundraiser posts all day long. I've seen people complain that the tags for Palestine are "unusable" now because… genocide victims use it to find aid to survive.

Thing is, those posts will be here until Israel ceases it's aggression. And Palestinians will need your aid as far as they are left with no income and besieged. I've tried reaching out to other platforms, and Tumblr is still the best place for at least Falastin (Gazan who I spotlight for more than 2 months) to get donations; because here you don't need thousands of followers to get interactions. And at least we get one in ten response here; on other platforms both of us don't get any.

So yes, a dying website for fandom is her best bet to save her family right now. We don't speak of evacuation anymore (even though we hope for it), this is a battle for day-to-day survival. The prices in Gaza are increasing every hour, and they have no income and Falastin has gone into multiple debts to help them before starting the campaign in June. And yes, she receives more attention now but her family is still in starvation - she tries to support 26 people now, since her cousin was martyred and his 2 children joined 24 of her family in Al-Mawasy.

Yes, they should get free aid from all those countless non-profits that raise millions. But if they see something labelled as "aid" it is because they have bought it themselves. Yes, you can see (and maybe touch!) aid if you subject yourself to hours-long queues and/or humiliation of being a part of a photoshoot. They also said that the aid they get is stale at best and spoiled at worst; and that's again, if they get it.

Yes, there are grassroots organizations but they cannot reach everyone, because they are in small teams and they don't receive a lot of funds. And you can of course donate to them to try "fix" this; but please do not think that it means individual fundraisers are not worth supporting. I did not see any evidence of individual fundraisers "taking" money from others; on the contrary, when Falastin's fundraiser struggles, I see others struggle too. When we celebrate a good day of donations we celebrate it with others too.

And I could talk about Harris campaign get 1 billion in donations and still receiving them or how AO3 got 200k in a couple of days; but the post is getting too long.

Anyway. Please consider donating to Falastin's campaign; the money would buy food and water first, shelter and clothes for the winter second. There's a raffle for hand-made Palestinian thobe that Falastin's friend makes (LINK); and please follow her here.

Donate via Gofundme (in SEK! check rates below please): LINK

10$ = 108 SEK

25$ = 272 SEK

50$ = 544 SEK

100$ = 1,088 SEK

Donate via PayPal (in USD): LINK

Vetting info: #282 in El-Shab-Hussein and Nabulsi's spreadsheet [here], #957 in the Butterfly Project spreadsheet [here]

[nephynes]

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

• minors do not interact

• pairing: sunghoon x afab reader x jake

• part one here

• wc: 45k (yikes)

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

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

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

• story edit by @yujinoot

• nsfw warnings under the cut

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

════════════════════════════

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So?"

"Yunjin might walk in."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod.

"Words."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't stop until she cries."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake swallows hard, nodding like a reprimanded boy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And god, you want everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't care."

"Okay..."

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

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

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

"Doesn't matter."

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

And then you speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure you are."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yunjin—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. "What—"

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

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

"Jake, wait—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What!?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort despite yourself. Sunghoon finally smirks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course you were," you mutter.

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

"Sounds like him."

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

"Surprised?" Jake says, tilting his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you're both...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"WHAT."

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

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

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

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

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

"You're not denying it fast enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay. Well that makes more sense"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's that do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sunghoon."

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

"I do, but—how much is it?"

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

"But how—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jake."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jake—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunghoon texts you every morning and every night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: hi hoonie.

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

Hoon: hi baby. god i missed you.

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

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

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

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

He hesitates a little before adding typing more,

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

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

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

And then another message comes in

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I can't even look at him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let's go to the Canary Islands."

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[cazshmere]

Aries in the Houses and What Ignites Your Inner Child’s Rage 🔥

materialist🔖

DISCLAIMER: These are just my personal observations and are meant for entertainment purposes only; it may not resonate with everyone due to the nuances of astrology. Please respect my work and avoid copying or stealing it. Enjoy reading!!

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 1st House :

you had to be strong before you even knew what strength was. people saw your fire, your passion, your bold way of showing up, and just assumed you didn’t need comfort. so you rarely got it. you weren’t held the way you needed. you weren’t met with softness. just expectations.

your anger began as a form of defense, not aggression. you lashed out because it was the only way to say “i matter” when no one else was saying it for you.

you were punished for reacting, even when someone crossed a line. your reactions were labeled as overreactions. your “attitude” was the problem, never the disrespect you received.

you felt invisible unless you were loud, and when you were loud, you were told to tone it down. nothing you did felt right. your very being was treated like it needed adjusting or needed to be modified in order to be “acceptable”.

you weren’t allowed to just exist, you had to earn your space, justify your emotions and constantly prove that you were good enough to be heard :(

underneath all the rage is grief baby. grief from never being treated with the tenderness and kindness you deserved to be treated with. grief from being called difficult for simply having a sense of self

your inner child burns with fury anytime someone tries to define you, limit you or suggest that your essence is “too much” to be loved as it is.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 2nd House :

you were made to feel like wanting was wrong. that needing something meant you were a burden. your desires were treated like inconveniences to others.

you learned early that your worth was tied to what you could give and how little you needed in return. so you stopped asking. but over time, that silence turned into quiet resentment. your self-worth became wrapped up in your achievements and your inner child started to believe that being loved meant being useful, not simply being you.

any time someone dismisses your needs now, it reopens a wound. because you remember what it felt like to want safety, comfort, attention and be told “no” without care.

you may have had things taken from you without consent, your belongings, your choices, your time and it taught you that what’s “yours” can disappear in an instant.

you were taught that love should be earned and that even basic needs come with guilt. so now you guard your worth like a fortress, ready to fight anyone who tries to devalue you. you often equate even gentle criticism with personal rejection, because your inner child still remembers what it felt like to be blamed for simply having needs. to be told you were too much, too emotional, too demanding, when really, you were just asking to be seen.

you feel your inner child rage when people act like you should be okay with crumbs. because deep down, you know how it feels to give everything and still be told it’s not enough.

your fire is not greed. it’s the flame of someone who knows what it’s like to have to prove you deserve what should’ve been yours by right.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 3rd house :

you were interrupted more than you were heard. every time your curiosity sparked, someone dimmed it or mocked it. your thoughts weren’t seen as important, they were dismissed, corrected, or silenced.

you were told to “calm down” when you were just excited, to “speak nicely” when you were simply passionate, and to “think before you speak” when all you were doing was trying to express yourself. and if you have mercury retrograde too, the overthinking and self-doubt that followed probably became unbearable.

you may have had to compete for attention in your own home - siblings, noise, distractions and so you learned to speak louder, faster, sharper just to be noticed.

your rage stems from the belief that no one ever really listened to you. and when they did, it was to find fault, not to understand.

you carry anger from being underestimated. you had so much to say, but were treated like you were just talking too much. too fast. too out of line.

you feel a deep fury when you’re ignored or cut off because your inner child still remembers what it felt like to speak into a void.

your mind became a battleground between needing to be understood and fearing that no one ever truly will.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 4th house :

you were raised in an environment where safety came with conditions. maybe you were protected physically, but not emotionally. maybe you had to fight just to feel seen inside your own home.

you felt like you had to toughen up early and be the strong one, the independent one, the one who didn’t cry even when it hurt. there wasn’t space to be soft or be vulnerable but only to survive. so when you did need to cry, you did it in secret. because somewhere along the way, you learned that vulnerability made you weak and weak wasn’t safe.

your anger lives in your chest. it flares when people talk about “family” like it’s automatically nurturing, because to you, home was often a place of tension, not peace.

you were told what to feel and how to feel it. emotions like anger were unacceptable, unless someone else in the house was expressing it. your own feelings were either dismissed or punished.

your inner child doesn’t trust easily because they had to build their own emotional armor. they were taught love could be withdrawn without warning, so now they expect to be abandoned before they can feel safe.

you hate when people try to control your inner world, because that’s exactly what you fought to reclaim. your emotions, your space, your truth - you had to earn them.

you still burn with rage when someone tries to invade your peace because you remember a time when you didn’t have any.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 5th house :

you were told to “be careful” when you were just trying to be joyful. your spark was policed before it had a chance to grow. your creativity felt like a threat to those who didn’t understand it.

your passions were either ignored or treated like a phase. when you got excited about something, you were told to tone it down, not get your hopes up, or focus on something more “useful”.

you carry a deep, quiet anger about not being encouraged. about having to fight for your joy. about having to explain why what lit you up mattered or why something makes you feel happy.

you may have been shamed for taking up space - for being loud, expressive, emotional, theatrical. you were made to feel like loving yourself or being proud of yourself was arrogance

your inner child burns with rage when people act like your joy is frivolous, your art is childish, or your voice is “too much.” because you remember what it was like to be dimmed

you became protective of your self-expression. you learned to create in private, love in secret, or laugh only when it felt safe. but the fire never went out. you wanted romance to feel fearless, like you could love out loud without shame. but instead you were made to feel embarrassing for how openly you cared. your inner child still aches at being told their passion was too much to be loved back.

you get angry now when someone tries to shrink the very parts of you that once saved you, your passion, your confidence, your ability to feel deeply and loudly.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 6th House :

you grew up thinking rest had to be earned. that you had to do something to deserve peace. love felt like something you had to work for, like if you weren’t being useful, you weren’t worthy. so even now, slowing down makes you feel guilty, like you’re not allowed to just be.

you feel rage when you’re expected to keep going even when you’re so exhausted and tired because that’s what you were taught as a child: that tired wasn’t an excuse, and pushing through was expected.

you may have been forced into routines or responsibilities too early. the weight of being reliable was placed on you before you knew how to ask for help.

your inner child isn’t angry about working hard, they’re angry that no one noticed them unless they were achieving something. they’re hurt that love came with conditions. that they were only cared for when they were useful, never just because they existed.

you were made to feel like your needs got in the way. so now when someone tries to micromanage you, fix you, or make you feel broken for struggling, it angers you.

you feel a deep anger toward people and systems that expect so much from you but give nothing back. because that’s what you grew up with, being pushed to perform, to show up, to stay strong, with no space for how you actually felt. it still stings, being treated like a machine instead of a person.

you’re not angry because you hate structure. you’re angry because it was forced on you before you even knew who you were. you didn’t get to choose your pace, your path, or your needs and you just had to fall in line. and that pressure still lives in your body.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 7th House :

you were taught to play nice. to keep the peace. to not make things harder for anyone else. so you started shrinking yourself, holding back your anger, your truth, your needs all just to keep things smooth. and now a part of you still feels guilty for taking up space, even when staying quiet meant losing yourself.

you didn’t just crave love baby, you fought for it. you chased people who made you feel seen, even if only in fragments. your inner child still aches from the effort it took to feel chosen.

you were made to believe that being “too much” would drive people away, so you softened yourself to be accepted. and when they left anyway, the rage started to burn.

your anger isn’t about others leaving, it’s about what you gave up to make them stay. it’s about the way you betrayed yourself just to be loved.

your relationships became battlegrounds where you either lost yourself or fought to be understood. you were always either chasing or defending.

your inner child gets angry when love feels one-sided. when needing closeness is called “clingy,” or being independent pushes people away. all you ever wanted was to be loved without having to change who you are.

your inner child doesn’t fear love, they fear disappearing in it. they get angry when being in a relationship starts to feel like losing yourself. like your needs, your voice, your fire slowly fade just to keep the peace.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 8th House :

you were forced to deal with intensity before you knew what to do with it. secrets, power struggles, emotional undercurrents, you felt them all, but no one taught you how to name them.

you weren’t allowed to be fragile, even when life broke you open. people expected you to “handle it,” to not fall apart, to be strong for others while your own wounds were ignored.

your inner child rages when people try to pry you open without earning it. because you remember what it felt like to be emotionally invaded, violated, or exposed before you felt ready.

you had to deal with your emotions on your own from a young age. no one was there to hold you through the hard parts, so you learned to stay quiet and handle it yourself. now, when someone ignores your pain, it brings up all those old feelings of being unseen.

and yes even though you’ve always had to take the lead or be bold in some way or the other, there’s still fear in doing things on your own. deep down, you worry that if you fall, no one will be there to catch you.

you carry rage for every time someone took from you without giving back, be it your energy, your trust, your body, your secrets. now you guard yourself because you had to.

you burn when people treat your silence like consent, or your strength like invincibility. because your inner child still remembers what it’s like to be strong and terrified at the same time.

you’re not cold my love, you’re a fire that’s been contained for survival. and anyone who tries to control your emotional power will feel the heat you buried long ago.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 9th House :

you were told what to believe before you even knew you had a choice. you didn’t get to ask “why” , you just had to accept it, even when it didn’t sit right. deep down, your inner child still aches for the freedom to think for yourself, to explore, to believe in something that actually feels true.

your curiosity was mistaken for rebellion. your need to explore, challenge, and curiosity were treated like a threat instead of a strength.

you were punished for thinking differently, maybe not directly, but through subtle disapproval, shame, or being made to feel like your dreams were unrealistic, immature, or selfish.

your inner child still rages when people try to box you in, when your beliefs are belittled, or when your vision is met with cynicism.

you learned to hide how big you really are. how much you want. how far you’d go if no one held you back. and that suppression built into resentment.

you feel a deep anger when people assume they know more than you just because they’re older, more “qualified,” or louder, because you’ve always known your truth, even when no one else respected it.

you were born to roam, to question, to reach for more than what you were handed. but growing up, every time you wanted something different, you were told to settle down, to follow the rules, not your heart. your inner child still burns with anger when your freedom is treated like a flaw, or when your curiosity is met with shame instead of support.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 10th House :

you were expected to succeed before you even had the chance to mess up. the pressure started early, to get it right, to be the best. and somewhere along the way, you started to believe that being loved meant always performing, always achieving.

your identity got tangled with productivity. you were praised when you got it right, but not held when you got it wrong. so you learned to equate mistakes with failure of character.

you became the strong one, the driven one, because it felt like the only way to be safe. like if you slowed down or showed weakness, everything would fall apart. now it stings when people call you “too much” or act like your ambition is just about ego, they don’t see what it’s protecting.

your inner child burns with rage every time someone calls you “intense” for simply caring. for giving your all. for wanting to be more.

you were never allowed to slow down without feeling like you were falling behind. now, you carry a fire in your chest that never cools, even when you’re exhausted.

you’re angry because no one saw how heavy it was to carry so much alone. they just applauded the outcome, never the sacrifice.

you don’t rage because you want to dominate. you rage because you never felt free to define success on your own terms.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 11th House :

you always felt like you had to earn your place in the group. friendships didn’t come with ease, they came with performance, people-pleasing, or being the one who took initiative every time.

you felt invisible in spaces where you wanted to belong the most. the rage didn’t come from rejection - it came from being overlooked, underestimated or used when convenient.

you were the one who fought for the friend group, who planned, who showed up but rarely felt like anyone would fight for you back.

your inner child gets furious when people treat you like an afterthought. because you know how deeply you craved community, and how painful it was to be excluded from it.

you get angry when people only like parts of you. when they love your energy but ignore your truth. when they want your spark, but not who you really are. it makes you feel used, not seen.

you learned that being authentic often meant being alone. and that made you furious, not because you wanted to fit in, but because you had to choose between being seen and being accepted.

you still carry rage for every space that made you shrink yourself just to be part of something bigger and now, your soul refuses to do it again.

❤️‍🔥 Aries in the 12th House :

you weren’t allowed to show how angry you were. or how afraid. or how loud your inner world was. so you buried your fire where no one could reach it, not even you.

your inner child doesn’t throw loud tantrums, it stays quiet and burns inside. it shows up in your overthinking, in your random mood swings, in dreams you can’t explain. the anger is real, even if no one sees it.

you were always told you were too much, and too sensitive at the same time. so now, when people say “don’t take it personally” or “just let it go,” it stings because no one ever made it feel safe to feel that deeply in the first place.

you’ve carried battles you couldn’t name. inherited wounds. unspoken grief. emotional weight that was never yours to begin with. and your inner fire has been used to keep others warm at your own cost.

you feel anger at your own silence. at how long it’s taken you to speak. at how many times you swallowed truth to keep peace. you didn’t want peace, you wanted to be heard, your inner child wanted to be heard.

you rage quietly at the way people romanticize being “low-maintenance” or “chill,” because you know what it’s like to suppress your needs until they feel like ghosts.

you are a storm disguised as stillness. and the world doesn’t know how lucky it is that you learned how to control your fire but your inner child still wonders why you ever had to.

picture & banner credit to their rightful owners <3

© cazshmere 2025 [All Rights Reserved]

[ramp-it-up]

Claim

Summary: Bucky's not the boss of you. But what is he?

Word count: 2.2 K

Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Reader

A/N: I saw Thunderbolts*! Definitely on my Bucky bullshit for a minute. Just block me now. Or, read, respond, and reblog! Love you heauxes! This is connected to Charm and Celebrate but can be read alone!

This should have no spoilers of consequence.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! Teacher Reader, Congressman Bucky, Protective Bucky, feral Bucky, dom Bucky, Bucky with the dirty mouth, reader tries to be a brat, but well, Bucky, kitchen sex, wall sex, allusion to nipple play, f receiving oral, and anal, raw p in v, praise kink, SIZE KINK, after care, the "what are we" discussion, tiny bit of the Sargeant kink, nicknames Charm and Baby, also Boss, kinda. Basically pwp.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------------

Bucky flew in because you weren’t taking care of yourself. 

There were too many late nights grading papers, too many skipped lunches to tutor your students, and too many weekends you couldn’t make it up DC because you were giving time to everyone but yourself. You were overtired, cranky, and out of groceries.

When Bucky called, you told him you were going to bed early and would shop after the pancake fundraiser in the morning. Then, because you couldn’t help it, you reminded him he wasn’t your boss.

Hell, he wasn’t even your boyfriend.

That was the problem.

You and Bucky met, fell in lust, flirted on the phone, and hooked up once (several times) during a whirlwind weekend in DC. You hesitated just as hard as he did to put a label on things, but tonight, your feelings were in the way. You hung up on Bucky with a lump in your throat, curled up on the couch, and passed out at 5:16 PM.

At 9:06 PM, you woke to the sound of your front door opening.

And there he was, Bucky Barnes in a Brooklyn hoodie, grey sweats and a scowl on his too-handsome face. His hair flopped into those gorgeous eyes chaotically and your heart beat double time when you saw him.

He had bags of food, a backpack, wine, and righteous indignation.

“How did you get here so fast?”

“Sam gave me a lift,” he muttered as he pushed past you to the kitchen.

You stood by your open door, frozen, blinking as reality caught up.  

Winter Soldier. Congressman Barnes. Besties with Captain America.

Oh, right. That guy.

You closed the door and shook your head as you followed him inside the apartment that he’d never been in before, but was now taking over.

He complained about you running yourself down as he unboxed the food and watched you eat like a hawk, then ran you a bath.

“Yes, Boss,” you replied to his back as he retreated into your bathroom. 

How did he know the layout of your place? You shook your head again, laughing, because of course he did. When you stood to clear your plate, Bucky took the dishes from your hands.

The standoff began. You glared. He glared harder.

You, because he wasn’t the boss of you, him, because you’d sassed him for caring. The problem was that his glare was sexy as hell and now you were wet.

Bucky read you and chuckled, then his eyes dropped to your body in your zip up hoodie, tank top, and short shots, then back to glaring at the saucy look on your face. 

“Oh, I’ll boss you, Charm. Don’t even get me started.” 

You felt the heat rise to your face but…you couldn’t help it. You wanted to push him, because you knew why he was so grumpy. He was concerned about you.

And very, very horny. 

It had been a month since you’d seen him in DC. 

On anyone else this possessiveness would be annoying, on Bucky, it was so damn cute. But why? 

What claim did he have on you?

The bulge inside his sweats was so enormous it looked like someone stuffed a giant sausage down there. Yikes. You’d almost forgotten how massive he was. You wanted to tease him because there was something empowering and fun about having him entirely at your mercy. 

“How, Congressman? How exactly will you boss me?” 

Bucky cocked his head, challenging you with his devil-blue eyes. 

“You want to know how?” 

His jaw was clenched and he looked almost dangerous, staring at you in a way that probably intimidated most people. It just got you wet. You were not scared of James Buchanan Barnes. 

He was your Bucky.

So you just shrugged and cocked your eyebrow at him as he set the dishes down and leaned against the counter, his t-shirt clinging to his sculpted chest; his grey sweats tented.

You crossed your arms against your hard, aching nipples and cocked your hip as you silently continued to sass him.

“Well, I’ll start with that smart mouth. Gonna kiss it until you’re hotter and wetter than you already are, Charm. Then I’ll peel off your clothes and suck those gorgeous nipples of yours until you’re squirming and maybe, possibly, I'll give you my thigh to grind on and get all wet with your slick if you’re a good girl.”

You shifted and Bucky smirked, but continued, his eyes on each body part as he reeled off filthy promises.

“I’m gonna hold you down, take my time playing with those sweet tits until you’re almost cuming, but not quite.”

Bucke remembered how responsive you were when he sucked your nipples, and in fact jacked off every day to a tit pic you sent him. He was making a mess in his pants because he knew you were making a mess in yours.

He was relentless in the mission of your ruin.

“Then, gonna take my time licking my way down that hot body to your sweet pussy and eat you out until you cum on my tongue. And my fingers.”

Then his eyes flicked to yours, those ethereal blue eyes making you gasp.

“M fucking starving, Charm.”

Poor baby, you thought, and then remembered you were trying to be a brat. Bucky smiled at you and then focused on your shorts again.

“And with every cute little tug that your pussy does to try and take my fingers deeper…Did you know your pussy does that, Charm? Pulls on my fingers and my cock so sweet, fuck, I need it.”

Bucky's voice broke. He cleared his throat and continued. 

“For every spasm of that cute little cunt, I’ll play your clit to make the pleasure last longer, so you’ll come that much harder. And longer. Until you beg me to stop.”

You were trembling, knees weak, trying not to moan. He watched your thighs press together and grunted, but he kept going.

“I’ll get you nice and wet and ready for me to fuck you with this big cock that is aching for you.”

Bucky reached down and lewdly grabbed himself, your eyes riveted. 

“Gonna fuck you in every position, until there’s no part of you I haven’t tasted and possessed as much as I fucking want. You’re gonna feel it in your soul, Charm."

God he was so damn smug.

"And then, Baby, you’ll sleep. All. Damn. Day. Fuck the fundraiser. I’ll buy the pancakes.”

Bucky met your shock with a self-satisfied grin. 

“I’ll work on my policy briefs and packets while you rest, tomorrow, and Sunday, we’ll go grocery shopping and stock the place before I get on the train back to DC.”

You opened and closed your mouth like a fish, thinking of a plausible argument against what he just said. Everything but the sex part.

You held your finger up for him to stop.

“Give me a minute.”

You tried to regain your composure. You were wet. Very wet. Your panties and your shorts were clinging to you and your heart was beating fast.

Bucky’s eyes lit up when he saw how flustered you were, and he leaned closer, murmuring into your ear as he crowded you back against the island, caging you in with his strong forearms.

“You like my dirty mouth, don’t you, Charm?” 

He nipped your earlobe as you whined in response. 

“I see you. You love how hard I am for you. You want to grab my cock and feel it, I can see that. I know you’re already wet for me. I bet if I slid my fingers inside your panties right now, you’d be all soft and wet and juicy like the sweetest plum in the world, isn’t that right? You’re just aching for me to eat you real good and make you cum, aren’t you?” 

God.

Yes. 

You thought it, but didn’t say it. You just couldn’t articulate words at the moment.

“And I’m going do all of what I said, Charm, but I think that right now I need to fuck you on this counter top.”

Bucky stepped back and pulled down his sweats and you saw the dark allure of him, a good nine inches, thick and dripping pre-cum in time with it’s own heartbeat making it throb. Bucky’s hand took himself in his grasp, and the pulsing almost purple monster looked beautiful encased in the rare vibranium. 

You appreciated this small dark tower and the dusting of dark hair at it’s base and you don’t know why, but when Bucky pulled his shirt up and pinned it with his chin as he stared at you and stroked, but you got so much wetter.

That’s a lie. You knew exactly why. 

“Take off your shorts and panties. Now.”

You scrambled to comply as Bucky advanced on you and lifted you on the island with one hand while simultaneously lining up with the other. His eyes rolled when he actually felt how wet you were for him.

“Good Lord, Charm. Fuck, it’s been too long.”

He said it as he looked down and tortured you with the head of his cock teasing your clit and the slick on your pussy lips. He looked back up at you, those blue eyes almost feverish.

“I- I didn’t stretch you out with my fingers. But I need it, right now, Charm. Do you want it too?”

You pulled off your top and threw it somewhere behind you. You started pulling your nipples and speaking your filthy mind.

“Don’t need your fingers’ Sarge. Fuck me with that…. whooooooohhhh my goddddddd!”

Bucky slid inside you as you spoke and the stretch had your pussy pulsing when he wasn’t even halfway in. The feeling was indescribable and you couldn't believe that you were cuming almost instantly.

You both looked down at your cream almost immediately leaking out and frothing around his big, red, pulsing cock as he pistoned slowly inside you. You both moaned and closed your eyes.

Bucky grabbed your neck to bring your head back up from lolling back on your shoulders as your pussy pulled him in with your orgasm. He batted your hand away from your breast and started pinching and rolling it, elongating your pleasure.

“I think we’ve lost the plot here, Charm.”

He said it through gritted teeth as he slapped into you and sped up incrementally.

“I told you that I was yours. And I assumed that you were mine.”

You croaked, “You know what they say about assuming…”

You still had a little brat in you. But Bucky took it as a challenge. His hands moved to pick you up, separating your asscheeks as he fucked you against the wall now. Your eyes were rolling from the feeling of vibranium in your asshole.

“I get the ass.”

“Take it, Bucky!” you were gasping for breath.

“Thanks for the invitation, baby, but it’s already mine. Isn’t it?”

You were cuming again, or you’d never stopped as Bucky pounded you hard against your kitchen wall. Pots were rattling in the cabinet, and you were afraid glasses were going to break until Bucky hit that spot.

And then you didn’t care anymore. 

“Yes, Bucky! It’s yours. I’m all yours.” 

You were cuming all over him at this point.

“Fuck, yes! Mine.”

Bucky’s eyes were black now as he fucked you through it.

“Your sweet cunt is milking me… fuckkkkk.”

Bucky came, adding to the moisture levels between your legs, and he buried his head in the juncture of your neck and your clavicle as his climax hit with a guttural moan. You managed to grab his head and make him meet your eyes, both of you dazed.

“Let me see you Bucky.”

Bucky looked at you, pupils blown, lips parted in awe.

“You’re my guy,” you whispered. “Am I your girl?”

Bucky smiled at you, and then grimaced, another pulse of semen spurting out of him.

“You’re my Best Girl, Charm.”

He kissed you as both of you trembled with aftershocks. After he caught his breath, he walked you out of the kitchen into the en suite, where your bath was waiting. Your combined fluids were running down your legs. 

Once there, he let you down slowly and held you until you were steady on your feet, then, he helped you step into the bath.

You looked up at him, eyes heavy.

“You coming in?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, tempted, but he had a mission.

“No, relax, enjoy your bath. I’ll shower and then clean up the kitchen.”

Bucky leaned down and kissed your forehead as he placed your robe and a bottle of water where you could reach it. Then, he grabbed a towel and stepped into the shower. You enjoyed the view of him taking a shower as you got clean, then dozed in the warm water. You felt yourself be lifted and placed in your bed, warm and wrapped in your robe. 

And Bucky Barnes. 

Around 3 am you stirred, and turned in his arms to see Bucky watching over you, never tired.

“Time to make good on your promises, Boss.”

Bucky’s eyes crinkled, but then he pouted a bit.

He was so freaking adorable.

“That’s not my name.”

You smiled at him.

“Bucky. Baby. Boyfriend.”

“That’s better,” Bucky grinned as he parted your robe, his gaze hot down your body. Then he looked back up at you. 

“So much better. And you’re the boss. Because it’s my job to take care of my girl.”

——

Read Celebrate

[ponderingmoonlight]

Oh, to be trapped with Dante

Pairing: Dante x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,3k

Synopsis: What's worse than getting trapped with Dante? Getting trapped with a stripping Dante.

Warnings: this is hilarious and fluffy at the same time, I'm still begging for Dante requests so get in my inbox if you have one, hope you like it @veijdana

You’re not sure what sets it off.

Maybe it’s the faulty lock. Maybe the door was always a little off its axes. Maybe the universe just has a sick sense of humour when it comes to you and that guy.

What you do know for sure is this: the door slams shut, there’s a sharp click, and no amount of jiggling the handle is getting you out of this storage room-slash-death trap. No windows, no signal, and the only light is from a flickering overhead bulb that looks like it could give up at any moment.

Perfect.

So much to being the greatest demon hunters of them all.

You turn slowly to Dante, who’s lounging against a metal shelf stacked with boxes labeled “Supplies” like this is nothing. Like he didn’t just help trap you both in a glorified closet with a single bottle of water and a half-eaten protein bar. Like he did something except for watching you struggle with that heavy ass door.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Problem?”

“The door’s locked.”

“I noticed,” he replies, utterly unbothered.

“Dante.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest, barely able to hold it together any longer.

“Please don’t call me that right now.”

“Noted,” he declares, in a tone that means absolutely not noted.

He strolls over, casually tests the door for himself, then shrugs.

“Yeah. We’re stuck.”

“No kidding.”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait until someone finds us.”

“Which could be hours. Or days.”

He grins, shameless.

“Even better.”

You sit down hard the cold ground. It creaks threateningly, but you’re too irritated to care. He paces once, twice, then flops down across from you like this is a vacation, arms behind his head, one leg draped over the other ready to sunbathe.

Except this isn’t Miami beach but a mouse trap.

“Are you always this calm when you’re locked in small spaces with people you annoy for fun?” you question innocently.

“Only when it’s you.”

You narrow your eyes, gaze spitting thick venom at him.

“Do you actually enjoy pushing my buttons this much, or is it just some kind of defense mechanism?”

“Little column A, little column B,” he thinks out loud, flashing you a lazy smile.

“But if we’re being honest… you're kind of cute when you’re mad.”

You throw a balled-up wrapper at him. He ducks it easily, still smirking.

The minutes stretch. Then an hour. The silence tries to creep in, but Dante won’t let it. He talks. About nonsense. Old missions, weird dreams, things he overheard once that he probably wasn’t supposed to. You try not to laugh. You really try.

Eventually, you’re sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, legs stretched out, head tilted toward him without meaning to. He’s closer now, somehow. At some point. The distance between you shrunk while you weren’t paying attention.

“I think you like being trapped with me,” he mutters, voice quieter now.

Less teasing, if that’s somehow possible.

“You haven’t told me to shut up in, like, ten whole minutes.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

“That’s because I’ve accepted my fate. Resistance is clearly useless. And somehow I get the feeling it turns you on even more.”

“Exactly. Might as well enjoy yourself.”

He bumps your knee with his. You don’t move away. No, somehow, this faint touch has a comfort to it, a warmth you haven’t felt for quite some time by now.

The silence now is different. Thicker. Weighted. Like you’re both suddenly aware of how still everything is. How alone. It’s just you and him. You and the walking sex symbol itself Dante.

Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

“This is the part where you make some dumb joke about body heat, isn’t it?”

He chuckles, low.

“Tempting. But no. Not yet.”

You glance at him.

“Yet?”

He shrugs.

“I’m giving you a few more hours before I wear down your defenses. I’m not a complete monster.”

You shake your head, lips twitching despite yourself.

Another stretch of silence. Then:

“You ever think about it?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard by that strange and unexpected question.

“About what?”

“Us. Like - if this whole ridiculous situation wasn’t so ridiculous. If it was… different.”

Your stomach does something complicated. You turn your head to look at him, your palms starting to get sweaty. Why do you always feel like this when he’s around?

He’s watching you, eyes dark and serious for once. No smirk. No teasing.

“Yeah. Sometimes,” you admit quietly.

A beat.

“I like the idea,” he confesses.

You nod.

“Me too.”

He shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours now, solid and warm and real. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Still not sharing my blanket, though.”

You snort.

“I’m not cold.”

“Yet.”

You laugh. And this time, you let your head rest against his shoulder. Just a little.

Just enough.

Bonus:

You're curled on one side of the room, using your jacket as a pillow. Dante's a few feet away, stretched out like he owns the floor, arms folded behind his head. The silence has gone companionable, easy. You almost forget where you are.

Until he moves.

You hear the rustle of fabric first. Then the unmistakable sound of a zipper.

You lift your head, every single alarm going off inside your head. No, he isn’t about to strip…Is he?

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to sleep,” he remarks like it’s obvious.

Which it isn’t.

At all.

Because his shirt is coming off, and now he’s unbuttoning his pants in the dim light of the room, clearly visible to your accustomed to dark gaze.

“Dante-”

“What?” he interrupts, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I always sleep naked.”

You sit up straighter, just the thought of seeing him naked, let alone shirtless...

“You are not - you can’t just strip.”

He shrugs, already stepping out of his jeans like this is just another Tuesday with a pizza waiting on his desk for him.

“It helps with thermoregulation. Look it up.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, turning away.

“You’re the worst.”

“You say that, but you’re not telling me to stop.”

You don’t. You don’t want to. Which is the worst part.

He stretches out again, now under the thin blanket you both agreed to not share (but he’s already claimed half of), bare chest barely hidden in the dark, a picture of shameless comfort.

You try not to look. You try.

He catches you anyway.

“See something you like?”

“See something I want to throw a box at.”

He laughs - low, satisfied, like he just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

“Relax. It’s not like I’m gonna pounce on you.”

“You better not.”

“Unless you ask nicely.”

You grab your jacket and hurl it at his face. He catches it one-handed, grinning like he’s thriving on your outrage.

“Goodnight, Dante.”

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

You lie back, trying to will your pulse to settle. But you can still hear him breathing across the room, steady and slow, and you swear you feel the heat from him bleeding across the short distance between you.

The night settles heavy. And you're very aware you’re trapped with a half-naked Dante, no door, no escape, and a dangerous lack of personal space.

Sleep is going to be impossible.

And you think he knows it.

“I still feel you staring-“

“Shut the hell up, Dante.”

[socialobligation]

tell my mom we're in love | h. sero

fake dating wasn't on your holiday to-do list—until sero invited you home for tamales and chaos (3525 words)

you regretted this the moment you stepped out of the dormitory and into the sharp chill of mid-december air, a duffel bag hanging off one shoulder and your dignity already teetering on the edge. trailing beside you was hanta sero, practically vibrating with the smug energy of a man who had just talked his best friend into making the worst decision of her academic career.

and technically, he had.

somewhere between his mother's increasingly invasive matchmaking attempts and his inability to say the word "no" like a normal person, he'd decided the solution was to invent a girlfriend. and of course, of course, he'd chosen you.

"come on," he said now, as a cab idled at the curb, white exhaust curling into the crisp air like smoke from a slow-burning disaster. "tell me this won't be fun. just a little bit."

"i think i'm too emotionally aware to find this fun," you muttered, hoisting your bag into the trunk as he leaned beside you with his usual careless grace.

sero grinned—that unbothered, insufferably pretty grin that always made it harder to stay annoyed with him for long. "emotionally aware, huh? sounds like you're already getting into character."

you leveled him with a look. "if i'm your girlfriend, you're going to need to stop flirting like a golden retriever with a god complex."

"babe," he said, slipping into the backseat beside you with the kind of unearned confidence that should have come with a warning label, "flirting is literally how i survive in social settings. don't take this from me."

you stared out the window, hoping the freezing glass would cool the creeping warmth crawling up your neck. "we're not actually dating, hanta."

"right," he said, and he sounded amused, not wounded. "but we could be really good at it."

you didn't answer. he didn't press.

the cab pulled away from the dorms, and for a moment the silence between you was companionable, like it always had been. you'd known sero for years now—long enough to understand that his laid-back demeanor was as real as it was performative. he was the kind of person who made a room feel lighter just by being in it, but who also knew the weight of silence better than most people ever would.

he didn't make you feel like you had to be anyone but yourself. and that, unfortunately, was the root of the problem.

somewhere along the road from "we're just friends" to "please pretend to be my girlfriend so my mom stops trying to marry me off," things had started to shift.

not all at once. not obviously.

but they shifted.

now he was dozing beside you, his head tilted toward your shoulder, and every bump in the road made him inch closer. you should have nudged him off. you should have drawn the line.

but you didn't.

instead, you studied the soft lines of his face—the relaxed set of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows like his dreams were just a little too fast for his thoughts to catch—and you wondered what the hell you'd gotten yourself into.

by the time the cab slowed, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light over a neighborhood that looked far too idyllic to be real. sero's house was two stories of warmth and welcome: string lights curled along the porch railing, a wreath hung slightly crooked on the front door, and smoke drifted lazily from a chimney that promised something warm inside.

standing at the threshold was a woman with sharp eyes, a kind smile, and the unmistakable aura of someone who could both bake you cookies and emotionally destroy you in the same breath.

sero's mother.

you froze.

he didn't.

without hesitation, sero leaned in, brushing your hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. his voice dipped just low enough for only you to hear. "smile like you love me."

then he reached for your hand.

his fingers, long and warm, laced effortlessly through yours.

you didn't pull away.

and that was the moment—standing at the edge of his childhood, your fingers locked in his, heart skipping in the kind of rhythm you weren't prepared for—that you realized you were in far more danger than you thought.

because part of you didn't want to let go.

the cab hadn't even rolled to a full stop before sero's mom was standing in front of it, arms crossed, eyes already locked onto her target like a seasoned general. you had seen pictures, sure—sero had shown you a few over lunch one day, swiping through images of his mom with an almost reverent fondness—but none of them did her justice.

she was radiant. that was the first word that came to mind. not in some soft, dreamy way, but in the sharp, unmistakable warmth of someone who had mastered the art of existing unapologetically. she had a scarf looped carelessly around her neck, dark hair pinned up with wisps escaping, and that immediate, unnerving energy unique to mothers who know everything before you say a word.

"hanta," she said brightly as you approached. "you took forever, mijo. i was about to call."

and then her eyes slid to you.

her whole face changed.

"qué linda," she said, stepping down toward you without hesitation. "you're even prettier than the pictures."

you opened your mouth to answer—say something polite, maybe even charming—but instead you were pulled into a hug so warm and familiar you forgot how to speak altogether.

she smelled like cinnamon and butter, like café and home. her arms wrapped around you without hesitation, solid and reassuring, and you blinked twice before realizing she wasn't letting go just yet.

she pulled back, hands on your shoulders, eyes scanning your face with curiosity. "how old are you, mija?"

"seventeen," you managed. "ua student. same class as hanta."

"top twenty," sero chimed from behind you, proud and useless.

his mom smiled wider. "good. you'll need that to keep up with him. he talks too much."

"i'm right here," sero said, offended.

"and what's your quirk, sweetheart?" she asked, guiding you inside like she owned every molecule of the house—which she probably did.

"just a luck quirk," you replied. "it's not anything big or flashy."

"flashy's overrated," she said. "flashy gets you on magazine covers, but smart keeps you alive. hanta could use some of that balance."

sero made a wounded noise. "i'm right here."

you stepped into the house and tried not to gape. it was warm and lived-in, with mismatched furniture and soft lights, and framed photos in every direction. you passed at least three different versions of baby sero—one with cake on his face, one dressed as a shark, and one in a tiny suit looking like he'd lost a bet.

you were immediately ushered to the couch, where sero flopped down beside you like he'd done this a thousand times. his arm stretched along the back of the cushions behind you, easy and casual, but you felt the heat of it like a brand against your neck.

his mom sat in the armchair across from you, one leg crossed, hands folded, expression deceptively pleasant.

"so," she said. "how long have you two been together?"

"six months," you and sero answered in unison.

your eyes met. you both smiled.

it was practiced, but god—it didn't feel like a lie.

"how'd you meet?" she asked next.

sero leaned forward like he was telling a secret. "training. she beat up kaminari. i've never recovered."

you tried not to laugh. "he followed me around for a week."

"i was courting you."

"you were loitering near vending machines."

"i was being persistent," he corrected. "it worked, didn't it?"

his mom watched you both, eyes narrowed just enough to make you sweat.

"and what do you like about my son?" she asked you, suddenly.

your mouth went dry.

sero glanced sideways, surprised.

but the answer came easy.

"he's reliable. and funny. and he listens—really listens. like you're the only person in the room."

you could feel sero's eyes on you, and the room felt warmer than it had a second ago.

"he's easy to be around," you said, a little softer now. "i feel like i can breathe near him."

a long silence stretched across the room.

then sero bumped your shoulder with his own, voice low. "you're not supposed to make me blush in front of my mom."

his mom smiled, pleased. "i like you."

you smiled back, because how could you not. "thank you."

"i made tamales," she said, rising to her feet. "sit tight. i'll get you a plate."

"do you need help—?" you started, half-standing.

"no, no. you're a guest. you sit and let yourself be adored."

she vanished into the kitchen with surprising speed.

the moment she was out of earshot, you collapsed sideways onto the couch.

"i blacked out," you whispered. "what did i even say?"

"that i'm amazing and you love being around me," sero said smugly.

you shot him a look.

he leaned a little closer, voice dropping. "also, you were adorable. you didn't have to go that hard. i almost forgot it was fake."

you didn't answer.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

dinner came after a comfortable lull in the afternoon—just enough time for you to grow used to the house's warmth, the quiet hum of kitchen sounds, and the sound of sero humming to himself as he helped his mom plate tamales. there was something undeniably domestic about it—watching him lean over the counter, sleeves pushed up, swiping a bit of masa from the corner of a dish with a grin when he thought no one was watching.

you caught yourself watching.

a little too long.

and when he turned around and caught your eye, offering you a wink that made your stomach stutter—you looked away, pretending to study the wall like it had secrets.

the house filled slowly with more noise, more feet, more voices. by the time dinner was ready, the table was surrounded by people—his siblings, all younger, all chaos incarnate. there were five in total, ranging from what looked like barely ten to maybe sixteen. all of them clearly adored sero, and all of them clearly had a thousand questions about you.

"are you really his girlfriend?" one of the younger girls asked, blinking up at you from her seat at the far end of the table.

sero, already sitting beside you, reached for your hand under the table without hesitation. "of course she is," he said easily. "she puts up with me. that's gotta mean something."

you glanced sideways, surprised by the way his thumb started tracing circles into your palm. his fingers were warm, his grip relaxed, like this was a habit and not a performance. your first instinct was to pull away—but you didn't. you let him hold on.

"do you like him?" one of the boys asked bluntly, somewhere between a dare and a test.

you looked over at sero, who was already looking at you.

and the smile that spread across his face wasn't teasing. it wasn't even smug.

it was soft.

"i do," you said honestly. "he's easy to like."

one of his sisters actually swooned.

their mother returned from the kitchen, a stack of warm plates balanced in her arms. "aye, look at you two," she said fondly, setting down the food. "you look like you've been married five years already."

sero snorted. "that's because she already tells me what to do."

"someone has to," you said, nudging his leg under the table.

his knee pressed into yours and didn't move.

the meal began in full, voices rising over each other, stories flying back and forth like birds across the table. tamales were unwrapped, passed down, devoured. rice and beans steamed in bowls at the center. someone spilled horchata and got teased for it for fifteen minutes straight.

sero kept his hand under the table the entire time.

sometimes on your knee. sometimes brushing your fingers. once, briefly, resting on your thigh with a touch so casual and confident you forgot how to breathe for a second.

"so how did you know?" his mom asked halfway through the meal, raising an eyebrow. "that you liked each other, i mean."

you blinked. "um."

sero didn't miss a beat.

"she made this face at me once," he said, totally serious. "during training. right after i got my ass handed to me. and i thought—yeah. i'd let her ruin my life."

you choked on a sip of water. "that's not what happened."

"you raised your eyebrow," he insisted, "like i was both impressive and pathetic. it was very motivating."

"you were bleeding."

"romance is about timing."

the table erupted in laughter.

"you're ridiculous," you muttered, but there was no bite to it. you felt lightheaded from smiling too much.

his younger sister leaned over the table toward you. "you make him less annoying," she said seriously. "he's, like, way less weird with you here."

"he's still weird," someone else muttered.

"hey," sero said, deeply offended. "i'm the glue of this household."

"you're the glitter glue," one of the boys shot back. "unnecessary and all over everything."

the conversation swirled, but it was warm. easy. you felt like you'd slipped into a rhythm you hadn't known you were missing. sero's family didn't make you feel like an outsider. if anything, they treated you like a permanent fixture—like they already liked you, just because he did.

and sero—he kept looking at you.

in the quiet moments between bites. when you laughed at something his brother said. when you wiped your fingers on your napkin and he passed you your drink like he'd already anticipated you'd reach for it.

"you're really good at this," you whispered during a lull, leaning in.

"at what?" he asked, voice low, chin tilted toward you.

"this," you said. "pretending."

his eyes flicked down to your mouth, just for a second.

"what can i say," he said quietly. "i'm something of an actor."

you snickered.

and then his mom called your name from across the table.

"you like dessert, mija?" she asked, already bringing out the plates.

you blinked twice before answering, forcing a smile. "of course. thank you."

sero didn't look away from you for a long time.

dinner had long ended. the noise had faded. sero's house, once pulsing with overlapping voices and clattering plates, now thrummed with a different kind of energy—low, contented, quiet.

his siblings had scattered, full-bellied and sugar-sticky, off to bedrooms and couches and wherever else they disappeared to in the evening. someone had turned on a dusty old playlist in the den, and the soft hum of vintage boleros curled through the walls like warmth that refused to die.

you stood in the hallway between the dining room and the back door, hovering in the in-between of things: of conversations and thoughts, of what was real and what had only started out that way.

you weren't sure what to do with your hands.

or your heart.

sero appeared beside you like he always did—quiet-footed and comfortably close, smelling faintly of soap and masa and something sweet from dessert you hadn't caught the name of. his sleeves were still pushed up, revealing his forearms, and you hated that you were looking at them. not because they weren't worth looking at—they were—but because it meant your guard was down. again.

"come on," he said softly. "balcony?"

you didn't answer. you just nodded and followed.

the air outside was sharp and clean. the kind of cold that wakes you up without being cruel. you wrapped your arms around yourself more out of instinct than discomfort. the balcony was small, with a windchime shaped like a lizard hanging from the overhang, and a view of soft suburban rooftops and yellow windows scattered like lanterns across the horizon.

you leaned against the wooden railing. he did the same.

neither of you spoke.

you were too full of the evening. of tamales and laughter. of too much touch under the table. of words you'd said with a smile that weren't lies—but weren't supposed to be true either.

the problem wasn't pretending.

the problem was that pretending didn't feel like pretending anymore.

you didn't know when it had changed. maybe it was gradual—each time he laced his fingers through yours without asking, or rested his hand on your thigh mid-story, or offered you a grin across the table that was so familiar, so soft, you forgot why you were here in the first place.

but it hit you now, standing beside him in the chill—this unshakable, irreversible knowledge:

you were in love with him.

god, you were in love with hanta sero.

not just in a surface-level, crush-colored way. not just in the i-like-how-he-makes-me-laugh way. it was deeper than that. older. something that had snuck in when you weren't looking and taken root so quietly you hadn't noticed until it was everywhere.

you were in love with the way he held space. with the way he listened without trying to fix you. with the way he let the world land on him lightly, and still carried it in both hands when it mattered.

you were in love with someone who didn't even know you weren't faking anymore.

you exhaled.

"you're quiet," he said, not looking at you. "regretting it already?"

you shook your head. "no. it's just... weird how easy it was. with your family."

he hummed. "they like you."

"they liked that i made you less annoying."

"that is the highest compliment in my house."

you smiled, faint. "they're sweet. loud, but sweet."

"you kept up fine."

"i think i blacked out for half of it."

"you were golden," he said, softer now. "you always are."

you turned toward him slowly.

the lights from the kitchen spilled faintly through the curtains behind you, catching just enough of his face for you to see how relaxed he looked. how present. how close.

you swallowed.

"hanta?"

he looked over at you, brows raised. "yeah?"

there was a beat of silence.

"i don't know how to lie to you," you said.

he blinked once.

then again, slower.

"what?"

"i mean," you continued, hands curling around the edge of the railing. "i've been trying. all day. and i thought i could. i thought i could pull it off—play the part, pretend—but then we got here, and your mom hugged me, and you touched my hand under the table, and i just... i don't know when it stopped being a bit."

his eyes searched your face like he was looking for something he'd already lost.

"hanta," you said again. "i'm in love with you."

his face froze.

the air between you seemed to still. the windchime didn't move. the whole world narrowed into this one pinpoint moment, bright and fragile and terrifying.

he stepped back—just barely.

"you don't have to keep pretending," he said. carefully. cautiously. "no one's watching anymore. you can drop it."

you stared at him.

"i'm not pretending," you said.

another beat. a sharp exhale.

his lips parted slightly. his brows furrowed, not in confusion, but in disbelief. in the kind of fear that came from wanting something too much and being afraid to reach for it.

"you're serious."

"i've never been more serious about anything in my life."

sero let out a long, shaky laugh. it cracked halfway through.

"say it again," he whispered.

"i'm in love with you."

and this time, you reached for him.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, and you felt the moment he melted—slow and overwhelmed, the way something melts that's been cold for too long.

"you've got to be kidding me," he muttered, leaning into your touch. "i thought—god, i thought i was the only one losing my mind over this."

you smiled, eyes stinging.

"you weren't."

"i've been in love with you since second year," he admitted, voice breaking a little. "you kissed my cheek that one time after i carried your books back from the nurse's office, and i nearly died. like, actual cardiac arrest."

"that was a year ago."

"welcome to my long, slow descent into insanity."

you laughed, quiet and ridiculous.

and then he kissed you.

it wasn't rushed. wasn't showy. it wasn't a fireworks-and-credits-roll kiss.

it was the kind that happened in doorways, in hallways, in quiet rooms where hearts beat too loud. the kind that changed nothing and everything all at once.

he kissed you like he meant it.

you kissed him like you'd been waiting your whole life to.

when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours.

"you're real?" you whispered, breath catching.

"i better be," he said. "otherwise you've just confessed to a figment of your imagination."

you swallowed a grin.

his thumb traced your cheek.

"i thought this would end in disaster," he said quietly. "that pretending would ruin everything."

"and?"

"and now i don't want it to end at all."

you leaned in, bumping your nose against his.

"then it doesn't have to."

he smiled, and kissed you again.

not like he was pretending.

like he was home.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Life With Spencer

Part One

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, mild angst, mild hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: choppy -- like real life lol, open ending, smut & suggestive content (18+), criminal minds cases & violence, sooo in love, people being mean to Spencer, reader is nervous, reader is also grumpy when woken up (real), virgin!Spencer, awkward/real-life scenarios, no real timeline - they been dating for like a year…

Word count: 20.4k

a/n: i just keep imagining what it would be like to be true, domestic partner's with spencer *sighhhhh* i would love to make this a series if anyone has any suggestions for real-life scenarios with our man!!! part two is already underwayyyyyyy

main masterlist part two part three

It started, of all places, in a post office.

Spencer was there to send a specialty package to his mom, carefully wrapped and labeled in his neatest handwriting and checked at least three times before approaching the counter. You were there picking up a fresh sheet of funky stamps for the biweekly cards you sent to your own mom. You caught him eyeing your stamps; he caught you noticing how he triple-checked the zip code, and before either of you knew it, you were both lingering by the door, pretending you weren’t waiting for the other to say something.

He didn’t ask for your number that day. He didn’t even ask your name. But you remembered his awkward smile, and he remembered how your laugh sounded like a punctuation mark at the end of his favorite kind of sentence.

Approximately two months later, after a few more accidental post office encounters—some real, some not-so-accidental on his part—Spencer finally worked up the courage to ask if you’d like to get a cup of coffee sometime. Nothing fancy. Just... coffee. You said yes without hesitation. Not because you loved coffee or anything—you didn’t even drink it that much—but because it was him.

About five weeks after that first coffee—after getting to know each other over steaming mugs, awkward pauses, and shared smiles that turned less awkward with every meeting—Spencer asked you on an official date. He said it like it was a formal event, and you agreed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Three weeks after the first date, you had your first kiss. He asked, of course—“Can I kiss you?”—softly, like a secret he wasn’t sure he could say aloud. You whispered “Please” and met him halfway.

One day later, he showed up at your doorstep, cheeks pink, breath short, and hands full of slightly wilted grocery store flowers. He blurted out, “I’d like to be your boyfriend officially. I wish I had more patience, but I don’t.” You laughed, said yes, and pulled him inside for some checkers and records. You both forgot the flowers on the kitchen counter until hours later when he gasped and apologized profusely for “botching the presentation.”

One month into dating, you finally had a proper make-out session. It happened on your couch after you watched an old movie you’d half-paid attention to. His hands were still a little unsure like he was afraid of taking up too much space, but you guided them to your hips gently, making room for all the ways he was still learning how to want.

Three months after that—after gentle kisses, warm touches, and whispered confessions—you started experimenting more fully. Slowly. Carefully. Clothes stayed mostly, but curiosity replaced fear. Hands explored. Bodies pressed close. 

When you start experimenting, it’s clear right away that Spencer is a complete virgin.

Not in the accidental, whoops-it-just-never-happened kind of way. No—he carried this with him deliberately, quietly, like a fragile artifact wrapped up in careful layers of hesitation and logic.

He’d had a few kisses here and there—fumbling, fleeting moments of curiosity and awkward courage—but nothing past that. The most notable, of course, was the one in the pool with Lila Archer, which he mentioned to you once with a sheepish, barely-there smile and a lot of eye contact with the floor.

But what else could anyone expect? He was a child prodigy placed in public schools in Las Vegas—twelve years old, surrounded by kids over his age, twice his size, and with none of the social tools they’d already started to learn. By the time those awkward, formative years passed him by, he was in college. Then, the Bureau. Then, the field.

Life didn’t exactly leave time or space for learning how to kiss someone without overthinking it, how to touch someone like it was normal, or how to be touched without freezing.

So, with you, it starts very slow.

Very, very, painfully, reverently slow.

Not because he doesn’t want it. And not because you’re hesitant, either. But because he feels everything. Every brush of your fingers over his collarbone. Every time your thigh touches his on the couch. Every time your lips linger too long near the corner of his mouth, just waiting for him to close the gap.

And Spencer doesn’t want just to do things. He wants to understand them. Feel them. Memorize the lines of your body like poetry he’s afraid to get wrong.

So the first time your hand slips beneath the hem of his shirt, his breath stutters like a skipped heartbeat.

He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t panic. But he’s so still.

Like his body doesn’t know yet what it’s allowed to want.

And you… you go slowly. Tenderly. You kiss him like you have all the time in the world and like he’s never been kissed quite right before. You let your hands rest on his chest, warm and grounding, not moving unless he shifts toward you first.

And when he finally does—when Spencer leans in, his lips parting slightly and his hands shaking just a little as they find your waist—you can feel the trust. You can feel how much it took for him to get there.

…

After all the slow touches, the careful kisses, the long silences that weren’t uncomfortable but sacred, it finally reached that tipping point. That moment when your hand, light and sure, drifted lower, brushing down the center of his chest, past his ribs, over the soft skin of his stomach—just warm skin beneath your fingers, taut with tension but never rejection.

You weren’t rushing. You would never rush him.

But he was trembling now, just slightly, beneath your hand, and when your fingers reached the waistband of his pants, pressing there gently like a question—Can I? Are we okay?—

Spencer’s breath hitched sharply in his throat, his entire body freezing like someone had hit pause on him mid-thought, mid-movement, mid-desire.

And then—

“Virgin!” he blurted out, like a siren going off in the middle of a church.

You blinked. Pulled back just a little, more surprised by the sudden volume than anything else.

He was already burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” you said softly, trying not to laugh—not at him, never at him, but just at the Spencer-ness of the entire thing. “Did you just—did you just shout the word ‘virgin’ at me?”

His voice was muffled through his hands. “I panicked.”

You bit your lip, reaching out to gently tug his hands away so you could see his face, which was redder than you’d ever seen it.

“I figured,” you said with a small smile, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “That you hadn’t… done this before.”

Spencer stared at you, his eyes wide and embarrassed and pleading for you not to think less of him. “I didn’t want to lie. I just didn’t want to ruin anything. And then your hand was—you were right there—and I didn’t know what to do or say, and I—”

“Spence,” you cut in gently, placing your hand over his heart. “Hey. You didn’t ruin anything. I’m really glad you told me.”

He swallowed hard, trying to read your expression. “You are?”

“Of course,” you nodded. “I want all of you. That includes all the firsts, too. I don’t care how much or how little you’ve done. I just care that you’re here and that you trust me.”

He looked like he was still trying to compute that. His jaw flexed slightly, eyes darting from your mouth to your eyes and back. “I do,” he said softly. “Trust you, I mean.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, sweet and slow. “Then let’s take our time.”

—

It happened in the quietest moment, a few months in.

Not during a grand gesture, not in the middle of a kiss, or some cinematic slow dance under string lights. It happened while you sat on the couch with your legs draped over his, your shared dinner growing cold on the coffee table, and an old record playing in the background.

Spencer looked over at you—your hair a little messy, one sock slipping down, hoodie too frumpy, and absolutely the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—and said it.

“I love you.”

Just like that.

No stutter. No warning. No long-winded buildup, though with Spencer, that in itself was a miracle. Just three soft, perfectly-formed words like he'd been thinking them every day and finally found the courage to let them go.

You blinked.

Your chest swelled instantly, and that kind of joy was so overwhelming that it felt like your heart might burst right through your ribs. Your whole body felt lighter like gravity itself had relaxed around you. You wanted to scream. Laugh. Cry. Dance. Climb into his lap and never get up again.

Because you loved him. So much. And hearing it from him—from Spencer, who measures his words with surgical precision, who doesn’t say things unless he means them with his entire being—meant everything.

And yet.

Your brain-to-mouth connection short-circuited.

Like… completely fried.

You opened your mouth to say it back, to tell him how long you’d wanted to say it, how long you’d wanted to hear it, how long you’d been feeling it—but nothing came out. Not one word. Not even a breath.

You could feel your face trying to smile or do something, but it wasn’t a smile. Oh God, it wasn’t a smile. It was… it was a grimace.

Not because of him. Not because of the words. Not because of the moment.

Because of you.

You were mad at yourself for freezing. For making this look like anything other than the greatest thing ever said to you—that’s ever happened to you.

Spencer’s face fell just a little—not much, just the faintest furrow of his brow, the tiniest flicker of uncertainty. He didn’t take it back. He didn’t apologize. But he noticed. Of course, he did.

And still, you couldn’t speak.

Inside, you were screaming I love you too, so loud the words echoed through your bones, pounding against your ribs like they were trying to break free.

But your lips stayed parted in useless shock, your eyes wide, and that half smile half grimace—God, that awful grimace—still hovering across your face.

And Spencer, sweet, brilliant Spencer, reached out slowly, brushing your hand with his fingertips.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to say it back yet.”

But you shook your head, once, twice—because no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t why you couldn’t talk. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t doubt.

It was love. Overwhelming, soul-consuming love. So big and deep it clogged your throat, tripped over every nerve ending, shorted out the parts of you meant to speak.

“Please just tell me what you’re thinking,” Spencer tried again, his voice barely above a whisper now, brittle at the edges with the kind of laugh that only shows up when someone is trying really hard not to fall apart. “I—” he looked down, smiled, almost like he was apologizing just for existing, “I can’t read you right now, and it’s… really scary.”

You opened your mouth again, but nothing came out except a soft breath that shook with the effort. You reached for his hands, squeezing them tightly in yours, grounding yourself, grounding him.

Inside, your thoughts were screaming:

I love you. I love you. I love you so much.

Why won’t the words come out?

You wanted to say it perfectly. You tried to mirror what he gave you. But your brain was betraying you in real-time, too caught up in the height of the moment to deliver the simple truth you’d been carrying around for weeks.

So you just stared at him—at the man who loved you, who chose you to say those words to first, who gave them to you without condition, without waiting for safety or the right moment. He gave them to you because they were true.

And the best you could do right now was squeeze his hand tighter and will your heart to speak for you.

But you saw the hurt flash across his face. Subtle. Quick. He blinked it away like it hadn’t happened, but it had.

Your silence was crushing him.

And still, the words wouldn’t come.

“Do you…” Spencer started, and you felt it in the way his hands tightened just slightly around yours, and his eyes searched your face like he was trying to read a language he suddenly didn’t understand. “Do you want to slow things down?”

He asked it like it physically pained him to say. Like the words had to be forced out through a throat full of thorns. Like he was terrified, they might be the match that set the whole thing on fire.

Your heart broke.

That wasn’t it at all. Not even close.

But from his side of things—from the outside looking in—it must’ve seemed like you froze because you didn’t want him to say it. Like your silence was a retreat. A signal to pump the brakes.

You shook your head so quickly that it blurred your vision, your voice finally punching through the barricade in your chest. “No.”

Spencer exhaled all at once like the breath had been stuck somewhere in his lungs since the moment he said I love you. His shoulders slumped, his expression softening instantly.

“Okay,” he breathed, a tiny smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Okay… Do you, um—” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly shy again—“do you love me?”

You nodded fast, almost too fast. “Yes.”

His face lit up—full and real. His grin was goofy and toothy and completely unguarded, like the question had been blooming in his heart for weeks, and your answer finally let it open.

“Did you forget how to speak?” he teased gently, eyes dancing now, the tension gone.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your bottom lip as you felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

Spencer laughed softly and leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, still smiling. “I’ll take unintelligible nodding,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, warm, teasing, and thick with affection.

Then he tilted his head just slightly and leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, sweet kiss—unhurried, tender, the kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything, only offered.

It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It wasn’t about the fear of losing each other or the relief of still being here. It was quiet. Certain. Gentle in the way only love can be when it’s finally spoken aloud.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and your hand curled into the soft cotton of his shirt as you kissed him back, anchoring yourself to the moment and to him.

And just before you pulled apart, he whispered against your lips, “I love you,” again, like he’d never get tired of saying it.

You kissed him once more instead. Slow. Firm. Certain.

…

The exploration continued—sweet, slow, exploratory. Neither of you were in a rush to reach any finish line, and truthfully, there was something delicious about not rushing. About drawing everything out until the tension between you was so thick, it clung to your skin like humidity.

It started with kisses that deepened over time—long, open-mouthed, tongue-slow kisses that left both of you breathless and warm. Your hands started roaming more freely, lingering on his hips, his ribs, and the dip of his lower back, and when you slid them beneath his shirt just to feel the heat of him, Spencer whimpered like you’d done something forbidden.

And he loved it.

You touched over clothes for a long time, and somehow, that made it feel more intense. The layers didn’t mute anything—they made it better. More anticipation. More teasing. Rubbing, pressing, dragging your palm down the length of him through denim, through soft cotton pajama pants when he was sleepily pliant in bed—he’d gasp like he couldn’t believe how good it felt. Like you were magic, and he was still trying to figure out how.

But grinding?

Spencer really, really liked grinding.

The first time it happened, it hadn’t been intentional. You were in his lap, straddling him during a particularly intense makeout session on your couch, your bodies pressed so close you couldn't tell whose heart was beating faster. You shifted your hips without thinking, just adjusting your weight—and he whined.

A real, honest-to-God whine. High-pitched and needy, muffled by the kiss but unmistakable.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, lips swollen, your breath ghosting over his. “Oh,” you said, surprised and wickedly delighted. “You like that.”

His head fell back against the couch cushion, eyes fluttering shut, throat working hard around the truth. “Yes,” he breathed, like it pained him to admit it. “So much.”

From then on, it became a regular part of your experimentation. Clothes stayed on, but the heat between your bodies didn’t need anything more. You’d climb into his lap or pull him into yours, and slowly, so slowly, you’d move, letting your hips rock against his, coaxing out all those noises he barely knew he could make.

He’d grip your hips like you might float away, bury his face in your shoulder, and whisper your name over and over like it was a prayer. Sometimes, he’d tremble before anything even happened—just from the rhythm, the friction, the build.

And you loved watching him unravel.

You made it safe. You made it sweet. You made it good.

And Spencer? Spencer made it feel like no one else had ever touched you like this. Because no one had ever made him feel like this.

But the first time Spencer finished in his pants?

God, was he mortified.

It wasn’t even supposed to go that far—not technically. You’d been kissing in bed, bodies pressed close, your hands under his shirt, his on your thighs, your hips moving in lazy, deliberate circles against his. It was slow, indulgent, just another one of those experimental nights where nothing needed to happen, where the point wasn’t release—it was intimacy.

But his breathing had gone uneven, his hands had tightened their grip, and he had buried his face in your neck like he was trying to disappear inside you completely. You knew. You knew what was coming. You could feel it.

And then, with a gasp so quiet it sounded like he was shocked it happened at all—he came.

In his pants.

And froze.

Completely, totally, tragically still.

“Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely, his face still pressed into your skin, and you could feel the heat radiating from his ears. “Oh my God. Don’t say anything.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned, then slowly pulled back just enough to look at him.

His face was red. Not blushing. Not pink. Red. Like he was seconds away from dissolving into atoms and leaving this plane of existence entirely.

“I—” he stammered, already reaching for the edge of the blanket like he might try to escape from under it. “That wasn’t supposed to— I didn’t mean to—God.”

But you couldn’t even speak.

Not because you were embarrassed. Not because you were annoyed.

Because you were floored.

You had never seen anything so honest, so raw, so real in your life.

You bit your lip, watching him scramble, and you could swear to God you’d died and gone to heaven.

The man you loved had just lost control with you.

You could feel the mortification radiating off of him in waves. His entire body had gone still in that telltale Spencer Reid way like he was internally building a forty-page psychological thesis on his own perceived humiliation.

You sat back slowly, your hands still on his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him.

“Hey,” you whispered, leaning in to nudge his temple with your nose. “Look at me?”

He hesitated. Then he lifted his face just barely, just enough for you to see the blooming red flush across his cheeks and neck. His lashes lowered like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes.

“I—” he started voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to. It just—you—and then—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, cradling his jaw in both hands. “You’re okay.”

His eyes fluttered shut again, lips pressing into a tight line, but then you kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, reassuring, no heat this time, just warmth.

When you pulled back, your smile was easy, teasing, but genuine. “Spencer… that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He let out a choked laugh—more like a groan, really—and dropped his hands over his face in total embarrassment.

And then—

“You’re evil,” he muttered, voice muffled by the back of his hand, but it didn’t have an ounce of venom. If anything, it was laced with disbelief. With wonder. With that particular kind of amazement, only Spencer could radiate after experiencing something that both shocked and deeply overwhelmed him.

You didn’t say anything right away. You just smiled against his skin, pressing lazy, lingering kisses along the edge of his jaw, then lower, to the slope of his throat—soothing, adoring. Reassuring him with touch, because you knew his brain was still spinning, his thoughts still racing, probably analyzing your tone, your face, your body language, checking for signs of judgment that would never be there.

“I mean it,” you whispered eventually, your voice warm and honest against the damp heat of his neck. “That was… incredibly hot.”

Spencer groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re going to keep saying that, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation, grinning. “Forever. I’ll probably bring it up at random moments. Grocery store. Your birthday. Funerals—”

“Funerals?!” he squeaked, lifting his head to look at you, horrified and helpless.

You shrugged, delighted. “If the memory hits, it hits.”

He dropped his head back onto the pillow with a dramatic thunk. “I’ve created a monster.”

“You created a very happy girlfriend,” you corrected, crawling up just enough to look him in the eyes. His were still wide, still a little panicked, but they’d softened now—especially under the weight of your smile.

Your hand came to rest against his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. “Spence,” you said softly, seriously, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t embarrass yourself. You didn’t scare me off. You let yourself feel, and that’s beautiful. It’s real.”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… I’ve never—”

“I know.” You kissed him again, this time slow and deep and full of all the words you hadn’t yet said.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy in that way that always made your chest ache.

“I love you,” you said gently, almost like a secret. “Every part of you. Even the part that panics when things feel too good.”

Spencer let out a quiet breath, one that felt like a release, and turned his face into your palm.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Then, after a beat—

“…But I do need to change my pants.”

You snorted, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a fit of laughter. “Deal. But I’m helping.”

“Of course you are,” he grumbled, but you could feel him smiling.

…

And approximately five months after that, he asked if you wanted to have sex.

He didn’t pressure. He didn’t push. He sat beside you in bed after a particularly long, drawn-out evening of tangled limbs, whispered names, and asked quietly, “Would you want to, sometime?”

You turned to him, brushing the hair from his forehead, and asked just as gently, “Do you feel ready?”

And when he nodded—just once, eyes wide and sure—you kissed him and said, “Then yes.”

—

You and Spencer had joined the team out for a night at O’Kieffe’s, the warm, slightly too loud bar just a block away from Quantico that everyone seemed to gravitate toward after a good case or a big change. It was the latter tonight—David Rossi had officially joined the BAU, and the team wanted to mark the occasion with drinks, stories, and maybe a little too much bar food.

Spencer had been hesitant at first. Bars weren’t exactly in his comfort zone—the crowd, the noise, the unpredictable lighting, the clinking of glasses, and the echo of music bouncing off the wood-paneled walls all tended to overwhelm him faster than he liked to admit. But when you gently placed your hand on his arm, reminding him that this wasn’t a night about chaos but celebration, he nodded.

He could do this—for you. And maybe even a little for Rossi.

Because the truth was, Spencer was excited. Really, truly excited. He wasn’t always great at expressing that kind of thing in the ways people expected—there’d be no loud cheers or performative toasts—but there was a particular brightness in his eyes as he adjusted his sweater cuffs and followed you into the bar.

Rossi was a legend. Spencer had read everything the man had written—twice—and the idea of learning from someone with field experience that rivaled Gideon's but without the same emotional volatility was, in his words, “an intellectually stabilizing opportunity.” You’d laughed when he said it, but you’d seen it for what it was: Spencer was hopeful. That was rare. And beautiful.

As for you, you were just happy to see the team again. The BAU didn’t often give space to breathe, let alone celebrate, and being surrounded by the people who lived in the trenches with Spencer—Derek with his teasing, Penelope with her sparkle, JJ already organizing everyone's drink orders, and Emily nursing a beer in her corner—made the night feel a little lighter.

You and Spencer had slid into the booth side by side, your thigh resting against his under the table. He was already reciting a fact about Italian wine in Rossi’s honor before you’d even removed your jacket, and you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder for just a second as the bar's noise faded into the background.

“Hey,” JJ grinned as she approached with two menus and two drinks. “Look who came out of his cave tonight.”

Spencer blinked up at her, already mid-sentence about vineyard elevations. “Technically, I was in the lab today—”

JJ handed you a drink and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Uh-huh. Sure, genius. Welcome to the land of the living.”

You laughed softly into your glass. Spencer looked at you, eyes squinting like, is that supposed to be funny?, and you just leaned closer, whispering, “You’re doing great, baby.”

Spencer relaxed for the first time since walking in—just a little, but it was enough.

Predictably, Spencer asked for an Arnold Palmer—his go-to when he wanted to blend in at a bar. The bartender raised an eyebrow, as they always did, but he didn’t notice. Or if he did, he pretended not to, too focused on getting the ratio of iced tea to lemonade just right when he asked. You, on the other hand, simply shrugged when the girls offered to order something for you.

“Surprise me,” you’d told Penelope, sliding the laminated menu back across the sticky table. “Just nothing blue.”

Penelope gasped, one hand over her heart. “Blasphemy. You don’t like blue drinks?”

“I don’t like them when they come up,” you replied, and Emily, across from you, choked on her beer from laughing.

JJ leaned in. “I’m getting you something sweet but deadly. You’re welcome.”

You grinned. “I trust you with my life and my blood sugar.”

By the time your mystery drink arrived—pink, fizzy, and dangerously good—you were nestled between Spencer and Emily, your arm tucked behind Spencer’s back along the booth. He sat upright, knees a little too close together, fingers twitching over his glass as he listened intently to Rossi talk about his early days in the field.

He wasn’t talking much, but his eyes were wide and bright, darting between whoever was speaking and the condensation on his glass like he was cataloging every second of the conversation. Every now and then, he’d lean into you slightly when he heard something particularly interesting or particularly absurd, his shoulder bumping yours like a silent: Did you catch that?

You didn’t work for the BAU, didn’t know all the lingo, the history, the inside jokes that shot back and forth like rubber bands across the table—but it didn’t matter. You liked watching them. The way JJ would cover her mouth when she laughed too hard. The way Derek told a story with his whole body, practically reenacting the events across the table. The way Penelope reached for everyone’s arm when she got excited, physically incapable of holding her enthusiasm in place.

“I’m telling you,” Derek said now, pointing an accusatory finger at Emily. She dropped her badge into the sewer grate and then tried to fish it out with a police baton—in front of the suspect.”

“I still caught him,” Emily muttered, nursing her drink.

“Yeah, because he was laughing too hard to run.”

Everyone howled. Even Spencer, who usually reserved his laughter for niche jokes or obscure references, chuckled into his Arnold Palmer.

You leaned in, mouth near his ear. “You look happy,” you said softly.

He turned to you, his smile shy but steady. “I am.” He looked back at the table, then at you again. “I think… this is good. It feels good.”

And it did. There was something about the warmth of the bar, the laughter, the closeness of bodies pressed into booths and leaning across tabletops that felt more like a family reunion than a work celebration.

When Rossi raised his glass and toasted to “the next chapter,” everyone clinked their drinks together with grins and mock solemnity. You lifted yours, too, even though you didn’t know what chapter they were on.

Spencer clinked your glass gently with his own, then held your gaze for a second too long.

“What?” you asked, amused.

He shook his head, smiling softly. “Nothing. Just glad you’re here.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Morgan groaned dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Reid, you’re buying the next round for burning our eyes with your little love fest over here.” He fake gagged for good measure, head tilted back like he was in the final scene of a tragedy.

Penelope slapped his shoulder with a firm thwack, her bangled wrist jingling as she did. “Derek! He’s in love! Leave him alone!”

Spencer, mid-sip of his Arnold Palmer, choked slightly on the lemonade, the tips of his ears immediately blooming pink.

Across the booth, Hotch barely disguised his amusement, lips twitching toward a smile that never fully broke through—but his eyes gave him away. “It is Spencer’s turn,” he said, deadpan.

That was all it took.

With a quiet sigh and cheeks still flushed like he'd accidentally been assigned to deliver a TED Talk on romance, Spencer gave you a look that was half wish me luck and half I should’ve stayed home. Then, wordlessly, he scooted out of the booth, brushing your knee as he passed, and stood beside the table, preparing to memorize everyone’s drink orders.

“Okay,” he muttered, locking in. “Everyone… just… say it slowly. No overlapping. JJ, you first.”

It was a mess, of course. Everyone calling out orders with no respect for his system—Penelope wanted something sparkly and strong but not too strong, Derek wanted whatever beer came in a glass, not a mason jar, JJ changed her mind twice, and Emily was now teasing Spencer by naming obscure cocktails just to see if he’d recognize the ingredients.

He somehow caught it all with focused determination.

As he finally finished and headed for the bar, Rossi leaned back in his seat with the kind of casual flair that only came with age and absolute confidence. Without a word, he reached into his jacket pocket and slipped a black card between two fingers, holding it just low enough that only Spencer could see.

Spencer blinked at him.

Rossi gave a sly wink. “Go on, kid. It’s on me tonight.”

Spencer hesitated, brow furrowed, fingers curling slightly at his sides. “But—”

“No buts,” Rossi interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re celebrating me, remember? Least I can do is pay for the honor.”

Spencer looked down at the card now resting in his palm, then back at Rossi. The older man was already returning to his drink as if the conversation was finished.

And, well, it was.

Spencer tucked the card carefully into his wallet and headed for the bar, still blushing, still flustered—but smiling all the same.

So he made it up there—shoulders slightly hunched, hands fidgeting with the corner of a cocktail napkin, cheeks still pink from Rossi’s gesture, Derek’s teasing, and the general social exhaustion that came with being Spencer Reid in a crowded bar.

He’d given the bartender the list in his soft, fast voice—apologetic but thorough. “One scotch neat, one whiskey sour, one gin and tonic, two beers, one cosmopolitan, one appletini, and—uh—an Arnold Palmer. Please.”

The bartender, to their credit, didn’t even blink. They just nodded and turned away, starting on the scotch first. Spencer exhaled, relieved, and stepped aside slightly to make room at the bar for someone else.

But apparently, someone had been listening.

And wasn’t impressed.

Behind him, a man snorted loudly—one of those exaggerated, performative sounds meant to be heard. “Jesus, what are you ordering for? A daycare?”

Spencer blinked, head turning slowly, confused. “I—what?”

The man was older, maybe in his late thirties or forties. He was tall and broad, with the overconfident stance of someone who had never once questioned his place in the world. He was nursing a Jack and Coke as if it gave him some kind of authority, his eyes rolling toward Spencer as if he were the one holding up the entire establishment.

“I said,” the man drawled, louder now, clearly looking for an audience, “if you’re gonna order drinks for the whole choir group, maybe let the rest of us get a round in first.”

Spencer stared, eyebrows pinching in confusion. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was a limit on group orders.”

The man snorted again. “Well, there should be. Who even drinks an appletini anymore? You trying to get your girlfriend drunk off juice boxes?”

Spencer's mouth opened, then closed again, a dozen facts about cocktail popularity and historical alcohol trends immediately loading into his brain, ready to be deployed like a defense mechanism. But something about the man’s smug grin—so certain, so pleased with himself—stopped him.

Because this wasn’t a conversation. It was a provocation.

Spencer shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable but unwilling to rise to the bait. “They're for my friends,” he said simply, voice low. “It’s a celebration.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, genius. How about next time you call ahead for catering?”

At that moment, the bartender slid the scotch in front of Spencer, followed quickly by the whiskey sour.

Spencer nodded his thanks but didn’t look away from the man, who had turned back to his drink with a smirk, clearly satisfied he’d gotten in the last word.

But then, with a calmness that even surprised himself, Spencer murmured, “You know, statistically, men who police other people’s drink orders are often projecting latent insecurities about their own masculinity, particularly when in public settings designed to measure dominance, such as bars.”

The man blinked.

Spencer reached for the next glass being slid across to him. “But please,” he added, without looking up, “tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens you.”

It was clinical. Precise. Barely a jab at all—at least, not to most people. But to a drunk man with too much ego and not enough brain cells to process nuance, it was fighting words.

The stool next to Spencer scraped back with an ugly screech as the man stood, puffing out his chest like a cartoon character about to pick a bar brawl.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he slurred, stepping in too close, looming over Spencer like that would somehow make him feel bigger, stronger, smarter.

Spencer stiffened immediately, his fingers tightening slightly around the rim of the next drink, his eyes fixed forward like if he didn’t make direct eye contact, he could defuse the situation with sheer avoidance.

“I didn’t insult you,” he said carefully, quietly. “I made an observation. Based on empirical data.”

“Oh, data?” the man sneered, leaning in now, the smell of cheap liquor wafting off him. “You one of those little trivia guys? That it? You think you’re better than me because you read a book?”

Spencer’s breath caught, his shoulders rising a little, defensively—familiar posture. You’d seen it before. Fight or freeze.

And this wasn’t Spencer’s scene. Not by a long shot. He could navigate conversations with senators, unravel a serial killer’s psychosis with a few words—but bar aggression? Drunk men with something to prove? That was another beast entirely.

“I’m just here to pick up drinks for my team,” Spencer said, holding the man’s stare now, standing his ground but not escalating. “I don’t want trouble.”

Unfortunately, the guy did.

He shoved Spencer’s shoulder hard enough to slosh two drinks onto the bar. “Then don’t go running your mouth like a smartass, Poindexter.”

The bartender snapped to attention. “Hey!”

And before the situation could combust any further—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—”

Derek Morgan appeared out of nowhere behind the guy, voice low, controlled, but laced with threat. He placed one firm hand on the man’s shoulder and turned him just enough to get him out of Spencer’s space.

“This guy bothering you, Pretty Boy?” Derek asked without breaking eye contact with the drunk.

Spencer cleared his throat, stepped back, adjusting his glasses. “He had some… strong opinions about fruit-based beverages.”

Derek clicked his tongue, expression flat as he stared the man down. “Yeah, well, I have strong opinions about idiots starting fights in public places. You wanna keep going?”

The man blinked, unsteady on his feet now that he was no longer the biggest guy in the conversation. He mumbled something that might have been “not worth it,” and turned, staggering back to his bar stool further down the line.

Derek waited a beat, watching him go. Then he turned back to Spencer, his demeanor shifting instantly. “You good?”

Spencer nodded, still holding two drinks with extreme care. “Yes. That was… unpleasant.”

“You wanna head back with what you’ve got? I can come grab the rest.”

“No,” Spencer said, squaring his shoulders like he needed to prove to himself that he could finish the job. “I’m okay.”

Derek smiled, clapped a hand to his back. “Proud of you, man.”

Spencer sighed. “I was trying to de-escalate.”

Derek chuckled. “Spencer. You probably just told a drunk guy his manhood was tied to a cosmo.”

“…Statistically, it probably is.”

“Let’s just get these drinks.”

When the two men arrived back at the booth, arms full of drinks and expressions full of something, the mood shifted immediately. Whatever easygoing laughter had been drifting between the team members froze mid-air the second they saw Spencer’s pink ears and Derek’s look of guarded amusement.

You sat up straight, eyes narrowing instinctively as you scanned Spencer’s face—flushed, stiff around the jaw, very clearly trying to pretend nothing had happened.

Emily was the first to speak, her voice laced with suspicion. “What the hell was all that?”

“Yeah,” JJ chimed in, frowning as she took her drink from the line Spencer was meticulously assembling on the table. “What did Macho Man want with Spence?”

Penelope gasped. “Wait—was there drama?!”

Spencer sighed, softly and with great effort, as if this was the last thing he wanted to relive. Derek, on the other hand, leaned back in the booth like he was settling in for storytime.

“Oh, you should’ve seen it,” Derek said, grinning. “Reid here almost triggered a bar fight because someone took offense to him ordering an appletini.”

“It was not about the appletini,” Spencer muttered, sitting down beside you. “It was about the man’s deeply rooted insecurities surrounding masculinity and his inappropriate hostility in response to a completely factual observation.”

You turned to him immediately. “What did you say?”

Spencer gave you a look. The one that always meant you’re going to mock me but I’m not wrong. He folded his hands in front of him like he was testifying in court. “I asked him to tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens him.”

Emily slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. JJ stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, he did,” Derek confirmed, shaking his head. “I got over there just in time to stop the guy from launching into him.”

“Is he okay?” Penelope asked, peering over Spencer’s shoulder as if expecting to find evidence of bruising or trauma.

“I’m fine,” Spencer said flatly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… a little overstimulated. I didn’t expect to be insulted over a beverage. And shoved.”

You frowned, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Someone touched you?”

Spencer nodded. “It wasn’t hard. It was just… unwelcome.”

“That’s it,” you said, scooting back in your seat as if about to go confront the man yourself. “Where is he? I just wanna talk. Maybe throw an appletini in his face.”

Spencer caught your hand quickly, and despite everything, a small smile tugged at his lips. “It’s okay. Derek handled it.”

You looked at Derek, who gave you a look that said handled might be a mild way of putting it.

“I used my words,” Derek said innocently. “Mostly.”

The table burst into laughter, and the tension slowly unraveled.

But you leaned in close to Spencer, lowering your voice just enough so it was only for him. “Are you okay, baby?”

His eyes met yours instantly, the tension still clinging to the corners of his mouth but softening under your gaze. You could see how hard he was trying to seem fine for everyone else’s sake—keeping his posture stiff, his voice level—but here, with you so close, it cracked a little.

Spencer nodded quickly, that earnest little head bob that told you he was trying to be brave. “I am,” he said, almost like a question he was answering for himself as much as for you. Then, more gently, “Can we go soon?”

“We can leave whenever you want, my love,” you said without hesitation, your hand sliding to rest on his thigh under the table—a quiet, grounding touch, warm and solid.

Unlike the man at the bar, whose shove had left a static buzz of tension under Spencer’s skin, your touch had the opposite effect. His muscles eased almost instantly under your palm like a string had been loosened somewhere deep in his chest.

He exhaled. Really exhaled. Not one of those shallow, polite breaths he gave when people asked how he was—but a real, whole-body sigh.

Spencer reached down to place his hand over yours on his thigh, holding it there like a lifeline. “Thank you,” he murmured.

You gave him a small smile, one that said always and pressed your thumb against his leg in a slow, gentle circle.

The rest of the table carried on around you—Derek recounting the confrontation to Penelope with far more dramatic flair than necessary, JJ laughing into her drink, Emily shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this night was real—but all you could focus on was Spencer.

His hand in yours. His heartbeat slowing. The way his body leaned subtly closer to you now, like he knew he was safe again.

And soon, the two of you would be walking out of this place together, hand in hand, far from anyone who’d ever make him feel small.

—

You wanted to make tonight special for your man.

Spencer deserves so much. The world and more.

But tonight, you’ll start with a room—his room—lit soft and made sacred with intention.

So you get a little cheesy with it. Romantic. Old-school. The kind of thing people roll their eyes at in movies but secretly dream of. You plan.

You sneak into his apartment while he’s at work—not really sneaking, of course; you have a key, gifted in a quiet moment weeks ago when he pressed it into your hand like he was asking a question he couldn’t voice.

You let yourself in and begin.

First, the bed. His iron-framed, slightly squeaky, endearingly old-fashioned bed that he once admitted, reminded him of something he saw in a museum as a kid. You wind strands of fairy lights around the bars—golden and warm, gentle on the eyes, soft enough to keep the room dreamy but clear. You test them a few times, adjusting one crooked hook, unplugging, and replugging until they fall just right.

Next, come the flower petals—not just roses. You went for color. Texture. Variety.

Soft pinks, fiery oranges, cool lavender, pale yellows. A little chaotic. A little wild. Like your love for him. You scatter them across the sheets like confetti at a celebration. Because it is one.

You set out the unscented candles on his nightstand—small, discreet, and safe. You almost got the kind that crackles like a fire, but you remembered his sensitivity to noise as much as scent.

You want to indulge him, not overwhelm him.

On the foot of the bed, you place the box of condoms and a bottle of lube—both neatly arranged, unassuming, and respectful, but there. Like a promise, not a demand.

It’s not about seduction, not in the usual sense. It’s about care.

It’s about telling him without words, You are safe here. You are wanted. You are adored.

And it’s about readiness. His and yours.

So you sit on the edge of the bed when it’s all finished, looking around the room, heart full and nervous, because love like this—good love—always comes with a bit of fear.

Now, all that’s left is to wait for the man you love to walk through the door.

…

Spencer trudged up the steps to his apartment, every muscle in his body heavy with the weight of the day. His satchel strap bit into his shoulder, and the knot in his neck hadn’t loosened since 2:17 p.m. when the case had turned from frustrating to tragic. By the time he reached his front door, he was fully prepared to collapse, microwave something vaguely edible, and not speak to another human being until at least tomorrow.

But then—

He opened the door and paused.

Your shoes. Neatly placed by his coat rack.

You wore the same pair when you went to that used bookstore downtown and got caught in the rain on the walk back. They were the ones with the faint scuff mark near the toe where you tripped trying to race him to the car.

Spencer’s breath caught, and without even realizing it, his hand relaxed on the strap of his satchel.

“Y/N?” he called out, his voice already softer. Hopeful.

“In here, lover,” you sang back, your voice floating out from his bedroom, warm and amused and full of something deliciously mischievous.

Spencer blinked, confused for half a second by the nickname—it wasn’t your usual one. Then he laughed under his breath, his lips twitching into a smile that pushed away the rest of the day’s gloom like sunlight through storm clouds.

He slipped off his shoes, his heart pounding faster now—not with anxiety, but with anticipation.

He had no idea what was waiting for him. Only that you were here. And that was always enough.

He dropped his satchel carefully by the door, toes brushing his shoes into their usual corner, both out of habit and because he knew you liked when things were neat. And something about tonight—something about your voice and the way it lilted with that playful energy—told him this wasn’t a night for messes.

He padded down the hallway slowly, each step easing him further out of his work mindset.

You called him lover.

Lover.

His ears were still warm from it.

The bedroom door was open, but dimly lit from within, and when Spencer stepped into the doorway—his hand grazing the frame like he needed to steady himself—his breath left him in a stunned, hushed exhale.

“Y/N…” he said again, but it wasn’t a question this time. It was a reverent acknowledgment.

The fairy lights cast golden halos over everything—the iron of the bedframe, the petals scattered in a riot of color over his sheets, your silhouette seated calmly in the middle of it all, serene and radiant and waiting for him.

The room looked like something out of a book he hadn’t read yet. Like something meant to be unwrapped slowly. Like something dreamed about.

You looked at him with a grin that betrayed your nerves and your excitement all at once. “Hi,” you said, your voice gentler now. “Rough day?”

Spencer’s hand dragged slowly down his chest like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. He nodded, blinking at you like you were a mirage. “It… was. But this—” he gestured to the lights, the petals, you— “This is…”

“Too much?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head fast, walking toward you now like he remembered how to move. “No. No, it’s—perfect.”

You reached for him, and he came willingly, kneeling on the bed beside you, hands cautious as they cupped your face.

“I didn’t want to rush,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the slight furrow between his brows. “But I wanted you to know I’m still ready. If you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and he swallowed hard, his forehead leaning against yours like he needed the contact to hold himself together.

“I’ve never felt more ready for anything,” he whispered back, his voice trembling with awe.

But still, Spencer was nervous.

No, nervous didn’t quite cover it—he was trembling with a complex blend of anticipation, reverence, and a lingering thread of panic that tugged at him even as he stood in front of you, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

His fingers trembled slightly as you helped him out of his shirt, your touch so gentle, so patient, that it almost brought tears to his eyes. Every movement of yours said we’re okay. You’re safe. I want this with you.

And he did want it. He’d said yes with more certainty than he’d ever given anything outside of a statistical theorem. But the reality of it—being here, with you, about to cross that line—was almost too much. He didn’t know where to look. His gaze darted from your eyes to the sheets to the petals and back again, never quite settling.

You could feel how tightly he was holding himself together. Not out of fear but because he wanted so badly to get it right. To be everything you deserved.

You smiled gently, stepping close and running your fingers along his jaw. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone like silk. “You’re allowed to look at me, you know.”

He swallowed hard and gave a jerky little nod. “I know. I just—I’m trying to be respectful. And grounded. And not... combust.”

You giggled, your fingers trailing down to the hem of your own shirt. “Well, if you combust, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t combust,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

And then—without flourish, without teasing—you pulled your shirt up and over your head and tossed it to the floor.

And Spencer—

Spencer stopped functioning.

Whatever careful control he’d been trying to maintain, whatever self-soothing technique he was cycling through in his mind—it all evaporated.

His jaw quite literally dropped. His eyes widened like a Victorian gentleman seeing an ankle for the first time.

You had never seen anyone look more stunned.

And then he said it. Barely above a whisper. Like it was a scientific observation, a sacred discovery, and a prayer, all at once:

“…Boobs.”

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh. “Yes, Spence. Boobs.”

He blinked, still staring. “Those are… incredible.”

You stepped closer, chest brushing against his, watching as his entire body stiffened, overwhelmed in the most delightful way. “You can touch them, you know.”

“I can?” he asked, eyes snapping to yours with something just shy of awe.

With your guidance, you nodded slowly, and his hands lifted, tentative but eager, warm palms grazing over your skin like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

And that was it.

That was when all of Spencer Reid’s encyclopedic knowledge, IQ points, and graduate degrees—just left the building.

His brain?

Off.

His mouth?

Open.

His dick?

Throbbing.

His hands cupped you with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts or first editions.

And you? You were beaming.

Because seeing Spencer lose his carefully composed mind over you—over something as simple and as yours as your bare chest—was everything you’d hoped for and more.

His hands, once tentative, were now resting firmly on your chest. Spencer had gone quiet, which wasn’t unusual for him—he was a man who could live inside silence with ease—but this was different. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide as he watched his own hands explore you, gently, like you were something fragile and sacred.

He looked up at you with wonder written all over his face, his cheeks flushed, curls hanging slightly over his forehead. “You’re so soft,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid saying it too loud would break the moment.

You smiled, heart thudding in your chest at the way he marveled at you like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know—I mean, I knew technically, but—” his eyes flicked back down, thumbs brushing slowly over your skin, “—this is better than any description I’ve ever read.”

That made you laugh, and the sound of it seemed to ground him, his shoulders relaxing just enough that you could see him starting to come back to himself. Not the nervous, overthinking version—your Spencer. The one who trusted you. The one who wanted this.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone.

“I think I’m in love with your entire body,” he murmured, dazed and breathless. Then blinked. “And yes. I’m okay.”

You leaned forward and kissed him soft and slow, letting your fingers trail down his spine, pressing gently at the small of his back. He gasped a little when your hips shifted, brushing against him where he was already hard and twitching in his boxers.

He whimpered. You felt it rather than heard it—low in his throat, vibrating through his chest.

“Can I take these off?” you asked, fingers ghosting over the waistband of his pants.

He nodded quickly, breath shallow. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You moved slowly, tugging his pants and underwear down with care, and he hissed through his teeth when the cool air met his skin. He was already flushed, already leaking at the tip, and so sensitive that when you brushed your hand along him lightly, his whole body arched.

“God,” he gasped, burying his face in your neck. “I—I might not last long. I’m sorry.”

You smiled and turned your face to kiss his temple. “Spence. I want you to feel good. That’s the whole point.”

He nodded, clinging to you, one arm wrapping around your waist as if he needed to anchor himself. You made sure everything was slow. Gentle. The kind of slow that said there’s no rush, that said we have all the time in the world, that said I want you to feel safe.

Every touch was measured—not tentative, not clinical, but intentional. Like music played on vinyl, every movement had its own warm, human hum. 

When you reached for the condom, he caught your wrist—not firmly, not to stop you, but just enough to pause you.

“C-can I… can I do it?” he asked, voice so quiet it cracked in the middle. “I—I read about it. I practiced.”

Your heart nearly burst.

You nodded immediately, smiling, letting the packet rest in his palm. “Of course, baby. I love that you did research.”

Spencer exhaled and nodded like you’d given him permission to breathe for the first time in ten minutes. His fingers worked the foil carefully, a little clumsy but deliberate. You saw the concentration on his face, the way he bit the inside of his cheek as he rolled it down himself with both hands, going slow and steady like it was an experiment he’d studied and was now conducting in real-time.

When he finished, he looked up at you, a little pink from embarrassment, a little proud. “I, uh… I read that using both hands gives you better control and minimizes breakage. And I didn’t want to fumble if I waited till the moment—”

You leaned down and kissed him before he could spiral. “You did perfect.”

He flushed deeper, blinking up at you like you’d just handed him the Nobel Prize.

Then you reached for the lube.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

He watched with fascination—his eyes dark and wide—as you popped the cap and squeezed a small amount onto your fingers.

“Okay?” you asked, holding his gaze.

He nodded slowly, lips slightly parted. “Yeah… yes. Please.”

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your slicked hand around him, and he gasped.

Not just a sharp intake of breath, not just a quiet sound—a whole-body gasp. His hips twitched off the bed, his fingers dug into the sheets like he was trying to stay grounded, and his head tipped back into the pillow with a groan that echoed in the quiet room.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “I—I didn’t—I didn’t expect it to feel like that.”

You stroked him once, slow and careful, and his whole body shuddered.

You leaned close to his ear, voice low and teasing but full of love. “Too much?”

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head furiously. “Not too much. Just… a lot. I’m trying not to—”

You smiled, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “You don’t have to try so hard. Just feel it. I’ve got you.”

And he did. He let go.

Of the nerves. Of the pressure. Of the shame.

He let himself be exactly who he was—soft, flushed, wide-eyed, and open—yours.

And when you finally guided him inside you—after his hands had gripped the sheets, after you’d whispered to each other that you were ready—he gasped so hard you worried for a moment he’d stopped breathing.

His hands found your waist. His head tipped back. His lips parted, eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh my God.” Spencer squeaked more than said.

You stilled, letting him adjust, letting both of you adjust. You were warm and tight and Spencer was entirely overwhelmed. You leaned forward to kiss him, your hair brushing his cheek, and he kissed you back like he had nothing else to hold onto.

“Is it okay?” you whispered.

“Better,” he gasped. “So much better.”

You moved gently at first—carefully, deliberately—just shifting your hips enough to feel him deeper, to let your bodies adjust to each other, to the newness of it all. Spencer's breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and glossy as he looked up at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

His hands gripped your hips—not possessively, but like he was grounding himself. His fingers trembled where they rested against your skin, his thumbs brushing mindless, reverent circles, like he was trying to memorize your shape through touch alone.

You leaned down slightly, brushing your nose against his. “Still okay?” you whispered, watching every little flicker in his expression.

His breath left him in a soft, unsteady sigh. “Yes,” he managed, the word barely audible like it had to travel through his entire body before it reached his mouth. “Yes, but I—God, you feel—”

He trailed off, not because he didn’t want to finish the sentence, but because he couldn’t. Because Spencer Reid—man of thousands of words, probably fluent in countless languages, master of articulation—had gone completely, blissfully, speechless.

You pressed your lips to his jaw, then his cheekbone, and then the corner of his mouth, letting your own breath warm his skin as you began to move again.

Slow. So slow it didn’t even feel like movement at first—just heat, friction, pressure, and presence.

You watched him like it was your full-time job, like nothing else mattered. The way his mouth trembled with every shallow thrust. The way his eyes kept trying to stay on you, but fluttered shut when the sensation overwhelmed him. The way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to breathe through something far more profound than pleasure.

His entire body was taut with restraint like he was terrified to let go.

“You don’t have to hold back,” you whispered against his lips.

He opened his eyes again, wide and fragile and desperate all at once. “I don’t want it to be over too fast.”

You smiled softly, brushing his curls back from his damp forehead. “Don’t worry about that, baby. We can go again later. Or not. But you don’t need to prove anything, Spence. Just let me take care of you.”

That undid him more than anything. His throat worked as he swallowed, and his hands dragged up your sides, shaking slightly. He nodded—almost frantically—but his voice was quiet. “Okay. Okay.”

You picked up the pace just slightly, just enough to build tension, just enough to draw a longer moan from his chest. It was low and raw like he hadn’t meant to let it out, but you kissed him before he could shrink away from the sound.

“You sound so good, baby,” you whispered.

That almost did it.

His head tilted back, jaw slack, brows furrowed like the pleasure hurt in the best way. His legs shifted beneath you, trying to find stability in a moment where he felt anything but stable.

And then he said your name.

Not just said it—moaned it.

Like it had been carved into the moment. Like it was the only word he knew.

Your bounces were deliberate, and your thighs were sore. His chest was flushed, and his breathing was uneven. And when your hands slid up his ribs, he reached for you—pulling you closer, needing the anchor of your body against his.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing in his scent and murmuring soft encouragements, each one laced with love. And he whimpered your name again, his hands tightening on your back.

“I—I’m close,” he whispered as if confessing a secret. “I—I don’t want to, but I—I can’t stop—”

You kissed the hinge of his jaw, your voice breathless but tender. “Don’t stop. Let go, Spence. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

With one last, desperate gasp—your name caught somewhere between a cry and a prayer—he came. Hard. His whole body curling into you as if the force of it broke something open inside him.

You didn’t move right away. You let him ride it out, breathing him in, one hand combing gently through his hair as his arms wrapped around you, holding on like he was afraid you’d disappear.

When he finally blinked up at you, cheeks flushed, lashes damp, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.”

You smiled, cupping his face like he was made of something precious. “I know, baby.”

“I… I love you.”

You kissed him, slow and full and deep. “I love you too.”

You collapsed beside him afterward, pressing your forehead to his, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Spencer was panting softly, blinking up at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes. “I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he whispered.

You kissed him once, twice, as your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest. “It’s not always like that,” you said honestly. “But with you? I hoped it would be.”

He turned his head to look at you, his expression open and unguarded, his smile small and unbelievably tender.

“I think I’m gonna love you even more now,” he whispered.

You laughed, soft and full, your chest aching with how much you adored him. “Good. Because I already do.”

Then—just as your breathing began to slow, your heartbeat settling into that warm, post-release haze of intimacy—Spencer suddenly shot up.

Not all the way, not jarringly, but enough that his arms unwrapped from around your back, and he was propping himself on one elbow, brows furrowed in frantic realization. His eyes, still glassy and dazed from everything you'd just shared, snapped open with a kind of panic so sincere it was almost endearing.

“You didn’t finish,” he said, voice high and tight, like he’d just remembered he'd left the oven on.

You blinked, a little startled, then broke into a laugh so warm and affectionate it made your chest ache. “Spence—”

But he wasn’t letting it go.

“No—I mean—you didn’t,” he said again, the urgency in his tone almost comical as he began searching your face, your body, trying to confirm with his eyes what he already knew. “I—I wasn’t paying attention like I should have—I was too in my own head—”

“Baby,” you cut in, reaching up to smooth your hand over his hair, which had gone wild in the most adorable way. “It’s okay. We’ll get there. You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” he blurted, his hand already sliding to your thigh like he couldn’t imagine not finishing what he started. “I need to. Please let me—can I?”

You blinked again, caught somewhere between touched and incredibly turned on by how serious he was, how devoted.

“Spencer,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “you just lost your virginity about two minutes ago.”

“Yes, and you gave me the most incredible experience of my life,” he said without missing a beat. “And it would be a travesty if I didn’t do the same for you.”

You bit your lip, utterly undone by the sheer passion in his voice, the way his brow pinched like this was the most urgent mission he’d ever undertaken.

“I’ll be gentle,” he added, now trailing kisses along your shoulder, his hand dipping lower with increasing confidence, “but I’m not sleeping until you finish, too.”

You sighed, already melting beneath his touch. “You really are the sweetest man alive.”

“Statistically speaking,” he mumbled against your skin, “I hope to be the most attentive man alive.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, affection coloring your voice even as your body already started to respond to his touch. “Okay, but Spence—”

The rest of your sentence dissolved into a shaky moan as his fingers, always so long and graceful and careful, pushed gently inside of you with the kind of curious reverence only he could carry. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t practiced—it was Spencer. Learning you. Exploring you. Honoring you.

“Yes?” he asked innocently, blinking up at you like he hadn’t just curled his finger in a way that sent heat shooting up your spine.

You tried to compose yourself, your hands fisting lightly in the sheets. “I don’t always finish—Jesus—even with proper stimulation. Sometimes it just—doesn’t happen.”

Rather than looking disappointed, Spencer tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering with interest like you’d just given him an unsolved puzzle. “I read that some women can’t,” he said calmly, his voice low and thoughtful, still curling his finger slowly, watching your body respond with studious awe. “There are a variety of contributing factors—psychological, physiological, environmental. In fact, studies show that up to ten to fifteen percent of women may experience lifelong anorgasmia, meaning they’ve never had an orgasm, while others may experience situational or acquired anorgasmia due to stress, trauma, or hormonal imbalances.”

You were trying to stay focused, truly, but it was hard when he was speaking in that careful, clinical tone—that tone—while his finger was so very much not clinical.

“Some data also suggests,” he continued, utterly unbothered by your increasingly unsteady breathing, “that difficulty reaching climax can be compounded by performance anxiety or pressure, even in safe, loving relationships, which is why it’s especially important to prioritize pleasure over completion and—”

You whined. Loudly.

It tore out of you unbidden, high, and needy, and Spencer’s fingers stilled immediately. His brows lifted in alarm as he looked up at you, concern flickering in his eyes despite the obvious state of bliss you were in.

“Wait—are you okay?” he asked gently, the pads of his fingers softening their pressure but not withdrawing entirely. “Too much? Did I—”

“No, no,” you gasped, one hand flailing out to grab at his wrist again, grounding yourself. “Please don’t stop.”

He hesitated for a moment, scanning your face like he was recalibrating, and you managed a breathless, half-laugh, half-moan.

“Please keep telling me your nerdy shit,” you begged, tilting your hips ever so slightly toward his hand, needing more of him. “It’s working, baby.”

Spencer’s eyes widened like he couldn’t quite process what you’d just said. “It is?”

You nodded emphatically, lips parted, your whole body flushed with need. “So much. Talk to me. Please.”

And that was all the permission he needed.

His mouth quirked into a crooked, bashful smile—adorably smug now that he knew what effect he was having—and he cleared his throat like he was preparing to give a keynote address.

“Well… the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings, which is actually more than the penis,” he murmured, returning his fingers to their earlier rhythm, slow and steady, curling just right, “and it's the only human organ whose sole purpose is pleasure. Studies show that stimulation of this area often requires consistency and pressure—not necessarily penetration—and…”

You moaned again, louder this time, arching under the weight of both his fingers and his voice.

He kept going.

“…and many women experience heightened sensitivity when paired with psychological stimulation, such as auditory input or praise, which might be why you’re reacting so strongly to this right now—your mind and body are responding in tandem, which is actually ideal for maximizing the—”

You cut him off with a cry, your hand slamming down against the mattress beside you, voice breaking on his name as you got closer and closer to the edge.

Spencer's pupils blew wide, lips parted as he watched you unravel beneath him. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly now. “You’re so responsive, you’re—God, you’re beautiful—”

“Don’t stop,” you panted, your voice trembling, high and thin, your body arched against the sheets as your thighs quivered around his wrist. “Please—”

Spencer's breath hitched, the seriousness in your tone lighting something molten in his chest. He didn’t stop—not even a little. His fingers kept their firm, deliberate rhythm, his knuckles glistening in the warm light, his eyes fixed on your face like he was reading your every reaction like scripture.

“Okay,” he whispered, lips parted, breath catching on every syllable. “I won’t. I promise. Just… breathe through it. You’re doing so good.”

But then, as if his brain couldn’t help itself—as if the next fact physically needed to be said or he might combust—he added, almost breathless with excitement, “You know, some evolutionary biologists argue that the clitoris evolved as a mechanism to promote pair bonding, not reproduction. Which would mean that your pleasure is literally coded into our species to keep us together—emotionally, and psychologically. It’s one of the few functions that exists solely to reinforce trust and intimacy between partners, which I think is just…”

You whimpered beneath him, your body shuddering. “Spencer—oh my God—”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, but with a lopsided, flushed grin. “I can’t help it. You’re letting me touch you, and my brain is like, ‘Now’s the time to dump eight thousand years of evolutionary sexual research.’”

Your laugh cracked open into another moan as his fingers curled again—just right.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” you gasped, hands clenching the sheets. “If you don’t make me come right now while quoting Darwin, I swear to God—”

“Technically it was Sarah Blaffer Hrdy who first—”

“SPENCER.”

“Right. Shutting up. But also not stopping.”

And he didn’t.

Your whole body was shaking, strung tight as a wire, teetering right on the edge—but you couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t stop him. Because Spencer Reid, brilliant and so sweet and currently knuckle-deep inside you, was passionately info-dumping about sexual evolution and female anatomy like he was reading it straight from a journal he co-authored.

And it was the sexiest goddamn thing you’d ever heard.

“—and actually, there’s evidence in Bonobo communities that female orgasm plays a social role in maintaining alliances, which some anthropologists believe might translate to human behavior as well—oh, right there?” he asked mid-sentence, breathcatching as he felt your body clench around his fingers.

You gasped, gripping the sheets as heat coiled tighter in your belly. “Yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. If anything, he grew more focused, his voice dropping lower, rougher now with awe and affection. “You’re so responsive, it’s beautiful. The way your pelvic floor contracts during climax is—statistically—it’s just—God, I could write a thesis on this. You, I mean. This.”

That was it.

Something about the way he said write a thesis on this while his fingers moved in perfect rhythm, while his thumb gently pressed right there, while his wide, eager eyes stayed locked on your face like you were the most precious discovery he’d ever made—

It sent you crashing over the edge.

You came with a loud, stuttering cry, your body curling in on itself as Spencer kept his touch steady through the waves of it, like he knew exactly how to help you ride it out. Your orgasm pulsed hard and fast, and he felt it—his jaw dropping, his own breath shaky with awe.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, still stroking you so gently it nearly drove you mad. “You just came while I was talking about Bonobos.”

You nodded weakly, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from the intensity, your lips split in a wrecked smile. “Your brain is so hot, baby.”

Spencer let out a stunned laugh, curling beside you, hand now resting on your thigh as he kissed your temple with reverence.

“I feel like I should give a TED Talk after this,” he whispered, still a little breathless.

You giggled, voice still hoarse. “You just did.”

And somewhere in Spencer’s mind, he filed this away under Data Collection: Partner’s Orgasm Most Frequently Triggered by Academic Enthusiasm.

He was absolutely taking notes.

“See?” Spencer said softly, still flushed, still basking in the wonder of what just happened like he’d accidentally discovered a new element. His fingers brushed over your thigh, gentle and aimless, as he smiled down at you with all the smug pride of a man who had just scientifically rocked your world.

“Told you data is sexy.”

You let out a breathless laugh—a mix of exhaustion and affection—and rolled your head toward him on the pillow. “You have literally never said that before.”

His grin only widened, curls falling slightly into his eyes as he tucked one hand under his cheek like he was trying to play coy. “I’ve thought it. Repeatedly. Constantly. For years.”

You gave him a tired huff of a laugh, your hand lazily tracing circles on his chest. “Well… you might want to prepare some new information for next time, then. Maybe a bibliography. A few case studies. Something about… I don’t know—neurochemical bonding during prolonged foreplay?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a Christmas morning of erotically charged research prompts.

“I have articles on that,” he whispered, delighted. “I mean, obviously not for this exact context, but the neurobiological mechanisms of oxytocin release are actually—”

“Next time, baby,” you said, pulling the blanket over both of you with a giggle. “I need to regain function first.”

He chuckled, kissed your shoulder, and snuggled in close, already mentally drafting an annotated lecture for your next round.

Because if Spencer Reid had learned one thing tonight, it was this: 

Your pleasure wasn’t just about touch. It was about trust and love… and, just maybe, a full-body response to the words evolutionary psychology.

God help you. You’d created a monster.

And you couldn’t wait for next time.

“Um… darling, I need to shower,” Spencer said suddenly, shifting slightly beneath the blankets, his voice soft but tinged with just enough awkward urgency to make you blink.

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing over at him with a sleepy smile, your cheek still resting against his shoulder.

He hesitated. “I… forgot to take the condom off.”

You sat up so fast the blanket fell from your shoulders. “Ew! Spencer!” you yelped, though your voice was laced with disbelief and laughter more than actual disgust.

He winced, scrunching his nose, clearly embarrassed. “I got distracted by your brain and your body and your orgasm and also your face, so—yes, I forgot.”

You flopped back onto the bed, groaning into the pillow. “Sometimes I forget that even though you are a very good, clean, above-average man—you are still, at the end of the day, just a man.”

“I deserve that,” he muttered, already standing and gingerly tiptoeing toward the bathroom like a child who just got scolded for forgetting to put away their science fair volcano.

“You go shower and I’ll go pee,” you called after him, swinging your legs off the bed.

“Peeing after sex is actually good for both men and women,” he called from the bathroom, his voice already returning to its usual scholarly rhythm, “because it helps prevent urinary tract infections by flushing out any bacteria that may have—”

You cut him off with a laugh, padding toward the hallway bathroom. “Save the dirty talk, please,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder with a wicked grin.

He poked his head around the doorframe, shirtless, blushing, and grinning right back at you. “I’m literally talking about hygiene—”

“And somehow,” you smirked, disappearing into the bathroom, “you’re still turning me on.”

You heard him laugh through the door, the warm sound echoing through your apartment like a promise of many, many more awkwardly perfect nights to come.

—

Spencer had been shot.

The words alone were enough to send the entire team spiraling, every muscle in motion, every decision sharpened by panic laced with practiced urgency. It had happened while Spencer was protecting a victim from the unsub, and then a single, deafening shot that echoed louder than anything else that day.

The bullet hit Spencer in the leg. Not a graze. A hit.

It wasn’t the worst-case scenario, not by a mile—not chest, not head—but it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to people who had already seen this man bleeding and broken before, carried out on a stretcher but unable to leave the pain behind. The last time he’d been seriously injured in the field, it had left emotional (and physical) scars that never quite healed. So no, it wasn’t just a leg. It was Spencer. It was history repeating itself.

They got him to the hospital as fast as possible, local sirens blaring, uniforms parting like the Red Sea to make way for the gurney. Hotch barked orders with a clenched jaw, Rossi moved like a soldier who’d done this too many times, and JJ never let go of his hand until she physically had to.

Penelope wasn’t on the scene.

She was over two hundred miles away, back at Quantico, surrounded by her banks of monitors and softly glowing LED lights, but it might as well have been a different planet. When the call came in—that Spencer had been shot—her hands froze mid-keystroke. For a second, her entire world narrowed to the sound of Hotch’s voice crackling through her headset and the sharp, clinical way he’d said, “Reid’s been hit.”

She didn’t hear anything after that.

The room around her blurred as her fingers slowly slipped away from the keyboard, her chair spinning a fraction as she pushed back, needing space that didn’t exist. She wasn’t used to this kind of helplessness.

Because this time, she couldn’t run searches or hack into anything that would make a damn bit of difference.

All she could do was wait.

She sat in her chair like the floor had dropped out from beneath her, her fingers laced tightly in her lap—knuckles white, nails pressing into her skin. The BAU bullpen buzzed faintly behind her, voices low and moving fast, but she felt suspended in a slow-motion kind of grief that hadn’t hit its target yet.

Her screens were still lit up with the case. But she didn’t look at them.

She didn’t look at anything.

She just stared at the wall, heart thudding in her throat.

And then she remembered you.

You weren’t there. You hadn’t been on this case—you didn’t even know.

The thought nearly made her nauseous.

“I’ll call,” she told them before Hotch could speak. “You’ll be too clinical. Y/N deserves more than that.”

He didn’t argue.

Penelope stepped away from her desk, heart hammering as she pressed your name on her phone and held it to her ear. She expected tears. Gasps. Maybe even anger.

What she got instead… was calm.

“Hey, Penelope,” you answered on the second ring, voice groggy like you’d been napping or just getting in from something mundane.

“Hi, um… okay. Okay, don’t freak out,” she said immediately, pacing the linoleum tiles, hand pressed to her chest. “He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Spencer’s alive.”

There was a pause.

“Okay,” you said quietly, no tremor in your tone. “What happened?”

Penelope blinked, caught off guard. “He was—uh, he was shot. In the leg. They’re still at the hospital in Detroit. He’s stable. He was awake in the ambulance. There was a lot of blood, but they think the bullet missed the femoral artery. He’s in surgery now.”

“Okay,” you said again, the word even and deliberate. “And he's… alive. Just to confirm.”

“Yes,” she said quickly, her voice cracking. “Yes, he is. I swear to you.”

Penelope waited, unsure what to say next.

You exhaled through the line. “Thank you for calling. Please text me the name of the hospital. I’m getting on a flight.”

Penelope nodded, even though you couldn’t see her. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll text you everything. And if you need me to help book—”

“I’ll take care of it, thank you, Penelope. Just… let me know if anything changes.”

“I will,” she promised. 

And with that, the call ended, and Penelope stared down at her screen with tears in her eyes, already typing the hospital info into a message, already knowing you’d be on the next flight out.

You were a complete wreck while grabbing your stuff, arms moving too fast, heart pounding harder than your body could keep up with. Your fingers fumbled clumsily over zippers and drawers, not bothering to fold anything, not checking the weather, not even thinking about what you might need once you got there.

There.

Detroit.

Where Spencer was.

Dating Spencer had taught you many things—how to listen differently, be patient in silence, and decode the pauses between his words—but it had also taught you how to prepare. You had a go bag because of him. A real one. The kind people made fun of on TV, but the kind you knew might be the difference between being there when it mattered or showing up too late.

And you weren’t going to be late.

By the time you were out the door and in the car, you were already on the phone with the airport. You didn’t care about the airline. You didn’t care about the seat. 

It was mildly irrational. Definitely not budget-friendly. But you couldn’t help it.

You weren’t dating Spencer when he was kidnapped. You hadn’t even met him yet. But you knew. You knew. Not all of it—never all of it—but you knew enough. Enough to make your stomach turn with what-ifs. Enough to know that field injuries like this weren’t just about bullets and blood loss. They were about fear. Trauma. Flashbacks. They were about the past coming back up through the cracks.

You didn’t know what state you were going to find him in.

And that’s what made your hands shake.

The flight felt like forever, even though you got lucky with timing and minimal delays. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t drank anything. You hadn’t spoken to anyone except for a rushed text to Penelope saying boarding now.

It wasn’t until the plane reached altitude—until the jolt of ascent settled into the hum of flight and the flight attendant started her quiet aisle shuffle—that you felt like you could breathe.

Not fully. Not deeply. But enough.

You leaned back into your seat, closing your eyes, the ache of your worry pulling behind your ribs like it had settled there for good. You hoped—God, you hoped—that maybe sleep would find you.

And if it did, you hoped your dreams would be filled with happy Spencer. The version of him who laughed too hard at his own obscure jokes. The one who sipped his coffee with both hands like it might fly away if he didn’t hold on tight. The one who woke you up by reading to you.

Not the one bleeding in an ambulance. Not the one in a hospital gown.

Just him. Just yours.

…

JJ was sitting with Spencer, perched on the small plastic chair beside his hospital bed, her legs crossed, one foot bouncing softly as she kept the mood light, steady—talking about whatever came to mind. She was recounting something Penelope had said on the phone earlier, something about a new case file font she’d tried out just to annoy Hotch, and though Spencer’s laugh was more of a soft exhale, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He was tired, yes, pale and sore and dressed in one of those thin, awful gowns—but he was okay.

The surgery had gone well. It was a clean removal with minimal damage. It would take time to recover, but physically, he’d be fine.

Still, the team wasn’t taking any chances. They were rotating in and out of the room, never leaving him alone—not just for his safety, but for his comfort. For the emotional fallout that might come later. No one said it aloud, but they all remembered what happened the last time Spencer returned from a hospital bed.

Meanwhile, out in the waiting room, Derek stood up from where he’d been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking up every time the elevator dinged. When he spotted you—wrinkled from travel, hair messy, eyes burning with the kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation—he moved fast.

“Hey,” he said, walking quickly toward you.

“Is he—”

“He’s okay,” Derek interrupted gently, placing both hands on your shoulders as if to hold you up and reassure you simultaneously. “He’s really okay. Out of surgery, awake. JJ’s in there with him now. He’s a little loopy, but he’s fine.”

For the first time since Penelope’s call, your lungs actually filled. Not just shallow breaths or half inhalations, but real, full air. You closed your eyes briefly and nodded, a shaky sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaping your throat.

Without hesitation, you threw your arms around Derek, hugging him tight—tighter than he expected, but he didn’t hesitate to hug you back. He rubbed your back once, steady, and said, “He’s been asking about you.”

You pulled away, nodded again, and then took off, your footsteps fast and sure down the hallway as you followed Derek’s directions toward Spencer’s room.

As you pushed the door open, your fingers trembling just slightly around the handle, you couldn't help yourself. Even with your heart hammering, the sterile smell of antiseptic hitting your nose, and the distant beep of monitors echoing down the hall, your instinct kicked in.

“Knock knock,” you called softly into the room, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of your mouth even as your chest swelled with emotion.

You said it automatically now, like muscle memory. Because you knew it bothered him.

“Why do you have to say it when you’re already doing it?” he’d asked you once, eyebrows knit in frustration, voice laced with genuine confusion.

And you had just grinned at him with all the smug delight of someone discovering the easiest way to get under a person’s skin. Ever since it has become your thing.

Now, standing in the doorway of a bright white hospital room that smelled too clean and looked too sharp, the words felt softer than usual. They were familiar, a tether to normalcy.

JJ was the first thing you saw—her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her eyes wide, already filled with a deep, quiet sympathy that made your stomach tighten all over again. She rose from her seat beside the bed, stepping back gently, making space for you without saying a word.

And then you looked at him.

Spencer.

Awake. Propped up against thin pillows in an oversized gown, his blanket drawn up to his waist. His curls were a little flattened, his face pale, but his eyes—those wide, soulful eyes—were fixed on you.

His expression shifted the moment your eyes met. Not relief, not even joy—fear.

Like he didn’t know what you were going to say. Like he was preparing for disappointment or maybe even anger. Like a part of him still hadn’t entirely accepted that you came. That you would always come.

You stepped inside without thinking, letting the door swing slowly shut behind you.

“Hey there, handsome,” you said with a grin, your voice all honey and lightness, doing everything in your power to wrap him in reassurance from the second you stepped inside. You needed him to see it in your face—it’s okay, I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re okay.

“Hi,” Spencer replied, smiling back, but the expression was small, a little hesitant like he still wasn’t sure he deserved your warmth just yet. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the blanket, and you could see it all—every flicker of worry, every ounce of vulnerability behind those eyes.

You didn’t let it linger. You walked fully into the room, letting the door shut gently behind you, and stopped at the foot of his bed. Then, very dramatically, you planted both hands on your hips and gave him your best mock-disappointed look, brows drawn, chin tilted.

“Now, Spencer,” you began sternly, “what are we not supposed to do?”

His brows furrowed immediately in confusion, and he looked to JJ for help, who shrugged back at him like don’t look at me.

You huffed, all theatrical sigh and exaggerated disappointment, before prompting him with the first few syllables: “Not… get… sh—”

“Not get shot,” he said quickly, nodding solemnly like a child admitting to having snuck a cookie. His lips twitched upward, and the sparkle in his eyes was back, even if just faintly.

“Exactly,” you said, stepping closer now. “And what did you do, Spencer?”

“I got shot,” he said, shrugging slightly, finally getting into the silliness of your game but still watching your face like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was in trouble or not.

“You got shot,” you repeated with a long, exaggerated sigh. “I suppose,” you added as you perched gently on the edge of the bed, “it’s probably for the best that it missed any major organs… or your chest… or your head…”

“Probably,” Spencer giggled, his voice light for the first time all day, the sound bubbling up like it surprised even him.

JJ let out a breath she’d been holding, smiling quietly as she excused herself from the room, giving you both the privacy you needed.

But you barely noticed. All your focus was on him—his smile, his soft laugh, the way his shoulders started to drop from around his ears, the tension finally easing under your presence.

You reached up gently, your fingers trailing over the small, scattered freckles on his cheek—the ones you always traced when you were trying to calm yourself as much as him. He leaned into the touch slightly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opened them again to meet yours.

“How’s your pain?” you asked softly, voice low and even.

“Tolerable,” he replied, pressing his lips together tightly in that way that told you it wasn’t exactly tolerable but that he didn’t want to dwell on it.

You tilted your head just a little. “Did you let them give you anything?”

“Only to put me under,” he said, shifting uncomfortably like he expected a lecture.

“Understood,” you nodded, not pushing, already moving on to keep him from feeling like he had to defend himself. “When can you bathe?”

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I stink?” he asked, genuinely scandalized, like you’d just called him unhygienic in front of a live audience.

“No…” you said carefully.

Spencer groaned, head falling back against the pillow, a dramatic whine escaping him. “Ughhh.”

“It’s not that, baby,” you assured him quickly, your hand stroking gently over his curls as you leaned closer, your smile widening. “Your curls are just a bit greasy, and I was going to offer to wash them for you…”

His groan cut off immediately.

“Oh,” he said. Quietly. Sheepishly. His cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink.

“Yeah,” you grinned, lowering your voice to something teasing. “You know I like taking care of you, right?”

He blinked at you, lips twitching up. “…Even when I stink?”

You squinted at him playfully, pulling back a few inches like you had to really think about it. “Hmm… so every morning then?”

“Y/N!” Spencer gasped, completely betrayed, his mouth hanging open as if you’d just published a scientific paper slandering his good name.

“I’m just saying!” you defended, raising both hands in a mock surrender. “You’re a sweaty sleeper, babe. I didn’t invent thermoregulation.”

He narrowed his eyes at you; lower lip puffed out in an almost comically perfect pout. “You’re supposed to be comforting me in my time of need, and instead, you’re making fun of me for bodily functions I can’t control.”

“Not quite,” you grinned, settling back in closer. “If I were going to make fun of you for bodily functions you can’t control, I’d bring up how often you prematur—”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Spencer’s hand darted up and cupped your cheek, and in a split second, he pulled you into a kiss—not aggressive, but firm enough to make it very clear that this was an intervention.

He kissed you like it had been years instead of days. Like the pain, the fear, the sterile room, none of it mattered anymore because you were here, and he was still breathing, and this—your lips on his, the way your breath caught slightly in surprise—was the only thing that had felt real all day.

And yes, part of it was to shut you up. But mostly, it was because he’d been aching to kiss you since the moment he walked out of your apartment and onto that case.

So he did.

And you let him.

Until finally, you pulled back just slightly, your forehead still pressed to his.

“Okay,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “You’re forgiven for getting shot.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “You’re forgiven for being the worst.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger. Your lips barely moved as you mumbled against his mouth, “You need to brush your teeth.”

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, blinking in slow treachery.

“I hate you,” he said flatly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest smile.

You beamed. “That’s fair.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping his head back against the pillow like you’d wounded him more than the bullet. “Shot in the leg, emotionally abused by my girlfriend, and now I’m being accused of poor hygiene… what a week.”

You tucked yourself gently under his arm, careful of the IV and monitor wires, laying your head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll still love you. Even if your breath could melt glass.”

“You’re lucky I can’t chase you right now.”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all, stinky.”

He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into your hair. “I really am.”

…

Once Spencer had finally drifted off to sleep, his breathing deep and even, his hand still loosely curled around yours atop the blanket, you waited a minute longer—just to be sure. You brushed your thumb gently over the back of his hand, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest, letting the steady beep of the monitor reassure you that he was still right there.

When you were sure he was out, you stood up carefully, placing his hand down with the kind of tender precision you only ever used on him, and slipped quietly from the room.

You found the rest of the team just outside in the family waiting area, spread out across plastic chairs and vending machines, all looking somewhere between emotionally drained and physically wrecked. JJ was the first to notice you, sitting forward slightly when she saw the door shut behind you.

“He’s asleep,” you said softly, and several shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’ve got him. You all can go. Seriously. Get some rest. I’ll stay and fly back with him when he’s cleared for travel.”

Rossi nodded first, reassuringly touching your shoulder as he passed. Derek gave you a tired smile and a gentle squeeze on the arm. Emily offered you her water bottle and a “Call us if you need anything.” One by one, they all filed out, grateful and exhausted.

JJ lingered.

She stood beside you for a moment, her arms folded loosely, her expression thoughtful. She looked at the door to Spencer’s room, then back to you.

“How are you so calm?” she asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Hmm?”

JJ’s gaze softened, but she looked genuinely curious. “You just… even when you first walked in there, you were joking around. Will would’ve been crying the second he saw me like that.”

You smiled a little at that, but it wasn’t teasing. It was quiet, knowing. A little sad.

You shrugged. “Spencer would only feel worse if he knew I was scared.”

JJ tilted her head, watching you carefully.

“He knows I’m worried,” you continued, your voice softening, “he knows I care. But taking his mind off the bad things for a bit… it always seems to bring him back to me.” You let out a slow breath. “He doesn’t need my fear. He needs my peace.”

JJ nodded slowly, her eyes glistening just slightly as she looked at you—not just as someone Spencer loved, but someone who understood him, down to the very thread.

“You’re good for him,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, I try to be,” you replied. Then, with a tired smile, “Please go home and rest, JJ. We’re okay.”

And you meant it. Even if your hands were still shaking. Even if you knew the actual processing would hit you later. For now, Spencer was sleeping. He was safe. And you’d be the calm. For both of you.

—

You stood up abruptly from where you were hunched over your laptop, notes, and reference books spread out like an academic battlefield. Spencer looked up from where he was quietly reading across from you, a slight crease in his brow as your chair scraped back a little too fast.

“Spencer.”

His eyes widened a bit, and he was immediately attentive. “Yes?”

You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and tried—tried—to channel some confidence, even as you felt your face go warm. “I think this is going to make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry, but I think it’s time we… break a certain barrier in our relationship due to… pressing matters.”

Spencer closed his book slowly. “Okay…” he said cautiously, clearly preparing himself for anything from an emotional confession to a breakup to a shared trauma.

“I need to poop.”

There was a beat of silence. Just a breath, just a blink.

And then Spencer burst out laughing.

You gasped in protest. “Spencer!”

He tried to hold it in; he really did, but his shoulders shook as he pressed his hand to his mouth. “Darling,” he said through chuckles, “that is a perfectly normal and healthy bodily function without which you would die. I hardly think it’s uncomfortable to know you poop. I do, too. I wish you wouldn’t find it so embarrassing.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, laughter muffled through your fingers. “Can you just like, put your headphones in please?”

Spencer paused, then blinked. “Oh! Yes,” he said, like he’d just solved a logic problem. He reached over for his headphones with a smile so sweet it made your stomach flip, even now.

As you shuffled toward the bathroom, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of shame and dignity combined, he called after you with barely concealed amusement:

“Fan setting five!”

You groaned again—louder this time—but it was laced with affection and appreciation and the kind of mortification that only happens when you’re fully, disgustingly in love.

Behind you, Spencer chuckled softly to himself and returned to his book, utterly unfazed. 

—

Healed and walking without a cane, Spencer Reid finds himself craving something beyond his lonely apartment after a long, taxing case. The case had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. The images were still fresh in his mind, too vivid and raw to shake off. He had returned to the BAU with the team, but instead of heading home to his own place, something—perhaps instinct or something deeper he didn’t quite have words for—drew him elsewhere.

He needed comfort. Not in the abstract sense but in the form of something familiar, warm, grounding. And his thoughts turned to you.

Maybe it was how you listened without interruption or how your presence made his pulse slow to something bearable. Maybe it was the memory of your hands brushing through his hair the last time he confessed a hard case to you or how you didn’t try to fix things; you just made space for him to feel. Whatever the reason, he found himself heading to your apartment without really making the decision to do so—it was simply where he needed to be.

You hadn’t been expecting him. In fact, you were fast asleep due to the late hour of the night. Usually, he wasn’t someone you ever needed to prepare for. He came as he was, and you let him.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know yet—was how tightly he was holding himself together just outside your door. He hadn't texted or called ahead. Part of him wanted to, part of him worried it wasn’t fair just to show up. But the rest of him, the exhausted, rattled, overwhelmed part of him, hoped—needed—you to be there. 

And so, now, he stands on the other side of your apartment door.

He hasn’t opened it with his key yet.

He hasn’t gathered the strength.

But he’s there.

Moments from walking through it.

Moments from letting everything he's been holding in finally fall apart in the one place he thinks he might be able to survive doing so—with you.

You’re typically a deep sleeper. The kind who can sleep through a thunderstorm, a neighbor’s dog barking, or even Spencer fidgeting beside you in the middle of the night when his brain just won’t let him rest. You’ve slept through him flipping through pages at 2 a.m., through him pacing quietly down the hallway while whispering to himself about theories and timelines. You’ve even managed to sleep through a bout of him reorganizing your bookshelf once—though, to be fair, you had threatened him with death afterward.

But when you are woken up, it’s never graceful. It’s never subtle. Your body feels it before your brain catches up, dragging you into the gray haze of almost consciousness with a heavy reluctance that makes every movement around you feel like a personal offense.

So, when Spencer walks through the door sometime past midnight, utterly wrung out from whatever horrors the case held, he’s doing his very best to be quiet. His best, which is, as you’ve come to know, not quite good enough.

The first offense is the keys. Instead of placing them down gently on the little wooden table, you bought specifically for this purpose—the one that lives inches from the door and makes not a sound when used properly—he goes for the hooks. Of course, he does. And the second the metal keyring clatters against the other keys already hanging there, it sounds like someone dropped a sack of cutlery in your skull.

You stir beneath the covers, brows knitting without opening your eyes.

Then it’s the lock. Not just the turn of the deadbolt, which would have been fine, but the chain. He slides the latch into place with the kind of finality that belongs more to vaults or prison cells, and your face scrunches tighter as a small, annoyed breath escapes you.

He doesn't hear it.

Next, he hangs his coat—and his satchel. Not one. Not the other. Both. They swing and tap against the wall and the hooks with a dull thud and a slight clang of hardware, as if he’s installing wind chimes instead of shedding layers.

You shift in bed, blinking against the dark, still too sleep-heavy to sit up but now fully aware that he's home.

And then—then—he kneels to untie his shoes.

He can’t just kick them off. Oh no. He has to bend, untie, straighten, and remove each shoe like he’s unwrapping a rare artifact. It takes forever. Or maybe only thirty seconds. But it feels like an eternity in your freshly awoken, vaguely grumpy haze.

You lie there, motionless except for the long exhale that slips from your lips, face buried into the pillow as your fingers curl beneath your cheek.

And from the other room, completely unaware that you’re already awake—and annoyed—you hear Spencer sigh. A quiet, heavy, weary sound. The kind of sound that has less to do with your frustration and more to do with the weight he’s brought in with him.

And just like that, your irritation flickers and begins to dissolve.

Because it’s Spencer. And if he’s doing a bad job at being quiet, it’s only because he’s holding himself together by threads. 

Just as you begin to drift back toward something like rest, eyes fluttering shut again, there’s another sound—sharp, hollow, metallic.

Clang.

Your eyelids fly back open, face pressed flat into the pillow as you exhale sharply through your nose, teeth gently clenching.

That was the soap bottle. It had to be. You know that sound. It’s the specific, hollow bop of the plastic pump top smacking against the side of the sink—a sound that could only happen if someone, say, reached over a bit too carelessly and knocked it over with the back of their hand.

You know because you’ve done it yourself before, and you know because Spencer—you love him—does it every single time he washes his hands in your kitchen.

Which, naturally, is what he’s doing now. Of course, he is. Even in the dead of night, with half his mind fogged over and weighed down by a brutal case, he’s still Spencer—still meticulous, still compulsive, still so anchored to his rituals that he has to scrub the case off his skin before he can do anything else.

You listen to the sound of the faucet running muted splashes as he scrubs. Then, a quiet squeak squeak squeak from the way the old tap vibrates when it’s twisted shut. Silence again—for all of two seconds.

Then you hear the cabinet door open and the soft clink of glass—he’s getting a cup, which you expect. You anticipate it. You brace for it.

But your patience wasn’t strong enough to brace for the next thing.

The dishwasher.

That damn dishwasher.

It’s old. Loud. Temperamental. You’ve both talked about replacing it at least a dozen times, but somehow, it still hangs on, groaning through each cycle like a cranky elderly relative refusing to retire. Even just opening the door sounds like someone’s dragging furniture across a hardwood floor.

So when Spencer, dear, considerate, detail-oriented Spencer, finishes his glass of water and—rather than setting it on the counter or even tucking it into the sink like a normal sleep-deprived human—opens the dishwasher to place it inside?

You groan.

Out loud this time. A soft, pained, muffled groan into your pillow.

“Are you fucking serious, Spencer?” you mutter, barely audible, eyes still closed but now tinged with the kind of sleepy irritation only reserved for people you trust enough to hate momentarily.

He still hasn’t realized you’re awake. You know, because he hasn’t apologized yet. And Spencer always apologizes when he knows he's woken you up.

So you wait. Eyes closed. Limbs heavy. Ears sharp and honed like some kind of war veteran for the next sound he might make, wondering if he’s going to open the fridge for no reason or maybe alphabetize your spice rack.

Because at this rate, you wouldn’t put it past him.

By the time Spencer finally makes it to the bedroom—after clanging through the kitchen like a one-man orchestra, after the soap bottle debacle, after summoning the ghost of your dishwasher—you’re fuming. Not in a rageful, righteous kind of way, but in the profoundly exhausted, silently seething way that only someone who was sound asleep fifteen minutes ago and is now wide awake can truly understand. Every muscle in your body aches for the sweet relief of unconsciousness, your bones practically begging to sink back into the mattress, curled up against the person responsible for your current irritation.

You’re ready to cuddle your boyfriend. Feel his arms slip around your body, press your face into the soft cotton of whatever shirt he’ll wear, and fall back asleep surrounded by warmth and familiarity. That’s what you want.

But no.

Apparently, Spencer has other plans.

You hear the gentle sound of movement as he approaches. And for a blissful moment, you think maybe he’s finally going to settle. Finally, he’s going to be still.

And then—click.

A golden halo of light floods the room, piercing against your closed eyelids.

He turned on the fucking lamp.

“Spencer!” you groan, your voice thick with the weight of sleep and disbelief. You don’t even lift your head; just bury your face deeper into the pillow like maybe if you suffocate yourself fast enough, you’ll get some peace.

You hear a sharp inhale from across the bed, followed by the scrambling guilt in his voice as he fumbles to switch the lamp back off. “Oh—I’m so sorry, my love,” he blurts out in a rush, his words tumbling over each other like a toppled stack of books. You can practically hear the wince in his voice. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

You shot him a deathly glare, your eyes narrow and glittering with exhaustion-fueled fury, your cheek still pressed into the pillow.

“And you thought the lamp wouldn’t wake me up?” you snapped, voice muffled but cutting.

Spencer didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled—soft, sheepish, and entirely too amused for someone who had just committed a domestic war crime.

“Angel, I’ve turned on the ceiling light and opened the blinds, and you slept through it,” he said with an unapologetic shrug, pulling off his cardigan like this was a perfectly rational argument.

You only rolled your eyes, dragging the covers over your shoulder and throwing your head back down dramatically, your silent message clear: you were Done.

But Spencer wasn’t. Of course, he wasn’t.

Now came the process of taking off his clothing items one by one—meticulous as ever—folding them neatly and placing them in a precise little pile on your dresser. Shirt, pants, socks. Each with a pause in between, as though he were entering a meditative state instead of preparing for bed at an ungodly hour.

You thought he would be done. He should have been done.

But no.

“Spence, baby, please come to bed,” you whined, voice thick and laced with misery so intense it bordered on theatrical.

“I can’t just yet, need to shower. I’ve been in the jet.”

You groaned again, long and guttural. “I don’t care!”

He froze in place, hands halfway to his waistband, and you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. That neurotic, overtired, rule-following brain of his was calculating, weighing the comfort of a hot shower against the wrath of his barely conscious girlfriend.

Finally, you sighed. “Whatever. Just—be fast. And don’t get your hair wet.”

Spencer opened his mouth like he was about to protest—something about hygiene or flight germs or possibly the sanctity of scalp cleanliness—but one look at your face told him to cut his losses.

By the time he got out of the shower, the bathroom door creaking open quietly, towel slung low on his hips, and found spare clothes in the second drawer of your dresser (the one you'd unofficially reserved for him), you had already drifted back to sleep.

He moved gently, slipping on an old T-shirt and sweats and carefully easing into bed beside you. He tried to be careful, tried to match your breathing, tried not to jostle the mattress too much. He scooted behind you, winding an arm around your body, tucking his body against yours like a perfect puzzle piece.

Even in your sleep, you instinctively nudged closer, your head coming to rest on his chest, your body curving against his. It should’ve been a perfect moment.

But then—

“Did you sanitize?”

Your voice was slurred and drowsy but suspicious. Too suspicious.

Spencer stayed quiet.

He sanitized your fucking shower like he didn’t trust you to keep it clean yourself.

“I can’t—” you sighed, pulling away. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

And just like that, your warmth disappeared, taking with it the fleeting peace Spencer had hoped to find.

Spencer let out the softest, most pitiful exhale—half sigh, half whimper—as you peeled yourself away from his hold. The sheets rustled with protest as you threw them off your legs in a dramatic flourish that would've been funny if it weren't for the sheer, bone-deep fatigue clinging to both of you. You didn’t even open your eyes all the way. You didn’t need to. Your body was moving on instinct now, led by principle and pride.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching helplessly as you dragged your sleepy form out of the bed with the kind of slow, exaggerated misery that only someone who’d just started to fall back into a good sleep could produce. Your blanket trailed behind you, caught on your foot, and when you reached down to yank it free, you muttered something under your breath that sounded like a curse aimed squarely at him.

Spencer stayed frozen, guilt draped over his shoulders like another weighted blanket.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he finally said, his voice hushed but urgent, like he knew if he raised it even a little, you'd bolt. “Come on, that’s ridiculous.”

You were already halfway to the door. “So is you climbing into bed an unsanitized like a reckless public health risk,” you muttered sarcastically, rubbing your eyes as you shuffled forward.

Spencer groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m sorry I cleaned your shower, I just—you know I can’t help it.”

You sighed, hard and sharp through your nose, arms crossed tightly over your chest as though holding yourself together. “We can have this argument tomorrow,” you muttered, voice strained. “I’m too tired right now.”

Spencer nodded slowly, guilt still weighing down his features. “So come back to bed,” he pleaded, soft and hesitant like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to ask.

“No. I’m mad at you,” you huffed, your tone petulant but cracking at the edges. You turned your face slightly away from him as if even looking at him would break the last thread of your patience.

There was a beat of silence, tense and stretched. Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “I can just go home then… I’ll come over tomorrow.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you.

The exhaustion, the frustration, the sheer emotional mess of being woken up, being irritated, feeling like your effort and your space weren’t enough for the person you love—all of it slammed into you at once no warning. You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to tell him to do whatever he wanted—but instead, all that came out was a strangled, breathless sob.

Your shoulders shook as the tears slipped down, hot and fast. The kind of crying that happens when you’ve held it in too long when your chest tightens up and your throat closes, and suddenly you’re not just crying about one thing, but everything.

Spencer immediately scrambled out of bed, panic flooding his features. “Hey—hey, no, please don’t cry,” he said in a rush, crossing the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t want to be here—God, please don’t cry—”

He reached for you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if you’d swat him away. “I’m such an idiot,” he breathed, eyes scanning your face, helpless. “You clean your place better than I do mine, I just—after cases, I get weird, and I didn’t want to bring the jet germs into your space, and I overthought it and—”

You just kept crying. Silent now, but still unraveling.

“I love your shower,” he said desperately. “I love you. I want to be here. Please don’t make me go.”

Your face crumpled even more. You didn’t have the energy to yell. Didn’t have the willpower to keep storming off.

“I just wanted to sleep next to you,” you whispered through the tears, voice tiny and cracked. “That’s all I wanted.”

Spencer’s heart broke right there in his chest.

“Okay,” he said immediately, wrapping his arms around you. “Okay. I’ve got you. Come here. We’ll go to bed. No more disturbances. Just sleep. You and me.”

And this time, when he guided you back to the bed, you let him.

Well—for a second.

“Wait.”

Spencer froze mid-step, one arm still around you, the other half-lifting the blanket. He held his breath like the wrong response might send you spiraling again.

“Yes, baby?” he asked, soft and cautious.

You sniffled, then let out the tiniest, soggiest giggle through your still-wobbly breath. “I need to blow my nose now.”

He blinked. Then smiled, wide and helpless, pure affection melting across his features.

“Okay,” he said, already turning to grab the tissue box from your nightstand like it was the most urgent task he’d ever been assigned. “Emergency tissue protocol engaged.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound breaking through the remnants of your tears like sunlight through clouds. “Cover your ears; I’m going into the bathroom.”

Spencer furrowed his brows, confused but obedient. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to hear me!” you called over your shoulder as you hurried toward the bathroom, tissue clutched in hand like a weapon.

He blinked after you, then shrugged, deadpan: “...I’ve had worse fluids of yours on me—”

“EW!” you yelped from inside the bathroom, your voice muffled by the door you slammed behind you. “Why would you say that?! You absolute menace!”

Spencer chuckled to himself, crawling back into bed and tucking the blankets around him with a smug grin. “I was just saying,” he muttered under his breath, knowing full well you could still hear him. “Boundaries seem a little inconsistent.”

You groaned dramatically, the sound somewhere between scandalized and exhausted. “You’re so lucky I love you,” you shouted through a noseful of tissues. “If we were six months earlier into this relationship, I’d be drafting the breakup text right now.”

Spencer smiled, stretching out in the bed with his hands folded under his head like the little shit he absolutely was. “You’d never,” he called back, sing-songy and far too comfortable. “You’re too emotionally invested.”

You flung the door open so hard it could have bounced off the stopper. “Keep talking, Doctor Reid, and I will send you home just to prove a point.”

He sat up, eyes wide, all mock innocence. “I’m silent. I’m asleep. I don’t even exist. I’m vapor.” He dove under the covers in a ridiculous display of peacekeeping, burrowing himself down to the chin and blinking up at you like a chastised golden retriever.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed again. Not just a giggle this time, but an actual, warm laugh that curled in your chest.

You trudged back to bed, dramatically wiping your nose one last time before dropping the tissues in the little wastebasket by the nightstand. “You’re annoying,” you said as you climbed in.

“And yet, you let me stay.” He opened his arms wide, a smug little smile creeping in again. “Incredible.”

You glared at him but curled into his side anyway, letting your head rest on his chest with a huffy sigh.

“I cleaned your shower because I’m obsessive-compulsive and could only see in germs,” he mumbled into your hair. “Not because I think you’re dirty.”

“I know,” you whispered, already half-asleep. “But next time? Just… don’t make it sound like I live in filth.”

“I’d never.”

“You basically did.”

Spencer kissed your forehead. “You’re the cleanest person I know.”

“You’re not forgiven.”

“You’re literally falling asleep on me right now.”

“Shut up and hold me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He tightened his arms around you, and finally, you both fell asleep this time.

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