#write for those you do know. write for yourself. write for your friends. make it real and true.

[em1i2a3]

My Favourite Game

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Inexperienced!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You haven’t had much luck when it comes to dating and sex which has inadvertently placed you in a position of being wholly inexperienced with the whole scene in general. But when your long time friend Rhett Abbott offers you a way to experiment safely to figure out what to do, you immediately jump at the opportunity–desperate to learn and get more experience.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers? Hell yeah! Reader is inexperienced and actually has a safe space to actually experiment. The dynamics between Rhett and Reader are extremely comfortable (they talk about a lot of personal things), They’ve been friends for a while (high school acquaintances turned adult friends), Mentions of Violence (kind of vague as well), Rhett is Mentioned to be Protective

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all…), Oral Sex (fem! And male! Receiving), Fingering, Biting (leaving marks), Dirty Talk, Hickeys and Love Bites, Cum Play, Swallowing, Hair Pulling, Choking, Overstimulation, Semi–Public Sex (Truck Sex y’all wahoooo lol), Handjobs, Riding, Making Out, Thigh Riding, Praising/WorshippingTeasing (physically), Begging, Reader is described as being inexperienced they have had sex though, just really bad sex, Very Soft Dom and Sub dynamics that switches, Finger Sucking, Gagging (very brief moment, nothing extreme), Good Girl is used.

Author’s Note: Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of smut warnings lol. I loved writing this, I buy into the friends to lovers trope so much, but I also enjoy the ‘I’m teaching you new things about yourself and we’re slowly falling for each other’ trope lol. Did I go off on this and have to change my keyboard midway through because the A, D, F and G keys break? Yep. But holy hell did I enjoy writing this new segment of RAF and I’m so excited to keep writing for this man!

Word Count: 13,962

It was painfully evident that you didn’t have much luck with men. You used to think maybe the first one was just a fluke–that one high school boyfriend who didn’t know the first thing about tenderness and treated you like a friend more than a lover. But as the years went on and the faces changed–first dates, flings, those awkward two-month situationships that ended with unread messages or cold shoulders–it became harder and harder to ignore a simple, infuriating truth:

You attracted a certain type of guy, and unfortunately, that type of guy brought on heaps of trouble to you.

Rhett had told you as much–in different ways, tones, and situations.

”I can tell just by lookin’ at ‘em,” He’d mutter over his beer, eyes narrowed at whoever was looking at you, or whoever had come to pick you up from his ranch when you would hang out, “Ain’t no way that one’s gonna treat you right.” But you never listened to him. You had told him–and yourself–multiple times that he was just being overprotective, and looking too deeply into things.

But the truth was, he was right, you weren’t being treated right. Not even close.

In bed, it was glaringly worse. You didn’t come first–literally or metaphorically. The guys you saw acted like just showing up was enough, like their presence alone should’ve sent you spiraling into pure ecstasy–like you were supposed to be grateful that they were blessing you with the experience of having them between your legs.

You definitely weren’t. Not even once.

You could actually count on one hand how many times you’d almost felt an orgasm building. And the only time someone even offered to go down on you–and even then, he was half-assing the job, and made it feel like a formality rather than something he actually wanted to do. You barely felt his mouth. But you pretended it was good, just so it wouldn’t be another disappointment.

For a long time, you thought maybe something was wrong with you, that maybe your body was broken or maybe you were just one of those people who didn’t get much pleasure from these types of things and needed simpler acts to truly experience something even close to sexual pleasure. So. You stopped trying, stopped dating, and stopped chasing what felt more like punishment than passion.

And within the quiet that followed your dating celibacy, you had found yourself spending more time with Rhett.

Neither of you were truly close with each other before that.

Sure, you’d gone to the same high school, crossed paths in hallways, shared the occasional class where you’d borrow a pencil or flash him a smirk when he got caught nodding off mid-lecture. But he ran with the rodeo kids, and you–well, you drifted between circles, kept mostly to yourself, caught up in extracurriculars and jobs and the kind of boys Rhett always ended up warning you about years later.

It wasn’t until a spur-of-the-moment decision–one boring Friday and a reckless text to your old classmate–that you ended up at one of his circuits. You hadn’t seen him ride since high school, and you figured, why not?

You didn’t expect much.

But then you saw him in the dirt and the dust, bronzed under the stadium lights, laughing with his hat tipped back and his knuckles split open. And something shifted.

You stayed longer than you meant to that night. Helped him limp back to his truck. Got late-night fries together. Talked about everything and nothing, just like people who didn’t know yet that they were about to become each other’s person.

After that, it became a routine. A quiet, natural rhythm. The two of you set aside one day a week for bar hopping–usually Tuesdays, when the crowds were thin and the drinks were cheap. But when you gave up on dating for a while, something in that rhythm expanded.

You weren’t just hanging out once a week anymore. You were showing up at circuits again, slapping the rusted fence rails as he rode past, grinning like you were seventeen again and seeing him for the first time. You started meeting his friends. Familiarized yourself with his family again–Amy’s quiet greetings, Perry’s tired but kind nods, Cecilia’s slightly surprised but not unwelcome smiles when you appeared in their kitchen one Sunday morning, still rubbing sleep from your eyes in Rhett’s oversized hoodie, and Royal’s glares that he shot at Rhett.

You became a fixture in his life. A known presence.

Especially after long nights of drinking, where you’d inevitably end up back at his place, curled up on his bed groaning because a headache was already brewing.

And with that bond that grew came something that bloomed slowly but powerfully: his protectiveness.

It had always been there–coiled beneath the surface, stitched into the way he watched you, waited for you, walked you to your door even when he was half-asleep himself. But when he started to piece together the kind of experiences you’d had–the disappointments, the lack of care, the way men made you feel like an afterthought–it shifted.

It changed the way he looked at you. Like you were fragile, but not weak. Like he wanted to wrap his hands around every bad memory and crush it.

He never said much when you opened up about it. Didn’t need to. The silence was heavy enough.

”You don’t deserve that,” He said once, soft as gravel, not looking at you. It had hit you harder than you expected. Not because of the words–but because of how he said them.

When you broke it to him that you were taking a break from dating, he didn’t even hesitate before saying “Me too.” You hadn’t expected that. You had laughed, asked him why– saying you’re Rhett Abbott, don’t you have girls throwing themselves at you every other week?–but he just shrugged, scratched the back of his neck, and muttered something about solidarity.

What you didn’t know though was that Rhett Abbott was relieved by this news.

It meant peace. No more stepping in between you and men who didn’t deserve to speak your name. No more black eyes or busted knuckles or security dragging him out of bars with the same tired “Abbott, we warned you.” No more cold rage coiled in his chest when you came to him with a new dating story.

But more than all of that–it meant he had more of your time again, and that you were his once more.

Not in the traditional sense. But in the quiet, easy way where he got to have you beside him. In his truck. At his kitchen table. Laughing on his porch. Falling asleep in his living room. Talking to him about things you didn’t tell anyone else.

He got to watch you laugh with his family. Got to listen to you hum in the passenger seat. Got to see you when you weren’t trying anymore–when you were just being you.

And lately, Rhett had been thinking about things. Dangerous things.

About what it would feel like to be the one to show you what good could be. About how his hands would never treat you like an obligation. About how he’d never rush you, never expect anything, never make you fake a damn thing.

He’d been thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t. Imagining things he wasn’t proud of. But he never said it. Never crossed that line.

Not until you did.

——————————

The bar was louder than usual, the kind of noise that sank into your bones, all thudding boots and clinking glasses and low country twang pouring from speakers that surrounded the walls of the drinking areas. You and Rhett were squished together in a booth that barely had enough space for one of his thighs, let alone two. He was pressed against your side, the warmth of his arm brushing yours every time either of you reached for the second pitcher of beer you’d ordered.

You’d been sipping slowly at first–well, pretending to–but somewhere between your third and fourth shared laugh, the drinks started going down faster. Something about being shoulder-to-shoulder with Rhett always loosened you up. Maybe it was the way he leaned in when he talked. Or the way his voice dropped just slightly in the middle of a crowd, like everything else was just noise unless you were listening.

By the time the second pitcher was empty, your head was spinning, your cheeks hot, and Rhett was nudging you with his knee.

“Guessin’ it’s time we call Perry?”He suggested, raising an eyebrow and pushing his light brown hair out of his face. You groaned.

”Can’t we just sleep in your truck?” And he let out a small laugh, shaking his head slowly.

”You’re too pretty to get eaten by coyotes, sweetheart. C’mon, I’m sure my place is more comfy than the leather seats of the truck.” He teased, as he pulled out his phone.

You both slurred your way through the call–Rhett taking the lead while you giggled beside him, repeating his name like a chant until Perry muttered, “Jesus Christ, I’m on my way.”

The drive back to the ranch was a blur. You’d nodded off on Rhett’s shoulder. He smelled like leather and dust and whatever cologne he always swiped across his throat before circuits. He didn’t say much on the way home, but his hand never left your thigh–more because in his drunken stupor, all he wanted to do was feel your skin against his, even if it was seen as an accident.

When Perry’s truck pulled up to the house, it was as if your bodies had already memorized the path inside.

You and Rhett stumbled up the steps, bumping into one another in the narrow hallway, muffling your laughter behind lazy hands and hushed voices. His hand settled low on your back, fingertips resting just under the hem of your top, warm and heavy with quiet intention–though he played it off like it was nothing. Like he always did.

His legs bumped into the frame of the hallway table and he cursed softly, grabbing onto your arm to steady himself.

“Shh,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “You’re gonna wake your parents.” He waved his hand.

”It’s okay,” He murmured, his breath brushing your hair slightly, “I’m sure they’re used to it by now.” You reached his room like it was second nature–your bodies moving together in a practiced rhythm, like you’d done this dance before. And you had, in bits and pieces. Just not like this. Not with this kind of tension buzzing just beneath your skin.

You practically fell through the doorway first, catching yourself on the edge of his bed with a half-giggled groan. Rhett followed close behind, his shoulder knocking lightly into the doorframe before he caught himself and dragged it shut behind him with a soft click.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight bleeding in through the slatted blinds. Familiar shadows painted across the floorboards and the messy sprawl of his clothes on the chair. The scent of him clung to the room–warm skin, worn flannel, the faint tang of sawdust and leather.

You kicked off your boots, one thudding softly against the wall, the other tumbling onto its side. He mirrored your movements, stepping out of his own boots with less precision, letting out a groan of relief as he did so. You tossed your clutch onto the side table–just beside the lamp he never used–and sank onto the edge of his bed with a quiet sigh.

“Here,” Rhett said, reaching for the top drawer of his dresser, “Take these.” He tossed a soft, well-worn T-shirt your way–gray with faded black lettering you didn’t bother reading–and a pair of boxer shorts that still held the shape of his body in their fabric. You caught them against your chest, fingers curling over the cotton, the residual warmth of his drawer somehow sinking into your skin.

”I’m gonna go grab some water,” He added, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice low, but clearer now–more focused, or sobered up, “You get changed.”

Then he disappeared down the hall, the sound of his footsteps padding softly away as the door swung gently shut behind him.

You sat in the quiet for a moment, the distant hum of the house settling around you. Your pulse felt louder than it should’ve. Your fingers trembled slightly as you peeled off your tank top, the material catching on your shoulder before slipping free. You dropped it beside your clutch, then shimmied out of your jean shorts–tight and damp from the heat of the night, catching slightly on your thighs before falling to the floor.

The air kissed your bare skin, cool in contrast to the heat that had begun to build in your chest.

You tugged Rhett’s shirt over your head. It was too big, the hem falling just below your hips, the neckline gaping enough that the slope of your collarbone peeked out. You ran your fingers down the faded cotton, breathing in the faint scent of him lingering in the fabric–clean, woodsy, unmistakably him.

The boxers came next, soft and worn from a thousand washes. You slid them up your legs, the waistband resting low on your hips, baggy and comfortable in a way that made you feel small and safe all at once. You folded your other clothes neatly into a pile beside the bed, then sat back on the mattress just as the door creaked open again.

Rhett stepped in with two glasses of water, his knuckles curled tightly around the rims to keep them steady.

He paused when he saw you.

There was nothing particularly sexy about it, nothing overt or posed. Just you sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxers and his old shirt, legs bare, hair a little messy, your lips parted slightly as you took in a few deep breaths from the buzzing that tingled over your skin, and the shift in energy that floated through the room.

But something in his expression changed. His jaw flexed, and his eyes softened–the tension in his brow melting away the more he looked at you.

”Got you some water,” His voice was quieter now, more rough. You reached for one of the glasses, your fingers brushing his as you took it, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

”Thanks.” You took a sip of the water, the coolness of it sliding down your throat and settling somewhere just above your ribs. You sighed through the swallow, then leaned back slightly on one hand, blinking slowly at the ceiling as your head gave the first warning pulses of what would no doubt be a brutal morning.

“Jesus,” You muttered, placing the glass on the floor beside the bed, “I can tell I’m gonna have such a bad hangover in the morning…My head is already pounding.” Rhett hummed in agreement, moving toward his dresser again.

”Wouldn’t doubt it,” He mumbled, “I feel it too.” You watched him open the top drawer, his back partially turned to you. He didn’t say anything else–just reached in for another t-shirt. Then, without warning or hesitation, he grabbed the collar of the one he was wearing and tugged it off in one smooth motion.

And just like that, your breath caught.

You’d seen Rhett shirtless before. Once, maybe twice–at the lake, when his whole family had piled into trucks and driven down with coolers and towels and floating chairs. But those times had been quick, and you’d always looked away out of caution. Too many watchful eyes, too much risk of your gaze being caught. Too much danger in what you might feel if you stared too long.

But now?

Now there was no one watching.

No one except him.

And he wasn’t looking at you.

He stood a few feet from the bed, half in shadow, and your eyes swept over the length of his bare back, over the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the slight arch of his spine as he leaned forward into the drawer. You barely breathed.

His skin was pale where the sun hadn’t kissed it, but scattered across his chest and along his ribs were bruises–real ones. Deep and blooming like brushstrokes of ink and wine. Purple that melted into faded yellow. Green along the edges. Some were new, still fresh and angry. Others had already begun to fade, ghosting into the gentle gold of healing. They streaked across his ribs in uneven patterns, coiling beneath the planes of lean muscle, dipping into the shadows of his collarbones and clinging to his hips like the remnants of a war.

It was violent. And somehow, beautiful.

Because it was him.

It was the proof of everything he did, everything he gave. The risk. The pain. The stubborn pride that kept him getting back on the bull even after it had thrown him into the dirt. You’d heard the groans he swallowed, watched him limp back to the chute with blood on his jeans and dirt on his teeth, but you hadn’t seen this. Not up close.

Not in the quiet.

Your eyes traced the line of one particularly stark bruise that stretched from the edge of his left pectoral down to his ribs. The skin there was darker, tight. Raw. And still, your gaze followed it like your fingers wanted to.

And God the urge to touch him was burning through you.

You wanted to trace every edge, every mark, every scrape and wound. You wanted to know if his skin was as warm as it looked. If his chest would rise faster beneath your palm. If he’d shiver when you pressed your lips to that bruise just below his ribs.

Your thighs pressed together slightly, feeling your stomach tighten as you began to flush under the confines of your own thoughts.

Rhett tugged the fresh shirt over his head and ran a hand through his light brown hair, slicking it back out of his face before finally turning back to you. His eyes flicked up–just for a second–and he caught your transfixed gaze.

“You okay?” He asked softly, voice thick. You cleared your throat, heat climbing up your neck as you dropped your gaze for a moment, pretending you hadn’t just been caught practically devouring him with your eyes.

“Yeah…Totally fine,” You muttered, fingers fumbling for the glass on the floor, bringing it back up to your lips. You took a long sip–longer than necessary–as if the coolness of it might extinguish the warmth that was flooding your chest. Or the way your thighs were still shifting together beneath his boxer shorts like they had a mind of their own.

Rhett didn’t move, and didn’t say anything for a second, his blue irises scanning over you for a moment, seeing the little movement that your thighs were making, a little tell that he had seen before from other women. He licked his lips slowly, like he could still taste your gaze on him. His voice dropped just a little as he said it–casual on the surface, but thick beneath. Heavy with the kind of tension that had been building between the two of you for months.

“You were starin’.” Your breath caught in your throat, and you looked down instinctively, the corner of your lip twitching with something between embarrassment and defense. Still, you shrugged like you could play it off.

“Well…It’s kind of hard not to when you’re all bruised up from the bull,” You murmured, trying to keep your tone light. “Didn’t know they were that bad.” He hummed at that–low and dry, like he didn’t quite believe your answer.

“You’ve seen ’em before,” He said, voice gravel-thick, head tipping slightly. “Shouldn’t be a surprise to you at this point.” You lifted your glass again to stall, sipped slower this time, letting the water cool the heat that was quickly rushing to your cheeks. Then you glanced at him again and gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“I think you’re making it a bigger deal than it actually is, Rhett. I think the beer is getting to you.” That made something shift behind his eyes. He tilted his head a fraction, just enough to cast a slanted shadow along his cheekbone.

“Really now?” He murmured as he stepped closer, the floor creaking faintly beneath his weight. “You’re gonna tell me that I’m not seein’ straight?” He asked, pointing at himself. You nodded, your laugh shaky but still defiant.

”That’s exactly what I’m saying, Rhett.” He didn’t reply right away. He just stared down at you, long and quiet. Then, wordlessly, he stepped the rest of the way to the bed and placed his fist down–slowly, deliberately–on the mattress beside your thigh.

He didn’t touch you.

But the air between you shifted.

His knuckles were close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tension in his arm. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes followed the shape of his forearm, the way the muscles tensed beneath the skin, until they traced up to meet his face again.

You tilted your head up to look at him, and he was already there–already watching you.

His gaze locked with yours, blue eyes shadowed and steady, but flickering with something sharp, something knowing. Your stare skimmed over the details of his face–so close now, you could count the flecks of gold in his irises. The stubble along his jaw. The faint creases near the corners of his eyes that deepened when he laughed. The way his bottom lip jutted out just a little more than the top one, wet from where he’d just licked it.

“You’re a little liar,” he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching into a slow, crooked smirk. “I can see it in your eyes.”

The words hit low in your stomach.

You wanted to deny it–wanted to scoff, roll your eyes, tell him he was being ridiculous–but all you could do was hold his gaze and feel the heat crawling higher in your cheeks.

Still, you stayed composed. Barely.

“I think you need to sleep off your drunken stupor, Rhett,” You commented, chin tilting upward in subtle challenge. “You’ve got beer goggles on, and you really are seeing things now.”

He didn’t back off.

Instead, he leaned in closer. Slowly. Deliberately.

His face hovered just inches from yours, his breath warm and smelling faintly of beer and mint as it fanned over your lips. Your lashes fluttered, but you didn’t look away. You didn’t move. Not even when your breath caught slightly in your throat.

You just kept your eyes on him.

“…Guess I really do need some sleep,” He murmured after a beat, his voice quieter now. Rougher. But when he pulled back, he was grinning.

Cocky.

Like he knew you weren’t as unaffected as you were pretending to be.

Then he straightened, turned slightly toward the dresser again, and asked casually, “You stayin’ in the bed with me? Or you movin’ to the spare room?”

Your lashes fluttered quickly, and you swallowed hard before clearing your throat.

“I’ll stay here,” You said, trying to sound nonchalant, even though your entire body was still tense from how close he’d just been. “Probably won’t make it to the spare if I get up.” He nodded once, like that was the answer he expected, then reached for his belt buckle

“Alright,” He replied. You quickly looked away as his fingers moved to undo his belt, the subtle clink of the buckle sending another unwanted jolt of heat through your chest. Before your mind could wander any further–before you could accidentally lock eyes with the line of his hips or the way his thumb hooked into the waistband of his jeans–you padded toward the head of the bed.

You placed your water glass beside your clutch on the nightstand with a soft clink, keeping your movements slow, and controlled. Like that would help rein in the sudden buzz running beneath your skin.

The sheets were cool as you slipped under them, the scent of his laundry soap mingling with the lingering smell of him on the pillow. You shimmied slightly to get comfortable, dragging the duvet up to your waist and tucking one arm beneath your head, the other laid loosely across your stomach. You stared up at the ceiling.

Behind you, the sounds of him undressing were harder to ignore than you’d hoped.

A soft rustle of denim. The unmistakable swish of fabric sliding down over skin. A low breath–just a little ragged, like maybe even he was feeling the same pressure you were. You swallowed.

Then the mattress shifted.

He moved carefully, like he didn’t want to jostle you, but you felt him all the same. The bed dipped slightly with his weight, and the warmth of his body immediately spread beneath the covers, replacing the cold air you’d just tucked yourself into.

He settled on his side–close, but not touching. Or at least, not exactly. His arm stayed to himself, his shoulders turned slightly away, but your legs…Your legs brushed.

Bare skin to bare skin. Just barely.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The silence between you was thick, but not uncomfortable. Not anymore. It was full of tension, sure–but there was something else in it too. Something gentle. Something known.

“G’night,” He murmured, voice low and sleepy, already starting to sink into the mattress.

You turned your head a little, just enough to look at the back of his shoulder, then whispered, “Night.”

Your eyes lingered there for a moment. On the curve of his neck, and the slow rise and fall of his breath.

And maybe you were imagining it–but his leg seemed to press a little firmer into yours.

A quiet, tentative contact.

And neither of you pulled away.

——————————

You woke up to your alarm going off like a goddamn air raid siren, the high-pitched chime echoing through the quiet room like it had been waiting to give you a heart attack.

Your eyes shot open.

A groan ripped from your throat as you reached blindly for your clutch, limbs still tangled in the sheets and your brain pulsing with a headache that had already staked its claim behind your eyes. The light from the phone screen stung, but you silenced the alarm with a few taps, your movements sluggish and mechanical.

From behind you, Rhett let out a muffled groan of his own.

“Who the hell sets an alarm on a Saturday?” He mumbled, voice gravelled and sleep-heavy.

You ignored the ache in your skull long enough to fish out the familiar blister pack from the depths of your clutch, thumb already popping the next pill loose. You brought it to your lips and dropped it onto your tongue, reaching lazily for the lukewarm water glass on the nightstand.

“It wasn’t to wake us up,” You muttered, taking a small sip and swallowing. “It’s my birth control reminder.” The bed shifted behind you. A soft rustle. A new weight.

“Birth control?” Rhett’s voice had sobered slightly, still low, but laced with something else now. Confusion, maybe.

You placed the glass back on the table and rolled onto your side, glancing over your shoulder–and promptly noted two things: one, he’d taken his shirt off during the night, and two, he was looking right at you.

His eyes were a little narrowed. Brow furrowed. His hair was a mess, and his voice hoarse.

“Yeah…Birth control,” You replied slowly, letting the words hang in the air as you watched his expression closely. “You know…The thing that women take to help their periods and prevent pregnancy?” He rolled his eyes, though the motion lacked bite.

You raised a brow. “So what’s with the third-degree, Abbott?”

He shrugged lazily and turned onto his back, his arm behind his head, jaw tight. “Didn’t think you were on it, that’s all. Never seen you take it before.”

You smirked. “Well, I’m usually out of your house by this time. Or I’m in the bathroom and take it there.”

And that was all it took.

That one sentence cracked something open in his chest and sent his thoughts freefalling.

You were on birth control.

The implications settled into him like wildfire. No condom. No consequences. Just skin to skin, you wrapped around him, begging, whispering–he could come inside you and not think twice, could bury himself so deep you’d feel it for hours. He could grab your hips and pull you down hard against him, his hands splayed over your stomach as he fucked you slow and steady until you were begging him to finish. No pulling out. No holding back. No guilt.

He wanted to kiss your thighs open, drag his tongue along your folds, taste every part of you while you whimpered into his pillow. He wanted to hear your breath hitch when he whispered let me do it right this time, to watch your expression when he sank in–slow and thick and deep–and told you how tight you were, how good you felt, how he’d dreamt of this.

He wanted to mark you up. Leave bruises on your neck, your hips, your thighs. Paint you with proof that someone finally gave a damn.

He’d be quiet about it, though. You’d both have to be quiet.

His parents were probably still in their room. Hell, Perry might be awake. So you’d press your mouth to his shoulder, muffle your moans against his skin, and Rhett would whisper filth in your ear with every lazy roll of his hips, voice ragged and barely restrained, telling you not to stop squeezing him like that. Not unless you wanted him to come right then and there.

His cock twitched against his thigh–sudden and sharp under the weight of his boxers.

Shit.

He shifted slightly under the blanket, adjusting himself, trying not to groan at how sensitive he suddenly felt. But the mattress wasn’t forgiving, and the movement wasn’t subtle.

“You alright?” Your voice cut through the haze of his thoughts. Curious. Careful. “You’re all red.”

He cleared his throat. A little too quickly.

“Mhm. I’m okay.”

You turned toward him more fully, propping yourself up slightly on one elbow, your hair flattened on one side from where you had slept on it. Your eyes narrowed, playful. Familiar.

And then–your voice softened to a whisper, full of teasing promise. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were staring at me.”

He blinked.

You were close. Too close. Your face inches from his, lips parted slightly, breath warm against his cheek. It mirrored what he’d done to you last night, except now the tables were turned–and he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself.

“I’m not,” He said quickly, voice cracking.

But you didn’t back off.

You just tilted your head slightly, and then–without meaning to–your thigh brushed his, and you felt something.

You stilled.

Your breath caught.

And your eyes went wide.

“…Oh,” You breathed, heat crawling up your neck.

“Sorry,” You whispered a second later, but your voice was breathy and full of implication.

Rhett swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared at the ceiling. “It’s alright,” He said, quietly. Voice a little higher now. Tight.

The tension between you thickened like syrup, slow and sticky and impossible to ignore.

Neither of you looked at each other at first. It was safer that way. Eyes stayed on the ceiling, the far wall, anywhere but the quiet place in the middle of the bed where everything had shifted. Where your thighs had brushed, where your breath had caught, where Rhett was still hard and trying to will himself down with a silent prayer and clenched jaw.

But then you shifted again.

Not a lot. Just enough that the blankets rustled and your voice came out–low, almost shy.

“Do…Do you want some help with that?”

His eyes snapped to you like a whip. His entire body went rigid.

“W-What?” The word cracked in the middle, like it hit the back of his throat too fast to smooth out. His brows pinched together, mouth parted, lips dry as hell.

You sighed–soft and nervous–and pushed yourself up a little more, bracing your weight on your elbow so you could look him in the eye.

“I said,” You repeated, quieter now, more deliberate, “Do you want some help with that?” Rhett sat up a little too–mirroring you without realizing it, like his body needed to be closer. His face hovered just inches from yours now, the tension rolling off him like heat off pavement.

“Are you bein’ serious?” He asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded slowly, searching his face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

His gaze darted away for the briefest second, scanning the room like it might offer him a better answer than the one sitting right in front of him. But when he looked back, his expression was tight. Unreadable. Barely holding something back.

“Well, I mean…We’re friends…”

You raised your brows, your face still close, voice low but firm. “And we haven’t really been going out with other people. And sexual frustration is a thing, Rhett.”

He squinted slightly, more in thought than judgment. “You’re the one that said you wanted to take a hiatus from dating and stuff. I thought that meant physical things too.”

You shrugged, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That was more meant for me because I really don’t feel much when…Y’know…Things are happening.”

Rhett stilled.

His lips parted just slightly, his breath hitching. Then his jaw flexed and he leaned in even closer, until the space between your mouths was damn near nonexistent.

“You what?” He asked, barely above a whisper. His voice sounded gutted–like it hurt him to even imagine it.

You swallowed thickly, heart rattling inside your chest. “I…I don’t feel much when I’m being intimate with someone.” There. It was out. A truth you rarely admitted out loud, even more rarely to a man.

Rhett’s jaw tensed. His throat bobbed. Something wild flickered in his eyes–something that looked a lot like heartbreak, but deeper. Protective. Personal.

“…How about I make you a deal,” He said suddenly, his voice husky and serious.

You tilted your head slightly, cautious. “What kind of deal?”

“Let me try somethin’,” He murmured, watching your expression with unshakable intensity. “And then you can do whatever you want to me after. Or nothin’ at all. You don’t owe me a thing.”

Your lips parted. “W-What do you want to do?” He reached up slowly–like he was afraid to spook you–and let his fingertips brush beneath your chin, giving you the softest touch he could with the calloused pads of his fingers.

”Lay back,” He whispered, “And I’ll show you.” You stared at him for one long, charged heartbeat–your skin prickling, your thighs already pressing closer, the ache in your core blooming slow and warm at the tone in his voice.

Your face burned as soon as the word left your lips.

“Okay.”

It was soft, nearly swallowed by the quiet tension in the room–but Rhett heard it. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not for a second. His hand drifted from your chin to your shoulder, then eased you gently back onto the pillow. The mattress dipped beneath the shift of your weight, the sheets cool against your skin–but Rhett’s hand never stopped touching you. He moved with patience. With care.

And then he did something unexpected.

He slipped his arm under your neck–not in a way that caged you in, but cradled you. Like he wanted to hold your head up, protect it. His fingers curled gently into your hair, and his thumb brushed over your cheek. Slowly.

His voice came next, low and laced with something close to a smile.

“Remember that time…In high school, when we ended up kissing in Marley’s closet during seven minutes in heaven?”

Your stomach flipped violently, a swarm of butterflies bursting awake.

You narrowed your eyes. “You said you’d never bring that up.”

He chuckled, soft and rough. “It’s been long enough that I think I’m allowed to bring it up.” His thumb grazed your cheek again, and you swore it soothed something in you you hadn’t known was wound tight. “But anyways…Remember when you said you were nervous? Because you didn’t know what to do?”

You nodded slowly, your voice nearly a whisper. “Yeah…”

“And I told you to just breathe. Don’t even think about what was happenin’. Just breathe.” Your lips parted a little, your heart thudding louder.

“Yeah,” You whispered again.

His gaze held yours, warm and steady. “Well… Just do that again, alright? Just breathe. Think about something else. Got it?”

You hesitated. Swallowed.

“Rhett…Are you sure you want to do this? It’s going to be a waste of your time.” Your voice cracked near the end, thick with embarrassment and doubt you’d carried for too long.

His expression shifted. Not angry. Just…Struck.

He leaned down slowly, and before you could say anything else–before you could panic or second-guess–he kissed you.

It was soft. Just lips brushing lips. But it stunned you all the same.

You gasped faintly into the contact, breath hitching, body going still under the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours. He lingered for only a second before pulling back, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours again.

“I’m positive,” He murmured, voice low and resolute. “Now just relax, okay?” You nodded, even though your heart was pounding. You let your hands rest by your sides, fists curled lightly in the sheets as Rhett shifted closer, keeping his arm under your neck, still holding you, still touching your cheek.

His other hand drifted down. Slow.

He didn’t go for the obvious. Didn’t grab. Didn’t grope. Instead, his fingertips brushed along the hem of the shirt you wore–his shirt–lifting it just a few inches before slipping beneath. You shivered instantly, the cool air meeting your heated skin, and then–

His fingertips touched your stomach.

Barely there. Like the ghost of a thought.

They dragged gently across your skin, dipping just beneath your ribs, pausing, then continuing downward. Featherlight. Reverent. You sucked in a breath as goosebumps erupted along your arms and legs, your thighs pressing closer together as he traced the soft curve of your waist with maddening patience.

“Still alright?” He asked, his voice low, lips brushing your temple now. You nodded quickly, breath stuttering. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

His hand moved again–back up first, over the flat of your stomach, the pads of his fingers gliding like silk. He circled your navel once, slow and hypnotic, then dropped lower again.

And lower.

Until he reached the waistband of the boxer shorts.

His fingertips paused there, resting lightly on the elastic band.

He kissed your temple. Then murmured against your skin: “Can you lift your hips for me?”

You did–slowly, your legs tensing slightly as you pushed up just enough. Your breath hitched as the cool air rushed between the fabric and your skin when Rhett tugged them down, slow and smooth, watching your face the entire time. Your body sank back down onto the mattress as he pulled the boxers down your thighs, past your knees, until they slipped off entirely.

Rhett paused for just a second, the boxer shorts now discarded somewhere at the foot of the bed, the room still and warm as his gaze settled on you—completely bare in the soft hush of the early morning light.

His eyes traveled up your legs, over the subtle dip of your hips, and down again to the place between your thighs–and the air left his lungs like he’d taken a punch to the gut.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes still locked with his, every inch of you humming beneath the heat of his gaze. The sincerity in his tone–thick, reverent, gutted–made your breath catch.

Then, slowly, Rhett reached out. One of his hands cradled your knee, coaxing your leg outward, and he shifted down the bed as he gently murmured, “Spread your legs for me, Y/N.”

Your heart thudded. You hesitated—but only for a beat. Then, you nodded, slowly letting your legs fall open, nerves twisting in your stomach like warm thread as cool air hit you, followed almost immediately by the heat of his body slotting between your thighs.

His skin was warm against the inside of your legs—his shoulders wide and strong, his bare chest brushing the backs of your thighs as he settled in. You saw his eyes trail up your body again—slow, careful, like he was trying to memorize you. Then he looked up.

You’d closed your eyes.

Breathing slowly. Deeply.

Trying not to shake.

“Hey,” Rhett said softly, and you felt the mattress shift as he reached for you. His hand found yours where it lay clenched beside your hip. He interlaced his fingers with yours carefully and held on tight.

Your eyes fluttered open just as he leaned forward–and kissed the inside of your thigh.

A soft press. Then another. And another. Working slowly upward, like every inch of your skin deserved a proper hello. His breath was warm, his mouth even warmer, and every brush of his lips sent a new wave of heat coiling through your stomach.

By the time his mouth reached the top of your thigh, you were barely breathing.

Then–he tilted his head.

And he kissed you right against your core, and your whole body jerked.

Your hips twitched against the bed, your hand tightening in his, a quiet gasp slipping out of your mouth. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate line through your folds–like he was savoring you already. Like he was trying to learn what made you shake.

He kissed you again. Then again. Languid, like he wasn’t in any hurry. Like this wasn’t something to get over with–it was something to cherish.

His tongue moved with devastating patience, lapping and sucking gently, drawing shapes that made your thighs clench around his head. His hand gripped yours tighter.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, the words barely audible. Your back arched slightly, and you felt Rhett moan into you—actually moan—like your pleasure was feeding his. The vibration of it sent another jolt of electricity straight through your spine.

Then—his mouth didn’t leave—but you felt his fingers press gently against your entrance. He didn’t push in right away. Just teased. Traced. His tongue circled your clit once more—slow and wet—and then his finger slipped inside.

Your breath hitched, a sharp little gasp escaping you as your hips rocked upward without thinking.

Rhett stopped instantly, lifting his head slightly. His mouth was shining.

“You alright?” he asked gently, his voice low and rough and just a little breathless.

You looked down at him with wide, wild eyes and nodded quickly. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice cracking with need. “Oh my god, Rhett…yes.”

His mouth pulled into a crooked smile, his eyes still locked on yours. “Feel somethin’ now?” he murmured, teasing, affectionate.

You reached out and threaded your free hand through his hair–fisting it lightly at the crown, your hips rising up just slightly. “It’s witchcraft,” You whispered shakily, overwhelmed and already trembling.

Rhett laughed quietly, the sound sending shivers across your skin. “Nah,” He said, leaning in again, voice warm and sinful against your core. “It’s actually just me wantin’ to feel you come on my tongue, sweetheart.”

And then he dove back in.

This time, with more pressure. More hunger.

His tongue flattened against your clit, slow and firm. His finger curled inside you—and then he added another, stretching you just enough to make your breath come in shallow, frantic bursts. His pace increased, mouth and fingers working in tandem—sensual, focused, a little rough now.

Your thighs began to shake.

Your hips lifted and he pressed his arm across your waist to pin you gently down, grounding you while he devoured you like a man starved.

The noises he made—low, greedy groans—only made the tension build faster. Like your pleasure was his. Like getting you to break apart in his mouth was the only thing he cared about.

“Rhett,” You whimpered, barely able to breathe.

And then–he curled his fingers just right.

Your whole body seized. You let out a strangled moan, your mouth falling open against the pillow, your hand clutching his hair, the other tightening in his grip so hard you felt the tremor run down his arm.

Your orgasm hit like a freight train. Sudden, shaking, relentless. Your thighs clamped around his head and your hips bucked up into his mouth–and he didn’t stop. Not for a second.

He kept licking, groaning against you, working you through every last second until your legs twitched and your body slumped, utterly spent.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were swollen, his chin slick. He looked completely wrecked–and proud of it.

His hand slipped out from between your legs, fingers soaked with your arousal as he licked them clean, before brushing his wet fingers against your trembling thigh. You were still panting, still half-blind with aftershocks. And he leaned over you again, eyes wild but soft.

��You alright, darlin’?” He asked, bringing his mouth to your cheek. You laughed–half a breath, half a sob–and nodded.

”Fuck, Rhett…Let me try and return the favour please…That was so fucking good.” He blinked down at you like he hadn’t expected it, like your voice alone could unravel him all over again. Then he let out a slow, ragged breath and leaned down, kissing you–soft, slow, indulgent. A thank you, a yes, a prayer.

“Okay,” He murmured against your lips, voice husky, “Yeah…okay.”

He eased onto his back beside you. The sheets shifted around you both as you rolled onto your side and slid your hand across his stomach, your fingertips brushing the light trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers.

He watched you carefully, gaze gentle but burning. “You don’t have to, you know,” he said softly. “You already gave me enough just by lettin’ me–”

“I want to,” You cut in, voice quiet but certain. That stopped him. His jaw flexed slightly, his breath caught, and his hand reached up to cup the side of your face for just a second–his thumb brushing your cheek in a quiet, gentle pass. You kissed him again before shifting down the bed, your heart pounding as your thighs pressed together beneath the oversized shirt. You settled between his legs, your hands sliding up the tops of his thighs as he let out a low, shaky exhale. His skin was warm and soft beneath your palms, his muscles tense beneath the surface.

You hesitated just a little, fingers toying with the waistband of his boxers.

Rhett’s hand came down gently, resting over yours. His voice was low, coaxing.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. You’re doin’ fine.”

You pulled the fabric down slowly, watching as his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already hard from the weight of everything he’d just felt and everything you were about to do. You swallowed nervously, staring for a second too long.

Rhett noticed.

“Here,” he said softly, sitting up just slightly. He wrapped his hand around himself first, guiding yours over his. “Just like this. Nice and slow.” His fingers slid away, letting yours take over, his breath catching the second you squeezed him.

You started slow, pumping gently from the base to the tip. The skin was hot under your palm, smooth and taut, and you watched in fascination as he twitched beneath your touch. His head dropped back onto the pillow with a thud, a low groan tumbling from his throat.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “That’s it. Just like that.”

You tightened your grip a little, experimenting, and Rhett’s hips lifted off the bed slightly. He let out a quiet, broken moan. “Fuck, darlin’–you’re already drivin’ me crazy.”

Emboldened by his reaction, you leaned forward, licking a slow, uncertain stripe up the underside of his shaft. He hissed between his teeth, his hand flying to your hair, not pushing–just holding. Anchoring.

“You sure?” He asked, voice tight.

You nodded, lips brushing the tip. “I’m sure.”

Then you took him into your mouth.

Just the head at first–soft and careful. The taste was salty and clean, a little musky, faintly bitter, but not bad. Just…Him.

You swirled your tongue around the tip, feeling his thighs tense under your hands, and then took him a little deeper, bobbing your head slowly, finding a rhythm.

Rhett cursed under his breath, his grip tightening in your hair.

“Jesus, Y/N,” He rasped. “You feel so good…So fuckin’ good.”

You kept going, learning by the way he moaned, by how his legs twitched, by the way he tugged at the sheets. You tried to take him deeper–and gagged, just slightly, your throat tightening around him. You pulled off, coughing softly, lips slick and eyes watering.

Rhett sat up a little too fast.

“Hey, hey–Y/N, you don’t have to do that,” He murmured, pushing your hair back, “Take it easy on yourself, alright? You ain’t gotta prove anythin’.”

You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m okay,” You whispered, voice breathy but determined.

And then you went back down.

This time slower. More confident. You pumped with one hand and sucked gently, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the sensitive head. Rhett’s breath went ragged again, his voice wrecked.

“Fuck, you’re–goddamn, you’re so good at this,” He groaned, hips twitching against your hand.

It didn’t take long after that.

You felt his thighs start to tremble, the hand in your hair tightening as he gasped, “Shit–I’m gonna come–“ It was more of a warning than anything, but you didn’t pull away. You just kept going.

His climax hit with a low, drawn-out moan. His hips stuttered and you felt his warmth spill over your tongue–salty, thick, slightly bitter with a sharp edge that made your throat clench. You swallowed instinctively, slow, letting it slide down, feeling him shudder beneath you.

When you pulled off, your lips were slick, your eyes glassy.

You licked your lips once and blinked up at him.

“…Did I do good?” You asked softly.

Rhett stared at you like he was about to lose his goddamn mind.

Then he sat up, grabbed your face with both hands–his touch tender but firm–and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue massaging yours, tasting himself on you and you on him. He pulled back breathless.

”You were fucking perfect…So fucking perfect.” You collapsed back onto the mattress with a soft, stunned laugh, breath still coming in shaky waves as you wiped at your lips with the back of your hand. Rhett was beside you in a heartbeat, his strong arms already tugging you toward him like he couldn’t stand to have even an inch of space between you anymore.

You let him pull you into his chest–his skin still warm, heartbeat steady but strong beneath your cheek. His arm draped low over your waist, the other curling behind your shoulders like he was trying to wrap around as much of you as he could.

There was no tension now. No nerves. Just the quiet intimacy of skin on skin and breath against breath.

Rhett sighed softly into your hair, his mouth grazing your forehead before murmuring, lazy and fond, “We should do this more often…”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle against his collarbone, your voice soft. “Yeah… I completely agree.”

There was a pause. The kind that felt full–not empty. Like something was waiting behind it.

You lifted your hand slowly, tracing a fingertip along his chest without looking at him. Then, voice smaller, more vulnerable:”You’re so…Safe.” Rhett went still beneath you.

Not tense. Just…Quiet. Like your words had caught him off guard and gone somewhere deep.

Then he smirked–soft and slow, the kind of smile you’d only seen a handful of times before. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, barely more than a brush of lips against skin, but it made you shiver.

“We can do whatever you want together,” He murmured, his voice like warm honey. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

That–his reassurance, his promise–settled something in your chest. Something that had been unsettled for a long, long time.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. Your nose nudged his jaw, and your lips were still curved when you whispered “You really mean it?”

“Of course I do.” He said simply. You couldn’t help the smile that rose up then, soft and wide and honest. It spread slowly, uncontainable, tugging at your cheeks as your hand splayed over his chest and you cuddled in closer.

Rhett exhaled against your hair, one hand trailing up and down your back in soothing strokes.

“You know what?” You whispered, voice thick with something more than just affection now–something raw and real and aching to be spoken aloud. “I think this is the first time I’ve felt like…Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe I’m not the broken one.”

His fingers stilled. Then tightened gently at your waist.

“It was never you,” He said, quiet but firm. “They just didn’t know how to do things.” Your eyes welled unexpectedly. But you didn’t look away.

And Rhett didn’t look away from you either–not even when you whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?” He asked.

“For…For showing me what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Rhett’s brow creased slightly, and he leaned forward, brushing his lips against your forehead again, like he was sealing the moment there.

Then, against your skin, he murmured, “Ain’t even gotten started yet, darlin’.”

————————

You and Rhett made an effort to see each other every other day after that morning.

It wasn’t always planned. Sometimes it was just a lazy drive that ended in a shared milkshake and quiet conversation. Other times it was louder–pool hall banter, bar games, him showing up at your place just to fix the damn sink he swore wasn’t level. But no matter what it started as, it always ended the same:

With your bodies pressed together. With your hands on his chest. With his lips parting against yours like he’d been starving all day.

The first time it happened again was at the drive-in.

You wore cutoff shorts and one of his flannels tied loose at your waist, and you didn’t even make it halfway through the previews before your legs found his lap. The movie faded behind you like static. His palm settled low on your back, and your mouth found his in the kind of kiss that made your teeth knock and your fingers curl in his shirt.

You didn’t even remember what was playing. All you remembered was the sound of your breathing turning into gasps when his hand slid between your thighs, his voice rough against your ear.

“You gonna let me feel how worked up you are already?”

You reached down, grabbed his wrist, and guided him to the apex of your thighs–slow, sure. His fingertips pressed against the damp heat soaking through your thin cotton panties, and Rhett exhaled like he’d been punched.

“Jesus,” He murmured, his forehead tipping against yours as his fingers flexed, just barely moving. “You’re soaked.”

You nodded, breath already hitching as you shifted slightly in his lap, grinding your hips forward just a touch. The thick muscle of his denim-clad thigh was already pressing against your core in the most devastating way.

“I wanna try something,” You whispered.

His eyes flicked up. Searching. Heated. Still trying to catch up with this version of you—bold, direct, knowing what you wanted and how you wanted it.

“I’ve always wanted to do it,” You admitted, your voice breathy but firm. “Especially with you.”

His lips parted. His chest rose.

And then he smirked.

“Okay,” He said simply. “You can do whatever you want with me.”

That’s all it took.

You adjusted your knees on either side of his lap, straddling him completely, your hands pressed to his shoulders for balance as you positioned yourself just right. His thigh was firm beneath you–years of riding and wrangling muscle. And you sank down onto it slowly, the seam of his jeans dragging perfectly against your soaked panties.

A quiet gasp escaped your throat.

Rhett groaned, hands rising to grip your hips–gentle, grounding, but not controlling. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles over your waist as he watched your eyes flutter, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“You good, sweetheart?” He murmured.

You nodded, barely able to breathe. “So good.”

You started slow. Grinding gently against him in small, slow circles–testing pressure, building friction. The thick denim created just enough resistance to drive you mad, the fabric catching on your clit with every pass.

You rolled your hips again. And again. Shakier each time.

Rhett’s grip tightened, guiding you just slightly–his hands molding to your curves like he was born to hold them. “That’s it,” He breathed, voice almost reverent. “Just like that… Goddamn, you’re beautiful.”

You whimpered, burying your face in his neck for a moment as the sensations built, wave after wave, hot and pulsing and slow. Your hands curled into the flannel on his chest, and you swore you could feel his heart hammering.

Then you pulled back just enough to kiss him.

Hard.

He groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, encouraging your movements, letting you use him–letting you take your pleasure from him like he wanted nothing more. Your hips began to rock faster, your thighs trembling, the damp patch growing darker on his jeans with every pass of your soaked panties.

“Fuck, darlin’,” He gasped, his forehead pressed to yours. “You’re gonna come just like this?”

You nodded, dizzy, breathless. “I can’t stop…Rhett–I’m gonna–”

He kissed you again–slow this time, anchoring you as your hips faltered and your whole body seized up.

You came on his thigh with a broken sob of his name, shaking hard against him, every nerve burning, clenching around nothing as your hips twitched one last time and stilled.

Rhett held you through it, murmuring sweet things against your temple as you slumped forward, boneless and buzzing.

“That was…” You panted, barely able to form a sentence.

“Yeah,” Rhett said, his own breath shaky as he kissed the side of your head. “It was fuckin’ perfect.”

From that moment on, it was like you couldn’t stop.

The next week, he was driving you home, windows cracked, your hand resting on his thigh like it was second nature now. And somewhere between a curve in the road and a long silence, you leaned over, unzipped his jeans, and slipped your hand inside.

He choked on a breath. “Jesus, Y/N–what are you doin’?”

“Helping,” You said, voice teasing and low as your fingers wrapped around him.

You stroked him slow, lazy, while he tried to keep his eyes on the road, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. When he came–hot and fast–you licked it off your hand and the skin of his stomach without hesitation.

Rhett nearly crashed the damn truck.

Another time, you just climbed into his lap without warning. No teasing. No warm-up. You just needed him–needed the weight of him, the heat of his mouth, the security of his hands cupping the back of your neck like if he let go, you’d vanish.

You kissed him like you were going to disappear if he didn’t hold you tighter.

And he did.

Every time, he did.

He was addicted to you.

And you were addicted to him.

Yet somehow, you still hadn’t had sex.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because you kept finishing each other off before either of you could think straight.

It was chaotic. It was messy. It was you and Rhett–tangled in passion, steeped in something deeper neither of you had put into words yet.

Until one quiet evening when the summer air hung low and warm, and you turned to him and said:

“Wanna look at the stars with me?”

He blinked. Smirked. “Like, right now?”

“Right now,” You said, already sliding your shoes on. “Bring pillows and a blanket for the truck bed.” Rhett raised a brow, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth curving into something crooked and full of knowing.

“Oh,” He drawled, slinging an arm around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your cheek, “You’re plannin’ somethin’.”

You only grinned as you wiggled out of his arms, walking out ahead of him before calling over your shoulder:

“Damn right I am.”

———————————

You and Rhett had a specific place you would go to when you wanted to look at the stars.

It was a lookout you had both found randomly one night, years ago, when you’d gotten lost coming back from a circuit. The GPS cut out somewhere along a winding dirt road, and the two of you had been bickering about turns when the trees finally gave way to a clearing so wide and open it looked like the sky had cracked open just for you. The ridge overlooked a valley, endless and quiet, the stars so close it felt like you could pluck them from the sky if you reached high enough.

That was the place he drove to tonight.

His hand was on your bare thigh, squeezing gently, fingers skimming just beneath the hem of your shorts. The low hum of the truck’s engine mingled with an old country song playing through the speakers–something slow and warm, full of steel guitar and dusty longing. The cool summer air flowed through the open windows, tousling your hair, raising goosebumps on your arms. But Rhett’s palm was warm and steady against your skin, his thumb tracing little circles lazily.

You shifted slightly in your seat, thighs parting just a little more, and he immediately took notice.

His fingers drifted inward–just a little. Just enough to make your stomach clench.

Then he started tracing letters.

Soft. Slow. One at a time, with the very tip of his finger, like he was spelling a secret across your skin.

“What’s that one?” He murmured, not taking his eyes off the road.

You blinked. Swallowed. “Uh… An S?”

“Wrong,” He smirked, squeezing your thigh.

“An E?”

“Nope.”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “Then what was it?”

“Not tellin’,” He said, dragging another letter right after it, slower this time. “Guess again.”

You stared down at his hand, heat blooming low in your belly. “D?”

“That one was,” He said, a low chuckle caught in his throat. “But not the one before it.”

Your cheeks burned. You knew what he was spelling now.

He leaned closer, his voice thick. “Want me to keep goin’?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “Yeah…Keep going.”

He traced another letter.

And another.

You were just about to reach for him–just about to say screw the stargazing and climb into his lap right there in the cab–when the headlights hit the edge of the clearing, and the trees broke apart.

You both went still.

The lookout was exactly how you remembered it: tall grass, wildflowers curling in the moonlight, and the stars above glowing like soft embers in an old fireplace. The valley stretched below, dark and quiet, and the only sound was the breeze rustling through the open windows and the soft creak of the truck tires crunching over gravel.

Rhett cut the engine.

The music died.

Silence swelled between you, not heavy–just full. Like both of you were thinking the same thing and neither of you wanted to ruin it by saying it out loud.

Then Rhett opened his door and climbed out. You followed, your legs shaky as you stepped onto the grass, the air cool against your thighs. The tension was still simmering in your veins, but now it had space to breathe.

You grabbed the first blanket from the backseat while Rhett grabbed the pillows and the top blanket.

The two of you worked in an unspoken rhythm.

You laid the first blanket down flat across the truck bed, smoothing the edges with your palms. The metal beneath was still faintly warm from the earlier sun. Rhett climbed in beside you, placing the pillows near the cab, his knee brushing yours as he tossed the second blanket over your shoulders.

You didn’t speak as you climbed under it together.

You didn’t have to.

His body curved naturally around yours as you settled onto your sides, facing each other, the warmth of the blanket sealed around your bodies like a cocoon. Your foreheads almost touched. Your breath did.

Rhett’s hand found your waist under the blanket. His palm spread slow and deliberate, thumb grazing your hip, before lazily dragging across your stomach, the pads of his fingers skimming your skin like he was reading a prayer written in braille. You reached up and brushed his hair back gently, smoothing the strands that always stuck up in crooked directions. He sighed—low, content, eyes fluttering shut like your touch alone could unravel him.

His fingers slipped higher beneath the hem of your shirt, slowly, carefully. He tugged it up until you sat up and peeled it over your head. The night air kissed your bare chest, nipples tightening instantly under the sudden exposure—but you weren’t cold. Not with the way Rhett looked at you.

He stared like he was witnessing something sacred.

Then he leaned forward, lips parting just enough to drag across your collarbone before his teeth sank in—not too hard, just enough to make you gasp.

“Painful?” he murmured against your skin.

You shook your head, your breath shaky. “Stings a bit, but nothing I can’t handle.”

He smirked—something soft and sinful—and lowered his mouth again, kissing just beneath the mark he’d left behind. His tongue laved the spot slowly, like an apology and a promise all at once.

Then, his voice was velvet-wrapped gravel against your skin.

“Is there anything else you want to do with me? Any ideas you’ve got in mind?”

You shook your head slowly, eyes locking with his in the low, starlit dark. “I just want you to fuck me.”

He stilled. Just for a beat. Then smiled against your chest—slow and deep and pleased.

“Yeah?” he rasped, lifting his head to look you in the eye. “You want me to fuck you?”

You nodded, your heart pounding.

He leaned toward your jaw, kissing a soft trail until his lips brushed your ear, his breath hot as he whispered, “Beg for it.”

You bit your bottom lip, breath catching, heart stuttering at the sheer weight of the way he said it. There was no mocking in it. No arrogance. Just pure, overwhelming need–controlled only by the thin thread of his patience.

His eyes shimmered in the moonlight, pale blue burning like lightning behind clouds. You leaned in and kissed him–soft, needy–and whispered against his lips, “Please…Fuck me…”

He shook his head, grinning with that maddening, slow confidence. “Gonna have to do better than that, sweetheart.” You kissed him again–more desperate now–and as you pulled back, his hand came up to your face. He cradled your cheek like you were breakable, his thumb tracing the soft curve of your bottom lip.

“Open up,” He murmured.

You obeyed.

Your lips parted, and he slid his thumb into your mouth, pressing the pad against the back of your tongue. Instantly, your mouth watered, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked him gently. His eyes darkened, watching you like he could come undone just from this.

He pulled his thumb out slowly, a glistening trail connecting your lips to the pad of his finger, then dragged it down–past your chin, your chest–until it disappeared beneath the waistband of your shorts.

His soaked thumb found your clit in one perfect stroke.

You gasped. Bucked.

“C’mon, Y/N…” He coaxed, voice a rasp as he rubbed slow, tight circles. “You want it, right?”

“Yes,” You whimpered, your hips grinding helplessly into his hand. “God, Rhett–yes–please–I need you–”

He groaned at the sound of your voice, fucked-out and pleading, and pressed his thumb harder.

“Keep talkin’,” He muttered, eyes flicking down to where his hand moved beneath your waistband. “Want to hear you beg while I’ve got you all worked up like this.”

“I want you to fuck me,” You gasped, your palm reaching for his lap now, squeezing his cock through his jeans. He was already hard–thick and burning hot under your touch. “I want you inside me–I want to feel it, Rhett. All of you. I want you to ruin me slow.”

He swore under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”

You kept rubbing, palming him harder now, feeling him twitch and grow impossibly harder.

“I want you to come inside me,” You whispered, eyes glassy. “I want to feel you finish deep. I want you to fill me up until I’m sore. Until I’m dripping with it.”

Rhett’s jaw clenched, his breath shuddered–and his thumb didn’t stop moving. Every nerve in your body was locked on the delicious, unrelenting drag of his thumb over your clit–your underwear now utterly ruined, soaked straight through, clinging to your folds in the most humiliating, erotic way.

Rhett kissed you again–hotter this time. Sloppier. The kind of kiss that made your teeth knock and your breath catch. His tongue slid past your lips, curling against yours with growing desperation, and when he finally pulled back, he did so only far enough to breathe against your mouth:

“Take off your shorts,” He rasped, voice wrecked. “And get on top.”

You nodded so fast it almost hurt, fumbling to shimmy them down. Your panties peeled off with them, sticky and wet between your thighs. You didn’t even try to hide the way they dropped to the side of the bed. Not with the way Rhett was watching you. Not with how he was already ripping open his jeans and pushing them down with his boxers in one rough, desperate tug.

His cock sprang free, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip, the moonlight catching on the slick sheen of it.

Your whole body ached as you climbed into his lap and straddled his waist, your knees bracing against the warm metal bed of the truck, the soft blanket bunched beneath them. You sank down slightly–not to take him in just yet, but to rub your soaked core along the full length of him.

The heat of him–thick and pulsing against you–dragged across your folds, every ridge and vein grinding right where you needed it. You tilted your head back with a breathless moan, your hips moving in slow, teasing circles, coating him in your arousal.

“Fuck,” Rhett groaned, his hands flying to your hips, holding you there, letting you grind against him like he was made for it. His eyes trailed up your body, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. Then he reached up and cupped your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples.

“You look so fuckin’ beautiful up there,” He rasped, voice trembling with restraint. “You like that? Like rubbin’ yourself on me like a good girl?”

You nodded frantically, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Fuck, Rhett…You already feel so good. I can’t wait any longer.”

He gave your nipples a teasing pinch, and you nearly came undone right there.

“You don’t have to wait anymore,” He murmured, voice thick with care and gentleness. “Take what you need from me, Y/N.” You reached between your bodies, wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, and guided him through your folds once more–wet and slow–coating him thoroughly before lifting your hips.

Then you aligned him with your entrance, and with one long, shaky breath…You sank down.

The head of his cock stretched you open, dragging against your walls in a way that made your whole body lock up. Your gasp cracked through the night air as you grabbed onto his wrist with both hands, using it as leverage while your head tilted back and your mouth dropped open.

“Shit,” You whimpered, your voice trembling. “So big…”

“Fuck,” Rhett gritted out beneath you, his jaw tight, his knuckles white where he gripped your hips. “You’re tight, sweetheart…Jesus Christ, I can feel every part of you.” You kept lowering yourself slowly, inch by inch, your inner walls gripping him like a vice as you took him in deeper, stretching around his girth with a burn that made your eyes flutter.

“Rhett–” Your voice cracked, pleasure blooming slow and low in your belly, “–Feels so full… So deep…”

He looked absolutely wrecked beneath you. His head tipped back for a second, the cords of his neck flexing, jaw clenched as he tried not to buck up into you too soon. His hands left your hips only to return to your chest, massaging your breasts again with wide, reverent palms, his thumbs brushing your nipples in slow circles.

“God, you’re perfect,” He rasped, his voice shaking now. You whimpered again as you bottomed out, the base of him pressed flush against you, the stretch relentless. Your thighs were trembling already.

Then his hand came up–slow, gentle–and wrapped lightly around your neck.

Not choking. Not restraining.

Just holding you there, grounding you, letting his thumb graze your jawline.

“You okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, lips parted, barely able to get the words out. “So okay,” You breathed. “You feel so fucking good inside me, Rhett.”

He groaned again, like your words alone could push him over the edge. His fingers curled slightly around your neck, just enough pressure to make your walls flutter around him.

“That’s it,” He whispered, eyes burning into yours. “Take me. Use me. Fuckin’ ride me Y/N. I’m yours.” He watched you with something close to awe–his pupils wide, breath ragged as your hips rolled in that uneven, desperate rhythm, your thighs quivering from how much you were feeling, from the stretch and heat and weight of him pulsing deep inside you.

“Fuck, Y/N…” Rhett groaned, his voice strained and reverent, one of his hands gripping your hip as you moved. “You’re so fuckin’ tight like this…Every time you come back down, I feel your pussy clutch me like it doesn’t wanna let go.”

Your breath hitched.

You whimpered again, high and shaky, your hands splayed on his chest for balance as you tried to keep going, but your rhythm faltered, hips stuttering with every twitch of your muscles. Every drag of his cock against your inner walls made you cry out a little louder.

That’s when his hands slid lower.

“Let me show you somethin’,” Rhett murmured, voice gravel-smooth as he sat up slightly and wrapped both hands around your waist. His grip was firm but gentle, like he was grounding you–like he was giving you something to fall apart against.

He pulled your hips forward, grinding you down slow, dragging your clit along the thick patch of hair above his cock.

You gasped, your eyes flying wide, hands bracing hard against his shoulders.

“Jesus fucking Christ–Rhett,” You gasped, your head falling back as your thighs quaked around him. “Oh my fucking god–”

“That’s it,” he breathed, dragging you again, slower now, more deliberate. “Feel that? Right there? That’s where I want you. Grind on me, sweetheart. Just like that.”

Your whimpers melted into full-bodied moans as he kept your hips moving in that rhythm–circling and dragging until you were damn near sobbing against his mouth, your clit raw and throbbing with every glide across the coarse hair and the thick base of his cock.

He didn’t stop until he felt your hips start moving in sync on their own. He let his hands slip back up to your breasts, thumbs rubbing over your nipples again as you rocked into him like you were losing your mind.

“Good girl,” He groaned, voice deeper now. “Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect. Soaked for me…Riding me just the way I like.”

Your breath hitched, your hands tangling in his hair as he leaned in, kissing up your throat–sloppy, hungry, and hot.

Then–suddenly–he sat up fully, his hands grabbing your ass and pulling you closer, forcing you to stay pressed tight against him as his mouth found your neck.

He gripped your hair and yanked it gently, exposing the smooth column of your throat.

And he started kissing. Licking. Biting.

Not enough to hurt–just enough to make you whine.

“Bet none of those assholes ever touched you like this,” He growled into your neck, rutting up into you now–slow at first, but deep. “Bet none of ‘em knew how to fuck you right.”

You gasped as he hit that spot again, your nails digging into his shoulders. “They didn’t,” You whimpered. “Fuck, Rhett–they didn’t. You’re the only one who’s ever–”

“Damn right I am,” He snapped, his teeth grazing your throat. “You hear that? That’s what you sound like when someone actually gives a shit about makin’ you feel good.”

He slammed into you again, this time rougher–deep and hard and relentless–and your whole body jolted forward, your nails dragging down his back through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He groaned at the sting. “Mark me up, Y/N. Let me feel it.” You were crying out now, your rhythm breaking down into messy, frantic movements, grinding and bouncing as best you could with how hard he was gripping your waist, how deep he was rutting up into you.

“Gonna come, Rhett–fuck–I’m gonna–”

“Come for me,” He rasped, slamming into you harder. “Soak me. Make a goddamn mess, sweetheart.”

Your vision blurred.

Your body locked up.

And then everything broke open.

You screamed his name as your orgasm ripped through you–wet and loud and overwhelming. You trembled violently, your whole body twitching as you felt yourself gush around him, soaking his lap and thighs, your slick coating every inch of him.

“Goddamn,” Rhett growled, his breath breaking into ragged pants. “Fuck–Y/N, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight–shit, I’m gonna–”

Then his hands flew to your hips.

He slammed you down against him one final time, holding you there with a bruising grip, his voice guttural and feral as he cried out:

“Fuck, I’m gonna come inside you–fill you up–gonna stuff you full of it, darlin’, so you’ll still feel me dripping out of you tomorrow–Jesus Christ–”

You gasped as you felt it.

The twitch. The pulse. Every thick, hot rope of cum flooding you so deep it made you clench again. He buried himself as far as he could go, his hips bucking wildly against you as he spilled every last drop.

You scratched your nails down his back again–hard.

He didn’t stop you. If anything, he moaned louder.

“Fuck yes, baby. Just like that.”

You collapsed forward, breath shaking, your chest pressed to his, your bodies fused together–hot and slick and shaking.

And he held you.

Tight.

Like you were the only thing tethering him to this goddamn earth.

Neither of you spoke at first.

Just heavy breathing. Soft trembling. The sound of your heart pounding where it pressed against his.

Then–barely audible–Rhett whispered against your ear:

“Guess what I’m writing?” Your breath was still ragged. Shallow. The tremors hadn’t stopped yet, and your chest was still rising and falling in uneven waves as you lay sprawled over him, your body warm and slick against his, your heart pounding so hard you swore it was echoing in his chest too.

“…Okay,” You whispered hoarsely, your voice barely carrying above the rasp in your throat.

Rhett didn’t say anything at first. He just smiled. One of those slow, crooked, half-cocky ones he couldn’t control when he was too soft to be smug and too smitten to pretend he wasn’t.

Then you felt it.

The gentle press of his fingertip against your outer thigh–bare, slick with sweat and still trembling slightly from aftershocks.

He dragged a slow line into your skin.

“I,” You breathed, voice soft and cautious.

He nodded, the tip of his nose brushing your jaw as he traced another.

“L,” You murmured, and he smirked faintly.

“Yeah,” He whispered against your cheek, his lips grazing your skin.

You didn’t breathe as he drew the next one–round and smooth.

“O.”

Another nod. His smile grew, quiet and reverent, the kind he only ever gave you when you were laughing in his passenger seat or half-asleep in his flannel.

And then he traced the last letter. Angled. Sharp. Deliberate.

“V,” you whispered. And this time, you stilled.

You pulled back just enough to look down at him, your hands sliding up to cradle his face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide. Just met your gaze with those wide, ocean-blue eyes–like he was terrified and relieved and stunned that he’d said it at all.

Your thumbs brushed the corners of his mouth, your fingers curling gently along his jaw.

And your smile–God, your smile–was soft and sure and finally at peace as you leaned in just close enough for him to hear you when you said:

“I love you too, Rhett.”

The air shifted.

He exhaled like he’d been holding it forever, his brows twitching with something emotional and overwhelmed, and then he leaned up, kissing you–soft and slow and messy with gratitude.

When he pulled back, his voice cracked.

“You’re so good, Y/N…”

You smiled again, barely able to speak as your hands continued to caress his cheeks, your fingertips memorizing every inch of him like a prayer.

“You’re perfect, Rhett,” You whispered. “I couldn’t have asked for a better person to be in my life.”

And this time–neither of you said anything after.

Because everything that needed to be said had already been written across your skin.

[cheers-to-you-th]

100 Ways to Lose Your Love

Pairing: Joshua x Reader Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, emotional slow burn Warnings: Emotionally stunted reader, a bit of dysfunctional family sprinkled in there, brief misuse of power/workplace harassment (not from Joshua) Word count: 26.8k Summary: Love isn’t lost in the big fights, it’s lost in the fear of being truly seen. Part of Yuki's 100 milestone collab @supi-wupi my beloved thank you for beta reading on such short notice always ilysm ft. @kyeomofhearts and @bella-feed cameos

Writing has always been my escape. It’s been how I ran away from reality into a place I can shape and form however I want ever since I could hold a pencil, my little bunker in the tornado of life. My teachers had called it a gift, my parents called it useless, and I just continued writing through it all. It’s how I process your emotions, I guess, although now I’m starting to realize it may be how I avoid them. And yet, here I am, writing again.

The first time you met Joshua, it was the summer between your sophomore and junior years of college. Your friend, Soonyoung, invited you along with a handful of his friends to go on a road trip from campus down to his parents' vacant vacation home and stay for a few weeks, enjoying the beach.

You said yes because the thought of going home to see your parents made your skin crawl, even if it meant sharing a house with near-strangers and dealing with sand in your shoes. Soonyoung had promised late nights, grilled food, and sunsets that didn’t need filters. You figured you could use a break—from school, from expectations, and from yourself.

Joshua wasn’t who you noticed first. He wasn’t loud like Soonyoung, the Zoology major who’d attached himself to you the year prior, or constantly moving like Jun, who you’d never met before this, but his constant foot tapping was starting to grate on your nerves. He didn’t make a big deal about his entrance when he showed up late, either—just walked up with his guitar case and an apologetic smile, soft-spoken as he said hi to the others. You were sitting on the porch steps, sipping iced coffee from a paper cup and trying not to feel out of place even though you knew a couple others there from shared classes.

He sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, not crowding, not even really facing you—just close enough that you could hear him breathe between sips from his water bottle. You remember glancing over, expecting a brief hello or maybe one of those awkward small-talk moments where you both pretend the silence isn’t loud. But he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked out toward the driveway where Soonyoung was loudly arguing with Seungcheol about how to pack the cooler.

“Do you think they’ll still be fighting about ice packs when we’re thirty?” he asked suddenly, voice light, almost amused.

You snorted into your coffee. “I think they’ll still be fighting about everything when we’re thirty.”

That was it—your first exchange. Just a few words, a shared joke at someone else’s expense, and then the quiet again. You didn’t know what to make of him yet. He wasn’t unreadable, exactly. Just... settled. Like he knew how to take up space without demanding it. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone here, not even himself.

You ended up crammed between him and Minji—who you’d talked to a few times over the semester in stats class—in Seungcheol’s beat up SUV. Jihoon, a music major, had aux, Soonyoung belting along as Wonwoo (comp. sci.) tried to drown them out with noise-cancelling headphones. Joshua’s smile was fond as he looked at them, occasionally joining in. He had one of those quiet presences that didn’t feel the need to compete with chaos. You noticed it again during the drive, when Minji fell asleep with her head against the window and your shoulder began to ache from staying too stiff, too polite. Joshua, without a word, shifted slightly and leaned closer—not enough to touch, just enough to make it feel like you weren’t holding yourself alone in the noise.

At one point, Jihoon passed the phone back for song requests, and Joshua didn’t even hesitate before handing it to you. “Pick something you won’t regret screaming later,” he said with a teasing grin, the first real note of mischief in his voice.

You scrolled, stalling, then picked a song from your high school playlists—too nostalgic, too dramatic—and halfway through, when you were laughing with your head thrown back at Jeonghan, one of Seungcheol’s friends from finance, trying to rap and Jihoon snapping at him to stop, you realized Joshua was looking at you. Not in a way that felt like pressure. Just… observing. Like he liked the way you looked when you weren’t trying so hard.

The house was nicer than you expected. Weathered wood, sand already in the doorway, old photos of Soonyoung and his family in every corner. You all chose rooms with the urgency of kids at summer camp—first come, first sleep—and you ended up with Minji, who said she snored and wasn’t sorry.

Those first few days blurred together: grilling badly, racing to the ocean, eating popsicles in the shallow end of the pool while the sun melted down your shoulders. You’d catch Joshua sometimes with his guitar by the fire pit, or humming a melody while washing dishes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He always smiled when he saw you—not a flirty kind of smile, something gentler. Something that made you feel like he saw through you a little, and didn’t mind what he found there. It took three days before he asked you to join him for a walk on the beach.

It was after dinner—everyone else hanging back for a movie night with popcorn and the last bottle of Soonyoung’s dad’s expensive wine. You’d wandered outside for air and found him there, barefoot in the sand, hands in his pockets like he was waiting for the right kind of silence.

“Want to come with me?” he asked, nodding toward the shoreline.

And you did.

You walked in companionable silence for a while, the sky streaked with purples and oranges, the wind teasing at the hem of your hoodie. Every now and then your arms would brush, and you’d both pretend it didn’t mean anything. But you felt it. Every time.

“I like it here,” he said after a while, his voice low, like he didn’t want to ruin the stillness. “Feels like you can breathe more slowly. You know?”

You nodded, and that was the first time you smiled at him like you meant it. 

The two of you headed back inside not long after, the others either passed out drunk on the couch (cough cough Soonyoung) or asleep in their rooms. You took the opportunity to sit in the corner and pull out your laptop, fingers clicking on the keys as you wrote. Joshua sat himself on the couch, strumming away on his guitar calmly, humming a soft tune. It felt oddly peaceful, like time had stopped for everyone except the two of you. He didn’t ask what you were doing, didn’t comment on what or why you were typing, just sat and played the gentle melody.

He kept his distance—respectfully, carefully—like he understood that some people live with their nerves just beneath the skin. And maybe he did. Maybe he’d seen it in the way your hands hovered above the keyboard before diving in, or the way your shoulders only ever seemed to relax when your fingers were flying across the keyboard. Or maybe it was just Joshua being Joshua.

At one point, your laptop froze. Not crashed—just one of those irritating pauses where everything stops responding except the rising tension in your spine. You sighed, leaning back with your head thunking gently against the wall.

“Writer’s block?” he asked softly, still not looking directly at you.

“No,” you replied, eyes still on the frozen screen. “Computer’s just being dramatic.”

He chuckled under his breath, fingers picking at a new chord progression. “Must be catching. Pretty sure Jeonghan tried to argue with a wine bottle earlier.”

You glanced over, smiling despite yourself. “Did he win?”

“Hard to say. He’s asleep, so technically the bottle lasted longer.”

You snorted. The screen flickered back to life, but you didn’t turn to it right away. Instead, you watched his hands. Watched how they slowly plucked a tune, as they seemingly breathed the music to life. He played like he was thinking with his fingers, letting them speak for him while his mouth stayed quiet.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, before you had time to second-guess it.

Joshua hummed in acknowledgment.

“Why do you play?”

He slowed, but didn’t stop. “It calms me down.”

The simplicity of it sank into your bones.

You looked at your laptop screen again, words half-typed and blinking. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I get that.”

He finally glanced over then, something open in his expression. Not asking anything of you—just offering that soft space again. You weren’t used to that. People always wanted more. They wanted you to speak, to react, to fill the silence with something worth holding onto.

Joshua just played. Eventually, you returned to your writing, fingers slower this time. He kept playing. Neither of you said goodnight. When you closed your laptop and headed upstairs, you felt softer, like someone had reached into the storm and reminded you it didn’t have to rage all the time.

~

The next morning started slow.

You woke to the scent of toast burning and Soonyoung’s voice rising in dramatic protest from the kitchen—something about someone not flipping the pancake when the bubbles showed up.

Minji was already up, stretching on her side of the room and humming some pop song off-key. You groaned into your pillow, rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, letting the sounds of the house drift in—laughter, someone banging a cupboard shut, Jun yelling “I’m not eating that!” like his life depended on it. It felt like summer in the kind of way you had only ever heard of when you were young talking to friends at the start of a school year—loud, lazy, full of sun and the kind of messy joy that didn’t need organizing.

By the time you wandered into the kitchen, Joshua was already there, hair still damp from a shower, sleeves pushed up, sipping coffee like he’d been awake for hours. He caught your eye briefly, smiling into his mug. You looked away first.

Soonyoung offered you a questionably golden pancake with a flourish and a bow. “Made with love and very little skill.”

You took it. “The perfect combination.”

The group migrated out to the deck after breakfast, sprawled across old lawn chairs and half-broken loungers. Jihoon had a speaker playing something vaguely acoustic, and Jeonghan was making a truly pathetic attempt at organizing a card game that dissolved into chaos the moment Seungcheol showed up with sunglasses and a smoothie like he was at Coachella.

Joshua settled a few feet from you, pulling out his notebook—one of those worn leather-bound ones with creased pages and dog-eared corners. You watched him jot something down in it before your eyes flicked away again. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to him, it was just that you… kind of did, which made it harder.

You buried yourself in your own notebook instead, knees drawn up to make a table. You weren’t writing anything in particular—just phrases, pieces of things, observations you’d maybe use later. You scribbled down a description of the way Jun and Soonyoung were fighting over the last bag of chips like it was a war treaty. You described the faint mark on Jeonghan’s neck from falling asleep weird on the couch. You noted the way Joshua’s thumb tapped against his knee while he thought.

Around noon, the group decided to head to the beach. You went with them, not because you wanted to swim, but because the idea of staying behind felt heavier than the idea of being around people. You waded into the shallows, ankles sinking into wet sand, the breeze curling around your body.

Joshua found you again, eventually, like he’d developed a radar for when you needed someone nearby without being on top of you. He walked up with two lemon popsicles and handed you one wordlessly. You took it without question.

“Everyone’s trying to see who can stay in the water longest,” he said, watching Soonyoung and Seungcheol yell nonsense from waist-deep in the waves. “The winner gets nothing, but apparently pride is enough.”

You licked the popsicle. “Tell that to Jihoon, looks like he’s two seconds from punching someone.”

Joshua smiled. “That is Jihoon’s version of a good time.”

You watched the others for a while, the popsicle dripping down your fingers, the sky so blue it hurt a little. Joshua didn’t fill the space with questions or commentary. He just stood beside you, eating his own at a steady pace, like there was no urgency to anything.

“You’re quiet,” you said after a while, not sure why.

He shrugged. “You are too.”

“Yeah, but I’m quiet because I’m overthinking everything.”

Joshua turned his head toward you slightly. “And I’m quiet because I’m not.”

You huffed a laugh at that. “Must be nice.”

He hadn’t answered, but his smile tugged at the corner of his mouth again, and for a split second you let yourself look at him properly. His eyelashes were longer than they had any right to be, his nose slightly pink from the sun. His expression was open, steady, warm in a way you weren’t sure how to hold.

Being reckless was never allowed when I grew up. I always strived for perfection, at least my parents’ view of it, never giving myself any room to breathe. I worked hard, did what I needed to do, and never slacked off. I remember looking down on the kids that would have fun during recess instead of studying, wondering how they ever thought they’d succeed in life with that attitude. Now I know it was just jealousy, they were allowed to have fun. For years I kept that mindset, never sneaking out, never getting into trouble.

You were my breath of fresh air, in a way. 

Eventually, the others managed to drag you deeper into the water, jumping over waves and splashing each other happily. You let yourself live in the moment for a little, shoulders soaked, laughter catching in your throat like it had been waiting there for years. The ocean tugged at your legs and you let it pull some of the weight off your chest, let it rinse the fear out of your bones. Someone had brought a beach ball and a poor game of keep-away broke out—chaotic and uncoordinated, but it didn’t matter. You were smiling.

You hadn’t realized Joshua was watching you until you stumbled backward, tripping slightly in the sand, and he was there—steadying you with one hand to your arm, his touch light but grounding.

“Got you,” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal and didn’t make your heart stutter in your chest.

You glanced at him, trying to catch your breath and not let him see it. “Thanks.”

His hand lingered just a second longer than it needed to, then dropped away. “You looked like you were having fun.”

“I was,” you admitted, and it felt like saying something bigger than it sounded.

The sun dipped lower, the group beginning to scatter—some heading back toward the house, others flopping on the sand to dry off. You and Joshua walked together again, this time slower, your feet leaving long, crooked trails behind you. He carried both your towels. You didn’t ask him to, he just did.

Back at the house, the rest of the evening passed in that golden-tinted blur summer seems to have a monopoly on—music drifting out the windows, the scent of grilled corn and sunscreen in the air, a card game on the porch that nobody really remembered the rules to. You sat on the armrest of Joshua’s chair, one foot tucked beneath you, laughing quietly at Jeonghan’s commentary and Soonyoung’s increasingly wild bluffing strategy. Someone suggested starting a fire pit, like in all the coming-of-age films, so you all gathered around the fire pit in the backyard as Seungcheol started it.

At one point, someone asked for a song. Without hesitation, Joshua picked up his guitar.

“What should I play?” he asked the group.

“Something soft!” Minji called, already leaning back in her seat like she was ready to fall asleep to it.

“Something sad,” Jun added, “so I can pretend I’m in a breakup montage.”

Joshua had laughed, the sound light and beautiful, music in and of itself. He looked down at his guitar, fingers adjusting on the strings. He started to play—something slow, easy, and melancholy. You didn’t recognize the song, but you didn’t need to. It said enough. You watched him through the golden firelight, head tilted just enough to see the focus in his face. His voice, when he sang, was soft but steady, the kind of sound that wrapped around a room rather than cutting through it.

And when he looked up in the middle of a verse, eyes meeting yours for the briefest second—You forgot how to breathe. The flicker of the fire reflected in the warmth of his eyes, painting him in its yellows and oranges, the light curling around each strand of his hair and dancing across his face.

Later that night, after the fire pit had burned down and everyone had either gone to bed or passed out inside, you stood on the back deck alone, hoodie zipped up against the breeze, looking out at the stars.

Joshua came up beside you without a word, arms folded on the railing.

“I always forget how many stars you can see outside the city,” he murmured.

“Me too.”

The silence between you felt full, not empty. Comfortable. Safe.

“I’m glad you came,” he said after a moment, voice low.

You swallowed, heart bumping into your ribs. “I almost didn’t.”

“Why not?”

You thought of your parents. The pressure. The version of yourself you left behind every time you smiled too easily or sat too still. “Didn’t think I’d fit in.”

Joshua looked at you then, really looked. “You do.”

And it wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said it. Like a fact. Like he meant it. Like you could believe it, just for a little while.

That night, as you lay in bed beside a softly snoring Minji, your fingers itched to write again. You pulled out your laptop, the screen glowing softly as you wrote of a boy who glowed brighter than any star.

~

The rest of the week passed with the same ease, full of laughter and bad jokes, and before you knew it, you were once again in the backseat of Seungcheol’s SUV, Minji and Joshua beside you still. This time on the ride back, you were all singing together, much to Jihoon’s dismay, loud, semi-off-key, and blissful. You sang louder than you meant to, too tired to care, the kind of tired that came from sunburns and saltwater and smiling too much. Minji clapped off-beat, leaning against your shoulder this time, and Joshua’s thigh pressed warm against yours as he tried and failed to harmonize. The windows were cracked, the wind rushing in, and every now and then someone would shout the wrong lyric just to make Jeonghan groan. At some point, Jihoon gave up entirely and buried his face in a hoodie, headphones cranked up as loud as they’d go. The rest of you kept going, undeterred. Every voice melded into the next, creating something less like music and more like memory.

And Joshua—God, Joshua—he looked over at you during one of the slower songs. Not a love song, not really, but something nostalgic, full of yearning and soft crescendos. His gaze was steady, soft, like it had been since the moment he sat beside you on the porch steps days ago. You didn’t look away that time. You held it, let it settle in your chest.

You didn’t say anything when he passed you his phone later, the screen opened on the contacts page with a new one open for you to put your number in. He didn’t ask if he could text you. He didn’t need to.

You saved the contact as Joshua 🎸, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a second too long before you put the phone down and let your head fall back against the seat.

You didn’t text him.

Not that week, not the week after. You told yourself it was because life had picked up again. That the weight of being who you had to be came crashing down the second you got home—internship applications, catching up on summer coursework, sitting across from your parents at dinner and pretending that you weren’t always bracing for disappointment.

But the truth was this: you didn’t text him because you didn’t trust yourself to. Because there was something about the way he looked at you—like you were already unraveling and he didn’t mind—that made you want to run straight into him and never look back. And you weren’t ready for that.

Not back then.

So you tucked the summer into the back of your mind like a pressed flower in an old journal. Left untouched, but never forgotten. You went back to your life, your structure, your goals. And the next time you saw him again… it wasn’t a beach, or a fire pit, or under the stars.

It was a classroom.

Fall semester. Culture Studies. Second row, left side.

He sat next to you like no time had passed at all.

Smiled, eyes crinkling, voice soft:

“Hey. I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

And just like that—

A breath caught in your chest.

I think I’ve always been careful with my heart—not out of wisdom, but fear. I learned early on that wanting too much was dangerous, that letting someone in meant giving them the tools to undo you. So I stayed guarded, measured. I convinced myself that I was better off alone, that solitude was strength. And then you came along—not loud, not forceful, just present. You didn’t try to pull the walls down. You just stood outside them long enough that I started to wonder what it would be like to open the door. It’s a strange feeling, wanting to be seen and being terrified of it at the same time. I keep catching myself watching you when you’re not looking, wondering what you see when you look back at me.

I don’t know how to let someone in without losing myself, even though now I’m trying.

You and Joshua formed a small study group with Minghao, one of the new freshmen who was in the class as well. Your days were spent at cafés and libraries, sneaking glances and laughing as if you’d known each other for years. Minghao integrated himself into the friend group quickly, and soon enough the little study group became weekly hangouts with everyone. 

Minji made a friend in her figure drawing class, Luv, who brought her Communications major boyfriend, Seokmin, who dragged his friend Mingyu from Architecture. Just like that your group of nine became twelve, but still managed to feel seamless and tight-knit. Still, it would get slightly overwhelming sometimes, and although you thought you hid it well, Joshua started inviting you to the cafés alone, saying he couldn’t focus around everyone. The look in his eyes gave it away though, that he was really doing it for you.

Eventually, it became a ritual—every Tuesday and Thursday, like clockwork, even if the whole group was hanging out later, he’d still find time for the two of you. Some days you talked more than you studied. Some days you didn’t talk at all. And on the days when your thoughts felt too loud, when you couldn’t stop spiraling about grades and expectations and whether or not you were living the life you actually wanted—he didn’t try to fix it. He just sat there, steady and reliable.

And maybe that was what got to you most of all.

He didn’t ask questions you couldn’t answer.

He just kept showing up.

On a Tuesday after all your classes had ended, the kind that blurred into a quiet hum—gray skies, too many assignments, not enough sleep. The kind of day that wrapped itself around your shoulders like a weighted blanket and refused to let go.

You’d holed up in the library with Joshua, as usual. Your table in the corner had become something of an unofficial claim—charger cords and scribbled notes, half empty coffee cups and stolen glances. The rain had started sometime around four, soft and steady against the tall windows, and hadn’t let up since.

The overhead lights were warm and low, the world outside already swallowed by night, as you’d long since stopped paying attention to the time. Your eyes burned from staring at your screen, fingers twitching as you backspaced the same sentence for the fifth time. Across from you, Joshua stretched in his seat, shirt riding up slightly as he yawned behind one hand. 

“I think my brain is broken,” he said, voice rough with sleepiness. “Like, permanently. I don’t even know what I’ve been reading for the past ten minutes.”

You snorted. “Same. I’m pretty sure I just tried to cite Wikipedia in APA format.”

He grimaced. “We’ve hit rock bottom.”

You smiled tiredly, closing your laptop with a soft click. “We should probably go before they lock us in here overnight.”

Joshua glanced toward the windows. The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it had picked up, water streaming steadily down the glass in long rivulets.

You frowned. “Is it still pouring?”

He checked his phone, winced. “Yeah. You didn’t bring an umbrella?”

You shook your head. “I didn’t even bring a jacket. It wasn’t supposed to rain today.”

Joshua made a thoughtful noise, then stood and reached behind his chair to grab his hoodie. It was oversized, worn-in, a faded navy blue with a small embroidered patch near the cuff.

“Here,” he said, holding it out.

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled, eyes soft but unassuming. “It’s warm. You’ll freeze on the walk back.”

You hesitated. “What about you?”

Joshua shrugged. “I’ll survive.”

You didn’t reach for it right away. There was something about the gesture—so simple, so unspoken—that made your throat go tight. Not just because it was thoughtful, not just because he noticed, but because he always noticed. Without fanfare, without asking for anything in return.

You took it carefully, fingers brushing just barely.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He gave a small smile, one hand raking through his hair. “No problem.”

You didn’t put it on until you were outside, beneath the awning. The rain was heavier than it looked from inside, cold and relentless. You pulled the hoodie over your head and let it swallow you whole. It smelled like him—like laundry detergent and cinnamon and something else you couldn’t name. You walked side by side under the streetlights, sneakers splashing in shallow puddles. He didn’t try to talk. Just kept pace with you, close enough that your arms brushed occasionally, and you let them. By the time you got back to your dorm, your legs were damp, your socks wet, but you didn’t care.

You tugged the hoodie tighter around you. “I’ll wash it before I give it back.”

Joshua looked at you, his hair damp from the rain, the light catching in his eyes in a way that made your heart trip over itself.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said easily. “It looks good on you.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but nothing came out. So instead, you nodded.

“Night, Joshua.”

“Night,” he said, smiling like it wasn’t just another goodbye.

You closed the door behind you and stood there for a long moment, water dripping from your sleeves onto the floor. The hoodie clung to your skin like something you shouldn’t get used to.

And still—you didn’t take it off.

I’ve always been the observant one. The quiet one who watched more than I spoke, who picked up on the shift in tone before anyone else even noticed a change. I think it started with my parents—how their voices would get tight over dinner, how silence wasn’t really silence but a warning. I learned early on how to read the room like a second language: when to disappear, when to smile, when not to ask questions. It’s strange, how survival skills turn into personality traits. Now, even in rooms that are safe, I’m still scanning for tension like it’s my job. Still listening for the quiet before the storm.

You didn’t mean to start memorizing the way he smiled, but you did.

The way one corner of his mouth lifted first. The way his eyes crinkled when he was amused, but not surprised. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was listening to something you hadn’t said yet. You caught yourself writing about it later, in the margins of your notes. A small character sketch here. A description tucked into a pretend dialogue. At first, you told yourself it was just how your brain worked—you’d always been too observant for your own good, but deep down, you knew better. He was becoming a habit. A comfortable one that curled around the edges of your day and lingered long after he was gone.

That winter came faster than expected. Midterms blurred into Thanksgiving, and before you knew it, snow had started to fall. Not heavily, delicate soft flakes swirling down through streetlights like something out of a movie. You’d been walking home from another group study session, hands jammed in your coat pockets, brain fried from too much caffeine and too little sleep, when you felt someone nudge your arm with theirs.

Joshua.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just fell into step beside you, his scarf pulled up around his mouth, eyes crinkled with quiet warmth.

“It’s snowing,” he said, as if you couldn’t already tell. “First snow of the year.”

You looked up, letting a flake land on your cheek. “Feels like we skipped fall.”

Joshua glanced at you, his breath fogging the air. “It went by too fast, huh?”

That stopped you.

Because it had.

The semester was rushing by. You were rushing by. And somewhere in all of it, this—whatever this was with him—had gone from tentative to familiar. Tuesdays and Thursdays turned into Fridays too, and sometimes Saturdays. Group dinners, one-on-one coffees, passing notes during class even when you knew you’d see each other later. The way he’d easily slipped into your life scared you, so you just nodded in response.

The night before winter break, you and the group gathered at Seokmin’s apartment for what had been dubbed “Midterms Are Over, We Deserve to Be Dumb” night. Mingyu showed up with four boxes of takeout and zero utensils, Soonyoung brought cheap champagne, Jeonghan brought a speaker and declared himself DJ for the night, which lasted until someone dared Jun to change the playlist and chaos ensued.

You wore Joshua’s hoodie—not because you’d forgotten to give it back, but because you hadn’t. He didn’t say anything when he saw you in it, just offered that same soft, steady smile that always seemed to pull the floor out from under you. Later, after the food had been eaten and the lights dimmed and someone had turned on a movie nobody was really watching, you found yourselves in the kitchen together. You were refilling your drink, he was leaning against the counter, nursing a soda. You stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, quiet for a moment as the voices from the living room faded into background noise.

“You heading home for break?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just for a bit.”

Joshua took a slow sip. “You okay about it?”

You hesitated. “I’ll manage.”

He looked at you—really looked—and it felt like the kind of look that saw more than it was supposed to.

“Call me if it gets bad,” he said simply. Not dramatic, not demanding, just there.

You smiled, tired and grateful. “You’ll actually pick up?”

He laughed. “I’ll always pick up.”

It wasn’t until you were lying in your own bed later that night, watching snow swirl past your dorm window, that those words echoed back to you.

I’ll always pick up.

And for the first time in a long time, the thought of coming back next semester felt like something to look forward to.

You didn’t text more than a few times—mostly updates about weird holiday food and “you won’t believe what my cousin just said” messages. You kept it light and safe, but he stayed in your thoughts anyway, like a song you kept humming without realizing it.

When you returned to campus in January, your heart did that stupid stutter again when you spotted him across the quad, half-buried in his coat, grinning like you’d never left, and this time, you let yourself run to catch up. You let yourself believe in the small, quiet way he was waiting for you. 

Just like that, your study sessions were back on—just the two of you in your favorite corner of the usual café—but Tuesdays and Thursdays became almost every day, and you found yourself not minding.

~

It was late afternoon, just after four, and your laptop had long since stopped being useful. The café’s windows were fogged slightly at the edges, and the warm hum of conversation around you was starting to fade into background static. Joshua sat across from you, pen in hand, lazily doodling something in the corner of his notes. You weren’t paying attention to your own, instead pretending to read an article while sneaking glances at him as he pretended not to notice.

Eventually, he closed his notebook and leaned back in his chair a little, arms crossed loosely. “Hey.”

You didn’t look up right away. “If this is you trying to tell me that I've been staring at the same sentence for the past twenty minutes, don’t.”

He smiled, chuckling. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

You glanced up then, one brow raised. “Oh? Gonna insult my coffee order again?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to get dinner sometime.”

You blinked. “We literally just had coffee.”

“I meant like a real dinner,” he said, easy and unbothered. “Not here. Not after a study session. Just you and me.”

You stared at him, heart skipping once—but your mouth moved faster.

“Wow. Bold move.”

Joshua shrugged, unfazed. “You’ve been wearing my hoodie for two months, I figured the line between bold and obvious had already been crossed.”

You flushed, but hid it behind your cup. “That’s because it’s comfortable.”

He gave you a long look, head tilted. “Right. Of course. You steal my hoodie, hoard my playlists, hijack my fries, but no romantic interest whatsoever.”

You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. “I’m a very complicated person.”

“I know,” he said, like it wasn’t a problem. “That’s part of the reason I like you.”

You paused. Something about the way he said it—so casual, like it didn’t cost him anything to just like you as you were—made your throat go tight.

You looked back down at your screen, scrolling without reading. “If this is your way of trying to guilt me into a pity dinner, it’s not working.”

Joshua smiled, soft and steady. “It’s not pity, it’s an invitation.”

Your fingers tapped your keyboard aimlessly before you quit “Where?”

He blinked, seemingly surprised you were actually entertaining it. “Tiny Korean place, downtown. Family-run, kinda loud, food’s amazing. You’ll pretend to hate it, but you’ll love it.”

You scoffed. “Excuse you, I have excellent taste.”

“That’s why I’m asking.”

You shot him a look. “You’re really not going to stop until I say yes, huh?”

“I’ll stop if you say no,” he replied simply.

The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You bit the inside of your cheek.

“…Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your drink again. “But only because I’m hungry and my fridge is pathetic.”

Joshua’s eyes crinkled as he tried—and failed—to suppress a grin. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you said, standing and stuffing your things into your bag, avoiding eye contact. “It’s not a date. It’s food.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “Food. Saturday?”

You slung your bag over your shoulder. “Whatever.”

But as you turned to go, hoodie sleeves tugged down to cover your hands, he caught your eye one last time and said it with a kind of warmth that made your stomach flip:

“I’m looking forward to it.”

You didn’t reply. You just walked out the door with your face burning and your heart beating too loud.

Saturday came faster than you expected.

You spent way too long picking out an outfit, then told yourself you didn’t care. Spent another ten minutes trying to calm your hair, then gave up entirely. It wasn’t a date, after all. Except it was, and you knew it. And—judging by the stupid way your heart picked up when you spotted Joshua waiting by the curb, leaning casually against his car like he hadn’t been checking the time every five minutes—he knew it too.

He opened the passenger door for you, because of course he did. “Hey.”

You raised a brow. “This whole picking-me-up thing feels dangerously date-adjacent.”

Joshua just smiled. “Guess we’re halfway there already.”

You rolled your eyes, but you got in anyway. His car smelled like his cologne and cinnamon, the aux cord was already connected. Your name was still on the screen from last time you’d hijacked it. The drive was easy, filled with soft music and snarky commentary about other drivers. You liked that about him—he didn’t fill silence with filler. He just let you be.

The plan was dinner. A real one. The restaurant was supposed to be cozy, tucked downtown, hole-in-the-wall enough to feel cool without trying too hard.

The reality?

A handwritten CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT sign taped to the restaurant door and Joshua sheepishly biting back a laugh while you stared at it in betrayal.

“You had one job,” you said, arms crossed.

“I swear it didn’t say anything online,” he replied, trying not to smile. “I even checked the reviews.”

“Did they mention getting stood up in the parking lot, or is that just me?”

Joshua put a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Wow. Cold.”

You sighed, already tugging your seatbelt back on. “You owe me fries. Like, good fries, not soggy disappointment sticks.”

He grinned, already putting the car in gear. “Deal.”

Fifteen minutes later, you were parked beneath the soft orange glow of a streetlamp, a brown paper bag between you, fog slowly blooming across the car windows. The food was hot and messy and way too salty, and everything felt perfect. He handed you your burger and opened his own box with all the grace of someone who had fully embraced the situation. You were still shuffling through a playlist when he reached over and popped open the glove compartment.

Napkins. Dozens of them, all collected from various cafés and takeout orders, some still with logos printed in fading ink.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why do you have a whole ecosystem of napkins in there?”

He looked smug. “Emergency preparedness.”

You laughed despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a hero.”

You shook your head and reached for one anyway. “Alright,” he said, picking through the fries, “first bite rule. You have to rate it on a scale of one to tragic.”

You took a dramatic bite of your burger, chewed with exaggerated thoughtfulness, then pointedly held up six fingers.

“Six?” he scoffed. “You’re a tough crowd.”

“You promised good fries. These are aggressively mediocre.”

“You are aggressively ungrateful.”

“Mm, but charming.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Scarily self-aware for someone eating like a raccoon.”

You threw a napkin at him. He caught it one-handed and used it to wipe a smudge off your cheek without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you'd done this before. Like this wasn’t your first date. 

You both paused. 

Not awkwardly—just… softly, like time hiccupped.

So you made a napkin glove (it was an automatic defense mechanism that popped into your head, okay?). Kind of. Mostly it was just a lot of crumpled paper shoved around your fingers, but you held it up with pride and wiggled it in his face.

“Look,” you said, completely serious. “Art.”

Joshua grinned. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Never been done before.”

“It’s the future of fashion.”

“Can I hire you to do my album cover?”

You looked at him over the rim of your drink. “Only if I get royalties.”

He smiled again—so full, so real, like it lit up his whole face. You felt it in your chest, like a match being struck. The heater hummed softly, your knees brushed. He was close, not just physically, but in the way that made you want to lean in more, to stay longer. The night blurred at the edges, and the city felt quieter than it usually did.

“This was kind of perfect,” you admitted, quietly, when the conversation slowed.

Joshua glanced over. “Yeah?”

You nodded, staring down at the empty fry box in your lap. “Low bar, maybe. But yeah.”

He nudged your foot with his. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I should be saying that to you.”

He smiled, the kind that crept in slowly—corner of his mouth first, then the rest of his face catching up. Outside, the windows had fogged completely, the world beyond the windshield soft and blurred. You were wrapped in warmth and salt and too many napkins. When he walked you to your door, the quiet followed you.

He stood in front of you, hands deep in his jacket pockets, his hair mussed from the car ride. “Thanks for tonight.”

You raised a brow. “Why are you thanking me? I didn’t do anything.”

Joshua laughed, low and warm. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” you said. And you did. You always knew when he was.

There was a pause—not quite silence, but the space before something.

Joshua tilted his head a little. “So… do I get to do this again sometime?”

You tried to keep your voice light. “Only if you promise no more closed restaurants.”

“I can promise to try.”

You huffed a laugh and looked down at your shoes. His hand brushed yours, not quite holding—just a nudge. A question. 

And before you could overthink it, you stepped closer. He looked down, eyes meeting yours, the same softness as always—but this time, there was something else behind it. A held breath. An invitation.

You kissed him.

Not planned, not polished—just a moment folding in on itself, your hand curling in the fabric of his jacket, his mouth warm and careful against yours. He didn’t rush it, didn’t pull away either. His hand found the small of your back like it belonged there. When you broke apart, it wasn’t dramatic. Just a breath. Just him looking at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him in the best possible way. You stepped back, heartbeat thudding like it hadn’t caught up yet.

Joshua blinked. “So…”

You smirked, brushing past him toward your door. “Don’t let that go to your head either.”

He laughed, breathless.

“Night, napkin hoarder,” you called over your shoulder.

“Night,” he replied, still standing there, stunned and glowing.

And as you stepped inside, hoodie still zipped to your chin and your hands tucked in the pockets, you realized something strange.

You already felt like you missed him.

I used to think the goal was to be good at life. To do things the right way, the smart way, the way that made people nod approvingly and say, “She’s doing well.” So I did all the things I was supposed to. Got good grades, smiled politely, made myself agreeable. Learned how to be impressive without being intimidating, kind without being soft, competent without drawing too much attention. And for a while, I thought that meant I was doing it right.

But lately, I’ve started to wonder what I gave up in the process.

It’s a strange feeling, realizing you’re not quite sure who you are outside of your usefulness. That most of your accomplishments feel more like proof of compliance than passion. I used to love staying up late to write, to draw, to imagine other lives, other versions of myself that weren’t so afraid to want things. Now I stay up late answering emails and scrolling through job listings I don’t even want.

You always made it look easy—wanting things. You’d talk about your dreams like they were already real, like you were just on your way to meet them. I used to envy that, quietly. I used to think I’d catch up eventually, once things settled. But they never really did. They just kept moving, and I kept following, waiting for some internal switch to flip and make everything feel meaningful.

You started dating not long after that night. There wasn’t some dramatic confession or big ask—just a shared look, a shift in the air between you, and then a string of days that slowly folded into something you both already knew. He asked, technically—half-laughing, eyes soft, the words “So are we…?” hanging between you like a question with an obvious answer, and of course you said yes. From there, it was easy—easier than you expected—like you’d already been in the rhythm of it before either of you dared to call it love.

He knew what coffee to bring you when you were stressed, you knew when to remind him to eat lunch between classes. He’d send you photos of cats he saw on the way to the bus, you left notes in his hoodie pockets, half-sarcastic, half-sincere. You never had a honeymoon phase. Or maybe you did, and it just felt like a continuation of whatever had already been building since that first beach walk. It wasn’t intense. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was just… comfortable. Like slipping into the version of your life where you didn’t have to explain yourself all the time. Where he just got it. Each day was another with him by your side, making even the most boring chores seem brighter.

The grocery store was colder than it needed to be. You stood in front of the deli section like the wrong choice would change the rest of your night, squinting at plastic trays of pasta and overpromising risotto, all of it under the hum of the flickering light that never got fixed.

Joshua held up a tray of lasagna—beige, sagging, uncertain. “This one looks like it gave up halfway through becoming food.”

You didn’t even flinch. “So basically, it’s us, in edible form.”

He laughed, not the loud kind, but the kind that slipped into the space between you like it belonged there. “Speak for yourself. I still have ambition.”

“Yeah, to eat garbage and call it gourmet.”

Still, you didn’t walk away. He didn’t either. You stayed there, arms brushing every few seconds, letting the refrigerated air chill the part of your brain that had been too warm all day. Eventually, you grabbed the lasagna from him and tossed it into the cart like a surrender. He beamed. You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt a little lighter.

“Dessert?” he asked, already heading for the candy aisle.

“Obviously.”

You bickered about snacks like it was life or death—he swore by Tootsie Roll Pops, you swore by Airheads. He made a passionate argument about the flavors being more emotionally dynamic and lasting longer, you accused him of over-identifying with candy. He bought both, of course. He always did. At checkout, he insisted on scanning every item, pretending the barcode scanner was a lightsaber and making increasingly dramatic ‘pew-pew’ noises. The teenage cashier didn’t blink. You laughed anyway. He looked proud of that. 

You’ve thought about that moment more times than you care to admit—how unremarkable it all was. How perfect.

He opened your door for you without thinking. You clicked your seatbelt while he arranged the bags like you were moving cross-country, not three blocks. His playlist came on automatically—lo-fi beats and a song you’d been obsessed with for three weeks and would pretend not to like in two.

Back at your apartment, you didn’t bother with plates. Just tossed a blanket on the couch and dug in with plastic forks, arguing over who got the corner piece like it mattered. He gave it to you. You gave it back. He took it, grinned, and said, “We’re getting better at compromise.”

You told him he was delusional.

You don’t remember what movie you put on, only that it had subtitles and a lot of pauses. You watched him more than the screen. He watched you too, probably more than you realized at the time. At one point, he leaned against your shoulder, head tilted just enough to make your heartbeat shift, and whispered, “I hope you never get tired of this.”

You’d blinked. “Of lasagna that tastes like regret?”

He smiled like you’d said something profound. “Of us. Like this.”

You didn’t answer. Not really. You just elbowed him gently and reached for another Airhead.

He didn’t say “I love you” that night. But you think he almost did. You think you might’ve heard it in the way he stayed too long after the credits rolled, in the way he carried the trash out without being asked, in the way he paused by the door, looking like he didn’t want to leave.

“Wanna stay?” you’d asked, voice too casual to be casual.

He nodded. “If you don’t mind the world’s worst blanket thief.”

You tossed him a pillow and called him dramatic. He called you soft. Neither of you denied it.

That night, he slept on the couch and you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way his feet stuck out from the end of the blanket, how he always curled toward the cushions like he was trying to take up less space than he deserved. You didn’t write about it that night. Not right away. But later—when things were less clear, when the quiet between you stopped being comfortable—you opened a blank document and wrote about two people deciding between frozen meals like it mattered. You wrote about gummy worms and borrowed playlists, about a boy who didn’t say he loved you but meant it anyway.

You never finished that piece.

You still open it sometimes, reread the lines, move a sentence around and tell yourself it’s editing. You never change the ending. Maybe because it never really had one. Or maybe because it had one and you just didn’t write it down. Sometimes, you wonder if that’s what writing really is—holding onto a version of a moment that felt whole, even if you weren’t. Even if he wasn’t.

You still avoid the frozen food aisle when you’re alone. Not because it hurts. Just because it makes you remember. And you’re not always sure which is worse.

There’s a part of me that will always wonder: if I had been more focused on us instead of not messing us up, maybe things would be different. If I’d told you how much you meant to me, that you were my world and that it scared me to be so attached, I might be able to run into your arms the way I always wanted to. There’s no point in wondering now, but I still find myself writing stories where we end up happy in the end, where I remind you how much I love you every day. Sure, the characters have different names, live in different places, but they’re still always us, or at least what I wished for us.

You didn’t even realize it was your six-month anniversary until Minji reminded you, halfway through a bite of cafeteria pasta.

“Wait—today’s the twenty-third, right?” she asked, frowning at her phone. “You and Joshua started dating on the twenty-third, didn’t you?”

You blinked. “...Did we?”

Luv gave you a look over her pasta. “Don’t you remember your own relationship?”

You shrugged, but you were smiling. “I guess I didn’t really think about it, since we just kind of slipped into everything.”

“Yeah, into disgustingly domestic bliss,” Minji muttered. “What are you guys doing tonight?”

You checked your calendar out of instinct. “Uh, he said something about dinner. Wouldn’t tell me where.”

Luv narrowed her eyes. “He planned something.”

You laughed. “Relax. It’s Joshua. It’s probably dinner and a walk.”

“You say that like it’s not the dream.”

You were wrong, for the record. It wasn’t just dinner. He picked you up with flowers. Tiny yellow petals in a paper-wrapped bundle, already drooping a little from being carried around campus all afternoon.

“They’re a little sad-looking,” he admitted. “But they reminded me of you.”

You squinted. “Um. Thank you?”

“Hopeful. Beautiful. A little chaotic.” He held them out with a sheepish grin. “I meant it nicely.”

You rolled your eyes but took them anyway, hiding your smile in the petals.

You knew it was sweet. You knew most people would melt over it—and you did—but it also made your chest tighten, just a little. Because the more perfect it felt, the more aware you were of the quiet voice in the back of your head whispering: don’t mess this up.

He took you to a cozy Italian restaurant—the one he’d been planning on taking you on that first date. The food was good, the conversation was easy, and you made each other laugh in the same rhythm you always did—like there was no room for awkwardness anymore. Yet still, somewhere beneath all that warmth, a flicker of unease curled in your stomach.

How long could this really last?

You didn’t know where the thought came from. It just appeared, uninvited. Maybe because it felt too good, like something you weren’t sure you were allowed to keep. You’d always been better at preparing for the fall than trusting the height.

After dinner, he didn’t take you straight home. Instead, he pulled into a quiet overlook by the river. The kind of place that would’ve felt cliché with anyone else, but just felt right with him. He passed you a napkin from the glove compartment when your ice cream dripped down your wrist.

You teased him about it, he teased you back. The breeze was cool, the sky was fading into pinks and purples as night fell.

And somewhere in the middle of it, he turned to you, voice soft but sure.

“You’re my favorite person.”

You froze. Not outwardly—but something in your ribs pulled tight.

“That’s dangerous,” you responded.

He smiled, open and unguarded. “What, being honest?”

“No,” you said, quieter. “Making me want to say it back.”

You did anyway. Not in words—you couldn’t—but you leaned across the console and kissed him, soft and steady, like a promise you weren’t sure you could keep but wanted to make anyway. For a moment, it was all so warm, so close, so real.

Later, on the drive home, you watched his fingers on the wheel, the way he tapped to the beat of the music. You could feel it again—that fear pressing up against the edges of your chest, cold where everything else was soft.

He looked at you like you were everything, but you knew, deep down, you didn’t believe you could be. You held his hand anyway and told yourself that was enough, but some part of you was already bracing. Just in case.

~

The first time Joshua told you he loved you, it had been a normal day. You’d been dating for seven or eight months at that point, and he had been over at your house, laying on your couch and watching TV as you typed away on your computer, doing a report on The Myth of Daedalus and Icarus for your Ancient Greek Lit class. You remember the way his eyes were focused on you, not whatever show played on the screen, because you called him out on it.

“What?” You’d asked, glancing up to meet his gaze, thrown off by how soft it was.

He’d blinked like he’d been caught doing something he didn’t mean to, but didn’t look away. “Nothing,” he responded, then added, after a pause, “You’re just really beautiful when you’re focused.”

You’d snorted, typing another line without missing a beat. “Cheesy.”

Joshua laughed, the quiet kind, like he knew you were deflecting but didn’t mind. “Yeah,” he agreed, “but true.”

He’d gone quiet after that, letting the room fill again with the sounds of the sitcom on the TV and your fingers tapping at the keys. He stayed like that for a long time—long enough that you forgot he was watching again until he shifted a little closer, until you felt his warmth bleeding into your side.

And then, casual like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he was commenting on the weather,

“I love you.”

You’d stopped typing mid-sentence. The cursor blinked against the white of the screen like it was waiting for you to catch up, but your brain was still buffering, caught somewhere between the unexpected softness of his voice and the flutter that had leapt into your chest.

You turned to him slowly, brows drawn together. “What?”

He smiled, the kind of smile that curled at the corners and settled into his eyes. “I love you,” he repeated, this time with a little shrug, like he wasn’t offering you anything to carry, just telling you something true. “Just thought you should know.”

And you had no idea what to say.

You weren’t even sure how you felt about it—not because you didn’t care about him, but because the words felt so big. Too big. You didn’t know if you believed in love, not really, not after all the ways people had made it conditional in your life. But Joshua just said it, like it wasn’t a condition at all. Like it was just there.

You’d blinked at him, unsure, quiet. Then, instead of saying it back, you’d asked, “Aren’t you supposed to say that when we’re, like, having a moment?”

Joshua grinned. “This is a moment.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, too. “You’re ridiculous.”

He reached over and poked your cheek gently. “Yeah.”

You had huffed a laugh, rolled your eyes as Joshua leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple before settling back into the couch.

You didn’t say anything else that day—not about the I love you, not about how your heart had soared before sinking to your stomach, sinking to your feet the same way Icarus fell to the ocean. Even so, that night, after he left, you opened a new document and wrote ten pages of a love story you’d never finish.

~

When Joshua told you his mom was coming into town and wanted to meet you, you nearly had an aneurysm. You had been mid-sip of your latte, which immediately went down the wrong pipe, making you cough so hard you almost knocked over your laptop.

“She what?”

He was calm, automatically passing you a napkin while he responded. “She just wants to meet you. She’s been asking since month three, but I told her I’d wait until you were comfortable.”

“And you think I’m comfortable now?”

He tilted his head, sipping his tea like you weren’t spiraling. “Aren’t you?”

You stared at him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he said, without missing a beat.

You remember preparing like it was a job interview. A sweater—not too fancy, not too casual. Clean jeans. A bag packed with emergency gum, hand sanitizer, and half a pack of tissues in case you cried (you wouldn’t, but still). Joshua just laughed when he saw how stiff you were in the mirror.

“She’s going to love you,” he said, adjusting your sleeve gently and rubbing your back.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said, eyes warm and certain. “Because you’re you.”

You hated how much that softened you.

His mom met you at a little café downtown, the kind with handmade mugs and mismatched furniture. She stood the second you walked in, arms open like she’d known you forever.

“Oh my gosh—you’re even prettier than in the pictures,” she said, pulling you into a hug before you could stop her.

You stiffened, unsure where to put your arms, how long to hold on, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did, and didn’t care. She smelled like jasmine and peppermint, and her laugh came easy.

“Hi,” you managed, awkward and too formal. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hong.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, please, call me Mom.”

Your brain short-circuited. She sat across from you, immediately launching into stories—about Joshua as a kid, about their family dog, about her terrible driving. You didn’t have to say much, she filled every silence like she hated to see space unused, but not in a way that demanded anything from you. It wasn’t pressure, just presence.

At one point, she leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Has he shown you his baby pictures yet? No? Ohhh, you’re in for a treat.”

Joshua groaned. “Mom—”

“She needs to see the bowl cut. I insist.”

You laughed—a real laugh. So real it startled you. When her hand had brushed yours over the table, you didn’t flinch. Just looked down at it and thought about how different it felt—gentle, curious. Not weighing you. Not measuring your worth. You weren’t used to that.

Later, when she left—hugging you again, kissing Joshua on the cheek, making you promise to visit over break—you stood beside him on the sidewalk in stunned silence.

“She hugged me,” you said dumbly.

Joshua nodded. “Twice.” He confirmed.

“She meant it.”

He smiled sideways at you. “Of course she did.”

You didn’t answer—you couldn’t—because what you really wanted to say was that’s not normal for you. You wanted to say, my mom once called me dramatic for crying at my graduation or my dad said love is earned. But you didn’t. 

Instead, you slipped your hand into his, quiet and steady. You didn’t know how to say thank you for things you didn’t know you needed. But you squeezed his fingers, and he squeezed back like he heard it anyway.

Growing up, my parents always told me writing was a useless hobby, and being an author was a fruitless job. Now, as I sit in my apartment, typing yet another page, I wonder if they were wrong.  Of course I’d listened to them, like I always did. Chose the safe path, got the degree, accepted the job offer, and found myself in an office with boring beige walls and a badge to clip on my blazer. I learned to say things like “per my last email” and “looping back”, made spreadsheets, sat through meetings that could’ve been emails and nodded at my boss like I was grateful for the opportunity. They’d always said growing up wasn’t fun, and it's moments like now that make me wonder if they were just doing it wrong. If I am. You never seemed to have that problem, but then again, sometimes I think I never looked hard enough.

It went differently when he met your parents, as expected. The semester had ended, and you weren’t allowed to go on the beach trip like the year prior, instead having to go home and take care of your younger sister, Bella. She’d been “rebelling,” according to your parents, which could have meant anything from refusing to memorize the school’s motto to sneaking out to party. You never got the full story—just a text from your mom with a time and a list of rules, followed by a thinly veiled threat about "setting a good example."

So you went, and Joshua, because he was Joshua, offered to drive you. Just drop you off, he’d said at first, but the closer you got to your hometown, the more the silence thickened, and at one point—fifteen minutes from your street—you’d looked at him and asked, “Do you want to meet them?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

You weren’t sure if you meant it or why you even offered, but it was too late after that.

They were polite.

Your dad opened the door with that measured expression he wore to fundraisers and board meetings—neutral with a pinch of skepticism. Your mom smiled, the tight kind, eyes flicking over Joshua’s outfit, his hands, his posture.

“You didn’t mention he played guitar,” she said after introductions, not as a compliment.

Joshua smiled anyway. “Mostly just for fun.”

They didn’t laugh. Bella waved from the staircase, wearing a hoodie that probably wasn’t hers and chewing gum in a way that made your mother twitch. You wished you could sit with her instead. You wished you could disappear entirely.

Dinner was a slow ache. Joshua tried to help with dishes afterward, but your mother insisted he sit. She asked about his major, his GPA, what his father did for work, and Joshua answered every question with patience, that soft steadiness you adored in him. You watched his knuckles whiten slightly around his water glass. Your dad interrupted him twice.

At one point, your mom said, “It’s good that you’re helping her stay focused. She tends to get… distracted.”

And Joshua said nothing. He didn’t argue, but he looked at you like he knew how hard you were biting the inside of your cheek.

Later, in your childhood bedroom—after everyone had gone to bed, after you’d laid down and stared at your old ceiling fan like it might have answers—you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Joshua looked over at you from the makeshift bed you’d set up for him on the floor. He smiled softly. “Don’t be.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’ve been through worse,” he said, like it was a joke. It wasn’t.

You turned your face toward the wall, the soft thrum of the fan masking the rise of your heartbeat. “I thought… I hoped maybe they’d be different this time.”

His voice was so quiet you almost missed it. “They don’t know how to love you.”

Your breath caught. “Don’t say that.”

He hesitated. “Okay.”

But you both knew it was true.

He left in the morning, but you found a folded note in your hoodie pocket. His handwriting, familiar and neat, written on the back of one of Bella’s old homework assignments.

You’re not the person they try to make you be.

You’re more. You always have been.

I’m proud of you for coming home anyway.

I’ll see you when school starts again, don’t forget to call.

Love you

You didn’t cry, but you kept the note. You still have it, actually. Tucked into the back of your journal, under a page with a half-written poem about ceilings and silence. The ink’s smudged a little, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. You reread it sometimes when you feel yourself folding in again. Just to remember what it felt like, to be seen like that. To be chosen.

Even when you couldn't choose yourself.

~

You’d learned pretty quickly what your parents meant by “rebellious” when you caught a boy trying to sneak in through the wrong window. It was just past midnight, you were at your desk, headphones in but not playing anything, too mentally fried from summer class readings to focus but not tired enough to sleep. That’s when you heard it—a faint clink, then the rustle of leaves, and something brushing against the siding outside your window.

You got up and peered through the blinds, heart already preparing for the worst. There he was: a boy, halfway through climbing to the study, balancing awkwardly with a tote bag slung over his shoulder. He was laughing under his breath, the sound muffled by effort.

You opened your window. “You do realize there’s nothing in there, right?”

He nearly slipped off the ledge. “Oh—sorry! I didn’t know anyone was awake. Bella said this was the right one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?”

“Chan,” he whispered, lifting the tote as if that explained everything. “We’re in the same class. I brought her strawberry milk. It’s her favorite.”

You blinked. He looked… harmless. Earnest, even. His socks didn’t match and his hoodie had little stars embroidered on the sleeves.

You sighed, already giving in. “Use the tree and climb into this room, Bella’s in the room next to mine. That’s the study.”

His whole face lit up. “You’re the best. Seriously.”

You didn’t answer—just shook your head as he dropped down to instead scale the tree outside your window and climb in, thanking you again before sneaking into Bella’s room.

When you peeked in later, expecting chaos or whispered schemes, you were met with soft lamplight and the smell of strawberry milk. Bella was curled up in bed, legs tangled in a blanket, flipping through flashcards while Chan sat on the floor with his back to the wall, their pinkies barely touching between them.

“Oh,” Bella said when she noticed you. “You’re still up.”

You stepped into the room. “I am, why are you?”

“We’re studying,” she said. “I have a quiz tomorrow.”

Chan nodded, serious. “I quizzed her six times already. She only missed one.”

Bella looked proud. “It was ‘ephemeral.’ I got cocky.”

You tried not to smile. “And sneaking him in was… necessary for vocab retention?”

Bella shrugged, but there was a blush blooming in her cheeks. “He knows I get nervous when I study. It’s easier when he’s here.”

You looked between them—at the books, the snacks, the little pinky touch—and something tugged at your chest. They weren’t doing anything wrong. They were just being. Sweet. Simple. Young.

“You really like him,” you said, not as an accusation.

Bella nodded. “I do.”

It was so certain, so easy.

You glanced at Chan. “You like her too?”

He nodded, just as serious. “I’ve liked her since she gave me her extra glue stick in fourth grade.”

Bella laughed, reaching down to poke his knee. “You always bring that up.”

“Because it was a defining moment in my life.”

You sat at the edge of the bed, folding one leg beneath you. “You’re not rebellious.”

She tilted her head. “I know.”

“Then why do they think you are?”

Bella looked down at her flashcards. “Because I want things.”

You swallowed because that landed much harder than it should have.

She looked up again, softening. “They raised us to be good. I think I just want to be… happy, too.”

You didn’t answer in words, you just leaned forward and pulled her into a hug—awkward and sudden, but needed. She went without resistance.

Chan looked like he was trying very hard not to intrude on the moment. You reached out and ruffled his hair as you pulled back. “You break her heart, I break your kneecaps.”

He nodded solemnly. “Reasonable.”

Bella laughed so hard she snorted, and you found yourself smiling, really smiling, for the first time in days.

That night, when you got back to your room, you sat on your bed in the quiet, phone in your hand, Joshua’s name at the top of your messages. You stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering.

Then you typed:

"My sister's in love. It's kind of gross. Also adorable. Do you still have the playlist from the deli lasagna night?"

He replied before you could even lock your screen:

"Of course. Also, I love how you say 'gross' when you mean 'I’m feeling things and I’m scared.'"

You rolled your eyes and smiled into your pillow.

Maybe being a little rebellious wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

~

When you’d told Joshua you’d never been to an amusement park before, he’d almost passed out from shock before dragging you to one the next weekend. You’d tried to argue, saying it wasn’t that big of a deal, that it was just one of those things you never got around to—but Joshua had looked at you like you’d just confessed a great personal tragedy. He was already pulling up ticket prices before you could finish your excuse.

“No childhood rollercoaster trauma?” he asked, peering at you suspiciously as the page loaded. “No fear of clowns or funnel cake?”

“Not unless you count my mom calling anything fun a waste of time,” you replied, only half-joking. “She said the Ferris wheel was basically paying to sit still in the sky.”

Joshua had frowned at that, the kind of frown that tugged at the corners of his mouth and sat deep in his eyes, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to put it. He didn’t press you, though. Just bought the tickets and sent you the confirmation with the caption: you’re about to experience joy, please prepare accordingly. You’d laughed, called him dramatic, and pretended you weren’t nervous.

That Saturday, he’d shown up at your door grinning and holding a giant water bottle and a pack of Advil like you were about to hike the Alps.

“Trust me,” he said, slipping his fingers through yours as you locked your door. “You’re gonna need this after four consecutive loops on the Cyclone.”

The amusement park was crowded and loud and aggressively colorful. You’d felt overwhelmed the moment you stepped through the gates—too many kids screaming, too many smells of fried sugar and sunscreen—but Joshua’s hand was warm and steady in yours, grounding you. He navigated the chaos like he’d grown up in it, dragging you from ride to ride with the giddy confidence of someone showing off a secret hideout.

You hadn’t expected to like it—you told yourself you were just humoring him—but somewhere between the bumper cars and the second round of cotton candy, you’d started laughing—really laughing—the kind that made your stomach hurt and your eyes water. Joshua had this way of making the world feel a little less sharp. Like maybe the point of life wasn’t to be productive, but to scream your lungs out on a ride that made no sense and taste everything twice just in case it was better the second time.

After the sun dipped low and the lights began to flicker on, you found yourselves at the Ferris wheel. It looked taller in person than it had in the pictures, the cars creaking gently as they rotated upward into the purple sky.

You’d hesitated, eyeing the height. “This is basically paying to sit still in the sky.”

Joshua grinned, pulling you gently forward. “Exactly. Your mom would hate it.”

You laughed, breathless, and followed him into the car. At the top, with the wind tugging softly at your hair and the whole park glittering beneath you, Joshua had gone quiet. You glanced over to find him watching you again, that same look in his eyes—the one that made your chest ache a little, like maybe he saw something you didn’t believe was there.

“What?” you’d asked, softer this time.

He shook his head. “Nothing. You just look happy.”

You didn’t respond right away, once again you didn’t know how to. But you’d reached out and laced your fingers with his again, like maybe that could say what you couldn’t.

Later, you wrote about a girl who learns to fly, not because she wants to escape, but because someone teaches her the sky isn’t as scary as it looks. You still haven’t finished that story either.

I’ve always been afraid of big steps. The kind that changes things—the kind you can’t undo once they’re taken. Moving in, saying I love you, letting someone stay. They’ve always felt too heavy in my hands, like I wasn’t built to carry that kind of closeness. I used to imagine those moments with dread, not joy. Like they were cliffs instead of bridges. But with you, somehow, it didn’t feel like falling. It felt like breathing. I’m now realizing that maybe love isn’t about being ready. Maybe it’s about finding the person who makes you forget you were ever afraid. I wonder how different things would be if I’d realized sooner.

You saw Joshua more that summer, he’d come around to see you, was respectful to your parents, and would take you on dates, or “rescue you” as he’d call it. He met Bella, they got along better than you’d ever hoped, and everything felt… nice. Lighter.

On one date, you were halfway through your bowl of spicy noodles when Joshua said, “So, how do you feel about mold?”

You blinked. “Like… as a concept?”

“As a roommate.”

You arched a brow. “Depends. Is it paying rent?”

Joshua shrugged, sipping from his water like he hadn’t just opened with a completely deranged question. “There’s this one place I looked at. Great light, quiet street, shower pressure from God himself. But there’s… a corner. In the kitchen. It’s not technically mold yet, but it’s definitely manifesting.”

You winced. “Yeah, no— I’m not looking to catch the plague before graduation.”

“That’s what I said. The landlord offered to knock fifty bucks off if I ‘wasn’t picky.’”

You laughed, spearing another bite. “He basically said, ‘you might die slightly faster, but you’ll die fifty bucks richer.’”

Joshua grinned. “Exactly.”

There was a pause. The restaurant was mostly empty, a quiet Tuesday night glow settling over everything. His chopsticks tapped the side of his bowl once, idly.

“I saw a studio that looked nice,” you offered, “but it’s like three buses from campus, and I’d have to live above a bar called ‘Moist.’ So…”

Joshua gagged audibly. “You can’t live above something named Moist. That’s how people get haunted.”

“By what? The ghost of poor branding?”

“That—and regret. And spilled beer.”

You shook your head, smiling into your bowl. “Ugh. Why is apartment hunting so exhausting? I haven’t even seen anything in person yet and I already feel emotionally betrayed.”

“Because it’s not really about apartments,” Joshua said, in that quiet way he had when he meant something under the surface. “It’s about deciding how you want to live. Who you want around. What kind of mornings you want to wake up to.”

You glanced at him, caught off-guard by how soft his expression had gone. There was sesame oil on the corner of his mouth. You reached across the table to wipe it off out of habit.

“I just want a place where the fridge works and I don’t get robbed walking home,” you said, voice lighter.

“Fair,” he said, then paused. “What if… what if we lived together?”

You blinked. “What?”

Joshua looked calm. Casual. Like he did every time he sent your brain into a tailspin. “I’m serious. We’re already together most of the time. We like the same coffee, we split grocery bills, you steal my hoodies, and I know you hate overhead lighting.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You make that sound like a romantic résumé.”

He pointed at you with his chopsticks. “Exactly. Look at us—so compatible.”

You laughed, loud and sudden. “Joshua, moving in is a big thing.”

“I know,” he said, unbothered. “But… so is looking for a place in this hellscape of a rental market. And I like you. A lot. I like the idea of waking up and knowing I get to see you. I like that you talk to yourself while you write and pretend you don’t. I like that you keep trying to teach me how to cook and pretend I’m not a lost cause.”

You stared at him. “Are you saying you want to move in with me… because you’re bad at sautéing onions?”

He smirked. “I’m saying maybe we could make a place feel like home together.”

Your stomach flipped in that quiet, terrifying way it always did when Joshua said something sweet like it wasn’t a big deal. Like love wasn’t a heavy word, but something you could tuck into your pocket and carry around without noticing the weight.

You toyed with your chopsticks. “So what would this hypothetical home look like?”

“No overhead lights, a kettle, some shelves for all your books, one of those couches that’s ugly but too comfortable to get rid of, plants you’ll forget to water so I’ll do it, a fridge with sticky notes on it, and a drawer just for your favorite snacks so I don’t eat them when I’m desperate at 2 a.m.”

You swallowed.

“You’ve thought about this,” you said.

“Of course I have,” he said, with no hesitation. “Haven’t you?”

You hadn’t let yourself—didn’t want to hope— but sitting there, watching him sketch a future out of air and sesame noodles and softly spoken intentions felt less like a leap and more like the next step you’d already taken, just hadn’t admitted out loud. You reached over to take a bite from his bowl.

“If you steal my leftovers in the middle of the night,” you said, “I’m changing the Wi-Fi password.”

Joshua leaned back, eyes crinkling with his grin. “So is that a yes?”

You didn’t say it.

You just smiled and said, “Only if the fridge has space for soda.”

And that was enough.

~

Apartment hunting had been anything but easy. There was the place with the ceiling fan that threatened to decapitate anyone over 5'10", the studio that mysteriously smelled like soup despite no visible kitchen appliances, and the duplex where the landlord proudly mentioned a "quirky rat situation" like it was a feature, not a threat. One unit had slanted floors so dramatic that Joshua had to grab the doorframe to avoid falling into the living room. Another had a neighbor with a pet ferret named Vengeance. You tried not to judge, Joshua asked if it was housebroken, and you both ran.

It was the sixth place of the week—the kind of weekday evening where the sky looked like wet cotton and your energy was hovering somewhere between “barely functioning” and “don’t talk to me unless you have snacks.”

You were already half-preparing your list of things to hate when the door opened. It didn’t look like much from the hallway—just another nondescript beige door with peeling paint and numbers that hung slightly crooked. But the second you stepped in, it felt different. The apartment was small, yes—but clean. Cozy. Lived-in without actually being lived in. Wooden floors, worn in all the right ways. Tall windows that let in light even on a gray day. A built-in bookshelf along the far wall that made your heart skip just a little.

Joshua stepped inside behind you and went quiet. You both walked the space slowly, separate orbits circling the same sun. You trailed your hand along the windowsill. He opened cabinets like he was afraid they’d creak (they didn’t). You peered into the bedroom, which was just big enough for a bed and two people with low expectations. The bathroom had decent water pressure. The kitchen counter had a corner that jutted out awkwardly, but it also had a drawer that rolled out like butter.

You stood in the middle of the living room, turning slowly in a circle, eyes on the ceiling.

“Shua.”

He looked up.

“I think this is it,” you breathed.

He let out a breath. “Yeah.”

You sat down on the floor. No furniture yet, but the sunlight hit the floorboards like a promise. Joshua sat beside you without hesitation.

“It’s a little small,” he said after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“And we’d have to get rid of, like, half our stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“But I could see us here.”

You looked at him. He was already looking at you.

“You really think we’ll survive living together?” you teased, nudging his shoulder.

He grinned. “I think we’ve been living as if we do for a while now.”

And he was right. You already split groceries half the time, you already argued over movie genres and laundry detergent. He already had a toothbrush in your drawer and his hoodie was still hanging off your desk chair from three days ago.

“You’re going to label your cereal, aren’t you?” you asked, mock-accusing.

“And your hot sauce will be mysteriously on every shelf, I’m sure.”

You smiled. “Compromise.”

“Teamwork,” he said, leaning in just slightly.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss, just a soft one—sunlight on skin, lips brushing like an answer to a question neither of you had fully asked. Familiar, but new. A beginning, but also a continuation. You kissed him back, eyes closed, and thought: yeah, this is home. When you pulled away, he was already smiling.

“So,” you said, standing and brushing your hands on your jeans, “do we tell the landlord we’ll take it, or do we let them wonder why two weird kids just made out on the floor of an empty unit?”

Joshua laughed, pushing himself up with a mock-serious expression. “I vote we sign before they change their mind.”

~

The key stuck a little in the lock, which Joshua had said was a good sign. “Means it’s old. Lived in. Has character.”

You’d rolled your eyes and said, “It means it’s going to snap off and trap us inside one day.”

He grinned, nudging the door open with his shoulder. “A very poetic way to die, tragic roommates to lovers, found decades later.”

You remember how the apartment had smelled that first night—wood polish, faint lemon cleaner, and the heat of late summer pressing in from the windows. You’d both laughed at how loud your voices echoed in the emptiness. There hadn’t been any furniture yet, just your tote bag dumped in the corner, his carefully balanced pizza box, and a faded blue picnic blanket that didn’t quite cover the floor but felt like enough. Back then, things were simple in the kind of way that didn’t feel simple until much later.

You sat cross-legged across from him, knees bumping his, the two of you too tired to keep your jokes straight but too giddy to stop talking.

Joshua had taken a bite of his second slice, lips shiny with grease, and looked around like the world had cracked open just for the two of you. “We actually did it.”

You leaned back, palms on the floor, stretching out your legs like it would help you take it all in. “I think I was still in denial until we got the keys.”

He offered you his soda—flat, but sweet—and asked, “Still wanna live with me?”

You remember the exact pause, the beat of your heart in your throat before you said, “Jury’s still out. I need to see if you’re the kind of guy who folds his laundry or lives out of the basket like a goblin.”

“Excuse you,” he replied, mock-offended. “I fold it. Badly, but I fold it.”

You laughed like nothing in the world could come between the two of you. The pizza was bad and the fan rattled like it was one loose screw away from falling, but you remember thinking—This is what happiness looks like. You didn’t say it out loud, you barely even admitted it to yourself.

Later, after the food was gone and the city sounds had softened, you curled up on the too-small blanket, his jacket tossed over both of you like a half-hearted attempt at being warm. He’d pulled you close, arm wrapped around your waist, cheek pressed to your temple.

“This is the best night I’ve had in a long time,” you’d whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t speak right away. Just tightened his grip a little, like holding on could make time freeze.

“Me too,” he said eventually, and you remember thinking it didn’t matter that the place was bare, or that your backs would probably hurt in the morning, or that life would get complicated again.

Back then, things were still soft. And even now, years later, you still remember the way he looked at you—like home wasn’t four walls or a bed or a lease, it was you.

I think a part of me always knew I was archiving us in real time. That every late-night grocery run, every offhand comment, every half-finished story wasn’t just a habit—it was documentation. Proof that we were real. That I was real. It’s strange, looking back now, how many versions of us exist only because I wrote them down. And stranger still, how many I didn’t. The ones I kept to myself. The ones that never made it past memory. I wonder if those are the most honest ones, or just the ones I was too afraid to touch. I wonder if things would be different if I hadn’t just written my feelings, if maybe I’d found a way to tell you, pull you closer instead of pushing you away.

By the time the school year started, the two of you had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, like the apartment had always known your footsteps. Mornings were quiet and warm—Joshua humming while he made coffee, you groaning into your hoodie as you hunted for clean socks. He always remembered how you took your coffee and you always made sure his headphones weren’t tangled when he ran out the door late. Sometimes you’d leave sticky notes on the fridge for each other—little drawings, reminders, a “don’t forget your umbrella” with a crooked smiley face. It wasn’t romantic in the obvious ways—it was better. It was easy, thoughtful, and familiar.

You’d study at the kitchen table in parallel silence, laptops open, wires tangled underfoot, your knees brushing beneath the table without either of you moving away. You still teased him for playing the same five lo-fi tracks on repeat, and he still claimed your highlighters were a fire hazard. It was your kind of normal. When classes got overwhelming, you found yourselves curled up on the couch, your feet in his lap while he read through notes with one hand and absentmindedly massaged your ankle with the other. You'd never asked him to do it, he’d just started one day. You never told him to stop.

You remember thinking—if this is what love looks like, maybe I’ve been underestimating it all this time. And yet, sometimes when he was already asleep, curled toward the wall in the bed you shared with a blanket kicked half off his legs, you’d lie there staring at the ceiling, heart too full, too fast, too much. You didn’t know how to hold it all. It scared you, how much space he took up in your thoughts. How much emptier the world felt when he wasn’t around.

You told yourself it was fine, that this was the good part, if you just stayed here, in this moment, you’d never have to figure out what came next. But the problem with comfort is that you get used to it. You stop looking closely. You stop checking for cracks. And even the best rhythms can start to slip when the tempo changes.

~

It started with an email. You were sitting at the kitchen table, legs curled under you, one hand wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. Joshua was across from you, hunched over his planner, underlining something in blue and humming quietly to himself. The apartment was still, soft with early light, the kind of peace you’d grown used to. Until it wasn’t.

INTERNSHIP OPPORTUNITY – Interview Invitation

You read it once, then again, heart thudding in that quiet, thrilling, terrifying way. It was from a firm downtown. Well-known, high expectations, and a name that would open doors. You’d applied months ago and then forgotten about it entirely—figuring it was a long shot. Now, they wanted to meet with you. Joshua looked up when you went still.

“What’s up?”

You turned the screen toward him. “Got an interview.”

He lit up. “Wait, seriously? Which one?”

You said the name and his eyebrows lifted. “That’s huge.”

You nodded, trying to play it cool, but your chest was already buzzing.

“They want to meet this week,” you added. “It’s part-time through the semester, but, like, serious hours. Four days a week. Real workload.”

Joshua nodded again, slower this time. “That’s… fast.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. “Isn’t that the point?”

“No, totally. It’s great,” he said, tapping his pen against the edge of the table. “Just—didn’t know you were still looking.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He looked at you, gentle but a little too careful. “I guess I thought you already had enough on your plate.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah, but this is kind of what I’ve been working toward. It’s not forever. Just this semester.”

He nodded again, but the movement was distracted. “I get it. It’s just a lot.”

The way he said a lot made something inside you bristle.

“I can handle it.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” he said, too quickly.

You sat back, lips pressed together. “I feel like you’re not actually happy for me.”

Joshua frowned. “That’s not fair.”

“Then why do you sound like it?”

He set his pen down, quiet for a second. “It’s just—we barely see each other when school starts up. If you’re doing this, too… not to mention you’re already working so hard and I don’t want you to burn out.”

You exhaled slowly, the pieces clicking into place. “So this is about time.”

He didn’t answer right away. You saw the hesitation in his expression—the effort not to say something he couldn’t unsay.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we found  a rhythm. I didn’t realize it was temporary.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The boy who made you coffee in the mornings, who left you sticky notes, and picked out apartments with you like it was a forever plan. You didn’t know how to explain it—that wanting more didn’t mean wanting less of him. So you said nothing. You just picked up your mug, took a sip of lukewarm coffee, and pretended the bitterness wasn’t from the taste.

It wasn’t a fight, not really. Just a moment that didn’t settle the way it used to.

But you’d remember it—how it made your chest ache a little. How for the first time in a long time, being on the same team didn’t feel like a given. And you didn’t know what to do with that.

I don’t remember when I stopped writing. It was probably around the time of the internship, I was busy and when I wasn’t working I’d be asleep. You noticed, of course you did, and I remember feeling your worry and ignoring it. I told myself that I’d get back to it once things slowed down, and I guess I did, in a way. Since I’m writing again now, after everything.

Things sped up after that, you’d still see him in the morning, but it was in the rush of getting to class or whatever commitment you’d made. Your only savior was the weekends. One night, there was a storm, a slow one—lazy, almost. No thunder yet, just the distant hush of rain threading through the gutters and tapping softly against the window panes. The kind of weather that made the world feel smaller, quieter. Yours. Joshua had shown up late, soaked halfway down his hoodie from the sprint between your car and the door. You’d tossed him a towel and teased him for not checking the weather app. He’d kissed you with rain still in his hair.

Hours later, the living room was dim except for the pool of warm light spilling from the floor lamp, and the two of you were camped out on the rug like kids at a sleepover. The puzzle you’d found on a shelf marked DO NOT OPEN was spread out between you—tiny cardboard fragments of some coastal watercolor landscape neither of you had seen in real life.

Joshua’s hoodie hung loose on his frame, his sleeves pushed up to expose the faint smudge of ink near his thumb from a grocery list he’d jotted down earlier and never washed off. You’d been at it for nearly an hour and were still nowhere near finding the corners.

“This piece is gaslighting me,” you declared, holding up a patch of cloudy blue sky. “It looks like it fits in three different places and it’s lied every time.”

Joshua smirked without looking up. “Maybe the sky wasn’t your area of expertise. Want to trade? I’ve been doing ocean.”

“Excuse me, I am great at ocean. Sky is just playing hard to get.”

You tossed the piece gently onto his section and reached over for a handful of edge pieces, resting your chin in your palm. The floor was unforgiving, but neither of you made any move to relocate. There was something nice about being grounded like that, surrounded by tiny pieces of something you were building together—even if it was just a thrift-store puzzle with a corner missing. Joshua hummed under his breath, squinting at a stretch of puzzle water. You thought he might be singing something, but it was barely there. Just enough for you to recognize the tune.

“You’re not seriously humming Maroon 5 right now.”

He looked up at you, deadpan, “I absolutely am.”

“I knew I got to you.”

“I’ve been gotten,” he sighed, dramatically placing a piece. “And now I can’t get Sunday Morning out of my head.”

You grinned, triumphant. “You love me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I do.”

He said it so easily, so casually, that it caught you off guard for just a second—not because you didn’t believe it, but because of how perfectly it fit in the middle of that moment, like another puzzle piece falling into place. You crawled over to him without warning, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Okay, now you’re just trying to distract me from winning.”

“You’re not winning.”

“I’m close.”

“You’ve done the same cloud four times.”

You fell sideways into his lap, limbs sprawling like you’d given up on the floor altogether. He made a show of trying to shove you off, then sighed in defeat and let you stay, carding lazy fingers through your hair. For a while, there was no talking, just the occasional shuffle of cardboard, the soft patter of rain, the sound of him breathing near your ear. You closed your eyes and let it all wash over you. When you blinked them open again, he was still there, still working—quiet, focused. The tip of his tongue was pressed lightly to the corner of his mouth in concentration, and the way the lamplight hit his profile made his eyelashes look impossibly long.

You wanted to kiss him, so you did. Just a brush of lips, and he smiled into it.

“I love you,” he murmured, without fanfare.

His hand found your back and drew you in tighter. Eventually, you migrated to the couch, where the storm got a little louder and the lights flickered once, then settled. The puzzle remained unfinished, pieces scattered and forgotten on the floor. Joshua tugged a blanket over the both of you and let you tangle your legs with his. The TV was playing something neither of you were really watching. He was warm, slightly damp still from the rain, and he smelled like the bergamot candle you always forgot to blow out. At some point, your head fell against his shoulder and he shifted only to press a kiss to your hairline. You stayed like that for a long time. Now you wish you’d stayed longer.

~

Days were long and hard, leading both of you to dread having to cook. You’d found the restaurant by accident.

It was tucked between a laundromat and a closed-down bookstore, small and quiet and too easy to miss. The first time you walked past it, you were arguing—something about a movie he liked that you swore had no plot. Your hand was in his even as you were rolling your eyes, and when he’d stopped walking, you nearly kept going.

“What?” you’d asked, looking over your shoulder.

Joshua had squinted at the sign above the door, then back at you. “You hungry?”

You weren’t, not really. But it was raining, and his hoodie already had little wet patches near the shoulders from where you’d tugged at the hood to cover both of you. So you’d nodded. “Sure. Why not.”

The inside was dim and warm, smelling like garlic and sesame oil, with faded family photos on the walls and a chalkboard menu that hadn’t been updated in years. A woman behind the counter looked up when you came in, her eyes sharp and assessing. You smiled politely. She didn’t smile back.

But Joshua had, soft and easy. “Hi,” he said, like they were already friends.

She nodded once, still skeptical, and waved you toward a booth by the window. You remember sitting across from him in that cracked red vinyl booth, the rain tapping against the glass, his hands cradling a chipped ceramic cup of tea. You’d teased him about something—maybe the way he pronounced “bulgogi”—and he’d called you insufferable. You’d stuck your tongue out. He’d laughed. The woman brought your food without a word, and it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

“Okay,” you said, pointing a chopstick at him. “I might forgive your movie taste.”

He raised a brow. “So I win?”

“You win one point. Don't get cocky.”

Joshua grinned at that, leaned back, and watched you take another bite. You hadn’t realized he was watching until you looked up, and he wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

“What?” you asked, self-conscious.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just—” He paused. “I like watching you fall in love with things.”

You’d pretended to gag. “Gross.”

But your cheeks were warm, and he just laughed. You went back to that place almost every week after that. The woman behind the counter eventually learned your names, though she always greeted Joshua first. She’d bring out extra kimchi for him, and only him, even though you liked it more. He’d slide his bowl across the table toward you when she wasn’t looking. You never said thank you. He never asked for it.

Sometimes, after dinner, you’d stay long after the plates were cleared, talking about nothing and everything while the staff cleaned up around you. He’d ask you about work, about your writing. You’d shrug, try to make a joke out of it. He never let you. Not really.

“I think you’re better than you let yourself believe,” he said once, chin in his hand, voice soft under the hum of fluorescent lights. “At everything.”

You’d stared at him for a second too long, unsure what to do with something that kind. So you changed the subject. You always did. But he stayed anyway, picking the rice off your plate and smiling like he could wait forever for you to catch up.

You wonder if he still sits in that booth, if he ever looks across the table and forgets, just for a second, that you’re not there. Because sometimes, you still see him. Every time you pass that place, every time something tastes like comfort, every time you remember that someone once watched you fall in love with the world and thought it was beautiful.

There’s a quiet kind of panic that comes with realizing you care. Not the cinematic kind, with grand gestures and swelling music—but the kind that lives in your chest, right under your ribs, the one that whispers “this could matter”. I’d spent so long trying to feel nothing that when I started feeling something that real, it felt like standing too close to a fire.

You were halfway through your first class when you remembered the coffee. It hit you all at once—sharp, small, like a pebble in your shoe. You’d made it for him that morning without thinking, the way you always did. Two sugars, just a splash of milk. You even stirred it with the tiny spoon he liked, the one shaped like a cat paw you’d sworn you’d throw out every week but never did. You’d poured it into his travel mug, set it on the counter next to his keys, and then… forgot. You were in such a rush—papers half-stuffed in your bag, earbuds tangled, your jacket barely on—that you hadn’t said goodbye properly, let alone reminded him. Now, in the lull between lectures, you pulled out your phone and texted him.

YOU:

i left your coffee on the counter.

i suck.

can i bribe you with takeout?

No reply yet. You stared at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You weren’t even sure why it bothered you so much. It wasn’t the first time something like this had slipped. It wasn’t the first time you’d been distracted. But it was the first time he hadn’t texted you that he missed it.

That evening, you came home first. The coffee mug was still there, untouched. Cold now. You dumped it without thinking, washed the cup, dried it. Put it back in the cabinet like nothing had happened. Joshua came in a little after seven, his hoodie damp from the drizzle outside and his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. You gave it to him, but it landed slightly off-center.

“I owe you dinner,” you said, turning toward the fridge. “Or emotional reparations. I accept Venmo.”

He laughed—light, automatic—but didn’t say anything else. You made rice and eggs and threw a couple of dumplings in the pan. He offered to help, but didn’t insist. The kitchen was quiet—not cold, but quieter than usual.

At the table, you slid a plate toward him. He smiled at you over his fork. “Thanks. Smells good.”

You picked at your food, and he finished without complaint. It wasn’t a fight. Just a moment. The kind that came and went. The kind you didn’t write down, because it didn’t feel like it mattered. But later, when the space between you felt just a little bit wider, when you looked at him across the couch and couldn’t tell if he was distracted or just tired, you’d remember it. The coffee, the mug, the empty counter and the emptier silence, and you’d wonder if that was where it started—not with anger, but with forgetting. Even later still you’d realize just how much you’d forgotten with him.

~

You were back at your usual grocery store, the same fluorescent lights flickering overhead, the same faded tile underfoot. It was a little colder than necessary, like always, with Joshua walking a few steps ahead pushing the cart with one hand and scrolling through the grocery list on his phone with the other. You followed, arms crossed, brain somewhere between class readings and what to make for dinner. It had been a long week, and you hadn’t quite caught your breath.

“I forgot the coffee,” you said suddenly, stopping short as Joshua turned, eyebrows raised.

“I meant to grab it yesterday. We’re out, right?”

He blinked, then smiled. “Yeah, but it’s fine. I’ll survive one morning.”

You gave him a small look. “You said that last time, and you nearly committed a felony over a broken coffee machine in the student lounge.”

He chuckled, barely. “Manslaughter at most.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a pinch of guilt beneath your teasing. You usually remembered that sort of thing.

“I’ll run back and grab some.”

He reached out, gently touching your sleeve. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get it on the way home.”

And just like that, the moment passed—soft, almost nothing, but it stayed with you, lingering like an aftertaste you couldn’t get rid of. The frozen meals all looked the same, like they always did, as you picked through them half-heartedly while Joshua grabbed two cartons of eggs and inspected a bag of spinach like it had personally wronged him.

“I’m still not over the fact that this place reorganized the cereal aisle,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly. “I guess we have to adapt.”

He glanced over, catching your tone, and said nothing. When you reached the candy aisle, he tossed a bag of Airheads into the cart without asking. You didn’t say thank you, and he didn’t expect you to. You stood in line, quietly watching the conveyor belt fill up between you. A strange kind of memory pressed in on you—of the first time here, when your hands had touched reaching for frozen lasagna, and he’d made you laugh so easily you forgot to pretend it didn’t mean something. Now, you stood just a little further apart. Not far, just… enough that you noticed it.

Joshua turned toward you, shoulder bumping yours. “You okay?”

You nodded, quick. “Just tired.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but the cashier was already ringing things up. You helped bag the groceries in silence. Familiar, efficient. When you got to the car, he unlocked it without a word and reached across the front seat to move his hoodie so you could sit. You noticed a napkin in the cup holder—crumpled slightly, stained with a faint coffee ring. From earlier? From last week? You weren’t sure. You didn’t ask.

The ride home was quiet. Comfortable, mostly.

You still laughed once, when he cursed at a pothole. He still reached for your hand at a red light, but your fingers didn’t tangle the way they used to. 

~

You don’t remember what started the argument—only that it wasn’t really about the dishes. You’d come home tired, worn thin from a week that felt like it had been peeling you back layer by layer, and the sink had been full. Again. And somehow, that was the tipping point. That was the thing that cracked the silence wide open. You’d said something sharp without meaning to, he’d said something softer than you could stand.

“Just say what you’re actually upset about,” Joshua said, standing in the doorway of your kitchen, arms crossed but voice even. Like he wasn’t mad, just waiting. 

And maybe that was what made you lash out again. The waiting. You hated how patient he could be with you. How gentle. It made you feel exposed.

“I’m not upset,” you’d snapped, even though your jaw was tight and your heart was beating fast, even though you were. “It’s not a big deal.”

Joshua’s expression didn’t change. “Okay,” he said, and you hated how calm he was. 

Hated how much of you he seemed to understand without trying. You turned your back, rinsed a plate you didn’t care about, just to have something to do with your hands.

“I just—I feel like I’m carrying everything alone,” you said finally, quieter, words tumbling out before you could filter them. “School, bills, my parents, my head—it never shuts up. I come home and I don’t get to rest. I just have to—keep going.”

You didn’t mean to sound like you were blaming him. Maybe you were.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward slowly, like you were something fragile. And you hated that too, how right it felt to let him wrap his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder, the warmth of his chest pressed against your spine.

“You don’t have to carry everything,” he murmured. “Not alone.”

You closed your eyes. He always said things like that. Like love was easy. Like you were easy.

“You say that,” you said, voice thin. “But I don’t think you get it. I don’t think you know what it’s like to be this tired and still feel like you haven’t earned a break.”

You felt him breathe in behind you. Not deeply. Carefully.

You counted three seconds before he responded, “Maybe I don’t. But I know I’d rather be tired with you than well-rested without.”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned back against him and hated yourself a little for how much you needed it. How much you needed him. How badly you wanted to believe he wouldn’t leave when it got hard. You stayed like that for a while—him holding you like you wouldn’t break, you pretending that meant you wouldn’t.

Later, you watched him fall asleep on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, his mouth parted slightly like he always forgot to pretend he had it all together. You watched him like you were memorizing him. Like you were afraid you’d need the details someday.

You didn’t write about that night. You thought maybe you didn’t need to. But now — as the memory of his face gets blurrier—now you wish you had.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to be easy to love. Saying yes when I meant no, smiling when I wanted to speak up, softening my edges so no one would ever find a reason to leave. People called it kindness. I thought it was, too—until I realized I didn’t know who I was without someone else to please. You saw through that, and it scared me more than I thought it would. I’m still unlearning the idea that love has to be earned by shrinking. Still learning how to want something for myself, even if it makes people uncomfortable. Even if it means they walk away.

The office was too white. Not sterile exactly, but cold in a way that made you sit up straighter, made you conscious of your breathing. Your internship had started three weeks ago, and already you could feel your shoulders beginning to curl inward. It wasn’t the work—the work was fine—data entry, scheduling, the occasional writing assignment that made you feel like a ghost in someone else’s sentences.

It was him.

Your supervisor was one of those men who seemed charming at first—polished, smart, the kind who leaned a little too close when explaining something, who always found a reason to linger by your desk, who touched your shoulder when there was no need. His name was Greg, which didn’t help—no one cool had ever been named Greg.

You told yourself it was nothing, at first, but the second time he called you ‘sweetheart’, it lodged in your spine. When he offered to “show you how to work the printer” and spent twenty minutes brushing past your arm, your hip, your back—it stopped being hypothetical.

You’d texted Joshua about it. Just a short message:

he's weird.

Joshua had responded right away.

weird how?

You didn’t answer.

Now, you sat at your desk, your half-assigned workspace in the corner of the office, pretending to read through client notes while your skin itched with the knowledge that Greg had walked by your chair twice in the past five minutes. You kept your cardigan draped over the back of your chair like armor.

“Hey,” he said, pausing behind you. “You free for lunch today?”

You didn’t turn around. “I brought something.”

“Oh come on. First month deserves a little celebration. My treat.”

“I’m good, thank you.”

You didn’t hear him move, but you felt it—the way the air shifted when he leaned just a little too close.

“Hard worker,” he said, low, almost amused. “Gonna go far.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t move. You just waited until he walked away again, and only then did you let yourself exhale.

You didn’t tell Joshua the full story that day. Just said work was tiring. That your boss was a little too friendly. You joked about it. Smiled while your stomach twisted. You said, “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

But later that night, when he kissed your temple and asked how your day had gone, you hesitated, and he noticed. You still didn’t tell him—not the whole thing. Just enough to pass. Enough that you could keep the lie small and palatable—something that didn’t feel like lying if you said it with a laugh.

“Long day,” you said that night, stretching your arms over your head, trying to shake the stiffness out of your shoulders. “Greg thinks I’m the intern-slash-printer technician now.”

Joshua grinned, already peeling open the takeout containers. “I told you you had hidden talents.”

You smiled back, but your eyes didn’t quite meet his when you said it, and he noticed, you knew he did. You could feel the weight of his gaze lingering a second too long, the way his laughter didn’t reach his eyes all the way. He didn’t push, though, and for once you wish he had.

The days bled together. Greg kept finding reasons to stop by your desk, kept asking questions that weren’t really about work. He started standing a little too close when no one else was around. Once, his hand brushed your waist—too slow, too familiar—and you froze.

He’d laughed it off. “Tense, huh? You’ve gotta loosen up.”

You went to the bathroom and sat in the last stall with the lock that stuck, just to breathe. You stared at your reflection in the mirror when you came out, face flushed, hands shaking even though it hadn’t been that bad. You told yourself that a dozen times a day.

Still, the next morning, you couldn’t finish your coffee. Joshua noticed that too.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing a crumb off your cheek. “You’ve barely touched your toast.”

“Just tired.”

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t press either. He kissed your forehead and told you to text him if you needed anything. You nodded, and then you didn’t. At night, you stayed up later; pretended to read, pretended to write. You’d stare at your laptop screen until your eyes burned, then close it without typing a single word. You stopped talking about your internship altogether. And Joshua—he started talking less about his days, too, like he didn’t want to add weight to something already unsteady.

Once, you came home and found him asleep on the couch, the TV still on, his head tilted to the side in that way that meant his neck would be sore in the morning. You watched him for a long time, just breathing in the room you shared, the life you’d built that was starting to feel like it didn’t quite fit. You didn’t wake him, just curled into the armchair with your legs pulled to your chest, staring at the quiet flicker of the screen and wondering if this—this stillness, this silence—was better than the alternative. If keeping the truth to yourself was a kindness, if it made you strong.

Joshua stirred once, sleep-heavy, eyes blinking open.

“Hey,” he mumbled, reaching toward you without thinking, “how are you feeling?”

You slipped out of reach. Just enough that he wouldn’t notice.

“I’m okay,” you said.

And the worst part was that you almost believed it. You didn’t cry; not in the elevator, not in the lobby, not when he brushed too close behind you with a hand that lingered, with a smile that said ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Not when he said your name like it belonged to him.

You just said, “I need to head out early,” and he let you go. As if it was mercy.  You walked six blocks before realizing you hadn’t stopped for traffic once. When you got home, your hands were shaking so badly you dropped your keys twice. You didn’t text Joshua, didn’t call. You couldn’t. Not with your throat closed like that.

You took a shower hot enough to sting.

You scrubbed your skin until it turned pink.

You stood there until the water ran cold.

He came home before sunset. You were curled up on the couch, wearing his hoodie and holding a mug you hadn’t drunk from. The lights were off. The TV was on but muted. Joshua paused when he saw you. Said your name once, quietly. You looked up and smiled—not convincingly, but it was the only thing you had left. He didn’t ask anything. He just walked over, bent down, and kissed the crown of your head.

“Hey.”

You blinked hard, nodded. “Hey.”

He sat next to you, close but not too close, his hand finding your knee. “You didn’t say you’d be home early.”

You shrugged. “Just… slow day. Wanted to be here.”

Joshua studied you for a long second, thumb brushing against the fabric of your leggings. He didn’t press, he never did. But his voice was soft when he said, “I missed you today.”

You didn’t mean to flinch. You didn’t mean for it to hurt, but it did, because you’d missed him too—and somehow, that made it worse.

“I’m here now,” you said, the words barely audible.

He leaned over, head on your shoulder, arms around your middle like he was trying to keep you steady. Like he knew, maybe not the details, but enough. He didn’t ask why your voice was quiet or why your hands hadn’t warmed up. He didn’t ask who made you feel small today, or why you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. He just held you like you weren’t broken. Like he didn’t need to know what was wrong to want to make it better.

For a long time, you stayed like that. His arms around you. The TV casting soft light on the walls. The tea cold in your hands. The moment soft around the edges, blurred by exhaustion.

Eventually, he murmured, “Want to watch something dumb with me?”

You nodded into his shoulder.

“Something with explosions,” he added. “And absolutely zero emotional value.”

You almost smiled. “You spoil me.”

He kissed your temple. “Always.”

And you let yourself lean into him—just for tonight. Just for now.

Because if you let yourself fall apart, you weren’t sure you’d come back together the same way.

~

The rest of senior year passed like a train you couldn’t quite catch. One minute you were splitting groceries and syncing calendars and trying to figure out how to make time for dinner together three nights a week, the next, it was midterms and internship deadlines and alarm clocks that always rang too early. Your days folded into each other—study, eat, work, sleep, repeat—and the softness between you started thinning in ways you didn’t notice until it had already worn through. You kept telling yourself it was just a busy season, that it was normal to be tired, that all couples got quiet when things got hard.

Joshua would leave coffee for you some mornings, and you’d find it sitting on the counter with a sticky note—Hang in there, I love you—and your chest would ache in a way that didn’t feel sweet anymore. You’d write little messages back sometimes. Smiley faces, half-hearted doodles, but neither of you said much out loud. There were good days, still, days when he made you laugh in the cereal aisle, days when he kissed you just to make you blush. You held onto those like they could carry you through the rest.

But mostly, it felt like you were living on fast-forward. Like the version of you who’d once sat on the beach next to him with sand in your hair and a story in your throat had been replaced by someone who only spoke in deadlines and weather updates. You kept meaning to slow down, to fix it, to say something real, but then graduation came.

Caps and gowns and name cards you almost lost. Cameras flashing in the wrong direction, people shouting, Minji tripping over her heels, Luv crying with Seokmin in the crowd, Joshua holding your hand too tightly the whole way through, like maybe if you both squeezed hard enough, the rest of it wouldn’t fall apart. You smiled for pictures. You kissed him in the middle of a crowd and told yourself this was the beginning.

You didn’t know yet that something had already ended.

~

You sat at the kitchen table with your laptop open and your head in your hand, scrolling through job listings that all blurred together after a while. The apartment was quiet—too quiet, maybe, the kind of quiet that made you painfully aware of every small sound. The hum of the fridge. The occasional rustle of cars outside. The tap-tap-tap of your fingers on the trackpad as you refreshed the page for the fifth time. Joshua padded out of the bedroom, still in sweats, his hair mussed from sleep. He rubbed at his eyes before leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“Any luck?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just sighed, shoulders slumping as you leaned back in your chair. “They all want three years of experience for an entry-level job. How does that even make sense?”

He frowned, pulling out the chair next to you and sitting backward on it, arms resting across the backrest. “It doesn’t. It’s bullshit. You’d be perfect for half of these.”

You gave him a tired smile, appreciation soft but weighed down. “Tell that to the hiring managers who probably haven’t even opened my résumé.”

He reached over and tilted your laptop screen down until it closed, gentle but firm. “Take a break for a bit. Come lay down with me.”

“I can’t afford a break right now, Shua.”

“You also can’t afford to burn out two weeks into job hunting.”

That made you pause. He looked at you then—really looked at you—with that same mixture of protectiveness and softness he always carried. Like if he could take this weight from you and carry it himself, he would. And maybe that was why you let him guide you back to the couch, pulling you close, tucking your legs over his lap. The job would come eventually, but for now, you let yourself rest. Just for a little while. With Joshua’s fingers tracing slow circles into your back and your head on his chest, it felt okay to let go. But rest was never just rest anymore.

You could feel it even then, the way his touch didn’t linger as long as it used to, the way his other hand still held his phone, thumb swiping mindlessly through notifications. He wasn’t scrolling with purpose. Just habit. Just something to fill the space between you that neither of you wanted to name. You stayed like that for maybe twenty minutes—thirty, if you counted the time you pretended to be asleep. Then your laptop called you back with a faint ding, an email notification that made your heart jolt before you even read it. Another rejection. Thank you for applying. We regret to inform you… Joshua glanced at your screen when you sat up. He didn’t ask what it said, and he didn’t have to.

Instead, he stretched and stood, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I’m gonna shower.”

You nodded, watching him disappear down the hallway. The bathroom door shut with a soft click, and you were alone again. You opened a new tab. Typed in your major. Filtered by location. Salary. Remote. Any. Nothing changed. You weren’t sure when the spiral started, exactly—maybe it had been building for months, buried under essays and work-study shifts and Sunday grocery runs. But now it felt like it was everywhere. In the half-unpacked boxes still in the closet. In the dishes that sat a little longer in the sink. In the way you and Joshua had begun to orbit each other like two planets slightly off their axis—close enough to touch, never quite colliding.

That night, he made pasta. You did the dishes. Neither of you mentioned the email or the silence. You went to bed early, curling toward the wall before he joined you. He wrapped an arm around your waist like always, and you reached back to lace your fingers through his. It was muscle memory by now. But even muscle memory could falter.

Joshua got a job two weeks after graduation. It happened quietly, the way most things with him did—no big announcements, no dramatic declarations, just a text while you were elbow-deep in laundry:

got the offer :)

You stared at your screen for a few seconds, the basket half-sorted, a sock dangling from your hand. Then, slowly, you typed back:

holy shit?? already??

music teacher position at the middle school, he replied.

i start next month.

You were proud of him—of course you were. You told him that when he got home—hugged him tight, kissed his jaw, let him spin you once in the living room with that stupid grin he always wore when he was excited. It was what he’d been hoping for. A public school gig in a district that still valued arts programs. A classroom of his own. Sheet music he didn’t have to borrow. A piano that wasn’t out of tune.

“I’ll finally have space to hang that ‘World’s Okayest Teacher’ mug from Seungkwan,” he joked, practically glowing.

You laughed and meant it, but the sound felt a little thinner than usual. He didn’t notice, or maybe he did, but didn’t know how to say anything about it. Either way, the days moved on. He started prepping lessons, reading up on middle school pedagogy, scribbling little icebreaker activities in the margins of your shared grocery list. He bought a pair of dress shoes he didn’t hate. You helped him pick out button-downs that wouldn’t wrinkle too badly. 

And you kept applying. Every morning, you set up at the kitchen table with your laptop and a spreadsheet and a cup of slowly cooling coffee. You clicked through job boards like it was your only job. You rewrote your cover letter so many times the words stopped meaning anything. And every time another rejection email popped up in your inbox, you minimized the window and pretended not to care.

Joshua didn’t gloat. He was never unkind about it. But sometimes, when he’d tell you about the school’s band room or how one of the seventh graders called him “Mr. H,” you’d nod and smile and feel the tiniest prick of something sharp settle under your ribs. Not quite jealousy,  just the quiet ache of falling behind. You told yourself it wasn’t a competition. That it didn’t matter who got there first, and you believed that—mostly. But some nights, when he fell asleep beside you, already dreaming of classrooms and chorales, you stared at the ceiling and wondered when it would be your turn.

You didn’t expect much when the email came in. It was buried between a coupon from CVS and a LinkedIn newsletter you never subscribed to, the subject line so plain it almost felt like a scam: Interview Invitation – Financial Analyst Associate (Entry Level). You had to reread it three times before it sank in. Your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

“Shua?” you called, voice shaking just enough to make him look up from the sink.

You turned the screen toward him, blinking fast. “They want to interview me.”

He stared for a second, then crossed the room in three strides, towel still in his hand. “Wait, seriously? Who?”

You named the company, the one you’d sent your resume to weeks ago and promptly forgotten about. His eyes widened, and the smile that broke across his face felt like sunshine after weeks of rain.

“Baby, that’s huge.”

“I haven’t even gotten the job yet.”

“Yeah, but you got the interview. That’s the hard part. That’s everything.”

He kissed you—quick, excited—and you laughed into it, the sound bubbling out of you in a way it hadn’t in a while.

The next few days were a whirlwind. You researched until your eyes ached, practiced answers until your voice sounded rehearsed even in your head, dug through your closet for something that looked confident but not overdone. Joshua helped where he could—printed your resume at the campus library, made you tea when your hands wouldn’t stop trembling, quizzed you until you rolled your eyes and told him no more mock questions, please, I’ll scream.

You went to the interview, palms sweaty, heart hammering. And then… you nailed it. You didn’t know for sure, of course—not right away—but you left with a smile on your face and a quiet kind of pride blooming in your chest.

A week later, the offer came in. You were brushing your teeth when you saw the email. You froze, electric toothbrush still buzzing in your hand, and ran into the hallway with foam in your mouth.

Joshua took one look at you, wide-eyed and feral with mint toothpaste, and blinked. “Wait, did you—?”

You just nodded, grinning so wide it hurt. “I got it.”

He shouted. Actually shouted. Picked you up and spun you around the living room until you were laughing so hard you choked on the toothpaste, both of you collapsing onto the couch in a dizzy heap.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered later, forehead pressed to yours.

And you believed him.

Everything didn’t magically fix itself overnight. There were still bills to split and long commutes and nights when you both came home too tired to talk. But things began to shift—slowly, then all at once. You got up in the mornings with purpose. You made coffee with music playing again. You told Joshua about your coworkers, your strange little cubicle, the new routine you were building from scratch. He started sending you “good luck” texts on meeting days. You caught yourself smiling at red lights for no reason at all.

One night, he came home with a bottle of wine and takeout from your favorite place. Said, “I thought we should celebrate you.”

“You already did,” you said, smiling as you reached for the chopsticks.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now, “but I think we’re worth celebrating, too.”

~

Work changed things. Not all at once, but gradually. Like a sweater unraveling stitch by stitch, so slow you didn’t notice until the cold set in. Mornings used to mean sleepy forehead kisses and shared coffee on the balcony. Now they meant quick goodbyes, separate commutes, and breakfast eaten over unread emails. Joshua’s first period started early, so he was usually gone by the time you finished brushing your hair. He’d still leave notes sometimes—Have a good day, Love you, Don’t forget your lunch—but they were taped to the fridge now, not placed gently on your laptop. You kept them anyway, folded and tucked into the back pocket of your planner, like maybe they still meant something if you didn’t throw them away.

Evenings weren’t much better. You came home exhausted, heels blistered, eyes burning from too many screens. Joshua would be sitting on the couch in his work clothes, tie loosened, grading papers with a red pen that always stained the side of his hand.

“Hey,” you’d say.

“Hey,” he’d echo.

And that was it.

Sometimes you’d ask how his day was. He’d give a half-smile and say, “Same as yesterday,” and you didn’t press. Sometimes he’d ask about your new client, and you’d mumble something about spreadsheets and metrics and he’d nod like he understood. You stopped watching shows together. You started eating dinner at different times. You went to bed first more often than not.

~

You were never a heavy drinker, so when you did get drunk, it was… an experience. It started innocently—just a quick dinner, a little networking, maybe a glass of wine if someone else ordered first. But somewhere between your boss ordering shots “to celebrate Q3 wins” and the cocktails that tasted suspiciously like candy, everything blurred together. Before you knew it, you were standing outside the restaurant, blinking down at your phone as if it might steady the world.

There was his name on the screen: Joshua 💛

You hit call without thinking.

“Hello?” His voice was warm, tired, a little scratchy from late hours. It was late, much later than you usually called.

“Shua,” you whispered, like it was a secret between just the two of you. “My hands don’t work.”

There was a pause—gentle, patient. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great. Amazing, even.” You hiccuped. “I think I’m a little bit wine. I mean… drunk. I’m a little bit drunk.”

He exhaled—soft, fond. “Where are you?”

“Outside. Somewhere. I think there’s a statue of a dog?”

“…You’re definitely drunk.”

You laughed, swaying on your heels. “I wanted to call you because everyone kept talking about pivot tables and profit margins and team synergy and I just—ugh.” You leaned against the cold brick wall. “I missed your voice. And your face. But I don’t know how to FaceTime right now. My eyes are blurry.”

You can still imagine his chuckle, picture him sitting up in bed, probably running a hand through his hair. “I’ll come get you, okay? Just stay put. Try not to wander off or hug any strangers.”

You gasped, trying to explain, “How’d you know I was gonna hug someone?! There’s this girl in HR who’s so soft, like emotionally, and she’s been through a lot—”

“Baby,” he interrupted gently, “focus. Statue. Dog. Send me your location.”

Somehow, with a bit of luck and a lot of blurry fumbling, you managed it. Twenty minutes later, his car pulled up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dark like a rescue mission.

When you saw him, you lit up like a kid on Christmas.

“Shuaaaa!” you sing, stumbling toward him. “You came!”

“Of course I came,” he said, steadying you with both arms, tucking your coat tighter around your shoulders. “You’re a mess.”

You grinned, slurring, “I’m a very professional mess. I networked.”

He kissed your forehead, smiling. “I’m proud of you.”

You melted against him, cheek pressed to his chest, barely holding your head up. “I love you, y’know.”

He smiled, quiet and close, and said, “I know. I love you, too.”

And that was it. The first and only time you ever said it. Not because you didn’t mean it—but because you were a coward sober.

It’s those moments I miss the most. The soft ones that still make my heart warm even though everything is over. I’m still a coward sober, but I don’t lie to myself anymore. I loved you. I still do. I miss you more than anything. But it’s too late now. I wish I’d realized sooner, but I know it was the end that made me start looking back. That made me start writing again, about those moments after I’d stopped, in hopes of saving them somewhere other than my memory. 

You didn’t mean to forget. In fact, if someone had asked you two days before, you probably would’ve said your anniversary was still weeks away.

It wasn’t. You realized it only after Joshua set a plate down in front of you—takeout from your favorite Thai place, the one with the peanut sauce you always stole from his plate. He had even lit a candle, small and flickering in the middle of the table, nestled between your clutter: unopened mail, a half-used sticky note pad, a pen that had long since dried out.

“What's this?” you asked, tugging your blazer off, more exhausted than curious.

He smiled, soft but a little hesitant. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked, and then your stomach dropped.

The silence must’ve lasted too long, because his smile faded, just slightly, like a string pulled loose.

You covered your mouth. “Oh my god, Shua—I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head quickly. “No, it’s okay. I know work’s been crazy. I just thought… we could do something low-key. I didn’t want to make it a big thing.”

You sat down slowly, trying to force your brain into remembering something—anything—you could use as an excuse. You couldn’t. You’d been so caught up in back-to-back meetings, missed trains, and trying not to cry in stairwells that the date had slipped by like any other Tuesday. You looked at him then—really looked at him. Still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up. Tired eyes. A faint ink smudge on his wrist from grading papers. He’d tried. He always tried.

“I should’ve remembered,” you said quietly, picking at your napkin.

He reached across the table and squeezed your hand. “It’s okay. You’re here now.”

And you were. Physically, at least. You ate together, even laughed a little over dinner, but something about it felt quieter than it should have. Like you were playing a part you used to know by heart, only now the lines didn’t come as easily.

It's hard to pinpoint one moment that we started breaking, when the cracks started getting longer, deeper, until we shattered. Maybe it was one too many forgotten anniversaries, or the way I started avoiding you even when you tried to get closer. I could feel us slipping, so I pulled away quicker so it’d hurt less. At least that's what I told myself.

It wasn’t one big thing. It never is. It was the little things, like how he started staying at school later. He’d say it was to help a student rehearse or prep lesson plans, and maybe that was true, but he used to text you when he was running late. Now he didn’t. Now he just came home after dark and tossed his keys on the counter with a quiet, “Sorry,” before disappearing into the bedroom.

It was the way your mugs sat unwashed in the sink for days—his coffee stains, your lipstick rings—like tiny pieces of evidence neither of you bothered to clean up. It was the laundry piling up on the chair in the corner because no one had the energy to fold it. The groceries that went bad in the fridge. The forgotten texts. The missed calls. The goodnight kisses that landed on hair instead of lips. It was how you stopped making each other laugh. How dinner went from something you cooked together to something you ate apart, often at different times, with different shows playing on different screens. It was the way he didn’t correct you when you forgot your anniversary. The way you didn’t correct him when he called you by the wrong pet name once—an old nickname, sweet and familiar, but one he hadn’t used in months.

It was how tired you both always were, and how that became your excuse for everything.

It was the silence between you, filling up all the space that used to be soft. You told yourself it was just a phase. That it would pass. That things would feel better once the new job got easier, or once his school year ended, or once you both finally got a weekend off at the same time. But it kept going.

And somewhere along the line, you stopped planning for the future together. You stopped asking “what should we do next?” and started asking “what do I have to do tomorrow?”

He still kissed your cheek when he left in the mornings. He still said he loved you.

Every morning, just before the door shut behind him.

Every night, when you were half-asleep, curled toward the wall.

Sometimes over the phone, if one of you stayed late at work.

Sometimes in the middle of a sentence, like muscle memory.

“I love you.”

And you always answered with something.

“Drive safe.”

“Sleep well.”

“You too.”

A smile. A hand on his chest. A nod.

Never the words. It wasn’t intentional at first. You’d be tired, distracted, too deep in an email or a thought or your own spiraling doubt. And by the time you realized he’d said it, the moment had passed. You told yourself you’d say it tomorrow. That he knew. That it didn’t matter if you said it every time.

But tomorrow kept moving. And then the longer you went without saying it, the heavier it became. The more it felt like a choice. Like saying it now would be a lie, or a performance, or worse—an admission that you hadn’t meant it the last time.

So you didn’t.

And he noticed. You could tell by the way he lingered after saying it. The pause, the wait, the way he’d glance over like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. And when you smiled or nodded or kissed his cheek instead, he’d nod too, and pretend it was enough.

But it wasn’t.

He was still trying. He still said it every night, and you kept answering with silence, until silence was all that was left.

So you ended it. The day is still clear in your memory, how he’d looked at you like his world was falling apart. You’d stood by the window, your hands tucked deep into the sleeves of your sweater, eyes fixed on the streetlights outside like they might offer some kind of answer. Joshua was behind you, pacing in slow, uneven circles like a man rehearsing a conversation he didn’t want to have. You could hear his breathing—short, uncertain.

“I just don’t understand,” he said, again. His voice cracked a little. “Why are you shutting me out like this?”

You didn’t answer right away, you couldn’t. You were tired—tired in a way that made words feel pointless, like shouting into a vacuum.

“You're acting like none of this mattered to you,” he said.

At the time, you had convinced yourself it hadn’t, let yourself go quiet and disappear. A slow, creeping numbness had moved in like fog, and by the time you noticed, everything felt distant, even him. Especially him.

“I don’t know how to fix this if you won’t let me in,” he’d said. “Just… talk to me.”

You turned then, finally meeting his eyes. His face was flushed, his jaw clenched, like he was holding everything in place with sheer force of will.

“I don’t want to fix it,” you said. Your voice came out flat. It wasn’t cruelty—you didn’t even feel cruel. You felt nothing. That was the worst part. “I don’t love you.” You had lied, even you knew that much, but Joshua still flinched, like you’d slapped him.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. And maybe you were. You would have liked to be the kind of person who stayed, who felt things the way he did. But you weren’t. Not back then. He stepped toward you, slowly, as if you might bolt.

“Don’t do this. We can figure it out. Whatever this is—whatever’s going on—we can work through it. Just don’t walk away.”

But you already had. Inside, you’d left a long time ago, and you knew he had too. So you just shook your head. Not to be cruel, just to be clear.

“This isn’t working and you know it. I can’t keep trying,” you said. “And you shouldn’t have to either.”

Joshua's eyes went glassy. He didn’t speak, and his hands dropped to his sides, useless. You didn’t stay to see the moment it hit him, because you knew if you saw it you’d come back. So you picked up your coat and walked out the door, letting it close softly behind you, half wishing he’d come running after you. No slammed doors. No raised voices. Just the quiet kind of ending—the kind that hurt more because it didn’t look like heartbreak.

It just looked like goodbye.

It's been a full year now, since everything happened. Since I stood in front of you and said things I didn’t mean, or maybe meant too much—it’s blurry now. Since you looked at me like you were still hoping I’d say something different. Since I turned around and walked away, thinking you’d stop me.

You didn’t. And I told myself that was your choice.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe you were just tired of waiting for me to choose you first.

I tell people I’m doing okay. I keep up the image—work is steady, friends are still around, I eat real meals more often now. But every once in a while, I’ll hear a song you used to hum under your breath or see someone with the same walk as you, and it knocks the air out of me like I’ve run straight into a memory.

Do you still make coffee with two sugars and forget it on the counter?

Do you still keep extra napkins in your glove compartment, even though you said it made you feel like your mom?

Do you still wait three seconds before replying when you're mad, like you're trying to be kind even when you're hurt?

I keep thinking I’ll stop wondering eventually, that time will do the whole healing thing people like to talk about. But I think there are wounds that don’t scab over, just ones you get used to carrying. Like an old injury that flares up in the cold. You learn to live around it.

And the worst part is, I don’t even want to move on most days. I just want to go back. Not even to the good parts. Just to you. Even when we weren’t at our best, at least you were still within reach.

There’s so much I never told you. So much I’m still afraid to admit, even here, where I can pretend you’re reading and not judging me.

I think I loved you in the quiet ways. The kind that didn’t look like love because I was too scared to name it out loud. Too scared that once I said it, you’d realize how fragile I really was. But maybe that’s what you needed from me all along—just for me to admit I needed you, too.

I wish I could do it differently.

I wish I could do it over.

But I can’t, and so I write. Over and over and over again. Like if I write it just right, maybe you’ll feel it wherever you are. Maybe some part of you still listens. Maybe some part of you still cares, even if I don’t deserve it.

After the breakup, you’d moved out, found yourself a small apartment closer to work, and sobbed into his hoodie on the bathroom floor like you hadn’t thrown everything that mattered away. You called Bella, just to check in, talked for a while about her and Chan and how they were settling into college life. You pulled yourself together, because you had to. The apartment was smaller, quieter. The hum of the fridge filled the silence, and sometimes you’d sit with it like it was talking to you. You bought throw pillows. You learned how to cook for one. You stacked his hoodie in the back of your closet like it was a guilty secret. You stopped checking his socials—at least, not every day.

Nights were the hardest. There was no one brushing their teeth beside you, no coat thrown over the dining chair, no keys jingling in the bowl by the door. Just you, and the quiet, and the dull ache that settled somewhere beneath your ribs like something unfinished. You didn’t tell anyone how often you still thought about texting him. How your fingers hovered over his name in your phone. How sometimes, after a long day, you would whisper his version of your name into the dark—just to hear it again, even if only from your own mouth.

You saw a couple at the grocery store one night—arguing over pasta sauce, of all things—and it nearly broke you. Not because they were fighting, but because they still cared enough to fight. You remembered what that used to feel like. The messy, stupid, infuriating intimacy of building a life with someone. And how you’d let it slip through your hands like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

But he wasn’t. And you knew that. You always knew.

Still, you got up the next day, made your coffee, took the train, sent a polite email, sat through meetings, and smiled when someone made a joke.

You didn’t fall apart. Not completely. And that was the cruelest part of all. Because the world kept moving—utterly indifferent to the fact that you had loved someone so deeply, and only realized once you’d left.

But slowly, you started growing. Not all at once, not in any way that felt cinematic—you didn’t wake up one day and feel healed. It was messier than that—small, stubborn inches instead of leaps, like a plant pushing through cracked pavement, unsure if it even belonged there.

You started by doing the dishes. It sounds stupid, maybe, but one night you just… did them. Without letting them pile up, without waiting for the weight of it all to crush you into movement. You turned on music and scrubbed away coffee stains and silence and everything else that used to sit between you and someone else. And then you did it again the next night. 

You stopped checking your phone after work, started taking walks just because the air felt nice. You started saying yes when your coworkers invited you out, even if you only stayed for one drink. Even if you spent half the time wondering what Joshua would’ve ordered.

You bought a cheap bouquet of grocery store flowers for your kitchen table. You opened the windows when it rained. You rearranged the furniture—not because it was necessary, but because you could. You read books without annotating them, cooked meals without trying to impress anyone, watched movies and actually finished them without checking your phone every ten minutes.

You began to realize how many things you used to do just to be easier to love.

And when you caught yourself doing them again—over-explaining, apologizing too much, shrinking to fit someone else’s comfort—you paused. You took a deep breath. And you tried again.

You started writing again, not about him this time, but about other things. Stories that had nothing to do with heartbreak. Characters who didn’t carry your face or his name. You let yourself be bad at it. You let yourself be free. And when you started admitting to yourself how much you missed him, you let yourself write about that too. About the memories, about the future you didn’t have, about how sometimes things are meant to happen even when they hurt.

And some days were still hard. Some nights you still found yourself curled up in the corner of your bed, arms around your knees, that hoodie still tucked somewhere in the closet like a soft reminder. But there was a difference now. You weren’t waiting to be saved anymore. You were building something, even if it was small. Even if it was just a life where you could sit with yourself without feeling like a stranger. Even if some days all you did was make your bed or answer that one overdue text.

That counted, too. Because healing, it turns out, isn’t always loud. It’s not a speech or a dramatic realization or the perfect closure scene. Sometimes, it’s just standing in the middle of your own life and choosing to stay. Choosing to try again. Choosing to believe you’re allowed to be whole on your own.

And slowly, you did. You started becoming someone you could live with. Someone who didn’t just survive the hurt—but grew from it.

Of course you still miss him. Even after everything—even after the growth, after the quiet rebuilding, after the nights where you didn’t cry and the mornings where you didn’t think of him first—you still do. Maybe more honestly now.

Because it wasn’t until after everything that you could finally admit it.

It wasn’t the desperate, drowning kind of missing that used to own you, or the version where you’d check your phone at midnight and wonder what he was doing.

This was different. This was the kind of missing that didn’t ask to be fixed.

You could say it now—I miss him—and not fall apart.

You could carry the truth without letting it break you open again.

You’d done the hard parts. You’d stood in your own silence and learned how to live there. You’d stopped rewriting the past in your head like a prayer for one more chance.

And somewhere in all of that, you found room for something softer. You stopped fighting it. Stopped pretending the memories didn’t still live in you. Stopped scolding yourself every time his name rose up like smoke in your mind. He mattered. He mattered so much. And you missed him—not because you hadn’t healed, but because you had.

Because healing didn’t mean forgetting, it just meant being able to remember without losing yourself again.

You miss the sound of his laugh.

You miss how he’d hum while brushing his teeth, how he’d wait three seconds before replying when he was mad, how he knew your coffee order even when you changed it.

You miss the safety. The stillness. The softness he offered, even when you couldn’t meet it.

And now you realize that’s okay.

You’re allowed to grow and grieve.

You’re allowed to move forward without erasing where you’ve been.

You’re allowed to miss someone who felt like home, even after you learned how to build a new one on your own.

Maybe you always will. Maybe some part of you will always look for him in the crowd, always wonder if he ever looks for you too.

But you don’t need an answer anymore.

You’ve made peace with the silence.

Just like that, three years passed.

Time felt impossible after the breakup, like something that happened to other people. You counted days in coffee spoons and missed calls, in all the quiet spaces where he used to be. You thought healing would come fast, like a wave or a revelation. It didn’t. It came slowly, in barely noticeable shifts. And then, all at once, the calendar said three years.

Three years since you stood in front of him and lied.

Three years since he reached for you and you didn’t let him touch you.

Three years since you walked away.

You moved apartments once, got promoted, changed your hair. You lost touch with some people, grew closer to others. You built a life that didn’t revolve around anyone but you—and that felt like an accomplishment. A hard-won, deeply personal one. You didn’t need someone else to make the bed, or share the weight of grocery bags, or remind you to eat lunch. You didn’t need Joshua to feel whole anymore.

But you still thought of him.

Not every day, not even every week sometimes, but enough. Enough that when the song came on—the one he used to hum without realizing—you froze in the middle of the cereal aisle. Enough that when you smelled his cologne on the train, your stomach dropped like it used to when he’d say your name half-asleep.

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore, just dull and familiar—something you carried with you like a scar that stopped hurting, but never fully disappeared.

And what surprised you most was this: you stopped being angry. At him. At yourself. At the version of love you couldn’t hold onto.

You started looking back with softness instead. Not to rewrite the past, not to pretend it hadn’t broken you—but to honor it. To let yourself admit that it mattered. That it changed you. That it made you into someone stronger, even if it cost more than you thought it would.

Sometimes, you still wonder if he’s okay. If he ever thinks about you when it rains, or when he drives past that Korean place you both used to order from.

You’ll probably always wonder a little, but you’ve learned how to let that wondering live beside you, instead of inside you. It doesn’t gnaw at you the way it used to. Just sits quietly in the corner, a reminder that love like that leaves a mark—but it doesn’t have to define you forever.

Three years passed, and you’re still here. Still learning. Still growing. Still becoming someone you’re proud of.

Holy shit.

I saw you again.

And thats a wrap on part one, it was an absolute monster to write and I'm not super satisfied with it, but its done and on time so whatever. There will be a part two eventually, once I get my shit together! It may take a little bit because I have other things I wanna write too, but I'm not sure yet. Anyways hope you enjoyed reading it.

[yoiisa]

hi there, can u write a fic (college au/no blue lock) where reader & isagi are in a relationship, but his roommates slash friends don't know bcs reader always comes over whenever isagi says that his friends (bachira, kunigami, & chigiri) aren't at their apartment, but then get caught one day when his friends went back home early?

ive only stumbled upon ur account recently and i love ur fics/writing!!

omg love!! idk how colleges in japan work, so im just going to model this based on american colleges :D

all characters aged up (20+)! Tags: slightly suggestive and making out!!

➜ you knew isagi yoichi for around 6 months before the two of you started dating, but you'd been eyeing him for all of that time ➜ he was exactly your type- quiet, but the sweetest and most considerate person ever. ➜ he had beautiful blue eyes, was taller than you, and played soccer for the school. holy hell, talk about your personal kryptonite ➜ he was always too shy to ask you out though, so you had to take initiative on that front

You're sitting under a tree with Isagi in the school's courtyard. People are passing you by, heading to their respective classes. All you can think of in this moment though is how nice this is. The summer breeze is brushing his hair perfectly and the sun is making his eyes look like tiny sapphires. He looks like a prince. "Um, [name]?" he asks looking down at you. "Are you okay? You've been really quiet." You blink a few times, snapping out of your trance. You look down at your lap, staying silent for a little while. "Hey, Isagi?" you start. He leans forward and you feel like your heart is a car that someone just revved. "Umm, you don't have a girlfriend right?" "N-no," he stammers, taken aback. "Why?" "Do you," you cut yourself off, taking a deep breath. You meet his gaze and give him a tiny smile as you force the words out of your throat. "Do you wanna go out with me?" Your heart stops as he physically flinches back. "Nevermind!" you quickly say, holding your hands up in defense. "I'm so sorry, just forget all of that-" "N-no! That's not it, I- I do like you," he insists, "I just didn't expect you to ask me out." He lets out a deep breath and chuckles. "I was actually going to try and ask you out. My friends were giving me all this advice on how to do it. You just caught me off guard though. Beat me to the punch, huh?" He takes your hand in his and squeezes it. "But to answer your question, yes. I would like to go out with you."

➜ and that was that! the two of you were a couple. only one thing though- you'd never met those illusive friends ➜ whenever you went over to his dorm- a quad with two bunk beds and four desks, as well as a quite beautiful view of the whole campus through the window- there was no one else there but the two of you ➜ six months went by and not a single glimpse of them! you asked isagi about it once and he gave you a few excuses

"Well Bachira's really close to his mom, so he leaves campus a lot to hang out with her every now and then. She doesn't live too far from here anyways," Isagi explains as he rests his head in your lap. "And then Chigiri has a part time job at a physical therapist's office. He used to go there for himself since he messed up his leg once in an accident a while ago." You nod, running your finger through his hair. "And what about Kunigami?" "Also has a part time job as a kiddie's soccer coach," he says. "Hmm," you smirk and tickle your boyfriend's neck. He flinches and you giggle, "So you're the only one unemployed, huh?" He stiffens and gives you a look out of the corner of his eyes. "No. Bachira doesn't have a job too."

➜ when you finally meet Isagi's roommates . . . it's a mess ➜ after not seeing them enough times, you grew relatively comfortable with the idea that you never would in the dorms, and so did he ➜ he would have you over pretty often, and to be completely honest, sometimes things got a little spicy! ➜ so here you were, sitting on his desk and his standing between your legs. your lips locked in a heady kiss that was making you lightheaded. your tongues lapped hungrily at one another and your teeth clacking ➜ and then the door opened.

"Yoichi~" you gasp as he pulls back from your mouth. He starts to trail kisses along your jaw and neck, sucking small bruises into your collarbone and neck. "Mmm, you're so sweet," he groans, inhaling your scent. He feels like getting drunk off of it. His hot hands trail under your shirt, tracing around your curves. You giggle, but then both of your bodies freeze as you hear the door clicking. Isagi, in a moment of pure panic, tightens his grip on your waist and fucking shoves you off the desk and onto the floor. He was trying to hide you underneath the desk, not wanting his roommates to catch you both in this position, but all he does is just accidentally make you kneel in front of him. Right in front of him. Honestly, it helped enough because now your back is to his roommates, who are no doubt staring at you both as if they just walked in on a porno. Isagi stares at the trio. Bachira looks scandalized, Kunigami looks shocked, and Chigiri looks annoyed. "You couldn't bother locking the door when you have a hookup over?" the pink haired boy asks. "What. The. Hell. Is. This," Bachira says, looking two seconds from passing out. "Bachira, breathe," Chigiri grumbles, walking inside. "At least get her off her knees," Kunigami says, following Chigiri. He comes up behind you and taps you on your shoulder. "Miss-" You, in your panic and fear and shame, cannot think to say literally anything else other than, "I'm his girlfriend, not a hookup." Everyone stops breathing. "His GIRLFRIEND?!" Bachira roars, lunging at you. He grabs you by your shoulders, whirls you around and pulls you up to your feet. Kunigami hits him on the back of his head, "Don't handle a girl like that!" "I-It's fine," you say, waving Kunigami off with a small smile. "I'm so sorry about this. It's just, whenever I've been over, none of you are ever here, so I guess we got a little . . . careless." "You've been here before?" Bachira asks. A thud sounds from behind you and you whirl around. Bachira and Kunigami peek over your shoulder. Chigiri walks up to an Isagi whose cherry red. The embarrassment was just too much for his brain to handle anymore it seems. "Yoichi!" you shout, kneeling next to him. "I'll get him water," Chigiri says, walking to the dorm's mini fridge.

➜ the two of you never live this first impression down. not even at your wedding.

[maddamoiselle]

The Weight of Wanting You

Pairing: Caleb x NonMC!Reader

Synopsis: You fell for each other in pixels and whispers—never realizing you had already crashed into each other every day in real life.

Tags: Ennemies to lovers, friends to lovers, university AU, slow burn( I hope)

Author's nonsense : Here is the next chapter ! I hope you'll enjoy it because I surely did !

Words; ar.6k

<- Previous Chapter |

Chapter II: The pull of unseen things

The pill tasted like metal and chalk.

You tipped your head back, tossed it in, and swallowed before it even touched your tongue.

Water followed. Cold, clean, clinical. It burned a little going down— maybe from habit.

Your dad called them “stabilisers pills”. You’ve been taking them since your Evol manifested.

Your father, as a doctor, didn’t want you to feel pain because of your power. He did a lot of research for those pills, creating them so you wouldn’t … You didn’t even know.

He used to say you had a bad episode when you were a child, and your evol almost destroyed everything… You had no memory of this…Sometimes you felt like your father was a tiny bit overprotective.

The bottle is plain. No branding. Just your name, your dosage, his signature.

You pressed the bottle back into your bag, zipped it up like you were hiding away a part of yourself. Your suitcase was ready, your phone was charged…

There was practice today. Game soon. You needed to be sharp. Ready. Controlled.

Especially around him.

Your phone buzzed just as you were tying your shoe laces.

Ding.

You checked your phone and couldn’t suppress a smile when you saw the notification on your phone.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed sent a media (5:21)

Since you first sent the picture of your finger forming half a heart, your discord friend started to send you pictures every day.

Sometimes, it would be the sky, sometimes a dog he was petting, something he was cooking…

But there always would be his finger making half a heart.

And you would answer with a picture of your own, never showing your face, of course, but always making the other side of the heart with your fingers.

Today, the picture was of a park.

He told you he had a very strict routine for his body. Waking up early to go for a run and then get ready for his school. One time, he said that his sister tried to keep up with him but ended up sleeping on a bench, waiting for him to finish.

Your face warmed. Your stomach did that annoying soft-flip thing when you noticed his finger making a half-heart. The picture was a little blurry. He must have taken it while running.

You snapped a picture in return— nothing big. Just the morning sky that looked pink… or even purple like. The colors were beautiful, it would be a waste not to share it. You do the other half of the heart with your finger before sending it with a caption.

WindQueen.exe (5:22): heading to battle

WindQueen.exe (5:22): if i don’t survive, avenge me with memes

WindQueen.exe (5:23): and maybe emotionally scar the enemy

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (5:24): already have the soundtrack queued

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (5:24): no one will be spared

You didn’t respond immediately. You just stared at the screen for a second longer than you should, smiling like a fool.

Then you stuffed your phone in your pocket, your headphones blasting soft music in your ears, and headed out to the train station.

You sent a message to Zayne, wishing him a good morning and asking him to keep you updated on all the hospital’s drama. He sent you a picture of you— that truly wasn’t your best angle— where you were giving the lens a side eye with a smug expression.

You chuckled before putting your phone away and tried to find a place inside the train.

After succeeding in your noble quest. You opened your bag and started to write today’s training.

You were in the university’s basketball girl’s team. You were the captain, and you wished to bring this team to the championship. That’s why you needed to make sure the gymnase was reserved for your team today.

The girls in the team were good, nice, and even cute sometimes. You weren’t close enough to them to call them friends. A few of them were really interested in playing basketball, they others were mostly there because sometimes, the boy’s team would train with you.

And, of course, Caleb would be there.

A yawn escaped your lips, forcing you to hold your hand on your mouth. You were more exhausted than you believed. The ride to SkyHeavan was mostly two hours… Maybe you could sleep for forty-five minutes, and then prepare for today's training…

Yeah…

‘Next stop: SkyHeavan.’

Your eyes snapped open. The voice repeated the sentence you thought was in your dream, but no.

The train was coming to your stop. Your notes were empty. And you were still sleepy.

Fuck.

You quickly grabbed your things before dashing out of the train. You must have looked like a lunatic. Your eyes were still burning from the lack of sleep, your hair must look like a bird's nest, and you could feel some drool on your chin.

You quickly took the bus that brought you to your apartment. You quickly left your suitcase iin your bedroom and took a quick shower to wake you up before dashing to the university.

Now that most of the exams were over, not a lot of students were on campus. The ones staying were the ones who had obligations or were studying for the next semester’s exams. You knew you had just one week of break before going back to your lessons… just one week…still better than nothing.

A sigh of relief passed your lips when you noticed the girls waiting for you in front of the gymnase. They waved at you while you smiled at them, opening the gym with the key which had been given to you when you started this year.

You gave orders, talking about the championship. It was your last year together. You wanted to win this trophée.

After an encouraging speech, the gym’s echoed with sneakers squeaks and half-hearted laughter as your team started their warmup up. You adjusted your hair, focused, already planning plays in your head. Even if you didn’t have the time to organise anything during your ride to SkyHeavan, at least you slept enough for you to have ideas for your girl’s training.

Then: the door creaked open. Heavy foot steps. Familiar voices.

”No way..”

”It’s the boy’s team…”

”Caleb’s here—“

You didn’t even look. You heard the shuffle, the whispers, the giggles… then Caleb’s voice, casual as always.

"Didn't know we were double- booked.”

Translation: We want the court, move.

“That’s because you weren’t booked at all. We reserved the gym.”

You crossed your arms as your teammates were already starting to drift toward the sidelines, blushing and brushing their hair behind their ears like they were in a teen drama instead of training for the championship.

“Unless you hacked the system,” he said, voice low and smooth.” I’m pretty sure that’s mine.”

”Captain…” one of them murmured, “ it’s fine we can cut a little short—“

”No, we can not.” Your voice was sharp, not yelling, just.. undeniable.

Caleb walked toward you with his phone in his hand. You frowned as he showed you his screen. In front of your eyes were the schedules for the gym’s reservation. Today’s session… was reserved for the boy’s team.

You took his phone out of his hand, making sure it wasn’t a joke. Why? Why? you booked the reservation this morning on the train—

Fuck, you fell asleep before you could do it.

You turned to face him. Caleb started down at you, knowing no one could see his face as his back was facing everyone.

He smirked at you like this was a joke he was already winning. He leaned toward you until his lips brushed your ear.

”Now, you can shut up and fuck off.”

Murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal…

“ Caleb, why don’t you all play against each other?”

Caleb looked behind him, and then you saw her. His pipsqueak… She was looking at him with hopeful eyes while Guideon was laughing behind his hand. You could hear your teammates gushing and giggling, excited about the idea of playing against Caleb’s team.

” Pipsqueak… It’s not reall—“

” Come on, Caleb! And I would like to join the girl’s team too!”

You tried not to laugh at that. Your team, as distracted they could be, was on a level that made you reach nationals. You knew Caleb’s girlfriend wanted to be a hunter but… being a basketball player and a hunter was two different things.

Caleb scratched his neck before smiling at your team with a sorry expression.

”I’m sorry.. If it’s okay with you… could someone sub out for my—“

You groaned when you heard your teammates squealing in joy. Thank god, some of your girls were walking toward you, serious about playing against Caleb’s team. You weren’t ready to admit it out loud, but that would be a better training than what you had planned.

The court was split.

Lines drawn. Teams chosen. And somehow, because the universe had a shitty sense of humor, you ended up guarding him.

Caleb.

Again.

You didn’t know why his girlfriend didn’t want to guard him. Wouldn't that be a cute moment ? So why was she guarding Guideon?

Caleb played hard. Like he was trying to make a point. Every pass was sharp. Every drive was fast. He didn’t go easy on your team— even less on you.

He scored twice in a row, grinning like he already knew you were mad. And you were. But you wouldn’t show it.

Not yet.

His girlfriend called for the ball, and you passed it— a bit too quickly— and she fumbled it. Guideon scooped the ball before she could react. He passed it to Caleb, who pivoted midair, landed a pass with a snap, and his teammate scored.

”Nice assist, pipsqueak!” He laughed, facing his girlfriend and messing her hair. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault.’

So it was yours, maybe? You sighed, trying to keep your head cool.

Your team was getting frustrated. Even Caleb’s girl wasn’t smiling anymore. Your chest tightened.

Fuck it.

You let a gust of air slide under your shoes— just enough to give you a lift as you broke past Caleb and landed a clean shot.

He eyed you across the court.

Grinned.

Then, he messed with gravity.

The next time you go up for a shot, your legs are dragged, heavier than they should be.

You landed hard.

You knew it was him.

”Real subtle.” You hissed as you passed him.

”Don't start what you can’t finish.” He muttered back.

Oooh, it’s on.

Next time he drove toward the basket, you twisted the air — just a breeze, subtle, under his feet. He stumbled for half a second. Not enough to fall. But enough for you to steal the ball.

Your teammates on the bench cheered for you. His eyes found you again— a little surprise. A little impressed?

A lot annoyed.

”Cheating again?” He muttered as he passed you.

”Playing smart.” You shot back.

His girlfriend wasn’t that bad. She truly was trying and had good ideas. She was trying harder than some of your teammates. She called for a pass, and you didn’t know why you hesitated. You gave a shitty pass that made it out of the court.

”Sorry”!” She sighed. You could see she was truly annoyed by her mistake, even though it wasn’t her fault this time.

”All good, it was my fault.” You waved it off, tight-lipped. What was wrong with you?

Caleb noticed it. His jaw tensed. You could feel it— like gravity had eyes now. He got the ball again. Drove harder. Shoved past you, barely legal contact. The kind of shove that made you stumble and caught yourself before running after him.

”Relax,” he muttered under his breath,his whole body tensed.” Or is this about your new teammate?”

You glared at him, breathing hard. You didn’t have the time for his bullshit.

”This isn’t about anyone.”

”Right.” He smirked. “ Totally not acting like you’re one bad pass away from setting the court on fire.”

The match kept going, and in the end, other students started to come inside the gym to watch the game.

The ball landed in your hands. Caleb was guarding you. Just you and him.

The court noises faded— your teammates shouting, shoes squeaking, his girlfriend calling your name from somewhere far behind. None of it mattered. Not right now.

Caleb stepped up to guard you, and for a second, he wasn’t laughing anymore. No smirk. No taunt. Just eyes locked on yours, heavy with something you couldn’t name— something between challenge and accusation.

”Come at me.”

You didn’t answer.

He was fast. You were faster. The wind curled under your soles, a quick assist, but he felt it. The gravity shifted— your feet suddenly a fraction heavier. It was like you were running through syrups.

You shoved harder. Air lashed around you in a ripple. Your evol brushed against his like a current slamming into a wall.

Push. Pull. Lift. Drag.

Neither of you said a word; but every move screamed.

He blocked your path. You twisted. He shifted the floor beneath you. You pushed back with wind so sharp it raised the edges of his jersey.

”Are we still playing basketball?” He growled low.

”Afraid to lose?”

You pivoted. He mirrored.

You jumped.

He raised the ball’s gravity midair.

You countered with a sudden gust— trying to push the ball against his gravity.

It was raw, deseperate, and precise.

The second your fingers brushed the ball, your evol surged. So did his.

Air and weight collided. The gym’s lights flickered. The ball, pushed by both of your evol, is sent in the air with too much force. Too much speed. It escaped your control, and you could only gasp as it flew right into…

Guideon’s face.

”Fuck!”

Fuck.

Everyone ran toward Guideon, who was holding his bloody nose. You quickly grabbed your bag and gave him tissues while apologizing a hundred times.

”What the fuck is wrong with you two? Since when are we using evols for a friendly match?” Guideon winced as you tried to wipe the blood from his chin. Caleb is already using the phone in the gym to call for the infirmary.

After a few minutes, Guideon was taken away to make sure he was okay.

You sighed, grabbing a bottle and drinking the water you so needed. You could hear Caleb and his girlfriend talking about Guideon, hoping he was okay. You glanced at them and couldn’t help but feel envy as you watched Caleb hug his girlfriend.

Their touches weren’t romantic, but you could definitely feel a deep bound between them.

You wondered how it felt to be loved and cherished…

Your phone was still on the bench, and after hesitating for a second, you couldn’t help but send a message to your friend in Discord.

WindQueen.exe (11:34): i manage to take down my enemy's minion.

WindQueen.exe (11:35): might need help to defeat his boss

“It was a good match! I’m sorry I was so slow, but what can we do about it, Caleb was the one who trained me.”

You turned around and faced Miss Futur Hunter. She was beaming at you, blushing a bit. You could see she was nervous, you wondered why. A glance to your left, and you could see Caleb, his phone in his hand, staring at you.

Was he afraid you were going to hurt his girlfriend? Why was he always looking at you like you were a loaded weapon he forgot to disarm?

“You have good reflexes.” You nodded at her. She seemed disappointed you didn’t want to engage in a deeper conversation with her.

You took your stuff before walking toward the showers. You were sweating so much… Ugh..

The sound of Caleb’s chuckle made you pause. You glanced at him, surprised to see his face coloured by a light blush, his hand hiding his smile while he was staring at his phone.

You raised your eyebrow.

If you were his girlfriend, you would be jealous to see him react like this to someone’s message… Or maybe he was watching cute videos of puppies?

You went into the locker room and quickly went under the shower. You sighed in delight as the warm water fell upon your skin. You took your phone with your dry hand and quickly played music randomly.

You quietly hummed the lyrics, moving under the water.

That song was very catchy…

After drying yourself, you shared that song with your friend in Discord and realized he had answered you while you were showering.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:40): that’s my girl :)

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:40): now, give me a date so we can get rid of your final boss

You bit your thumb, trying to keep your smile in check. You almost felt confident enough to send a picture of you but decided not to. That was maybe… a bit too much. You walked back to the locker room to get change.

Your teammates were laughing, doing their hair, and taking selfies. Talking about the boy’s team like they were celebrities instead of classmates. You tied your laces tighter than necessary.

”Did you see how Caleb looked in his jersey today?”

”I’d give up a whole practice slot for that smile.”

You almost threw your water bottle at the wall. No matter what you’ve done— how hard you’ve trained, how hard you’ve fought for the team— they always melted when Caleb showed up. Did they forget that you managed to bring them to the nationals; that you fought against the teacher so you could train in they gym.

” Girls, you know we have a match in two weeks. Caleb has a girlfriend, please be respectful about it.”

You said in a cold voice before leaving the locker rooms while your teammates winced at your tone, feeling ashamed.

You walked toward the university, trying to find an empty room to… to be alone for a little while. You stopped when you heard a familiar song… The one you sent to your friend in discord… it couldn’t be…?

”That’s a good song, Caleb!”

You peeked into a room and stared at the scene. Caleb is sitting on a desk, music coming from his phone while his girlfriend is doing a TikTok with the song playing. You sighed in disappointment and also relieved…

Maybe you really were not ready to meet him..?

You stared at Caleb. His face had a fond expression as he tapped on his phone with one hand, his head moving to the beat of the song. His other hand was busy tapping on the desk he was sitting at, humming the lyrics.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:56): oh i love it :)

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:56): in our playlist it goes

You left the two lovebirds, smiling down at your phone while walking to find another empty room. After walking for ten minutes, you decided to sit on the stairs. You kept talking in Discord with your friends, adding more and more songs to your playlist.

Your phone buzzed, and your expression fell a bit as you saw your dad’s contact appearing on your screen. You sighed before taking the call, a small smile on your lips.

”Yep, dad?”

”How are you feeling, sweetheart? Did you arrive at SkyHeavan? everything went well? Did you take your pills?”

“I’m good. I took them this morning. You sound exhausted.”

”Yeah, well, work… I’m happy you’re feeling well. I’m worried about you.”

You looked up to the ceiling. You wondered if your father saw your mother in you. She died a long time ago, and he never talked about her… Never. You had asked Zayne to sneak into the hospital’s archive, but nothing.

Wasn’t it suspicious enough?

Your mother used to work in the fleet, and then she died. That was the only thing you and Zayne managed to find out. That’s why you were aiming to work there. To have your answers.

Someone asked for your father, and you could hear their calm voice.

”Dr.Noah (…) we need…”

Your father quickly said bye to you with a quick “I love you don’t forget your pills” before hanging up. You sighed before standing up. It was time for some library study.

After five hours of study and a bit of daydreaming, you made sure you knew everything. You stood up and decided to go to the outside basketball court. It wasn’t big, a little bit far from the campus…

The moon was already in the sky, the lights were buzzing faintly overhead, half the court cloaked in the shadows. The court’s surface was slick with the day’s leftover heat, the air quiet except for the soft thud of the ball against the pavement.

You’ve been shooting for… who knew how long. Long enough that your hands were now aching.

The silence was comfortable.

Until it wasn’t.

You heard footsteps behind you, measured, deliberated. You didn’t even need to turn around to know who it is.

”What, stalking me now?”

”Was about to say the same thing.” Caleb replied, stepping into view. He was in a hoodie, sleeves pushed up, hair damped from quick rinse. His eyes found the ball in your hands, then the sweat on your face.

”Didn’t get enough earlier?”

You shrugged and bounced the ball once.

”Didn’t feel like a win.”

He stepped onto the court slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you were going to shout at you for coming close to you. But you were tired… You didn’t know about what. You didn’t want to fight tonight.

He was closer now. You could feel the subtle pull of gravity shifted— not because of his evol. Just him.

You passed him the ball. Hard.

”One-on-open. No teams. No distractions."

He caught it easily and smiled— not cocky like usual. Just… tired… like you.

”Which side are you on?”

You paused. The wind stirred around you like it was trying to whisper an answer. This question seemed way deeper than you expected. He was surely asking which side of the court you wanted to play on… and yet it seemed much more meaningful… But you couldn’t grasp it.

“ First to five?”

Caleb spun the ball in his hands. It was slower now, like he was not here to win…

” No evol this time, just skills.”

”Afraid of a little breeze?” You quirked a brow. You didn’t want to admit it, but you just wanted to play without feeling like you needed to think about everything, your team, your lectures, your pills…

”Terrified.” He deadpanned. “ You might blow me away…Or I might catch a cold.”

You smirked despite yourself, already stepping into position.He dribbled forward— light on his feet, smoother than he was during the game this morning.

Less aggressive.

You matched him step for step, mirroring every motion. Your evol stirred automatically, but you kept it in check.

Still, you felt him - the subtle drag of the air shifting around him, gravity bending every so slightly when he pivoted.

And you wondered if he was holding back too?

The points came and went,quietly.

You drove left. He let you.

He faked a shoot. You called his bluff.

No score keeping. No trash talk.

Just breathe. Movement. Silence thick with meaning that you couldn’t understand.

You took your shoot, and Caleb let you. He stared at the ball, which didn’t even touch the net as it went inside. You both were breathing hard, staring at the basket without saying anything.

Caleb turned his eyes toward you. Those eyes that weren’t warm for you, weren’t soft. They were calm, still cold… but curious. You wondered, did Caleb hate this much because of one mistake you made during your first years? Because you injured his precious girlfriend by mistake?

”You seem different … more different than I expected.”

”What did you think I was?”

” Dangerous.”

You laughed once— soft, bitter. You walked to grab your basket, taking your bag before looking at him.

” Do I seem dangerous to you?”

You should leave.

You should turn your back,storm off the court, and let him think he had won— because staying there meant he would see he had hurt you. It meant staying in a moment where your pulse didn’t calm down and your lungs felt too full.

You .. dangerous…?

You could almost hear your father’s voice asking you if you took your pills. Every day. For your security.

Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills?

For whose security?

The ball was rolling somewhere near the edge of the court. Forgotten.

The wind had stilled around you, like it was holding its breath.

“ I don’t get why you hate me so much, Caleb. You don’t even know me.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw clenched tight. He seemed tired, torned by his own emotions… What was he hiding?

“That’s the problem,” he muttered, “ I do know people like you. You end up hurting the one I’m trying to protect.”

You blinked.

Was it about his girlfriend again?

The implication was sharper than any blow.

“If you’re talking about your girlfriend, I never wanted to hurt her.” Your voice started to shake. Why did you care so much about his words?

Your heart beat against your ribs like it was trying to escape. You wrapped your arms around yourself, but it did nothing to quiet the ache under your skin.

Then, without meaning to, you said it:

“If I’m so dangerous... why didn’t you just walk away?”

The words hanged in the air.

You didn't expect an answer.

And for a moment, he didn't give one.

Then—his voice low, like he hated himself for saying it:

“Because something in me keeps wondering if I’m wrong.”

He was still watching you — all fire and edges, arms crossed like he was holding himself together with stubbornness.

You were about to walk away.

You needed to walk away.

But then he said it.

Low. Sharp.

“Whatever those pills are, they’re not for relaxation.”

You froze.

The word hit like a punch to the gut.

“What did you just say?”

He didn't back down. Didn’t blink.

“I saw them. Your bag was open during practice this morning. I looked.”

The world tilted for a second. Did that bastard look through your stuff… And for what?

Your chest tightened.

“You... went through my stuff?”

“Yes.” He shrugged, but his voice was cold, controlled. “And the bottle had no label. No pharmacy. There is no record in the school med system. Just your name. And your father’s signature.”

You felt like you were going to kill him.

“Those are just focus pills,” you snapped. “I take them to control my evol. My dad, he’s a doctor. He knows what I need.”

“Yeah, he knows exactly what you need,” Caleb muttered bitterly with a smirk.

You shoved the words down — the confusion, the hurt, the humiliation.

“You think I’m dangerous. You think I’m lying. So you spy on me, search my bag like I’m some kind of threat?”

He stepped forward, eyes sharp with something that looked too much like desperation.

“I'm wondering now. Do you know that doctors need to write the name of the medication they give..”

That stopped you.

He walked toward you, hands in his pocket while his eyes never left yours. You felt like you couldn’t breathe anymore. He was staring down at you like he had all the answers, and you were just a naive sheep waiting to be sacrificed.

“Ah, but I guess a doctor from Ever wouldn’t care about it.”

Ever..?

The words hit something deep — something you didn’t have a name for yet. Your father was a doctor, a respectable one. He would never work with Ever.

Never.

Yet, you couldn't open your mouth.

Your father had created those pills to help you with your evol.

You never left like you didn't control it.

He didn’t want you to suffer from your evol.

You never suffered from it.

He loved you.

He didn’t care about you. He only cares that you take these pills.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to vanish.

You wanted to believe he’s wrong.

But a seed of doubt has already taken root.

You left the court without another word. No goodbye. No second match. Just the quiet shift of your steps on the path back through campus.

Your legs ached. You didn’t want to go back to your apartment yet.

Your eyes were burning from the tears you refused to share with the world.

You were just tired, and Caleb was messing with your head. That was it.

So you find the tree. Your tree— a huge, knotted thing near the edge of campus that hides you from everything. The roots curved just enough to become a seat. The branches above you rustled faintly as you sat back against the trunk, staring at the stars through the leaves. you closed your eyes, letting the world around you lull you to sleep.

You didn’t know how many minutes— hours?— passed before you pulled out your phone and opened discord.

There he was. Your safe place.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed— online.

You snapped a photo of the grass, the edge of the tree trunk visible, and of course, you made half a heart with your fingers.

WindQueen.exe sent a media (22:09)

WindQueen.exe (22:09): world’s quietest therapy session

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:09) : wait wait wait

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:09): you mean this tree?

Grav1ty.D3n1ed sent a media (22:10)

You blinked and looked at his phone, and your mouth went dry.

Because it was the same tree. Same roots, same cracked bark pattern.Same tiny carved initials near the base but… from the other side.

Your fingers froze above your keyboards. Then, three blinking dots. He was typing again.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed ( 22:12): you’re kidding me

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:12): are we literally sitting on opposite sides of the same tree??

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:13): dont panic, do you want me to leave

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:13): even if i want to meet you, i can leave with my eyes close i promise

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed ( 22:15): do you want me to leave, tell me please

WindQueen.exe (22:16): stay

Your eyes traveled to the grass, and you saw it.

A hand.

His hand— slowly pressing into the grass, palm open, fingertips brushing the clover between the rots. Not reaching toward you… but just being there. Close enough that if you wanted, you could…

No one said a word.

The discord window glowed faintly in your lap. The blinking cursors mocking you about your inability to react to this moment.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:20): we cant hug right now so… can i hold your hand?

He wasn’t peeking around the three. You weren’t either.

Your fingers shifted from your phone to the earth. You reached around the thick curve of the trunk blindly until your hand brushed his.

You felt him tense, but he didn’t move.

You tapped his palm with your fingers. You chuckled when you saw his message of discord.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:23): Are you trying to kill me, woman?

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:24): my hand must be so sweaty, sorry

His finger closed around yours.

Warm. Smooth.Real.

The night deepened. The air is cooler now, brushing against your skin like a whisper. You were still holding his hand.

You didn't know if he could hear your sniffled, but he didn't text anything. He just kept holding on to your hand, squeezing harder and harder.

And you were squeezing back.

You were so grateful for his presence after this horrible evening. You didn't know if he was a student here or just passing by... but you were grateful..

His hand was still in yours.

Neither of you had spoken in minutes. The Discord chat sat open between you — a final few messages just waiting to be answered. But the words stopped being enough the moment your fingers touched.

And now, the silence said everything you were too scared to type.

The wind shifts through the branches above you. The leaves shivered. Your heartbeat felt too loud.

Then he moved.

Just a slight shift — a squeeze of your hand. And then… his fingers started to pull away.

Not fast. Not cold.

Just… gentle. Careful. Like letting go might hurt if he did it wrong.

But you both knew it’s time.

Neither of you said it out loud.

Your thumb gave his a soft, slow squeeze — the kind you didn't do with strangers.

Then your phone lighted up.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:10); i should probably head back

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:10): before the grass permanently imprints on my spine

You laughed softly — just under your breath.

WindQueen.exe (23:11):tragic

WindQueen.exe (23:11): you’d become part of campus folklore

WindQueen.exe (23:12): the ghost of the tree boy

A pause. And then:

Grav1ty.D3n1ed ( 23:13):…you’d visit, right?

Your heart fluttered — light and aching.

WindQueen.exe (23:13): every night, I would bring snacks. and sarcasm.

Another beat of silence. Your fingers didn't let go yet.

Then his last message appeared:

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:15): same time, same tree, next time?

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:15): no pressure

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:15) only if you want to

WindQueen.exe (23:15): as if you could put pressure on me

WindQueen.exe (23:17): Goodnight, my little ghost

And finally, slowly, his hand pulled away.

You didn't look.

You didn't move.

You just sat there —heart full of something you couldn't name,phone screen dimming, hand tingling like it remembered his.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:19): i can't stop smiling...

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:20): im such a loser

You giggled, tilting your head back against the tree.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed sent a media (23:20)

You stared at the picture. It was the tree where you were sitting. You were behind it, so you weren't on the picture, but your heart melted at the sight.

And as always, half a heart with his fingers.

You took a picture of the tree and made the other side of the heart with your fingers. You sent it with a caption.

WindQueen.exe sent a media (23:22)

"For my loser."

---

Taglist: @xyzbeloved @deepspace-fishie @floofycookie @silmeria-lafleur @pagesfalling @noxus123 @sylusgirlie7

[glassbxttless]

The Flaming Hearts Fan Club

johnny storm x fem!reader

word count: 2.2k+

summary: Something falls out of your pocket with the most unfortunate timing anyone could’ve asked for.

warnings: reader’s gonna be embarrassed, johnny’s gonna be a funny little son-of-a-bitch and i love him

notes: One of my friends, @prettycalla, and I decided to write this idea that our other friend, @getaapologist, had given us! (I was on fire for three hours, I hope you enjoy lmao). So here’s my version and the kickstart to my johnnyverse! Big thank you to @robinbuckleywife for reading this over and as always, big thank you to @peachyproserpina for editing, couldn’t do this without you!

It’s a sweltering July afternoon. You’re unfortunately standing in line at Burger Tower— it was of those space-age-styled fast food joints with chrome countertops, a glowing neon menu board shaped like a rocket ship, and booths upholstered in shiny red vinyl. The overhead speakers are playing The Supremes a little too loud for you to hear anything else, the smell of frying oil wafts around you, and the sun outside practically melts the linoleum floor tiles. It’s hot enough to make a person sweat through their shirt… and their pants…. really any article of fabric strewn on their bodies.

You’re one person away from the counter and you’re mentally running through your order— double cheeseburger, a strawberry shake, fries large enough to make you regret getting 'em— when you reach into your pocket to pull out your cash. Except you grab way more than you mean to. Something slips out and floats to the ground right at your feet. It’s face-down, but you already know what it is before it even touches the ground. Your stomach drops straight out your ass and to the floor. 

It’s one of your photos from the Flaming Hearts Fan Club. The official one, glossy and embarrassingly well-loved. And now stepping up right next to it? The most unfortunate pair of shoes you could hope to see. Black boots. Sleek. Attached to legs in jeans that you woefully would recognize anywhere. A voice chuckles behind you, smug and too amused for your comfort, says, “Whoa, now that’s a handsome guy.”

You freeze right in your tracks. You know that voice. Everyone knows that stupid voice. It’s been broadcast on radio interviews, on late-night variety shows, and shouted from the skies when the Fantastic Four saved Midtown last month.

You turn on your heel.

Johnny Storm is standing there. His blonde hair windswept and looked too picture perfect, his sunglasses are perched in his head, and he’s holding your fan club photo between two fingers like it might catch fire if he grips it too tight. And he’s grinning. “Real dedicated fan, huh?” he says, flipping the photo around to show the front. It’s the one where he’s in his blue suit, smirking with his arms crossed like he knows exactly how good he looks— which, clearly, he does. “Where’d you get this? You know they make me sign those after three hours of PR torture every Tuesday?”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out except a breath that sounds vaguely like a question mark. You hurriedly grab the photo back, flustered and looking anywhere but at him, trying not to sweat through your blouse. “I— I’m not, like, obsessed or anything. My friend gave it to me. You know… as a joke.”

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, then steps around you to the counter, calling over his shoulder. 

You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Instead, you just shove the photo back into your pocket cursing yourself for even tucking it in the pocket of these jeans however many weeks ago. You order as fast as you can, duck your head to avoid him, and flee to the farthest booth in the restaurant. You’re definitely trying to hide behind your stupid milkshake and lick your wounds in peace. You make it halfway through a crinkle fry when a red tray drops on the table across from you, and Johnny plops down into the seat like he had been invited. He’s got two burgers on his tray, a large soda, and one of those dumb, charming milkshakes with whipped cream stacked a mile high.

You almost choke on your fries. “Are you… Are you seriously sitting here?”

“Sure am.” His eyes are twinkling as he peels the paper back on his burger. “You looked lonely. Or maybe mortified. Either way, sitting here felt like a public service.”

You groan and drop your forehead into your hand, elbow propped against the table. “You are the worst.”

“Incorrect. I’m the hottest. Literally.” He bites into his burger and shrugs. “Flaming Hearts, huh? That’s the fan club with the pins, right? Do you have the pin?”

You glare at him between spread fingers.

He leans forward, his eyes wide with mock innocence. “What? I wanna see it. Let me guess— it’s hidden in your purse next to the embroidered handkerchief with my initials, huh?”

“I do not have—” you stop yourself with a sigh. It doesn’t really matter what you say now. He’s already smiling like he’s won something.

He munches on a fry, then points one at you. “You know, most people pretend not to recognize me. They do that whole thing where they squint and go, ‘Hey, aren’t you that flying guy?’ and I say something modest, like ‘Only on days that end with Y.’ But you? You dropped the merchandise. You might as well have left a trail of rose petals to this very booth.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s almost impossible for you to stop smiling now. “If I buy you another burger and slide it across the table, will you try and forget this ever happened?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he grins through a mouthful of fries, “This has been the best part of my day. I’m literally going to remember this forever.”

You laugh despite yourself and shake your head. He’s magnetic in the kind of way you wish you were immune to, that’s how this crush started, after all. All lazy charm and a ridiculous aura of confidence. But it really wasn’t in the sleazy, plastic way you’d expect from a tabloid cover boy. It’s like he actually likes being liked, in a deeper way— nothing surface level. “Why are you here?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a lab to go blow up or something?”

“Nah.” He waves his hand in dismissal, smiling. “Reed banned me for the afternoon.” Then, he leans back in the booth, one arm draping over the back of the seat. “I figured I’d get some lunch and see how many people pretended not to notice me. You win, by the way. Dropping the photo? That was pretty good.”

You groan and hide your face in your hands again. And then you shake your head, starting to laugh as you say, “I am never living this down.”

“Sure you will,” he hums, holding his shake toward you like a peace offering. “Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Want a sip?”

You squint at him. “That’s how you get cooties.”

“Oh my god, you are in the fan club.”

“Shut up.”

He kicks your foot lightly under the table and sing-songs between laughs. “You didn’t say no.”

You shoot him a mock-annoyed look over the top of your milkshake. “You kicking me under the table now? Real smooth.”

Johnny shrugs. “Subtlety’s never been my strong suit. I mean… Come on. I light on fire for a living.”

You laugh again. It bubbles out of you before you can even realize it, and suddenly you’re smiling so wide that your cheeks hurt. He notices and he gives you this big, satisfied grin like he just won a bet with himself.

“What?” you say, narrowing your eyes at him, your heart beating so hard in your chest you think it may try to escape through your ears.

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “It’s just… really nice when people laugh around me instead of screaming and running for the nearest fire extinguisher.”

“Oh, is that a thing?”

“You’d be surprised.” He nudges the last of his fries into his mouth, chews lazily, then adds, “Actually, wait, no you wouldn’t. You’re the one with my picture in your pocket.”

You groan dramatically and drop your head down against the table for what? the third time now? “Will you please stop bringing that up?”

“Not a chance.”

You hear the squeak of the vinyl as he shifts in the seat, then there’s a rustle of paper as he crumples up his burger wrapper. He’s looking at you a little differently now— clearly still very amused, but he’s softened at the edges. Like maybe he’s not here just to tease you. Like maybe he kind of likes the way you look at him while he flirts or how you groan when he pokes a little fun at you. He tosses his trash onto his tray, wipes his hands on his jeans, then he looks back at you with a tilt of his head. “So. You headed anywhere after this? Or was lunch your big plan for the afternoon?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why? Are you about to recommend I spend the rest of it being harassed by superheroes?”

“First of all, celebrity superhero. Get it right,” he says with another one of those signature grins, jerking his thumb back at himself as he points. “Second, I was gonna offer to walk you home. Unless you’d rather let the photo in your pocket be enough.”

You pause at his words, a fry halfway to your mouth. “You want to walk me home?”

He shrugs, like the suggestion is no big deal. Like he’s just a normal guy asking a normal girl to let him walk her home. But he was not a normal guy, he was fucking Johnny Storm, of the Fantastic Four. And you, you, were a member of his damn fan club. “Sure. It’s hot out. You might melt. I’d feel bad if I left you out there to fry like an egg on the concrete.”

“And you’re just… offering? Out of the goodness of your very flammable heart.”

“That, and you’re cute when you’re mortified.” He winks at you, like he hasn’t just said the sort of thing that might send your pulse into a thumping tailspin. “So what do you say? You live nearby?”

You hesitate, shifting in your seat, but it’s not because you don’t want him to. It’s because it still feels a little unreal that the Johnny Storm wants to walk you home like this is some normal, Saturday matinee kind of world. You nod at him slowly, your eyes still on him and a fry still clutched between your fingertips. “Just a few blocks.”

“Perfect.” He hops up, grabbing both of your trays. He dumps them in the bin in one graceful swoop. “Let’s go before I change my mind and fly off dramatically into the sunset.” 

He holds the door open for you as you exit, the same stupid hot air you were trying to escape, slaps you both in the face like a slightly damp towel straight from the dryer. You step out into the sun together, and he falls into step beside you. You’re walking as if you’re old friends. Like this isn’t bizarre and slightly incredible. “So…” he says after a few minutes of walking in silence. “Do I get to know your name? Or do I have to keep calling you ‘Flaming Heart Number 247’?”

You tell him your name. His lips tug up at the corners as he repeats it, and then he nods as he decides in his own head that it suits you.

“I’ve gotta admit, I didn’t really think my Thursday was gonna include teasing a girl about my own face in a burger joint, but you’ve made the experience. You, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “You doing anything this weekend?”

You glance sideways at him, hand curling tightly around the strap of your bag. “Why?”

“Just wondering if you’d want to… I don’t know. Get a soda or catch a movie or something. We could go somewhere I promise not to spontaneously combust on you.”

You almost gape at him, “You’re asking me out?”

“Yeah, well, it’s either that or I keep circling this block every day hoping you drop another photo of me so we have something to talk about.”

You try to play it cool, really you do, but your smile slips out before you can stop it. “Alright, Mr. Celebrity Superhero. You’ve got a date. You set it up.”

Johnny beams at you, almost boyish, entirely smitten. “You won’t regret that.”

“I probably will.”

He waits a moment and then agrees with a teasing sigh, “You definitely will, but you’ll also probably have a pretty great time.”

He walks you the rest of the way home, his hands stuffed in his front pockets. He’s telling you some absurd story about Ben trying to cook dinner and him nearly setting off the building’s sprinklers. You’re halfway to your door before you realize— he’s not just funny, or cute, or famous.

He’s fun.

And when he leans against your front gate and smirks down at you like he’s waiting for a green light, you give it to him without even thinking. He doesn’t kiss you— it’s too soon for that, you’ve just met— but he does tap the back of your hand lightly and say, “Don’t lose that photo. It might be worth something someday.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Goodnight, Johnny.”

“Night, doll” And then, with one last wink, he steps back, salutes you— all teeth and dimples, and then takes off into the sky like he was always born to fly.

You stand there, watching him go, grinning like an idiot.

And it flashes through your brain, you’re definitely gonna need a new photo.

Maybe one with you in it next time.

tags ;; No one is on the taglist for Johnny yet— so if you’d like to join, fill this form out here!

[bamtor1sss]

———————Rent—Free Feelings

pairing: 𝗍𝖺𝖾𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 // 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗎 ౨ৎ—WC 7.5k

𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾: 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 ????, 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍

⪩ ⪨ - 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗇. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗎𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝖺𝖾𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇—𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍— 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇… 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍

warning: no protection (wrap ur willy!), aphrodisiacs, multiple orgasms, taehyun cries a little, handjob, little bit of dirty talk, sub!taehyun, overstimulation, nipple sucking f!rec, stuttering(?), neck kisses

A/N : THIS is an actual train wreck of a fic... im not sure how i feel about it- like after 5k words i got lost- my writing had less energy ngl 😭 but i hope everyone enjoys nonetheless!! (im never doing this many words again...)

thoughts about kang taehyun? well there was a lot…

kang taehyun was the ideal guy, the whole package; he was academically smart not only that but he was intelligent, people smart—the type to win you over with his wits and mannerisms that made him seem like he cared. he was good looking—well built physique which had girls all over him, great at sports to the point he didn’t even have to try to be good at them and generally was very likable. winning him the high popularity throughout high school and university

is what most people would say but you? you’d say quite the opposite, sure he was smart but he’s cocky. a know it all—the type to push his opinion in your face and make it seem like you were small. he was good looking sure. but he was a totally jerk about it man-whoring with every girl he got the chance. and him being great a sports?—you say he just bribed every teacher and coach like he does to get ahead of everything. that stupid smug grin and wink he’d flash just for good measures. to say the least you despised kang taehyun with your whole heart.  

but it wasn’t always this way, in fact you knew him in high school and you both weren’t exactly friends but you weren’t exactly acquaintances. you two were both in the same friend circle and you had started liking him… sure you were still getting to know him but he seemed really smart, he was kinda shy which seemed to add to his charm, and honestly he was pretty fun to hangout with.

 him just being himself made your usual loud and outgoing-self pretty timid around him, wanting to make a good impression. 

that was until you were hanging out with some friends—and taehyun made a harsh comment maybe jokingly that cut deep. to you, in front of all those people made your whole world stop spinning—the kind of feeling where the words sting, lingering in your mind long after the laughter fades, like you’re caught between wanting to laugh it off and wanting to shrink into the background. and to make things worse he noticed and he still laughed. 

and you never forgot it. 

you laughed it off in front of others but it hurt, and it stuck. it’s honestly been so long you started to forget what he even said, you were a pretty outgoing person, sometimes speaking too quickly and dressing maybe a little too bold for high school. maybe it was about your voice, something else you were insecure about. but whatever he said stuck. 

you started to keep a healthy distance between yourself and him instead of just upright confronting him, and when you grew defensive making sharp comments towards him, he started to assume you now hated him, so he doubled down-better to act like it was all a game than admit he was wrong, that he cared. 

besides absolutely getting embarrassed by your former crush 

the two of you both started to feel this awkward tension that neither of you chose to address and decided to replace with sharp bitter remarks and the urge to do everything to one up him, make him feel like how he made you that day, which totally didn’t work. despite taehyun being an absolute jerk to you, he really was a good person, like genuinely he was kind and cared for people.

 but when it came to you? 

it was just awkward tension that filled the room and his only way of dealing with it was making your life absolute hell. that time you wanted to run for lass president? he made sure he ran as well and somehow got more votes than you, purposely scoring higher grades than you on exams just to get under your skin. it was always a competition, one you couldn’t win. thankfully that all ended once you graduated high school and parted ways with taehyun—life suddenly wasn’t so bad. you were even able to get into a great university and everything was great—

until you realized you couldn’t actually afford to live on your own… great. just great. i mean SURE, maybe… you had A FEW terrible spending habits—like ordering food when your fridge had things in it, your totally justifiable need for cute stationery—but you didn’t realize it had gotten this bad?? like it wasn’t your fault rent and textbooks were criminally overpriced… you thought maybe you could power through with some part time job, maybe selling a few clothes you hadn’t worn anymore. but the math wasn’tmathing.. and you weren’t trying to end up homeless for the sake of pride… so you did what any desperate student would do—post an open call for a roommate…

you made the post in all the local student housing groups: 

“hi!! looking for a chill roommate to split rent with :) i’m clean, responsible, can cook sometimes, message me if interested!”

and then you waited.

and waited.

and waited…

OH my god how long is this going to take???-

why didn’t anyone tell you it was actually THIS hard to find someone who wasn’t  creepy, ghosting you after the first message, or looking to “share a bed for bonding purposes *smirk emojis*”—???— it was actual hell. this one guy named yeonjun said they needed the place only on weekends so they could “crash with their situationship on weekdays,” another literally tried to turn the roommate application into a job interview: what are your top five strengths and weaknesses? who even asks that dude??? just when you were about to give up all hope and turn on your personal playlist dedicated to crying

and regretting all your life choices!

ding

a message.

“HOLY SHI-“ you screamed and jumped up re-reading the notification. after THREE (yes only 72 hours…) long, soul-crushing days, you got a NORMAL offer to split an apartment. finally—someone normal, someone decent, someone who responded in full sentences. maybe—just maybe—things were looking up.

…until you saw the name on the message request.

kang. taehyun.

you stared at your screen, blinking. “WHAT THE HELL?” you screamed again in the span of one minute…

no-

no. no no no no n o.

there’s literally no way. did the universe just… hand-select your worst nightmare and present him to you on a silver platter with a “roommate” label on top??? you must’ve committed serious sins in a past life. something had to explain this level of karmic retribution. and the worst part? his message was SO normal..?

“hey, saw your post in the housing group. looking for a roommate too. can split rent 50/50. i cook, clean, and don’t mind noise.” 

like he TOTALLY didn’t dedicate all of high school to ruining your life one petty move at a time. same person that made that joke that you can’t even remember but only could remember how painful it was to hear..

this couldn’t be real.

so you simply closed the app.

reopened it.

the message was still there.

you closed it again.

restarted your phone.

reopened the app again.

kang taehyun. your only offer. so yeah. you were either about to make the worst decision of your  life or become one of those delusional people who think they can ‘emotionally detach from reality and live in denial’ … i mean taehyun, sure was a jerk to you—but that was a while ago. and he was pretty nice to his family?- so maybe it wouldn’t be that bad- maybe he’d somehow forget about you and you wouldn’t have to relive that awkward tension again..

either way, rent was due, you had to make a choice. so you did, you accept kang taehyun offer

“hey! sounds great, you can come over this friday around 11am if that’s good? just to checkout the apartment and whatnot :)!” 

you hit send, you stared at your phone after hitting send. and almost instantly he thumbs up the message—

yea, you were really doing this…

———

i mean yes, you DID tell him to come by exactly at “11am on friday”and yes. it is exactly 10:55am ON friday—i mean you knew this day would come sooner or later just not exactly THIS soon…

after nervously walking in circles around the apartment—going through ever possible cringy scenarios, you decide to sit at one of the bar stools at the counter. anxiously tapping your nails against marble slab… it’s not like you weren’t  totally about to make the WORSE decision of your life sharing an apartment with the same person that literally made your life miserable?

“ughhhhhhh” you groaned into your hands

i mean you MAY or MAY NOT have stalked his instagram after agreeing to let him check out the place—it’s the only responsible thing to do right? gotta see what type of person he was…right? totally wasn’t absolutely drooling over him?? OKAY maybe he had gotten a little more attractive than you remembered and sure you hated him with all your guts but you did have a little crush buried under all that hate… 

i mean god—the way he’d really grown out of that boyish look…  every picture looked handcrafted by god. 

he posted a mirror selfie in a hoodie and you literally had to sit down after whispering “sir” out loud. to your phone. 

oh my god. 

his skin looks like it’s made of soft light. he could step on m-

ding

you looked down at your phone to see his messages:

“hey are you home? i’ve been knocking for a bit”

HE WAS HERE??(yes. in fact he was. it was currently 11:03am.) you jumped up out of the stool, nearly tripping over your own foot—your hands frantically smoothed down your shirt, running through a thousand phrases to greet him with. you unlocked the door. and there he was. kang taehyun, in the flesh. and somehow even more annoyingly good-looking in person?? like actually unfairly attractive. and tall. why was he taller??? when did that happen??

“hey, thanks for letting me see the place.” he said casually, as if the universe wasn’t actively mocking you by being in this situation even. you forced a smile, one that carried years of unresolved trauma.

“long time no see, taehyun.”

he blinked.

you waited.

still blinking.

“y-y/n???” he finally blurted, eyes wide like he just got hit in the face with a textbook. “it’s actually you??”

you raised an eyebrow. “who else would it be?” you shot back, arms crossed.

he ran a hand through his hair and groaned. “jesus—i didn’t think it’d actually be you. i thought maybe someone else just had the same name or something.” you scoffed. “so… you didn’t recognize me from the post?”

“no! like, not at all. you didn’t have a profile picture—just a dog icon and a very vague ‘about me’ which could honestly describe like, half the student body.??” 

you crossed your arms. “yeah, well, desperate times.” you tried to sound unbothered, edgy and totally not like you were on the verge of loosing your place if he didn’t agree“damn….” he mumbled quietly. stepping inside anyway. 

“you must really need help with your rent, huh?”he snorted “you’re literally the one who responded to my post.” it was already starting again the bickering. he shrugged like it didn’t matter. like everything was a game and he was already winning.

you followed behind him, watching him scan the place, of course he didn’t say it, but you could tell—he liked it. he liked this 

“place is nice,” he finally said, hands in his pockets. he looked around, then turned to face you. “this still sucks though”

you blinked. “what?”

“you and me. same roof. not exactly a dream team, right?” you stared. “wow, look at you—still insufferable.”“and yet,” he said, smirking, “you still agreed  to share with me”

“again. desperate times.” you cut him

off, glaring at him from the counter. he walked up to you slowly yet so deliberately, arms crossed. backing you into the counter “right. so we’re clear then? we’re not gonna do the whole ‘we’re best friends now we’ll forget about old stuff’ thing?“

you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. 

“oh, thank god. i was actually worried you might’ve grown up.”he smiled like ACTUALLY smiled... and then he spoke now he was towering over you 

(i mean you both were basically almost the same height be goodness he felt taller by a lot…)  

“yeah, just not in places where you’re concerned.” you blinked, WHAT? he’s grown up-  IN PLACES?? WHAT PLACES? WHERE? was he talking about his body-?!  you literally were internally screaming but on the outside you kept the calm façade—

“no promises though” he continued

you clenched your jaw. taking a deep breath (which was more for your mental sanity than anything)

he smiled wider.

“so… we doing this?” he asked, way too casually. “roommates?”you stared at him.

every bone in your body said don’t do it.

“…yeah. sure, we can do this.” “cool,” he said, pushing off his feet and tossing you a lazy thumbs up. “don’t worry. i’ll try not to ruin your life this time.”

you gave him a look.

he winked.

you shut the door in his face—not completely, but just enough to get the last word. and just like that, it’s begun all over again.

———

somehow you’ve successfully managed to avoid all interactions with taehyun, 

I mean sure you’ve had an unhealthy amount of bickering with him. 

petty argues and some very—VERY embarrassing moments during class, which may or may not have been from you raising your voice louder than necessary to get your point across to your seat mate 

(aka taehyun) 

due to him testing your patience. 

but aside from that you’ve successfully ignored him despite having to also live with him! 

somehow working together to pay rent on time and keep the place pretty clean

and thankfully you’ve outgrown your childish crush over him (or convinced yourself that you have)

i mean sure taehyun was really smart, witty, always was ready with quick, sharp—calculated replies which should’ve frustrated you more than anything but something about the way the corner of his lips would curl into a smirk, his teeth slightly showing and his eyes having that knowing look.

that look of ‘yeah, i know you enjoy this stuff’ 

that made your heart flutter wayyy more than it should have

and when you’d think of a quick reply—one that would actually catch him off guard. he would run a hand in his hair, that was one of your personal favorites.

WAIT wait

no 

no… 

you definitely did NOT like him.

 he was a jerk to you only. 

he treated everyone else normally, not to mention that joke he made about you. the one you couldn’t remember but you know the damage it did and you swore you’d do everything to make Kang Taehyuns life horrible. 

is what you kept telling yourself but goodness it was hard—anytime you would feel yourself starting to swoon for him you’d recite that to yourself like a ritual, as if that’d change your fast developing feelings for him. 

but as of lately, it hasn’t been working.

 so you decided to completely distract yourself from him and get an entirely new love interest!

yes! this is a very horrible thing to do.

poor eunwoo was a victim to one of your insane plans… 

he was really smart, not top of the class smart like taehyun but he was up there—he was funny too, his dimples would show before he even started smiling. he was too cute really.

you had the courage to talk to him and exchange numbers, and well things were going pretty smooth. 

it wasn’t like “oh yeah we’re officially dating” smooth—but it was a good start to take your mind off of your developing feelings for taehyun. 

in fact it didn’t take your mind off of him, it made it VERY worse…

which taehyun started noticing. 

despite you feeling like he cheated his way through class through the favor of his teachers—taehyun was actually very observant and very much so noticed your obvious stares at his lips during the two of yours bickering. 

the way you’d swallow lightly, part your lips, and look down at his lips like you were making it your personal goal to seduce him (maybe a little bit)

of course taehyun never panicked, not outwardly at least but the steady unease he felt.

 that tension that coiled in his stomach… when you both shared in your daily routine bickering—he felt his self control slip.

those cute pink shorts you’d wear. the way you’d fiddle with the ends of the shorts when you got annoyed—like you were begging for him to slip it off and just take care of you right there

fuck.. he could feel himself getting worked up thinking about it. and to make things a lotworse.

you lived in the same apartment

the same space

you were always a hallway apart and that made it more torturous. and now it was february 13th, the day before valentine’s day. 

well technically it was already february 14th since it was past midnight but who cares about technicalities…

you were making a gift for eunwoo in the kitchen. trying your best not to make too much of a mess because—if he (taehyun your insufferable roommate) found out. 

he would never let this go… 

today you had spent all day earlier picking out cute chocolates from very odd looking shops.. "fancy imported chocolate" labeled from a very quirky looking boutique... 

you didn't bother to read the label too carefully (it was cute, and you were flustered). 

the ladies there eying you up and down telling you that you needed to buy “other exotic toys” that made you pay and rush out the shop as fast as possible feeling flustered to what they were possibly alluding too.. and then the cute little plushies you’d found for him!

and well, you thought this would be the perfect time to prepare the cute little gift for him since taehyun was out cold asleep 

you were assembling the gift and remembered the card you had wrote for eunwoo was left in your bedroom—the card you wrote was simple at best, you didn’t know if he had felt the same way or already had someone in mind so you decided to keep the card neutral  mostly 

“happy valentine’s day eunwoo~ i hope you like these chocolates and the small plushies… maybe we can hangout sometime? xx”

you were absolutely sure your plan was smooth and bulletproof, there’s no way this could fail… 

until 

you heard noise coming from the kitchen.

you were sure you were the only awake

you saw taehyun leave the house, come back talking about how tired he was and waltz into his room… 

you hadn’t heard one of the hallway doors open

you felt chills run down your spine and your heart started to race, you grabbed the nearest object in your room. 

a hello kitty vase—a new piece you got to fill your very empty desk.

you slowly walked out your room,

step-by-step you walked down the hallway, lifting the vase—and—and?!

“taehyun?!” you screamed, causing his eyes to shoot up. you caught him mid way eating the chocolates you had put together for eunwoo “what the hell are you doing?!” you yelled, rushing over—sitting the vase down on the counter 

you looked down on the counter, different packages were scattered but one particular chocolate tin you had spent the most on, was opened—the heart shaped chocolates eaten and the wrappers scattered all around the counter, he had ate basically all the chocolates in the tin.

you felt like out of all the things he’d done this was the lowest so far..

 “what? this wasn’t for everyone?” he cocked his head to the side, smirking slightly.

you felt tears rush to your eyes and you tried your absolute hardest to blink away the tears. 

and it happened again—the bickering

the yelling, the finger pointing. you walked up closer to taehyun looking into his eye “you knew i was giving that to eunwoo! you’re such a jerk! you-you’ve been ruining my life since i could remember and once i finally—start moving on you ruin it again!” you

 felt your heart starting to beat faster “weren’t you supposed to be asleep?! are you just messing with me—are you trying to ruin my life?!” 

you were going on and on. and admittedly you were waiting for him to reply—to give a sharp witted response but you slowly stopped speaking.. taehyuns eye contact became so—intense. 

lingering. then he finally spoke

"ooooh~desperate times, huh? going full rom-com with cheap chocolate?" 

he said breathlessly, shifting the weight on his feet. something was off

but contrast to his words, more noticeable his gaze traveled over you in a way that seemed unintentional like he acted on impulse with no control—but definitely wasn’t very subtle. he tugged at the collar of his shirt, panting now

“what’s wrong with you?” you snapped “you look insane right now…” you mumbled

taehyun closed his eyes and ran a hand in his hair and something in the air changed, thicker and warmer

"what the hell did you feed me?" he snapped. you frowned because you didn’t feed him anything 

HE went through your stuff 

“actually i didn’t feed you anything, you went through my stuff” you glared, and he cut his eyes towards you.

 “but fine i’ll check since you look like you’re about to have a full on allergic reaction” you huffed. 

mumbling something about you ‘wouldn’t mind if he choked to death’ 

you grabbed the chocolate tin to read the ingredients. squinting your eyes to make out the small cursive writing and oh my god..  your eyes widened. gulping slightly 

"Sensual Delight~Arousal~enhancing truffles. infused with natural aphrodisiac herbs.”

your stomach dropped.

and your head snapped up to where taehyun was leaning on the kitchen counter, now more flushed and to what looks like he was slightly trembling.

you looked back down to read it again to make sure you read that right, and oh no.. the chocolate was definitely real. he was definitely starting to feel it now.

"t-taehyun" your mumbled, panic creeping in slowly but surely steadily 

“don't freak out, kay?” 

he was already sweating, eyes looking hazy—his pupils were blown wide, and his skin looked too warm, like his body was trying to keep up with something it didn’t understand. something it shouldn’t be feeling 

“i don’t know what aphrodisiac are but- it says something about arousal enhancing—erotic chocolates for the night-“ you mumbled and you swore you saw taehyuns eyes turn red 

you would feel threatened but then you  noticed the boner that was painfully obvious right now… you knew he wanted to be mad but—the effects of the chocolate were running overdrive due to how many he actually ate (aka almost the entire tin)

“what the hell y/n?! you’re telling me you don’t know what the fuck aphrodisiacs are? you just drugged me and—and now your telling me not to freak out?-!" he rose his voice as he spoke, leaning his head back. 

panting like a dog at this point

"it was—! i didn't know, okay? I thought it was just chocolate. It was supposed to be for eunwoo … you weren’t even supposed to eat those and i swear i didn’t know what it was?!—" 

you said it with such genuine remorse it kinda made him more pissed off, the fact you really were planning to give these chocolates away. 

eunwoo would’ve been the one worked up, and he started thinking about the things he would’ve done to you while the two of you were alone… 

he took a step forward and you took a step back instinctively, which only made him tense further

“it was for eunwoo is what you mean right..” the name leaves his mouth like it's toxic

 then softer, and somehow worse

"why the fuck is it always eunwoo—huh? you think pretty boy eunwoo is gonna really like these chocolates? did you really not know what these were? you think i believe you’re that naive?” 

he backed you up to the fridge

“taehyun no—i really didn’t-“ he scoffed walking closer to you “was it your goal to get him hard and horny huh?” he clicked his tongue “little slut wanting to drug him up? wanted him to fuck you senseless?” taehyun bit his bottom lip, chewing it between his teeth. laughing softly “cause i’m really horny right now and god it hurts so bad and i wouldn’t mind doing that” he groaned letting a sigh slip from his lips.

your back hit the fridge door. 

your eyes looked glossy.. mind hazy at the thought and you’d hate to admit but—the thought of it was turning you on more than you’d like to admit, thighs squeezing together 

"don't-don't look at me like i'm some freak. i didn't ask for this." he gulped, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down. 

the tent in his pants incredibly obvious right now. 

“god y/n i just wanna kiss you senseless” he leaned his head down to your neck, and you felt your pulse rise… the way he was sniffing you like an animal—the way you could tell he wasn’t using a single thought right now

“admit that you were a jerk for eating the chocolates” you mumbled looking at him.

 he groaned “y-y/n…you don't understand what it's doing to me, come on—you can’t get me horny like this" he whined “i can’t even think straight—everything is so hot and hazy and the only thing i can think about is you touching me” he swallowed

he whined his last few words, he was pressing onto you. and more than you’d like to admit… eunwoo was out the picture, you almost felt bad for taehyun—and thoughts of helping him seeped into your brain 

he took a deep breath, inhaling your scent "you smell like something i want to bite into, and god .. i can't stop thinking about your mouth on mine” 

you couldn’t breathe. 

you started feeling this rush in your blood, this urge to give into him… the more you tried to convince yourself that you really had no feelings for him the more you wanted to give in—your voice lowered into a whisper

"then why don't you?"

a pause. 

beat. 

stillness.

WHAT? you wondered why you even said such a thing—then he tore himself away from you like it physically hurt 

"because you didn't mean to give me those fucking chocolates," he said bitterly. biting his lip so hard you swore it was bleeding.

he stepped away. and for some reason you stood there, pressed against the fridge wishing he would’ve just taken you there. 

despite you repeating to yourself “he was a jerk—i could never blah blah blah-“ you were honestly starting to 

want to give into the urge of letting your impulses win… to forget about what happened.

you wouldn’t right? 

he hurt you but to be fair, although he did go through your stuff for eunwoo (and you honestly weren’t even that mad about) 

it’s not like you hadn’t purposely got into eunwoo to keep your mind off taehyun and get under his skin…

so somehow you convinced yourself to go to his room and apologize…at least try too—this wasn’t totally impulsive? 

won’t be wrong to go into his room right??

the walk down too his room felt excruciatingly dreadful the tension was so strong and admittedly you started feeling that tension pool in your stomach, you knew you should’ve left him alone but—you were greedy and somewhere deep in your heart you’d always wanted this 

taehyun was in his room, back leaned against his door—low sound leaves his throat, frustrated and helpless. 

he shouldn’t have did this, he’d never had aphrodisiacs before but he knew what it did. 

it physically built off of tension, it thrived off of friction

 he knew touching himself would make it worse but god…it hurt so badly and he thought maybe palming himself over his pants would stop the tension 

he gasped and whispered into the empty room…to the ache in his chest and lower

"fucking hell, m’gonna cum …."

he bit his lip to to hold in his moans. he cursed. again. his eyes fluttered shut

"what's h—hhhah—ppening to me” he groaned as he pressed down, this was a record… he was already about to cum after exactly thirty seconds of languidly, messily palming himself.  

god he was feeling so sensitive… and he did actually cum—mewling out on accident, the moans ripping through his throat—“hhahhh- s-shit shit m’cumming-“ he mumbled to himself barely holding himself up. 

he felt weak, shaky and to make things worse. it didn’t help at all, it only enhanced his urges more

taehyun never regularly jerked off—but he was feeling so needy and desperate he didn’t care anymore. fumbling to unbutton his pants—his movements pausing when he heard the knock on his door…

"taehyun?" your voice was quiet, guilty. "can i come in?"

he stiffens at the thought of you walking into a room so small with him 

"no"

"i—just-listen, i really didn't mean for that to happen, i came to say-"

"i said no"

it was silent…

you looked down at his door knob, he did tell no.. but it wouldn’t hurt to see if the door was locked—right

 you twisted the door open and to your surprise it wasn’t locked 

"taehyun? i know you're mad—and rightfully so—" you said quietly as you walked into the room, eyes widening at the sight of him leaning against his desk 

“y/n?!” he shouted “w-what are you doing i’m-“ he was still huffing heavy breaths out, his entire body flushed and damp from sweat.

“i-im trying to talk to you but you keep running off—! and you keep saying confusing things and—i just want to help..” you mumbled looking at the sight of him

you did really start to feel bad for him…he did looked really—really bad—but did you really want to help him or were you just being greedy again? (surprise you didn’t really wanna help him!!)

he spoke again-voice cracked broken

“y-y/n... stop” he whined “you don't get it” 

you stared at him, shaking your head ‘no’

he took slow steps towards you "i don't curse. i don't need to curse, because I'm supposed to be the smart one—the guy who keeps it together. but i'm losing it—every time i try to stop thinking about you, it just gets worse."

you gulped, the room feeling smaller and hotter. you should’ve nodded, walked out the room. 

you shouldn’t have even let yourself catch feelings for him. 

you shouldn’t have even agreed to let him share the apartment with you but you didn’t know when to stop hm? 

he stopped right in front of you, his gaze snaps to “It's like it's rewiring me, making me see you all—weird. i can’t tell if i’m horny because of the chocolate or just you…i hate you for what you do to me and all you ev-“ 

everything in your mind was telling you don’t do it but you couldn’t take it anymore, impulsively you pulled the collar of his shirt and smashed his lips onto yours—he gasped stumbling forward. it wasn’t long until his fingers latched onto your waist, his hands traveled swiftly—mapping out the expanse of your body. 

the kiss was messy to say the least, his tongue pushing past your lips. 

his brain completely shut off, finally letting the aphrodisiacs take control. his hands squeezed all over you, grabbed and pulling you to sit down on the bed.

the ache in his legs feeling more pronounced—something he couldn’t ignore now. 

hurting to be point he couldn’t help but press his hand against the bulge, gasping into your mouth once he felt the friction. hips pathetically rubbing against himself—bucking into his hand.

he broke away from the kiss with a high whiny moan, so spent from just touching himself over his pants, panting against your lips. eyes blown wide and glossy staring deep into you “hhahh—y/n can you pleeaase touch me? please-please-please?” he kissed down your neck with such urgency 

you were hesitant until you felt his hand guide yours onto his bulge. his hands digging into the soft flesh of your waist as his lips worked on your neck. 

his now free hands grabbing at every part of you while he humped into you like a feral dog in heat

he was kissing—biting—licking down your throat until he felt you squeeze him over his pants. and he’s pretty sure he had came just from the friction of that “hhhahh—d-don’t squeeze sssso hard” he whined.

 eyes shut tightly, head buried in your neck as his body slumped against yours. despite his whimpers he shamelessly started grinding against your hand, panting against your neck. 

with your hand rested right on top of his bulge you started to feel and notice (the very obvious!!) sticky wet patch forming on his pants from the amount of times he’s came—once you realized that… something in your brain flipped—sure you felt bad (to some degree) that he was so hard and horny but think of the possibilities!!

you could finally get back at him for all those times he’d made your life hell! 

and your brain started running with possibilities—but your hands moved faster—palming him again 

and the whimpers he let out were… 

sinful to say the least …

and you started to rub your thighs together faster. maybe getting too carried away at the thought ..

 “w-wait slow-slow! to hard—hahhh—i think i’m gonna c-cum-“ he stuttered, tears forming in the corner of his eye “its s’good—m’cumming!! c-cumming-!” he’d whine out for the fifth time, gasping air while bucking into your hand trying to get any more possible friction that he could use to ride out his high. 

“ahh- y/n ttthank you- thank you“ he said between puffs of air—leaning his forehead against yours—“i-iit hurt s’much” his eyes glossy with tears from how good it felt

and you almost started feeling bad…well clearly you didn’t feel that bad because shortly afterwards you made him beg to just get touched by you.

and he did it oh so willingly you would’ve forgot this was the same boy who acted like he was better than you daily

you started to push him back against the headboard of his bed “mm-what are you doing?” he spoke breathlessly—his back slumped and hair messily stuck to his forehead. his boba eyes staring up at you through his hair 

ignoring his question—you swung your legs over his hips—rocking your hips side to side as you straddled him. the quiet curses and whines didn’t go unnoticed 

you pulled down his sweatpants and his boxers in one go, his cock springing free. your mouth went dry at the sight…he was really really big—his member flushed and sticky from the amount of precum (and cum) he’d already let out… 

little spurts just spewing just from the cold air hitting the sensitive tip

and not to mention the faces he made…

pure ecstasy as his dick got impossibly more erect. his whimpers and moans muffled as he tried to swallow them in

the sight of him made you lick your lips because, as much as you hated to admit it… you’d been waiting for this day (well maybe not exactly this scenario) but! an opportunity to be control over him like this felt so powerful!!

you drug your finger up his base, one by one wrapping your fingers around him. 

you could feel his body trembling at the contact and the lewd sound he made when you started stroking was so erotic it could only make you rub your thighs together tighter

you slapped his member—emitting a loud moan from him “dd-don’t do this to me y/n” his words slurred. 

the sight of him, head thrown back, slumped on the bed was so pleasing. 

with that warm feeling pooling up in your stomach you couldn’t help but grind onto him as your hands stroked him. his eyes shot open and his hands flew you your waist, gripping onto you 

“ahhh! s-sshit! s-stop stop!” he begged  “it’s too s-ssensitive” he whined, but his body said another word. as it matched the pace you were grinding into him, mindlessly bucking up into you  

drool forming on the corner of his lips from how dumbed out he was

“so dirty” you huffed trying to control your breathy gasps “i bet you wanted to get horny like this mmhm? little whore knew what these were and you ate them so you could hard yeah? get touched? wanted to cum by me yeah?” 

he shook his head weakly barely forming a sentence “nnno—i sswear!—i-i didn’t know you- you’re the one who bought them—hahh—you wanted e-eunwoo horny” his moans getting more breathy as his body couldn’t help but cum again, his back arching. the tears from the corner of his eye started to fall down his face “ahh y/n” tears falling from his eye “ss-sso sensitive” his voice cracked—hands weakly gripping onto you to stop your movements.

you kept stroking him even after his orgasm, rubbing his mushroom tip—pushing your thumb into it…

squeezing his dick was enough to have his head thrown back, eyes rolling  as he spurt out ropes again crying about how great it felt 

you lifted up your now sticky hand up to his jaw, forcing him to look at you smashing your lips onto his. the kiss was a fight for dominance and control—you forced your tongue into his mouth, teeth clashing against yours

meanwhile taehyuns hands found its way under your shirt, groping at your breast from over your bra causing you to break away from the kiss for a moment 

“don’t fucking touch me” you breathed out earning a whine from taehyun “bbut i need something to hold” he swallowed. 

you didn’t bother replying, rolling your eyes at his response. “take this off” you mumbled fingers pulling at his shirt before connecting your lips back to his” hands planted on either side of his face 

taehyun would like to think he was about to gain a sliver of control for a moment but he felt himself getting hard again and he hated to admit the fact he was willingly letting himself think through his dick, so willingly to tear off his shirt for you 

once he took off his shirt, you rested your bare hands on his chest. bitting your bottom lip slightly at the feel of his  skin under your hands. feeling the goosebumps that flooded through his skin.

suddenly it started feeling a bit too good…it wouldn’t be that bad to indulge right? 

your lips planted onto his neck—then his collarbone, leaving bite marks on his skin. precum dribbling down his cock, he his hands shamelessly caressing your body. feeling you up squeezing your soft skin “hahh—yy/nnn c-can i suck your tits-?” he licked his lips, looking at your eyes like a begging child

you scoffed against his skin but then you thought about it… maybe you could indulge a little? he seemed eager anyways (honestly you were just as turned on as he was) 

so you nodded, you leaned back. he rushed to take off your shirt, then latching his lips onto your exposed skin. hands fumbling to unsnap your bra before he finally unhooked it,  eyes falling to your tits that fell out your bra “f-fuck you’re so pretty, the way they just fell out…” he bit his lip “can i touch them? like-like grab them?” 

he started grinding his hips against yours needing friction, his dick rubbing against your clothed core

“you don’t have explain it” you swallowed closing your eyes trying to gain and form of sanity back. “just do it..” you nodded giving him the permission. he wasted no time before he started squeezing at them “god- it’s so soft” he mumbled, 

his cock spurting little bits of creamy liquid out..

he was practically drooling when his mouth latched onto your nipple, the whine he let out as he sucked… his free hand squeezing and rolling your nipple in his fingers

as much as you tried to fight the small breathy whines and quiet moans fighting to leave your mouth—

you couldn’t help but let some escape as your back arched into his touch

your hands finding his hair, pulling at it lightly. “agh—taehyun-“ you moaned as his lips left one side to move to your other breast, kneading the one he finished working on with his hand. 

his drool falling all down your chest. 

you cupped his face before separating him from you chest, he whined at the loss of contact yet his hands still cupped your breast 

he was about to complain before you you pushed his swole lips onto yours, he completely melting into the kiss

you pushed him back against the headboard, hastily peeling your shorts and underwear off. underwear sticky from your arousal 

taehyun groaned, feeling dribbled of pre leak out of him. watching as your thumb swirled on his tip “a-are you gonna put it in?” he huffed out

“if you stop talking—then yeah maybe i will” you nodded as stroked him languidly 

he hummed which sounded more like a needy moan, you took a shaky breath before rubbing his tip against your folds, biting your lips to hold in your moans (which didn’t work as well as you thought)  

his head lolling back, as you rubbed against him. “—y/n m’gonna c-cum” he moaned 

“if you cum m’not letting you in” you said breathlessly—and he nearly cried because he had so many aphrodisiacs he couldn’t even stop it… his face flushing bright red as bits of cum spewed out “f-fuck that isn’t fair y/n i-i can’t” he whined…biting down on his lip “m’trying so hard” he mumbled 

god it was so cute watching him like this… you didn’t even bother preparing yourself for his length—you were just as hungry, no greedy as he was for you—you guided his tip to your entrance sinking down into him completely taking him all in, you and taehyun moaning in sync. the sudden sensation for taehyun and the burning stretch—filling your body with a burning fire that turned into delicious pleasure 

your hips grinding into him to settle in just before you lifted up—then slamming down onto him, causing his hands to hold you in place 

“w-wait m’still sensitive don’t move” he choked out—his body however moving on it’s own, bucking up into you… the quick friction making taehyun see stars  the new sensation of your gummy walls fluttering around him made his vision blurry

he moaned out as his creamy liquids filling you causing your walls to flutter around him “f-fuck!” he whined realizing what happened. he just came inside… tears started welling in his eyes as he started rambling “i-i can’t believe that happened—i-i’m so sorry s-shit” he spoke as his hips steadily rocked into yours his body craving that friction 

after recovering from the stretch and taehyuns premature cum you grabbed his jaw forcing him up “shut the fuck up” you snapped before lifting up and sinking down. enjoying a sweet moan from him

curse the aphrodisiacs making him so sensitive because the sudden stimulation on his cock causing him to drool “hahhh—i-it hurts-it hurts-it hhurts” he moaned as he lifted his hips up to match your thrusts 

“o-one minute it feels good and the next your ww-whining it hurts which one fucking is it?” you groaned feeling his tip push against you causing you to moan “s-shit y/n this is so crazy-“

he panted as his hips thrusted up into yours like a dog in heat “y/n it feels so good— f-fuck when i saw your name on the housing… i was hoping it was you” he moaned “wanted it to be you so bad”  he gasped feeling his orgasm nearing “wanted you to ride me like this” he whined 

your throat went dry at the thought—was this the chocolates speaking? 

was this because of the high he was nearing? 

you felt your stomach turn at the thought but you pushed it aside kissing his lips

his hands moving to roll your nipples between his fingers, feeling your high nearing—you rubbed your fingers over you sensitive bud—feeling the tight tension snap. your movements slowly as your cum spilled over his cock

taehyun already sensitive from his previous orgasms and the aphrodisiacs chased his orgasm, holding you hips and thrusting into you. following you shortly afterwards 

and he swore he saw stars 

his head falling back against the headboard as he came down from his high, his body buzzing from sensation—his eyes hazy

coming down from your high you, slid out of him—falling aside him, breath heavy as you looked up at the ceiling. 

taehyun completely spent, heavy breathes filling the room 

everything in your life was starting to change at that very moment 

because in your mind you were replaying everything that happened and now you were longing to hear him say those words again that he wanted to be roommates with you 

that he was hoping you were the same person he thought you were on the housing

-

taglist - @mercylvrrr @lovesickchoi @gildedsilk @boba-beom @lwhyuka @parkweylyn @bingsoob ty for wanting read!❤️

-

a/n : please please please reblog or comment if you liked~ also if you have any fic requests please send them my way!

[gyurilla]

margins m jaehyun

jaehyuh x reader

genre; angst, fluff, rivals to lovers, uni students to graduates

wc; 1.2k

you didn’t cry when the professor handed back your paper.

but your hands shook.

182.

you stared at the number for a long time. cold. hollow

you had spent three nights on this. you barely slept. barley ate. you skipped your friend’s birthday dinner to finish that last paragraph.

you wanted it.

it wasn’t just the grade.

it was the fact that you knew — you just knew — jaehyun did better.

because he always did.

you told yourself it didn’t matter anymore.

that you’d matured past the constant race.

but when you walked out of the lecture hall and heard the TA laugh and say “wow, 197 again, as usual!”

and saw him flash that polite, infuriating smile—

something in you broke.

he was kind to others

but you, it was a whole different story..

he gave you these looks that made you feel stupid, like you were clueless.

Ი︵𐑼

you locked yourself in a bathroom stall.

not to cry.

you didn’t cry.

you just sat there. for a long time.

listening to the sound of your own breath, trying not to fall apart.

why did it still matter?

why did he still matter?

Ი︵𐑼

you used to think of jaehyun as a rival.

now?

you think he’s just proof that maybe you were never as smart as you thought you were.

Ი︵𐑼

the final assignment is worth 40%.

And for some reason — maybe to be poetic, maybe to be cruel — the professor pairs you with jaehyun.

you hear your name next to his and your stomach turns.

the whole class turns to look at the “dream team.”

but you know the truth.

you are the one always chasing him.

Ი︵𐑼

you split the work. silently.

no texting. no meetings. just shared folders and quiet edits.

you do what you always do: stay up until your back aches, redline your paragraphs to death, question every sentence until you hate them all.

you print everything, annotate it by hand, underline your own flaws in pen so permanent it bleeds.

and then — you see it.

you get a printed section back from him.

and in the margin, tucked in between your lines:

“this is really bad.”

you stop.

blink, the tears began to fall.

you gave it back the same day, tear stained the paper, his eyes widened but you didnt see that.

Ი︵𐑼

by the next week, he gave you back your rewritten paper

you see more notes, you hands are sweaty now but..

“your citations are sharper”

“i rewrote my whole section after reading yours”

“honestly i’ve always liked your writing.”

“sometimes i wonder if you know how good you are.”

your fingers go still.

he never said anything like that before. not in years.

not since your first year, when you both answered a question at the same time and he smiled like he didn’t mind losing.

you remember that smile.

you remember.

but that was before everything turned into this cold, quiet war.

Ი︵𐑼

you keep the papers.

not out of sentiment.

but because you don’t know how to respond.

you can’t write back.

because if you do, everything will spill out, all that built up anger.

all the ways you hated walking into a lecture knowing he’d do better.

all the ways you wished he’d say something like that before.

you don’t write back.

but the next time he sends you a draft —

you find more margins..on his own paper? like he was trying to befriend you..

“you got the internship last year. I heard. You deserved it.”

“i didn’t apply. i knew you would get it.”

“i’ve never told anyone this. but you’re the reason i push myself.”

“im scared i’ll never catch up to you.”

you read those lines at 3:17 a.m.

you cried so hard, you thought you were the one chasing him.

and all this time, he thought the same thing.

Ი︵𐑼

when you see him again, you almost can’t look at him.

you sit across from him at a library table, and he’s already reading. already halfway through a book you haven’t even opened.

it makes you angry.

“i read what you wrote,” you say.

he doesn’t look up. “i figured.”

“why now?”

he flips a page. calm. “because we’re graduating soon. and i dont think i’ll get another chance to talk to you.”

you stare at him. “so you only speak to me through paper?”

“i didn’t think you’d want to hear it out loud, and isnt it a bit romantic?”

silence.

and then, low — like a confession:

“i thought you hated me.”

your laugh breaks, bitter. “i thought you did.”

he looks up.

“you were always ahead,” you whisper. “and you always looked so calm. like it didn’t even matter.”

“it did,” he says. “but i thought if i looked like it mattered, i’d lose you completely.”

you flinch. “you never had me.”

he swallows hard.

“i know..”

Ი︵𐑼

the final draft is due in two days.

when you print yours, it’s covered in red ink. not his. youre. you critique yourself before anyone else can, its not even on purpose..you grew into a habit of doing it.

but when you pass him the pages, he just stares.

“why do you tear yourself apart like this?” he asks softly.

you shrug and looked away, he flips to the last page.

stares at the blank margin.

then, slowly, he pulls out a pen.

“you were always better than me.”

“but i liked it because it meant i got to stay near you even if you didnt see me.”

you scoff, but you wait until he leaves.

then you fold that page.

and keep it.

not because of what it says.

but because it’s the first time someone saw you — really saw you — and didn’t want to beat you.

they just wanted to be next to you.

Ი︵𐑼

you graduated.

he did too.

bo grand goodbye. no final conversation, just a simple congratulations and you walked off.

you moved cities.

he stayed close.

and every now and then—mutual friends, random tagged photos—you see him.

jaehyun.

still sharp. still quiet.

still the boy who wrote in your margins.

you kept the page.

the last one.

folded it three times, tucked in the inside your wallet, corny..you know but it meant everything to you.

“you were always better than me

“but i liked it because it meant i got to stay near you even if you didnt see me.”

you read it more than you should.

when work gets hard.

when you’re tired.

when you forget you’re capable of anything.

somehow… it still helps.

and then one night, out of nowhere—

jaehyun: coffee? i miss you

you brought the page.

Ი︵𐑼

he was already there when you walked in.

blsck hoodie. head down. same quiet posture, like always.

“hey” he said when he noticed you.

“hey.”

it wasn’t awkward.

it was just… full. with everything you never said.

you slid the paper onto the table between you.

“i kept it.”

he stared at it. then at you.

“i wanted to say something,” he murmured. “back then. i just… didn’t think you felt the same, and i was pretty shy..”

you smiled faintly. “i wish you did..”

a pause.

and then—

“i love you,” he said, quiet but steady. “i think i have for a while.”

you wrote in the margin beneath his words.

“i loved you first.”

he looked down. laughed once, softly.

“i was hoping you’d say that.”

Ი︵𐑼

ju; @lvlyhiyyih I HOPE THIS WAS GOOD SWEET CHEEKS

masterlist

[avenging-fandoms]

Mine Now - CM Punk

Summary: requested by anonymous- I will absolutely combust if you write cm punk smut (please) Seth Rollins has been your mentor and friend for a few years. CM Punk has been taunting Seth about you for weeks. Seth doesn't know you've been thinking about being with CM Punk since the first time you saw him decades ago.

Content warning: smut. 18+. USE PROTECTION. things may have been changed a bit

idk i feel like punk fucks like small hands so here's a reference video.

please like and reblog!

gif divider credit: @enchanthings-a

The Staples Center shakes when Seth Rollins' music blares through the speakers and fans sing along to the 'woah's'. You stand next to but kind of behind him with your hand folded in front of you, taking in all of the fans for Seth and smiling at those who acknowledge you.

You've been with the WWE for nearly half a year, only being introduced a few weeks prior in a Royal Rumble. You didn't win, but you did last with 7 girls left in the ring with you being number 17, so you count that to yourself as a win.

Seth cheered you on from the side of the ring as your mentor, but he kind of made it about himself. He wanted to look like an angel for helping a new wrestler, but he was still a good mentor. He's a hard-ass when he needs to be but always your cheerleader.

It kind of made you feel bad for how much you crave CM Punk.

When you arrived, Seth warned you over and over about Punk, telling you he's a snake and can't be trusted, but he didn’t need to. You grew up watching CM Punk with your WWE-obsessed brother, you knew he was a pompous asshole who didn’t care about anything or anyone but himself. 

Seth absolutely loathes CM Punk while you had to hide you were smitten with him, and him taunting you and Seth wasn’t helping get rid of those feelings.

Seth jumps up and over the ropes, throwing his arms out and the crowd cheers. You step up and bend through the ropes and stay near them, letting him have his moment on the microphone.

"Los Angeles how are we feeling?" The crowd screams and cheers, your eyes scanning the signs and laughing at a few funny ones. When Seth puts the mic to his mouth again, the crowd starts to cheer Punk's name. Seth laughs and looks at you in disbelief. "We're out here in the middle of the Staples Center to talk about that hypocrite's name you all are chanting, weren't you small brains just chanting my song?"

It was a mix of cheers and boos and you wrap your fingers around the rope, sitting near the buckles and watching Seth. "That snake, for weeks, has been non-stop telling my mentee how I'm not good enough to teach her how to win, he's been telling her to leave me for him," he laughs into the mic and your cheeks flush pink and you try your best to hide it with your hair.

Fans shake their signs of CM Punk support in Seth's face and he narrows his eyes. "CM Punk can only give you advice on how to come crawling back on your knees, begging for-"

Static. An electric guitar. Drums. Fans scream and cheer, and you grip the rope tighter when you turn around. The screams erupt when CM Punk steps out and smiles, nodding as he looks around. His large arms are displayed in his tight black tank top, blue jeans hugging his hips perfectly, and the grey in his beard making it harder to peel your eyes from him. You move closer to the buckle, watching as he walks down towards the ring with his eyes focused on Seth.

Punk jumps up onto the ring and holds on to rope as he shit talks Seth, doing a double take when he sees you in the corner. He gives you a smirk and keeps his eyes on you when he enters the ring. He was given a mic and steps close to Seth, taking in the chants of his name before licking his lips and putting the microphone to his mouth.

"Seth, you really need to stop worrying about me, and worry about being a better mentor. I mean, you jump in the ring and jump around like a monkey and don't even help your girl up?"

Punk's hand gestures to you and you stand up off the buckles, holding the ropes on either side of you. Punk's attention focuses on you, his Nikes taking him closer with a devilish smirk on his face.

"I've seen it every single time you two come out. Even when it's your match, he doesn't help you up, he gets up first and watches you climb, not offering a hand." He's inches from you and he notices the quickening pace of your breathing, eyes hazy as they scan over his face. "He doesn't treat you like he should be, sweetheart, which is why I've been telling you to find a new mentor."

Even with your eyes stuck on Punk's, you notice Seth starting to charge in a blur. "Watch out!" You warn and Punk's hands push your head down as he takes Seth's punch to the head and you slide out of the ring.

"Seth, stop!"

It was no use. The pent up anger from the past weeks, the past few years, was coming out at this very moment. You yelled for a ref, begged Michael Cole to call someone, but nothing works. Seth just throws hit after hit and Punk was stumbling around, Seth hitting him with a Pedigree. You back up into the announcer's table and shake your head.

The crowd boos and wails as CM Punk pants on the ground with his eyes squeezing tightly, holding his stomach. You step closer to the ring and scream for Seth to stop. Punk can't even lift his head before Seth pulls him over in front of you, grabbing a fistful of his hair and picking Punk up on all fours. Your feet move to stop him as Seth points at you, ignoring you and stomping on his opponent’s head. You have to turn away. Seth jumps and yells around the ring, CM Punk struggles to get up and your eyes are suddenly locked on him. 

Punk’s hands lay flat on the ring and he pushes himself up, shaking his head and sitting on his knees and ripping off his tank top. Directly in front of you.

Your mouth goes dry as his hands lay flat on his thighs. His chest heaves as he regains his breath, rolling his neck slowly, your eyes following the sweat beads falling down his front and hitting the top of his jeans. Your eyes go up and you’re met with his. A soft smirk plays on his lips as you both notice your knees starting to go weak. 

While Rollins yells his nonsense, Punk regains his ability to stand and waits for him to turn in his direction and throws a few punches to his head. Punk holds Seth over his head, turning to you. He sends you a wink and hits Seth with a ‘Go To Sleep.’

The crowd erupts as CM Punk stands up, looking around the arena as his song starts to play. Seth rolls onto his stomach and you slide into the ring next to him, tapping his back. 

“Hey, hey. You alright?” You bend down and move his hair out of his face, Seth's face twisting and grunts escaping his mouth. "Do you need help getting up?" Seth can't open his eyes from the pain, wrapping an arm around his head and you feel heat behind your body.

Tattooed fingers slide across your jaw and hold your chin, tilting your face up where you’re met with CM Punk once more. His thumb rubs over the bone gently and you gulp.

Your attention was no longer on Seth and solely on Punk. This was everything you wanted but you knew you'd lose everything with Seth.

He tugs your chin and you stand, the crowd making the arena shake. Punk has been divorced for a few years and has never showed interest in anyone, not any of the other girls Seth trained. You knew you may just be a pawn, but if CM Punk was by your side, you didn’t really care what you were as long as it was his.

“Are you leaving with me?” He lowers his lips to graze your ear. “Do you trust me?” He speaks.

Your body shivers and without thinking, you nod. Punk flashes a real smile at you and drops his hand to hold yours. He holds the rope open for you, and you hear yelling.

"Y/N! What the fuck are you doing?!" Seth yells and grabs your ankle, making you fall into Punk and he kicks Rollins off of you.

"Leaving with someone who'd never purposely trip her!" CM Punk spits at Rollins who holds his head and rolls around the ring. You look at Seth with sad eyes before ducking out of the ropes, thanking Punk. You go to hop down but he stops you, hopping down first and grabbing your hips to bring you down.

You lose your breath when you hold onto his biceps, thanking him with a squeak. He puts a hand on your lower back as you walk up the ramp, Seth still yelling, almost falling over the ropes.

"We're done! If you leave with him, block my fucking number!" Seth screams and you turn your head, throwing him a thumbs up before you and CM Punk leave the stage.

Your body seems to go into shock once you're out of view of the public, really understanding that now you were with CM Punk. You stood up and chose him, leaving behind a friend you've had for the past 3 years.

"Are you okay?" His voice snaps you out of it and you look up at CM Punk.

"I, uh, I think?" He laughs softly and you chuckle in disbelief. Yelling gets louder and Seth appears from the back. He rushes too quick and body bumps you into Punk's bare chest and slams your nose into it. You yelp and bend out of the interaction, Punk taking notice and shoving Seth back.

"Are you fucking serious? Get your shit together, you're showing her more of a reason to drop your fucking ass," Punk hisses and shoves Seth again. You cradle your bleeding nose and Punk throws Seth into a TV, heading over to you and holding your hand. "Come on, we'll go see medical."

"No, no, I just need a towel," you wave but he grabs your wrist and shows you your bloody hand.

"That is a lot of blood, sweetheart. It wouldn't hurt to at least get checked out." He wraps an arm around you and holds your elbow, the other hand holding your nose. Someone rushes over with a towel and you thank them, Punk holding your nose and letting the blood soak the towel.

Punk's hand never lets go of the towel until he sits you on the table and a medic checks you out. You wince as she presses on your nose but she notes no breakage or fracturing, just a hard impact and a bloody nose. She said you might be sore for a day or two and to just ice it.

She leaves the room and someone brings Punk a new shirt, his biceps still bulging through, the sleeve begging to rip. "Hey, at least you aren't broken," he chuckles to break the silence.

"Still can't believe he couldn't calm himself to not almost break my fucking nose." You lean back against the wall and hold the tissue to your nose, shaking your head. "Then again, I did leave him for his sworn enemy," you smirk and Punk shakes his head with a nasally laugh.

"Are your keys in your bag or purse?" He stands over you and you furrow your eyebrows.

"You're trying to steal my car? You could've just asked for a ride, Punk."

"You can call me Phil, sweetheart, and I don't think you can drive with your head tilted up with one hand on the wheel. I'll drive you home," he smiles and holds out his hand to help you off the table, putting his hand behind your back and walking with you to get your things.

"I'm sure it stopped bleeding by now, I can drive." You pull the tissue away and a string of blood starts to fall and you quickly put the tissue back on your nose, looking at Punk. "My keys are in the little zipper in my purse," you mumble and he grins.

Phil grabs your bags and you two head for the garage. "I can take my purse, you know."

"Why, you don't think it looks good on me?" Phil flips his hair and you giggle.

"Uh, Punk? There's some post-show interviews-"

"They all saw what just happened. They don't need any damn interviews," he snaps and the employee stammers on his words and you mouth a 'sorry,' with a small shrug. He was mean, but he was right.

You get on the elevator and when the doors close, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and closed your eyes, leaning your head on Punk's arm for the ride up to the 6th floor.

The ding disturbs your peace and Punk moves your bags to his left arm to wrap his other one around you, letting you rest on him for the walk to your car. He didn't ask you where your car was but used the lock button and followed the sound just so he also didn't disturb you.

He opens the passenger door and you hop in, Punk putting on your seatbelt with his free hand. He gently closes the door and you immediately lean your hot skin on the cool window.

Punk puts your things in the backseat and hops into the driver's seat, head hitting the ceiling and it makes your shoulders jump with a quiet laugh. "Hey! Don't laugh at me, brat," he pinches your thigh and you squeal.

You open your phone and give him the GPS app to head home, putting it on the stand. "So you know where you're going and I can rest."

He smacks his teeth with a head tilt. "You're just so smart, hon." He starts the car and backs out of the spot. Your ETA gave you an hour to be home and you had the rest of the week to relax now that you had an injured nose that made it hard to wrestle.

Phil pulls out of the garage and starts the journey to your house. Your nose was lightly bleeding now and you put your elbow on the door, loosely leaving the tissue on your nose when you lean against the glass with closed eyes.

He gets off the highway after 15 minutes and notices all the drive thrus and rubs your arm with his finger. "I'm really sorry to disturb you, hon, but are you hungry? Do you want me to stop anywhere?"

You stretch and blink your eyes open, looking around and scrunching your nose. "I want some crab rangoon," you yawn and he nods, excited.

"Sounds like a plan. If there's a restaurant by your house we'll order it before we get home so it's ready then you can relax with your crab rangoon." You nod and shift your body, putting your bloody tissue in your car trash can and leaning your head down on your arms on the center console.

Punk moves his hovering arms down and rests his elbow on the console, the rest on your head with his palm on the side of your head. Sleep almost took over until Seth's entrance song blares through the speakers.

You turn the volume down and sit up, rubbing your eyes and looking at Phil. You hit 'answer' on the screen and Punk looks at you. "Y/N?"

"Yes, Seth."

"Why do you sound far away?" You lean closer into Punk and try not to yell in his ear.

"What's up, Seth?" You keep it short and dodge his question, you're annoyed with him. You understand his anger, but not being able to control it enough to watch where he's going and making your nose bleed.

He's quiet for a moment before speaking. "I'm sorry for running into you, I was so frustrated and wanted to find Punk and-"

"I get it, Seth, and I'm really sorry for everything that's happened and how it happened. I am not going to accept your apology at the moment 'cause I'm still really pissed you rushed us instead of approaching us like an adult, but I appreciate it. I'm sure you don't accept mine either and that's fine."

Phil grabs a tissue from his pocket and dabs some blood that drips and you give him a soft smile, eyes disassociating on his beard as silence fills the car.

"Are you not driving?" Seth asks and you scoff with a soft chuckle in disbelief.

"It's hard to drive with blood randomly dripping from your nose, no, I'm not."

Seth sucks his teeth on the other line. "You're right, I don't forgive you."

Three beeps and he's gone. You shake your head and sit back in your seat, looking at Phil. "He's a baby, he'll get over it." He reaches over and squeezes your chin, smushing your cheeks a bit and you look at him. "I warned him, didn't I?"

You can't form words. His fingers move against your bone and you can only nod. He drops his hand and dangles it over the center console, drumming to the song on the quiet volume.

You're awake now so you turn the music up to 15, loud enough but quiet enough. You have 20 minutes to go, which was surprising because the conversation with Seth felt very short.

"I'll order the food now, it's like 5 minutes from my house." Punk nods and hands you your phone as he travels on the highway. You order your lo mein and 2 orders of crab rangoon, turning to Punk. "I should've asked before, do you want anything?"

"Fried rice, please." You nod and he opens his mouth to add something but you do it for him.

"No meat please, the rice and veggies are fine." Punk looks over at you and tries to keep his eyes on the road. You didn't have to ask him if he wanted meat, you knew he never would. You hang up and put the phone back with an ETA home of 15, the same for the food.

"How'd you know?"

You look at him with an embarrassed blush to your cheeks. "I've watched you for a while, Phil. I've.. oh my fuck, this is humiliating. I've had a crush on you for many years."

He can't help but laugh. He rubs a hand over his beard and looks at you. "I mean, it wasn't hard to tell. You couldn't even look at me." You roll your eyes and push his shoulder.

"Well, since we're friends now, I thought you'd like this song I found." His mouth curls into a smile when he hears the beginning of his entrance.

-

"That is the definition of comfort food," you groan and lay back against the couch, a hand over your full stomach.

"I have to agree," he follows you and leans his head on his knuckle, looking at you. "You don't regret this, do you?"

You roll your head over to look at Phil and shake your head in the cushion. "I don't, I really don't. I don't have my friend anymore but.. fuck, I'm with CM Punk, I can't regret too much."

Punk laughs and sits up, holding out his hand. "Let's go get you cleaned up, there's some blood dried around your nose." You take his rough hand and stand up with him, grabbing your bags and leading him to the bathroom in your room.

He puts your bags next to your door and meets you in the bathroom, smirking down at you. "I can't see your face very well from down there." You hop up on the counter and he finds a washcloth, wetting it with warm water and tilting your chin up.

"You don't have to do all this, I can do it myself," you explain and he gives you a look.

"I know you're not used to it, but I want to take care of you, you don't have to do everything alone." He puts the cloth in the sink and washes his hands, slapping his wet hands on your thighs before drying them on a towel.

"Hey!" You giggle and grab his shirt from the bottom and pull him between your legs, wiping up the water with the cotton.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry," he chuckles and you look up at him, your spine straightening. Phil's hand was hesitant to touch your skin and you push his hand onto your hip, and it activated everything. His arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you into his thick chest, your fingers gripping his shirt and pushing up to his hair.

Punk's fingers tug at your shirt and you push him away, giving him a smile when you hop off the counter, walking backwards and keeping your eyes on his. "Come and get me, Punk."

You try to move around him but he catches you by the waist, spinning you into him and holding your neck. "Wrong answer, sweetheart."

He stands in front of you and moves your hair out of your face, tracing your features with his other hand’s fingers. “Phil..”

He smirks. “Is it okay to touch you?” He whispers in your ear and your fingers dig in his biceps when you nod. His face disappears in your hair, finding your neck and leaving soft, wet kisses down. “Lay on the bed, hm?”

Punk moves away from you and watches you lay on the bed, pulling his tank top up off and throwing it on your pillows. Your hands explore his hot skin, pulling him down to kiss you. Your legs wrap loosely around his waist and his hand pushes down your thigh, gripping and smacking your ass.

You whimper in his mouth and he pulls away to disappear between your legs. Punk pulls your pants down swiftly and over with his shirt, groaning as he falls to his knees on the floor at the edge of the bed. He yanks you closer and spreads your legs open, kissing from your ankle to the very inside of your thigh.

When you feel his breath fanning over your heat, your legs instantly snap closed. Nerves build in your chest when you feel his hands snake up your thighs and push them to the bed. You pant softly when his breath fans over your body, going up and kissing you slowly.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Don’t be nervous. Just tell me to stop if you need me to,” he pecks the corner of your mouth and your head follows as far as you can as he kneels on the ground again.

Punk learns his lesson and snakes his arms up and over around your thighs, your legs dangling on his back. “Beauty, just absolutely divine,” he groans and kisses your clit and the skin around it, his tongue laying flat and licking up, moaning at the taste of you. “Fuck, you taste so delicious.”

His mouth engulfs your pussy and he flicks his tongue up and down between your folds, focusing on your clit and moaning when your fingers grip his hair.

Your thighs tremble around his head and pick your head up to look at him when he slides two thick fingers into you, making eye contact with you and holding it as he pumps his fingers and flicks his tongue, his left hand pulling his jeans down a bit to stroke his cock. Your chest heaves and you fall back against the back again, whining and twisting your hips against his tongue.

Punk stands on his feet but doesn't break away when he lays on the bed, flipping on his back and making you hover your hips above him while on all fours. He smacks your ass a few times before forcing your hips down, tongue immediately finding your clit.

Your arms give out entirely and your face falls into his shirt that fell off the pillows. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands holding his elbows to keep you in place. You bury your face in the cotton, biting down on it and pulling up with a loud moan.

"As much as I'd love to taste you cum on my tongue," he pants and pulls you down over him and you squeal. "I want to feel you cum around me, sweetheart." He kisses your chin and bites the skin, smoothing his hands over your ass and spanking you again.

You hold the back of his neck and roll him back over to be above you, Punk completely taking off his pants. He tilts his head to the side slightly when staring at you, leaning a hand down to grip your tank top, the other hand joining and ripping the material in a swift motion off your body.

A loud gasp escaped your throat and you pull him down, kissing him rough and sloppy with your fingers pushing through his hair. "Go ahead, sweetheart, put it in." Phil lifts his body so you can grab his cock, a pleased sigh escaping his lungs and his head leans against yours. You tease his tip up and down your pussy, desperate groans escaping Punk's lips. "C'mon, kitten, let me fill you," he grunts and you spread your legs, pressing your forehead against his as you push his cock into you.

"Fuck, don't move, fuck," you wince and shakily grab his face, letting your hands fall to hold his shoulders. Phil kisses your forehead and brushes your hair out of your face.

"I'm all yours, Y/N. Tell me when you're ready." He kisses the corner of your mouth and you let out a long breath, moving your hips slowly and nodding at him. He pulls his hips up and thrusts into you slowly, his jaw hinging to the side and his eyes roll. "You feel so.. fuck," Punk moans loudly and falls on top of you, laying his cheek on your shoulder with his nose pressed against your cheek.

His right arm wraps around your waist and holds your back up, strings of moans and your name falling from his swollen lips. You turn your head and wrap a leg around his waist, moaning in his mouth and scratching his beard. Your tongue smooths over his bottom lip and you whimper at the ghost hole of his lip piercing, sinking your teeth in and pulling back.

Phil growls and rolls onto his back, holding your hips to hold you up and thrust rough and quick into you. You hold onto his wrists for stability and drop your head, watching his face twist in focus and pleasure.

"Fuck, look at you." He licks his lips and drops your bodies back to the bed, letting you take control. Your hands squeeze his knees and move your hips up and down slowly, smiling and running your tongue over your teeth when you watch his eyes roll and head fall into the pillow, biting his hand.

"Look at you," you purr and smooth your hands up his torso, stopping at his face and kissing him slowly. His lips fall loose and he moans against your teeth when you smile. Punk's large hands massage your ass and smack it, gripping tightly and moving your hips for you.

"Oh my fucking god," he moans with veins popping in his neck. Phil's tattooed fingers push through your hair and hold it in a pony tail, picking your head up to look at him as he thrusts fast into you. "Fuck, this pussy's all mine, all fuckin' mine," Punk pants.

Phil keeps your hair in his hands and presses his forearms together behind your head, laying you on your back with your head resting on his arms. His thighs open your legs wider and you nip at his chin when you feel every inch of him inside of you. He pushes his hips deeper, grunting and moving in slow circles, your eyes fighting to stay open.

"Who does this pussy belong to, sweetheart?" He whispers in your ear, his biceps engulfing your head and your hand holds onto one for support. He pulls his hips back all the way then snaps his hips into you again, both of your moans dancing in the air. "I need words, or I won't move."

Punk pulls his knees next to your hips, pulling your leg over his shoulder and kissing your calf as he looks at you through his sweaty hair in his hair. "Please, Punk, more," you whimper as you scratch his thighs. He chuckles slowly and shakes his head, smacking your thigh.

"Use your words," he leans down, "Who does this pussy belong to?"

He tilts his head to the side and presses his forehead to yours, kissing the corner of your mouth. Phil starts moving his cock out of you and your hips twitch, your fingernails digging into his back.

"You, Phil, fuck," your hands press against his thighs when he starts his fast pace again. "I'm all yours, Punk."

A low growl comes from his throat and he frees his arms, pulling your hips off the bed and rubbing your clit with his thumbs. "Atta girl, all mine."

Punk tears his eyes from your face to watch himself fuck you, his eyebrows dropping in a furrow with his lips slightly parted. "Phil.. I'm.." Your eyes fall heavy and he pulls his hand away, stopping all his movements and you let out a loud whine.

"Such a brat, I want to watch you above me." He holds you close to his body and flips you two once more with pulling his cock out, letting you get comfortable before nodding he was ready.

You hold his knees for stability again and you start to move, his fingers finding your clit and your legs start to give. "You got it, baby. Keep going, you're almost there." Punk's eyes now roll and he fingers start to slow.

Your movements get heavier and slower, your fingers squeezing his legs for support. "I'm.. I'm.." you can't open your eyes and your breath sticks in your throat when Punk holds your hip with one hand and quickly thrusts into you, rubbing your clit until your orgasms hit the both of you hard.

Your body gives out on you and you fall on top of Punk who wraps his arms tight around you, trapping your arms underneath to rest next to his body. He moves his hips slowly to pump every inch of his seed into you.

Phil's hands push against your back, dragging up your hot skin and rubbing the tips of his fingers between your shoulder blades. You pick your hands up and lay them on his biceps, tracing the outlines of his tattoos with your lips parted against his shoulder.

He pulls his hips down and you whimper at the empty feeling when his cock pulls out of you completely. You lay your whole body weight on top of him, your bellies moving against each other's as you breathe.

"Are you okay, sweetheart? Need anything?" Punk kisses your forehead and brushes the hair out of your face so you can look up at him.

"I think a nice shower and some sleep would be perfect right now," you kiss his pec a few times and he sits you both up, holding out his hand and helping you up. Your legs shake underneath you and Punk smirks to himself in victory. "Oh, shut up," you grumble and he laughs, holding you close as you both head for the bathroom.

Phil takes his time in the shower washing your hair and body, making sure every finger cleans every cell on your skin. You've never felt so beautiful, so worshipped. You wash him and can't help but squeeze him in his thighs and biceps, desperate to sink your teeth in them.

You pull on a pair of sleep shorts and see the black on your pillow. You drop your towel and throw on the tank top, turning to Punk with a smile. "How do I look?"

He kneels down to grab your towel, looking up at you with his arm draped over his knee and the ghost of a smile on his lips. "I think I'm going to give you every shirt and sweatshirt I own just to see you in them."

[ateotdwinchester]

ꨄ︎ can’t save everyone

a/n: was watching an episode of spn (can’t remember exactly which episode?) where they mentioned that they can’t always save everyone, and that gave me the idea for this fic and i was desperate to write something about dean :)

also.. a part 2 may or may not be in the works

pairing: dean x reader

summary: you weren’t dealing well with how a hunt went a couple of weeks ago and dean is there to try and comfort you — even though it doesn’t go the way he expects

warnings: mentions of death in a previous hunt

word count: 2.5k

✩ ✩ ✩

You’d been on hunts before.

But never one like this.

It had been almost a year since you joined the Winchesters with hunting. You’d met through a mutual friend of Bobby’s and helped each other out on a case. Which went so well, you decided to team up as a trio.

You’d been on countless cases where things got nasty. Fighting spirits, demons, vampires… you name it, you’d fought it. All sorts of weapons were used, and you always had each others backs and always protected those that you could.

The job of being a hunter came with its risks and downsides. Any one of you could get hurt, any of the victims might not make it out alive every time. You knew that.

You’d worked cases with Sam and Dean where one of them couldn’t save or protect someone. It had happened multiple times, and you’d gotten through it.

Only… you’d never been there to witness that.

Everytime a victim had been killed, it was when Sam and Dean were with them while you were doing other things. Such as finding a body, or salting and burning bones.

This case was the first time you’d been set on the task of protecting someone. A girl around your age, which a demon happened to be after.

Everything was going fine, until… it wasn’t.

The girl got killed while you were forcefully held up against a wall, only being able to watch the scene unfold in front of you. You couldn’t do anything to stop it.

By the time Dean got there, it was too late. He found you sitting against the wall with tears streaming down your face as you stared at the body.

Since that day, you hadn’t spoken much about it. You didn’t want to. Didn’t know if you could.

Sam and Dean could tell it was bothering you. It was obvious on the hunts that followed. You weren’t yourself, you were unfocused, asking to do research tasks rather than joining in with the fights.

A day came where you had no cases. Sam and Dean couldn’t find another to check out. So.. as always on your free days, the brothers suggested going to get breakfast before leaving the motel you were staying at.

They knew you well, and knew you wouldn’t turn down a nice cooked breakfast. Along with a morning treat of pie.

Which was why it was a shock when you did turn it down. Insisting on just needing some more sleep to catch up on.

In the time they were busy having breakfast, you thought you’d have plenty of space to be alone to wallow in your sorrows while trying to get a quick shower in. You never made it into the shower. Too upset to do so.

It startled you when you heard the door to your motel room opening. They couldn’t be done with breakfast already.

You stood silently, hand over your mouth as you tried to quieten down your sobs of despair. You were unsure of which brother had made their back to the room.

There were footsteps, and then a gentle knock at the bathroom door.

“Hey, sweetheart?” It was Dean. “Uh, Sam’s still eating at the diner, I skipped out and thought to bring back some pie instead.”

He was met with silence. You were trying to gather yourself as fast as you could. Although, you couldn’t help but wonder why he wanted to bring pie back here instead of staying at the diner.

“It’s your favourite,” he was still at the door. “Banana cream.”

“I’ll be out in a second,” you managed to answer.

You heard his steps again, walking away from the door. Then the quiet sound of a chair being moved. Most likely one at the small wooden table opposite the bed you’d been sleeping in.

There was some rustling too. Or at least it sounded like a box being open and the use of a plastic fork being slightly scraped along the bottom of what the pie was sitting in as he gathered up a bite.

It was almost like a miracle to Dean when he heard the bathroom door handle twisting.

You pulled the door open, Dean looked up immediately. You hadn’t changed out of your black AC/DC shirt — which he’d sometimes mistake for his own since you like the same music — and navy blue shorts that you always wore to sleep in.

He saw the dark circles under your eyes, the way your eyelashes were clumped together giving away that you had been crying moments ago. Your cheeks a rosy pink colour, and this time it wasn’t from Dean teasing you with a flirty joke.

As you walked towards the table, you didn’t dare make eye contact with Dean as much as you knew he was looking at you.

You silently sat down, opened up the second box of pie, picked up the plastic fork he’d brought you and began eating the slice of banana cream pie that was there.

Dean kept looking at you and you easily felt his eyes burning through you. But you couldn’t look up, you knew if you did you might burst out into tears.

And you didn’t cry in front of Dean. You didn’t cry in front of anyone.

“You know,” he spoke up. “You don’t have to pretend around me.”

You took another mouthful of pie after he said that. That’s when he stopped eating, placing his fork down as he folded his arms with his eyebrows slightly raised.

“Just eating my pie,” you finally looked at him, chuckling. “Didn’t know there was a fake way to eat—“

“Stop it, would you?”

He took you by surprise at his harsh tone. Causing you to look away again. This time you put down your fork, pushing the box of pie away from yourself.

“That hunt was hard on you, I know that,” he softened his voice just slightly. “But not sleeping, sneaking out in the middle of the night, not speaking to me or Sam… none of that is gonna help.”

“I haven’t been—“

“Sneaking out?” Dean interrupted a second time. “Yes you have, I’ve seen you do it the past few nights.”

A smirk appeared on your face, “oh so you like watching me, huh?”

Dean clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Of course, he’s used to you having comebacks to the things he says, but he hadn’t expected it right now.

“Using my own words against me,” he shook his head with a laugh.

You both looked at each other as your smiles slowly faded. Back to the real reason Dean left Sam alone to eat breakfast.

“Look, it’s okay if you aren’t dealing with this whole thing very well,” he leaned forwards on the table. “Just because me and Sam are used to is doesn’t mean there’s any shame in getting upset.”

That’s all it took for the tears to resurface in your eyes. Maybe the mixture of the unusual softness in Dean’s voice, or just that he was willing to be more sweet for once to ensure you were okay.

You looked down just as a tear dropped, leaving a wet mark on your shirt. Your hair fell forwards, covering your face as you tried to subtly wipe away any more tears that fell.

But Dean could see it.

He shuffled his chair closer to yours, hesitating slightly before he reached out to tuck your hair behind your ears.

It was a such an unexpected thing for Dean to do, that the gesture alone caused you to look at him without him having to ask you to.

You tried as much as you could to hold your crying inside. You weren’t weak, you were far from it. And you didn’t want that to show in front of someone as strong as Dean.

Try as you might, he could tell by the way your chest was heaving that you needed to let it out. He might not be used to giving people a ton of comfort, but he would always try his best with you.

“It’s just me,” he placed his hand soothingly on your knee, moving his thumb back and forth. “Just us.”

And you broke down.

It was the fastest Dean had ever pulled you against him. An arm around your shoulders, one hand resting on the back of your head as he held it against his chest.

He decided then and there that the sound, and feeling, of you crying against him was one of the worst things he’d ever heard. Even over the shouts, screams or strange noises from victims or spirits.

Dean would never admit out loud, but he hated seeing you upset. He hated knowing you were hurting. Most of all, he hated that he couldn’t remove those memories of what happened from your mind. All he wanted was for you to be okay, to not be broken over losing someone you swore to protect.

“Shh, shh,” he whispered, leaning down to rest his chin atop your head. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

It took you a few moments to settle yourself. But Dean held you the whole time you cried, allowed you to get your emotions out within the comfort of his arms.

Even after you stopped, went silent, your hands stayed curled into the fabric of his shirt, his hand keeping your head against him. You could hear the steadiness of his heartbeat and it provided a strange calming feeling you hadn’t experienced before.

Eventually, you let go of him, moving to sit up straight as you were previously. Dean looked at you, saw how wet your cheeks still were.

He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to dry your tears with the pads of his thumbs. Allowing his hands to linger on your face just slightly.

You looked at him as he did so, involuntarily leaning into his grip. It almost felt natural, soothing.

As soon as you realised what was happening, your eyes widened, moving out of his grip as he dropped his hands from your face.

Dean cleared his throat, looking anywhere but you for a second. He shook it off, knowing why he came here, what he was doing sitting with you.

“Feels better when you cry it out sometimes, doesn’t it?” He asks.

You nodded your head, wiping your eyes one last time before taking a long deep breath.

Dean waited before speaking again, “I know I wasn’t there, I didn’t see what happened,” he paused, trying to be more sympathetic here. “We can’t save everyone. God, if we could I’d do it in a heartbeat, but stopping these creatures isn’t that easy.”

“I know,” you mumbled. “If i’d just acted faster, used the gun instead of the knife—“

“Wouldn’t have made a difference,” Dean cut you off for a third time today. “You said it had you up against a wall, even if you could pull out a weapon at lightening speed it would’ve knocked it out of your hands.”

“You always manage it.”

You weren’t completely wrong. But they didn’t always save everyone, didn’t always kill these demons on their first try. It took multiple attempts depending on who they were.

“I’ve been doing this hunting thing longer than you, I’m used to it,” then he thought about Sam. “And Sam… you know he has his thing going on, makes it a little easier for him when he knows what’s coming.”

“But you don’t lose people,” you look at him with sad eyes. “You protect them, hide them in other places, get them to stay behind you and I can’t seem to do that.”

Dean scoffed, “don’t give me that crap,” you frowned. “You lose someone on one hunt and now you think you’re this, weak, incapable hunter?“

You looked down, not saying another word. He was right though. It was making you doubt yourself, making you doubt if you’d be able to even help Sam or Dean, help protect your friends.

“You really wanna know something?” Dean leaned towards you. “You’re one of the strongest goddamn hunters I’ve ever met.”

He reached out, tilting your chin up with his forefinger to make sure you were looking at him.

“Yea, maybe that first case when we met was an easy one, and sure Sam and I had to teach you a few things here and there,” he smiled thinking back to those times. “But you took to it like a natural, you’re a great hunter, a great fighter and are an especially good protecter. Alright?”

All of that meant a lot coming from Dean. It wasn’t every day he’d willingly give out compliments, rather his specialty was poking fun or being sarcastic. Really, you wondered where all of this was coming from.

All you did was nod. Smiling a little to let him know you were taking in what he was saying to you.

“If you need to talk about what happened…” he left you time to start talking, or let him know where you want to start.

But that never came. You weren’t sure how to talk about how you felt in the moment, how useless you felt. Tears almost welled up in your eyes again.

“It’s fine,” you pulled your box of pie closer to yourself again. “Thank you for the pie, by the way.”

“That’s it?” Dean chuckled. “All that and you just thank me for the pie.”

You felt bad, but you didn’t look at him. Deciding on taking a bite of the delicious banana cream pie he’d brought from the diner.

“What do you want me to say?” You practically threw your plastic fork down onto the table. “That I’m traumatised because a demon held me against my will and forced me to watch them kill someone? Is that what you want me to say?”

“That would be a start,” he shrugged.

“Like you ever talk about what’s on your mind.”

“Nothin’ to talk about,” Dean stood up, tucking his chair in under the table. “Besides, this is about you, not me, sweetheart.”

It was silent again. You finished your pie, feeling a mixture of happy at what Dean said to you, as well as frustration that he obviously wasn’t happy with you not wanting to express your full feelings with him.

Like he ever willingly discussed how he felt with anyone.

“I was just trying to help,” he sounded like he was defending himself. “I’ll… start packing up the car.”

He went to walk away, when you rushed to grab his hand before he could move too far from the table. Dean looked back at you, expectant of something more than you’d given today.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For coming to check on me, I do appreciate that, Dean.”

He squeezed your hand in his, maybe holding onto it for longer than he should have. Looked at you with those soft eyes of his longer than he should have.

“Yea, yea of course,” he let go, walking to his bed to grab a couple of bags.

He left the room after that. Leaving you sitting at the table, empty motel room, alone, in the quiet.

You glanced across the table, seeing Dean’s leftover pie. He didn’t finish his slice. That wasn’t like him at all.

A telltale sign, that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one with things on your mind.

✩ ✩ ✩

taglist: @h8aaz | if you would like to join my supernatural taglist, please comment here or see this post

[illicitland]

thought of us

Alex Tran x Fem!Reader

Summary: Hidden feelings of two people about the oblivious other.

Request: HIII!! it’s totally fine if this isn’t possible but can i request an alex tran x reader oneshot where alex and reader are close friends and have been crushing on eachother for awhile and everyone in the office knows except them? i love alex sm and there not enough about him! thank you!! have a good day !!! <3 - Anon

Author's Note: To Anon, I'm sorry this took so long to write. Thank you for requesting this, Alex is just so majestic and every time he appears on camera I lose control of myself. Please send in more requests and ideas of what you want to see next!

Being on Smosh is one of the best things that ever happened to you. It was stable enough for you financially, and at the same time you got to pursue two of your dream jobs at a time, being a cast members and producer.

Hence, befriending Alex, who shares a similar enough job, came easy. Because other than your occupation, the two of you don't share other similarities. Like the dusk and the dawn. Making your duo unexpected to most people.

Befriending Alex is something that just happened. Instant connection and undeniable chemistry. The two of you can talk for hours nonstop without dead air.

Unbeknownst to you, your dear friend has been having a secret infatuation towards you. Everyone, from crew and cast to your actual viewers, sees it. Everyone but you.

During the Smosh Games meetings Alex would take his time explaining every single function and rule of the game. Everyone in the room would notice his lingering glances at you. How he'd blush as you listen to him intently. How he would perk up every time you had a question, like all he wanted to do was inform you.

His attentiveness to what you do even transcends to the videos. He would correct a misunderstood rule to your benefit. He would also defend you to the rest of the players. Hell, he wouldn't do that for Spencer.

The two of you would brush off the teasing and the game's producer's blatant favoritism.

For one episode of Duo You Know Your Duo, Crew vs. Cast, where you and Tommy went against Alex and Spencer. The scores are close. For one question you and Spencer were asked, “What are the names of your partner's siblings?”.

You were the one to go first, you stated that Tommy does not have any siblings, which you got wrong.

As for Spencer, he turned his paddle that has a name you are unaware of. “I know he has a sister, but I'm not sure if I got the name right.”

Alex replied with a laugh due to the name being not even remotely close.

“Coach, I actually knew that. Do I get an extra point?” You said turning your head towards Arasha.

“Mind your own partner,” was all she replied with.

“Alex, now you know who your real best friend is.” You writhe your brows at him playfully.

Spencer added "You don't know your own partners siblings." The two of you erupted into a chaotic argument of who knows Alex more.

Alex burst into a captivating giggle. It was one of those effortless quirks of his that never failed to make your heart flutter. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners—his pupils vanishing, his shoulders slightly shaking with the weight of his amusement—it was disarmingly genuine.

Just as you caught yourself fawning over him, you straightened yourself. You continued with the video-exchanging knowing glances and nods of curtseys. Right after filming the video the two of you were asked to stay behind for thumbnail.

You questioned why you two when you both are partnered with different people. The producers brushed it off by saying 'capturing both teams'.

The idea that there is mischievous intent, but you didn't press further.

‎Neither of you are oblivious to your ship. You've seen the edits and clip compilations of your interactions people made even through clip where he can't even be seen in the camera. You thought nothing of it. People would ship people to anyone even with the littlest interaction.

"They did it for the shippers." Alex leaned down to your level as he whispered.

You replied with a chuckle, "Can't wait for my velocity edits. I look especially good today, I believe.” You did not want to add to his comment about the people wanting the two of you together. Talking about topics that include feelings are something you avoid with everyone.

You are aware that your admiration towards Alex is close to surpassing the heights of being platonic. Maybe it already has.

You don't dare figure it out. Hell, you avoid even thinking about it. Your mind is already convinced that the worst case possible would happen.

He would find out about your silly little feelings, you will get rejected, he will tell you that the two of you can remain friends which is a lie—no one ever remains friends after being friend zoned. The two of you would just be stuck in an awkward situation. Your inability of expressing what you feel is keeping you from acting. In fear that what you might say will drive him away.

In addition, you don't handle rejection easily. Your immaturity forbids you to handle it like an adult. This would send your mental state into a downward spiral.

You don't even dare consider that he too might feel the same, but you would rather not find out at all. Genuinely, you treasure your friendship with Alex, something not worth loosing over unrequited feelings.

In short, you would rather not know.

Unbeknownst to you that's how he feels too. The difference is that he is more optimistic to what the two of you could be.

Alex is a man of few words. He's the type of guy who doesn't ask. He just listens, remember, and act. And when he jokes it is always a hit for you. He caught himself trying to craft more jokes as a desperate attempt of hearing you laugh. But most of the time he just tries to be there

The first time he saw you set the vegetable aside he asked for the reason. You told him that it's because you are simply not a fan of the taste. "I know it's childish to not eat the pepper I just can't get myself to eat it."

"You can give them to me." He said leaning his plate towards you. he also stated his love for the vegetable. "I love them."

"That's concerning. Are you serious?" Was what you said as you transferred them to his plate.

"I really do. Feel free to give them to me anytime."

During film week-cast get to line up for catering first. Alex usually comes few minutes late to lunch as often times he'd get too occupied by his work.

No matter how late he is everyone knew that the seat next to you is reserved for him. He'd sit next to you. Before eating he'd check your plate for capsicum and takes it himself without interrupting your conversation with Tommy who sat infront of you.

When they first saw the two of you act that way you were met with teasing. But as time passed by, along with your consistent insistence of being just friends, it died down. They learned to live with the fact that the two of you will remain being just friends with heaps of romantic tendencies.

The two of you would have been contented with the state of your relationship. Satisfied? No.

But contented, nonetheless.

No secret ever remains a secret. Even the greatest athletes slip from time to time.

When Alex was discussing with Shayne, Spencer, and Damien—his Games Pod Bros, about video ideas. They planned about making another Love Is Blind episode. Then talked about who they should cast.

Damien suggested putting you, "She's so charismatic. She'll do great with anyone."

Alex reacted what he thought he did internally. However, the intensity of his furrowed brows. His reaction caught the attention the of people in the meeting.

"I don't mean it that way, man." Damien explained that you are charismatic and currently is into reality dating shows.

The explanation caught Alex off-guard. Has he been too obvious? Did he react out of line? It was as though he just got caught doing war crimes.

He questioned why Damien felt the need to clarify what he meant. To which he replied with “You reacted with what I said, plus I've been seeing the two of you be close— Listen man, you know I have a hard time reading the room.”

This broke Alex. The meeting turned to him admitting his not so secret admiration to his friends. They encouraged him to finally tell you alongside an assurance that they believe that you too feel for him.

It didn't take him much convincing. He knows what he feels and he'll act on them.

Courage took over him. Whatever happens, it is what it is. All or nothing.

In terms of gambling, he's all in.

He saw you in one of the halls of the Smosh office. You turned slowly as he called for your name—like a scene from a movie. As he made his way towards you he wished his footsteps would go faster.

He fought the urge of just coming undone right there and then. But the remaining sanity of his body allowed him to escort you to a private enough area.

You were tripping balls, for the lack of better words. You have no idea on what's going on and what's about to happen.

This wasn't like Alex at all. He has never pulled you away to another room. Wherever you are are a good enough place to talk. He never felt the need to be secretive with the interaction between the two of you.

“Are you ok? This is so not like you.” Concern thick on your tone..

“Of course. This is not like me because you know how I am. You know me better than anyone in my life.” Alex said as he captured your eye. “I like you. I like you more than a best friend should. I could never hide anything from you. I have been living in the hope that you felt it too. I know that saying this will change us.”

The words got caught at the back of your throat. Your wildest dream unfolds right in front of you.

Words could not describe what you are feeling. Instead of saying anything you let your actions talk.

You leaned in. Your lips reached his and it felt like everything. It felt special, right, and freeing at the same time.

He reciprocated the affection you have given him. His hand caressed the lover side of your face. His hand was so gentle yet eager to never let you go.

As the two of you parted he asked, “Be my girlfriend?”

You darted him with your warmest smile. “I thought you'd never ask.”

The exclusivity of the two of you was surreal. If this was indeed a dream you wish to never wake up. Stay stuck there forever.

It was all you could ever wish for and more. It was like a bottle of finely aged wine, popped at the right time.

Your love is quiet, but it is all you could ever ask of.

[kuromixheartzzz]

WANNA BE MY FN DUO?! | chapter 04. research.. (more like stalking)

you’re just going to indulge in a little bit of research! (more like stalking.) as you pull up a tab for twitch. the bright purple display lights up your screen as it nearly blinds you with the logo.

but everyone is left to their own device so who cares what you’re doing on yours.. well maybe the FBI now that you think of it.

search bar: @/mrhassleman

.

..

…

god what’s taking so long for this guys account to load. maybe you should really replace your busted laptop. it’s pretty run-down now that you think of it.. perhaps it’s cause of infinite amount of gigabytes that fortnite is taking up making it endlessly slower—but really who names themself ‘mrhassleman’ a pretty lame name if you asked yourself, but not to sound conceited.. considering how many followers this guy has.. people must really love him….

at long last your crappy laptop decided to finally load his channel and—

this guy has 20 million followers??

and he’s averaging like millions of views every stream?!

you click on the highlight of purple surrounding his face to join his live,

wait.. he’s pretty cute—stop you’re getting distracted again..

you decide to actually start paying attention to what he’s saying and doing.

LIVE: PLAYING VAL W REO, ISAGI, BACHIRA, KURONA, N RIN 🔴🔴🔴🔴🔴🔴

WHAT. kurona???

maybe this is one of his streamer friends but wow.. you really underestimated how much you know that guy… it kinda hurts.. (truly the fact that’s he’s living a double life without your knowledge haunts you..)

you continue watching him as he cycles through several games and you can’t lie that he’s pretty damn good—though amidst your monologue he catches your attention.

> nagisn1glazerrr: nagi’s cooking 🔥🔥🔥 > bananana: MY GOATT 🗣️ > user19282: he gon clutch ts watch > justinbieber: it’s never seishirover > nagiluvr: @/justinbieber wtf is beaver doing here > user98: ts lowk remind me of that one fn match w that girl.. > rando34: @/user98 FRRRRR > mimimimi: @/rando34 I FELT SO BAD FOR HER

“ohh i remember that girl. she wasn’t good. but normally we have to carry fillers anyway so..”

ok.. rude very much but whatever.

“nagi i swear to god if you’re talking about that girl we squaded with we already talked about this..”

“KINGSAGI LITERALLY SAID THAT SHE DIDNT EVEN KNOW WHAT WAS GOING ON PLUS YOU STOPPED ME FROM SAYING HI TO HER”

“bachira back up from your mic mic.”

“k she was still slow.”

“bachibro it’s okay.. your the only one who truly gets it”

“bro..”

“what the fuck this is why i don’t stream with you guys.”

“guys focus on the game game”

“always talking about me being gay for nagi when you guys are doing shit like this..”

“don’t even i saw what your comment on nagi’s tweet.. your such a pussy you had to use priv.”

“DONT-“

“oh shit we won”

“my monster already told me we would win”

“i think we need to get you checked for schizo..”

“k guys i’m going to end stream rn bye.”

> user263673: BYE NAGI > isaGOAT: that was quick.. > nagifan: next stream when ⁉️ > rando34: GOODBYEE EVERYONEE > nagishim: bro sorry im late i couldn’t make it into this match u should’ve told me to call u bro 😂🔥 > mimimimi: @/nagishim you are NOT friends with nagi bro.. > user8: BYEEEEE

stream ended.

hold on—now that you think of it wasn’t that situation they described sound a little familiar.. it sounds oddly like that match you had with those 3 randos but it could all just be coincidence.. right??

before you could shut down your laptop. you are alerted by a sudden ding! from your phone. it’s probably another alert but for some reason your propelled to pick up your phone and check. maybe it was a gut instinct or a sign from mystery forces?? you will never know but normally your intuition never lies so as soon as your laptop powers off, you check your phone—

nagi seishiro sent you a dm.

(a/n: i hope that the writing this chap wasn’t shit bc i DONT know how to write streams.. but i promise from now on i will TRY to be more consistent with updates.)

prev <- masterlist -> next

taglist: @kyeeeeeeeweeeeeeewi@emikikus18@l0v3ly-st4rs@olix111@kuronarnze @soph1sticatedly @ang3licprinc3ss@inojinieeee@kukukurona@cutestdomi@scoosh4you@morgyyyyyyy@cyberasterrr@mi2ukiss@ichcocat@444neapolitain@m3l0d11@londonsworldddd@skullcrawler@randomhumans-blog@kyaanii@risagichi@ilovewonyo@rvm1ne @azinniyaa@dontmindtheevie @no1-seishiro-nagi-fan@halwysss

[rasqberrypetalpostcards]

001.

monologue culture: why we overshare to no one in particular an essay on the quiet poetry of talking too much to no one at all

there’s a peculiar intimacy to monologuing into the ether. a sort of emotional exhale into digital spaces—voice notes no one asked for, captions that feel like confessionals, 3am tumblr posts typed like love letters and left unsigned. this isn’t attention-seeking, not really. it’s something more tender. more tired. more complex.

we’re not always speaking to be heard. sometimes, we speak because the silence is heavier than the vulnerability.

this is monologue culture.

it’s the way we sit with our feelings—out loud. it's the way we narrate heartbreak to an instagram caption or cry-write three paragraphs into a notes app. it’s when someone asks, “how are you?” and we respond with a novel, even if no one’s reading it. it’s the paradox of speaking into the void and hoping someone sees it, but not really minding if they don’t.

we do this not because we’re unwell (though sometimes, yes), but because it’s a way of survival. we monologue as a soft rebellion against isolation. a kind of makeshift companionship. an archive of our own emotional literacy. a way to know ourselves—out loud.

a little history: the diary, digitized

before there were late-night rants on twitter or poetic overshares on tumblr, there were diaries—pages upon pages of musings, monologues, maybes. people have always needed a place to speak privately but not silently. the digital age didn’t invent oversharing; it just made it observable.

now, we narrate our lives publicly, semi-publicly, or in “close friends” stories meant only for a curated few. but even when we share to no one, when we lock a post or leave it untagged, there’s still a performance to it. a soft kind. not to be admired, but to be witnessed. like cracking open a window and hoping someone hears the piano playing.

the emotional logic of oversharing

so why do we do it?

why pour our hearts into spaces not designed to hold them?

well—for one, there’s structure in monologuing. there’s clarity in forming thoughts into paragraphs. there’s relief in naming what we’re feeling, even if we’re doing it while crying into our pillow with one arm extended for typing.

oversharing, especially when it feels one-sided, is often less about the listener and more about the speaker. it’s the emotional equivalent of picking at a knot until it loosens. you talk it through not because you want advice, but because the weight feels lighter when spoken. and when written—oh, when written—it feels like a spell cast to trap the ache between lines.

fun fact: “oversharing” is often gendered

did you know that the very idea of oversharing is loaded with bias? in communication studies and digital discourse, the label is disproportionately applied to femmes and feminine-coded speech. women and girls are told they “talk too much,” “go too deep,” or “make things awkward” with emotional openness.

but in reality? sharing openly, and with nuance, is a form of emotional fluency. it’s not oversharing. it’s storytelling. and storytelling is power. it’s a legacy passed down through letters, journals, whispered poems in the dark.

so the next time you call yourself cringey for oversharing on your blog or sending a five-minute voice note to your best friend about the way a bird looked at you—maybe pause. maybe remember that talking too much about what hurts is a kind of care. maybe even a kind of art.

the performance of silence vs. the performance of speech

we romanticize the quiet types—the mysterious ones who “don’t post much” or “keep to themselves.” but we rarely ask why someone shares out loud. we rarely notice how brave it is to monologue without a promise of being understood.

silence can be powerful. but so can loud vulnerability. and those who monologue—those who overshare, whisper their spirals, dramatize their heartbreaks with all the flair of a tragic heroine—deserve grace.

there’s performance in all kinds of expression. but monologuing is a unique one. it’s a performance of being present in your own unraveling. it’s what happens when you refuse to disappear just because you're hurting.

monologues as placeholders for connection

when we talk to “no one in particular,” we’re often talking to the someone we wish existed. the best friend who’s still awake. the stranger who might get it. the future version of ourselves who’ll reread our rants and finally understand.

it’s not loneliness that drives monologue culture—it’s hope. a strange, soft hope that somewhere, someone might nod along, or smile a little, or whisper “same” into the dark.

we write long captions, post rambling blogs, tweet drafts meant for no audience because it feels like company. it feels like we’re building a trail of breadcrumbs back to ourselves.

being known vs. being heard

there’s a distinct ache in wanting to be known rather than just heard. and monologues? they bridge that gap. they reveal who we are in ways casual conversations rarely do.

a tumblr post about how your heart feels like a cracked teacup says more than “i’m sad.” a ramble about a stranger who reminded you of someone you lost says more than “i miss you.”

these moments, these monologues—they stitch together the poetry of living. they say: i’m trying. i’m feeling. i’m reaching.

and yes, maybe no one will reply. maybe no one will read the entire thing. but it lives. it exists. and that matters.

in defense of talking too much

maybe this is your sign to keep narrating. to keep voice-noting. to keep typing things out like they matter—because they do. maybe you are not too much. maybe you are just alive in a world that often asks us to mute our inner symphonies.

so write the three-paragraph instagram caption. post the crying selfie if it helps. rant to your drafts. record your thoughts in the middle of the night. speak, even if you’re not sure anyone’s listening.

because sometimes, the person who needs to hear you most—is you.

scribbled down by, R.

[tawghasa]

I endorse all of this.

I had to change careers in my early 30s (grant-gunded research scientist + four years of no grants in my speciality = redundancy with no hiring opportunities). Here are a few things I learned from that journey:

Consider doing the same job for a different employer. I spent 5 years working for a lab that, in retrospect, had a really terrible workplace culture. I got a position in another lab in the same institute, and the experience was a LOT better.

(It was still rough at times, due to the bullshit I had internalised clashing with similar bullshit my lab supervisor had internalised. But I cried in the bathrooms WAY less.)

There can be a LOT of jobs that are tangentially related to your current job, that no one in your current job is really aware of. Or if they are aware, they overestimate the barriers to getting there.

(E.g., I moved from medical research into intellectual property. I assumed that you would need some kind of legal background for that... But nope!)

On a related note, be sceptical of any career advice you get from people at your hell-job. If they haven't gotten out themselves, they are sharing conjecture, not facts.

Most people have bad resumes and weak cover letters/responses to selection criteria. I highly recommend checking out Askamanager.org, in particular this masterpost of advice for resumes and cover letters. Alison also has a guide for preparing for job interviews that I've used with success (it's free when you sign-up to her mailing list. I think I've gotten maybe two e-mails in the six years since I signed up to get the free pdf).

Being older can be a benefit in the workplace. Some recent hires at my job are in their 50s, and were REALLY surprised they made the cut... But they both have so much experience under their belts, they're very familiar with the norms of a 9-to-5 job, etc. (They're also less likely to look for another job before they retire than younger hires.)

Also, you just know more stuff. You have more experience in having a job, talking to people, doing things. You have more years under your belt of troubleshooting, finding easier workflows, cleaning up messes.

E.g., I hated my time in retail but I know a LOT about how to talk to people: how to give someone bad news without them yelling at me, how to tell them they stuffed up without them yelling at me, how to tell them I stuffed up without them yelling at me...

I have an excellent phone manner and a "customer-centric commitment to issue resolution" which has been a huge asset in both of my post-retail careers - but neither of those jobs had any kind of intentional training/mentoring in those areas! Those are skills I developed in THE shittiest supermarket in South Australia while developing bone damage in my feet because I was standing for 10 hours a day.

A few other bits of advice:

It's hard to be productive outside of work when you work a terrible job that is corroding your soul. It's hard to write a good resume/apply to further education/whatever when you hate your job and you're exhausted and everything is pointless. Don't beat yourself up if it takes longer than you'd like to get anything done.

Make things easier for yourself by asking for/accepting help. Use the Ask A Manager resources, ask friends and family (ideally ones who have jobs they like) to help you with your job search and your application materials.

(Are we mutuals? Do you want some help with a resume? Send me a DM. I can also hop on a Discord call and chat with you about interview prep and technique.)

Try to start prepping now, BEFORE the dream opportunity crosses your path. It's easier to have an up-to-date master resume that you can tailor to the role, than to scramble to pull one together the night applications close.

Reddit can actually be really helpful. There are subreddits for a lot of careers/industries, with posts every few months asking how to either break in or get out. They can also be a good place to ask what the day-to-day is like in a career you're thinking of switching to, which can help you identify any skills you already have that would be an asset/consider whether you'd enjoy the reality of the job. Keep in mind that it's all subjective, and no two people's experiences will be the same.

If you've read this far, try to find time to update your resume this weekend. Even if you like your current job. (That's usually the best time to look at other jobs - you're not desperate, so you're in a strong position to negotiate any offers.) Because if you've read this far through a thread about changing jobs/careers, you're probably interested on some level in doing the thing.

I’m thinking of doing a complete career switch- or at the very least, making an attempt to start it- and the idea is frightening for so many reasons- money, feeling like I’m behind, insecurity, family- but then i think of just sticking to the path I’m on and it sends me into a crying fit so. I think I’m going to have to be brave

Be brave! I changed industries at age 41 and it was so good for both my career and mental health.

It sounds silly to have to outright say, but if the thought of going to your current job makes you cry every day, it is time to LEAVE. You are not the first person I have had to give this advice to this week. The longer you stay in a dead-end job, the more your skills will rust and the inertia will drag you down.

It feels frightening, but you can get through the imposter syndrome by becoming a thorough note taker (assuming you are white collar, but a lot of this also applies to blue):

Capture every conversation you have

Immediately distill meetings and emails into to-do lists

Review your to-dos daily

Most importantly: write down your accomplishments, no matter how small, at the end of every week

Notes by hand helped me so much, and my little treat to keep going was to begin a fresh mini-notebook every 2 weeks, which I could decorate with ink stamps and washing tape. I used a different color gel pen every day, too. My notebooks were fun and super helpful with keeping me organized.

You will catch up soon enough. It sucks to be an older person in a junior role, but you will be more mature and hopefully adept at handling work drama. I hit senior at age 47 after doing my time, and now I'm pretty indistinguishable from the folks who beat me here.

People aren't meant to do the same thing for all their lives, if it means sacrificing other opportunities. It's ok to say goodbye to a career or hobby or whatever else, to make room for something new. Don't feel guilty sampling from life. Specialization is for insects.

[ghosthoard]

don't like, don't read, keep it private

people are allowed to write about fanon versions of the characters. they're allowed to like simple caricatures/tropes of the characters and what people might call "shallow". they're allowed to only have a simple idea of the world and the monsters and they're allowed to only know things from BOTW, they're allowed to only like LU. because they're having fun. that's what they like. they don't have to do something new or different if that's not what they want to do.

so what if there are other games? so what if the characters are more complex? so what if there are other links-meets out there?

you can't force people to like something they don't like.

this reminds me of the fandom drama of how mlm shipping is more popular than wlw shipping. and the wlw shipping fans tried to make it into a morality issue and force people to like wlw and make content for it. you can't guilt or shame people to like something they don't like. you have to make content for it. you have to make your own community.

this is a fandom, people! it's first and foremost things made for the creators of the fanwork themselves! if you want nuance, look for fics with the nuance you want, find people with the style you like, and if you can't i'm sorry but you have to create it yourself, and you complaining on social media about it is not the move.

you're not better for liking vanilla over strawberry ice cream.

i have my own opinions too, but i express them by not reading/engaging with those people and complaining to my friends in private. because at the end of the day it's not that serious if they write characters in a way i don't like enough for me to shit on them and ruin their fun.

a simple change people can make is changing phrasing:

don't say "i hate it when" or "why do people write this character this way so much"

try to make it more positive and uplift the stuff you want to see:

"i love it when" or "there needs to be more"

or just write posts about how you think without bringing in other interpretations. i've seen so many posts that expanded my idea of a character because someone made a text post about their thoughts without bringing others down.

[sunnydbeam]

GUUHHHH thank you so much for all the kind words and encouragement! I would really love to be able to reply individually to each of you but I don't know what to say other than a BIG thank you! You guys are so sweet I'm crying ♡

I apologize for the negativity earlier, there was a lot going on, and one thing in particular triggered my anxiety and insecurities like never before; I couldn't help but suddenly be overcome with a certain jadedness about my own art and writing. God, I was spiraling so badly. Because of all this my inbox will remain closed for a while; sorry if you wanted to send any questions. Anyway, I'll answer to the ones I've already received.

I don't like to spread bad vibes anywhere. I'm aware that most of the time I choose to stay in the shadows, always running away from conflicts that only exist in my head. This is a small blog that easily goes unnoticed, but I can't for the life of me understand why there are people around here who choose to be mean for sport, not even shielded under anonymity anymore. I wish I could let it go, but this happens to me more often than I'd like to admit. And the worst part is that I don't know why. I want to believe that my blog is safe for everyone! But if at any point I've posted or said something nasty or offensive, I'm so sorry! It wasn't my intention! Ever since I started using Tumblr I've been struggling with this inherent social part of media; with every interaction the anxiety I felt was painful, but the moment I thought I was getting better at it, things would come crashing down every time.

I'm socially awkward and struggle with a non-native language, but I swear I want to be friends with all of you! I just wish I understood why some people choose to spew hate instead. What have I done, especially after creating my Gamma Code AU? It's been hell.

BUT. There are so many more of you who are the sweetest thing!! All the support and affection I feel from you melts me, I just want to hug you all against my chest so dearly. I wish I had the right words to express how much I appreciate you all! ♡♡♡♡

...

Lastly, I'd also like to draw a little line:

If you're here expecting or demanding Sun and Moon content in any way, do NOT FOLLOW ME. I love those two, but I'll draw them when I feel like it. I enjoy drawing my OCs and that makes me happy, so before you decide to throw shit at me and my blog in general, I invite you to think better of it and look elsewhere for content that better suits your tastes and needs, or create it yourself. From now on I will block anyone who comes to my blog with this kind of attitude. No "I miss when you used to draw Sun and Moon" or "For the good old days!". I will block you, no exceptions.

[a99jazzybean]

OR it could be jaycexreader trying pot brownies 😬 I think that’ll be funny and can get spicy. If your are comfortable with it of courseee

This one was cute and fun to write! Thank you for the request!

High Enough

synop: You decided to make pot brownies for your roommate, but realize you don't have enough bud. You decide that using juice from a cart is a good idea. Jayce eats some of the brownies not realizing they have weed in them. He convinces you to get high and shenanigans ensue.

Reader is gender neutral but AFAB

words: 3.5K

includes: jaycexgn!reader, modern au, recreational drug use, weed use, high sex, creampie, smut

a/n: Guys, DO NOT make pot brownies like this. This recipe was inspired by my dumbass friends that poured a cart out into brownie mix. A tiny piece had me knocked out in 30 minutes. Do not recommend.

Dammit… You were all out of bud. You swore you had some left, but found measly crumbs at the bottom of your stash jar. That’s what you get for switching to pens you suppose. 

A lightbulb went off in your head. That’s it! You could use a cart. That couldn’t go wrong, right? 

You grabbed a fresh cart and some needle nose pliers and went to work on the cap. After some careful maneuvering, you managed to get it open without breaking the glass. Dumping it in your mixing bowl, you got to work making some brownies. 

Turning on some tunes, you hummed and danced your way through cracking eggs and measuring flour. The brownies were for one of your roommates, Viktor. A “thank you” for getting you out of a bind on a major school project. 

While they were a gift, you obviously were planning on trying them out yourself. Especially since you were experimenting with using a different form of weed. Probably best to see how you fared before accidentally making your friend green out. 

When the brownies baked you found that this batch appeared to have less of the typical pungent scent than if you used flower. Noted. 

After baking you left out the pan to cool. Deciding you needed a shower after accidentally covering yourself in flour, you headed down the hall. As you bathed, your other roommate returned home. 

Upon entering, his nose and eyes were immediately drawn to the fresh baked brownies on the counter. Mouth watering, he skipped over to the kitchen. As the apartment’s resident baker, it wasn’t uncommon for you to randomly make goodies to share. Jayce saw this as no different. Pulling out a knife, he cut himself a decent piece of brownie. Taking a large bite out of the gooey chocolate, he moaned with content. 

When you walked out of the bathroom, you heard Jayce shuffling out in the kitchen. Eyes widening, you rushed in. It was too late. The man had already scarfed down the brownie, his hand reaching once more to cut out  another piece. 

“STOP!” You yell, hand out. 

Turning around, Jayce gave you a confused wide-eyed stare. 

“What’s wrong?” Oh how naive the man was. 

“Jayce, those are pot brownies.” 

“Wait, really? I can’t taste it at all.” 

“I might have used juice from a cart instead of flower…” You trailed sheepishly. 

“WHAT???” His eyes grew even wider. “Why the fuck would you do that?” 

“I ran out of bud! And I wanted to do something nice for Viktor!” You shrugged your shoulders. 

“Something nice for-“ He let out an exasperated sigh. “ I’m pretty sure what you have created might put the man in a coma.”

You scoffed. 

“I doubt it. He’s got an insane tolerance.” 

“Regardless, I’ve eaten one.” His eyes narrowed at you. 

“Don’t blame me! You ate one without asking!” 

“You bake things all the time! How was I supposed to know?” He was growing very concerned. 

“Hey, let’s calm down.” You softened your voice. The last thing you needed was for Jayce to spiral. 

“How are you feeling?”

“I can already feel my head getting lighter.” 

“Okay, so we know it hits pretty quickly.” You walked up to him slowly, taking his hand to help ground him. 

He grasped yours tightly. 

“I’ll keep an eye on you, kay?” Your thumb traced circles on the back his hand. The tender action made him shiver. 

“What if you joined me?” Gears were turning in his head. 

“What do you mean?”

“Eat one too.” He gave you pleading puppy dog eyes. 

“Jayce, we have no idea how this will affect you, much less me.” You shook your head at him. 

“Were you just planning on giving them to Viktor?” He eyed you suspiciously. 

“W-well, no. I was going to try them-“ 

“Then try them. Since you were already planning on it.” He cut you off. 

Those damned pleading puppy-dog eyes had you wavering. Really, what would be the harm? As long as you stay home you should be fine, hopefully. 

Nodding, you gave his hand a squeeze of reassurance. He beamed at your response, making your heart swell.

Ushering you over to the counter, Jayce cut out a piece for you. You took it, giving the treat a once-over. Looking at Jayce, he was shifting side-to-side impatiently. Eyes blown out, leaving a tiny visible ring of a hazel iris. 

“This is what that D.A.R.E. officer warned me about in eighth grade.” You sighed, then took a bite. 

Chocolatey goodness filled your senses. Jayce was right, you couldn’t taste anything off about the brownies. Oh, that was dangerous. 

You swallowed then looked at Jayce expectantly. 

“What now?”

“We could chill in my room, or yours. Doesn’t matter to me.” He shrugged nonchalantly. 

Jayce really, really did not want to be left alone right now. And if you were going to be in the same state as him might as well do it together, right? It’s not like he was expecting anything out of it. After all, you were very good friends. But in his weed addled mind, there was a teensy part of him that was hoping for maybe something more. 

See, you were absolutely fucking gorgeous in the man’s eyes. While you had been close friends for a long while now, Jayce secretly wished for something more. 

It didn’t help that the two of you had enjoyed the occasional sloppy make out sesh that followed an evening of drinking. Giving the man just a taste of what you had to offer, and nothing more. 

The thing was, you also wanted a little something more as well. Not necessarily a relationship. But having a hot piece of ass like him around was tempting to say the least. 

“We can chill in my room.” You said, grabbing his hand and dragging him down the hall. 

Jayce had spent time in your room every so often, but it still felt like a sacred space. Especially now when it felt like his mind was floating. 

Once in your room you hopped onto your bed. Sinking into the mattress with a satisfied sigh. This was the best part about being high. Just laying down and feeling it hit you. Limbs sinking down into the plush of your bed. Lifting your head a bit, you spotted Jayce awkwardly watching you. Shuffling in place like he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. 

“Get in here, Talis.” You motioned for him to join you. 

He padded over to your bed, then laid down beside you. A small smile on his face as he watched you in content bliss. 

“It’s so nice to just sink in.” You sighed. 

“I take it the brownie has hit?” 

You nodded with a hum. Allowing yourself to enjoy the pleasant buzz in your head. 

Reaching out, you grabbed Jayce’s hand. He intertwined his fingers with yours and you let out another sigh. 

“You have really nice hands.” You lifted his hand above your face, studying it. “So warm. They’re working hands,” you traced the calluses at the top of his palm, “but somehow still soft. Yes, very nice hands.” You hummed bringing his palm to your lips and placing a tender kiss in the center.

Mouth agape, Jayce stared at you wide eyed. A red flush dusting his cheeks. 

Looking at him, you gave him a sweet smile. One he couldn’t help but return. 

Even though you were holding his hand, the distance between you felt too far. Jayce wrapped his free arm around you, pulling you closer to him. Nose to nose, you giggled. This felt… really nice. Humming, you nuzzled your nose against his. The adorable action made him blush even harder. 

Damn, you sure got physical when high. Not that he minded. 

“Jayce…” You mumbled, then pressed yourself into the space beneath his chin. Your face pushed into his chest. “You’re soooo warm.” 

“I think you’re higher than I am.” 

Shrugging your shoulders you nuzzled into his chest. The man curled his arms tighter around you. Leaning his head down, he pressed a warm kiss onto your forehead. 

“This feels really nice.” You murmured.

The comforting sinking returned. Feeling your body go heavy as you slumped into the man. Almost like you were going to meld with him.

Jayce’s skin was buzzing. Your touch feels ten times more intense than normal. As you curled up into the man, your hands roamed over him. Trailing up his torso and neck, fingers curling into his hair. Slowly they skimmed back down his arms. A pattern of movements that had him shivering against you. God, did it feel amazing. 

“I really like that…” He said softly, kissing your forehead again. 

“Mmm, yeah?” You gave him a dazed smile.

“Yeah.”

Your hands returned to his hair. Fingers scraping against his scalp, making him let out a low groan. 

“You’re like a puppy.” You giggled to yourself as you continued to pet him. “So cute.”

“A puppy?” He questioned.

“Yeah. The way you’re responding to my pets. And you have puppy-dog eyes.” 

“Puppy-dog eyes?” He gave you a confused look, head cocked to the side. Looking exactly like a confused dog.

Giggling again, you snuggled as close as you could to the man.

“Puppy-dog eyes that convinced me to get high with you.” You poked him in the chest. “They’re dangerous.”

He chuckled, puffs of air hitting the top of your head.

“Dangerous.”

“Exactly. So use them for good next time.” You admonished him with a finger. 

“Is this not something good?”

Pondering on it, you shrugged. 

“I’m not complaining, I suppose.” You gave him a sweet smile.

“Anything I can do to make it better?” 

“I dunno. You got any ideas?” You gave him a sultry look. 

He licked his lips nervously, eyes darting between your own and your lips. Leaning up, you pressed your nose against his. Lips just barely brushing against his. Looking into his eyes expectantly, you spoke softly.

“Well?” 

Warm lips crashed into yours messily. The man moaned as soon as he pressed against you. Every fiber of his body on fire when you pressed your lips against his. Teasingly, you lightly lapped against his bottom lip. Jayce slightly opened his mouth, inviting your tongue to tangle with his. You slid your tongue into his mouth, groaning at his taste. 

His hands roamed over your body. Appreciating the fact you wore nothing under your comfy pjs. Large fingers pinched your nipples over your clothes. You squeaked at the sudden sparks of pleasurable pain. He swallowed the sound, moaning against you. He was rutting against your thigh, making you feel the prominent bulge straining against his sweats. 

Pausing for a breath, you slightly pushed away, looking over him. This probably shouldn’t go further. Although there was a burning ache in your groin, you knew that going into this high wasn’t the smartest decision. But you didn’t really make a smart decision on the brownies while sober… so perhaps the night was one ready for many mistakes. Though you didn’t feel like hooking up with Jayce was a mistake. It could be for him though, you wouldn’t hold that against him. 

“Is everything okay?” He wanted to pull you back to him.

“Uh, yeah. I just don’t know if we should continue. I wouldn’t want you to regret anything.” You looked away from him, embarrassed.

“I could never regret anything with you.” His eyes pleaded with you, hips shaking as he did his best not to rut himself against you again. 

His words made your heart swell, a blush flushing on your cheeks. Pushing yourself back in, you gave him a deep kiss. Fuck it. You wanted this, your body was making you feel like you needed this. 

“I’ll take it you’re okay with us continuing?”

“Oh fuck yes.” You pressed your lips against his again, earning you a deep moan. 

Jayce returned to rubbing up against your thigh. Letting out little whimpers at the friction against his hard cock. Feeling his length against you had you drooling at the thought of him inside of you. Through the fabric of his pants you could feel how long and thick he was. It would be a stretch, but you wanted all of the man in front of you.

“C-can I taste you?” Jayce pulled back for a breath. “I really want you to sit on my face.” 

That had you flushing furiously. 

“Are you sure?” You asked softly. A part of you was concerned about hurting him.

“Yes. I want- no. I need it.” 

You nodded, agreeing. He beamed at you before shuffling your bodies on the bed. Rolling himself beneath you. You were straddling his waist and felt the head of his cock through his pants brush against your clothed sex. You whimpered at the friction. 

Jayce reached for your sleep shorts, eyes asking for permission. Nodding, you maneuvered your legs to help him remove the article. After tossing them, he turned to look at you. Groaning at the shiny slick coating your pussy and thighs. Lifting you up, he encouraged you to crawl to his face. Obliging, you made your way above him. Holding onto the headboard, you slowly lowered yourself over him. Large arms encircled your thighs, forcing you onto his waiting mouth. The sudden action makes you cry out. 

With a warm tongue, Jayce licked a stripe down your pussy. Your body was buzzing and sensitive with your high, making the pleasure more intense. Lapping through your folds, Jayce was making you release noises you had never known you could make before. Each whine and moan shot straight to his straining cock. Twitching impatiently as he made you fall apart on his tongue. 

You had to use the headboard to stabilize yourself. Around his head, your thighs were shaking as pure pleasure coursed through your body. Warmth was growing in your belly with each tantalizing lick against your clit. 

Beneath you, Jayce groaned. You were fucking delicious. He felt like he could stay under you for hours. Hearing the sounds you were making made him wish he could just hold you pressed against his tongue. 

“C-close!” You squeaked out. 

Jayce had begun flicking his tongue against you quickly. Each flick builds up your climax. With how sensitive you were, it would only be a matter of time before you burst. His tongue continued to flick against you rapidly. At this point, your entire body was shaking with the build of your orgasm. One perfectly placed swirl against your clit was your undoing. 

Practically screaming, you came on his face. Squirting over his chin with the force that your orgasm hit you. Between your squeezing thighs, Jayce thought he died and went to heaven. Oh he would gladly die squished in your plush thighs, your taste filling his senses. 

He only gave you a brief moment before his mouth was back on you.

“Jayce!” You squealed as he overstimulated your cunt. 

It seemed like he didn’t need to breathe as he continued to eat you out with fervor. Tongue tasting every inch of you, occasionally pushing into you. You could barely keep your body up as the shaking grew stronger. Your climax rapidly grows with each lap against your sopping pussy. 

With a shaky hand, you reach for the top of his head. Fingers curling into his hair. The feeling made him moan against you. 

This time, your orgasm hit you like a train. Crashing through your entire body with a giant wave of pleasure. Above him you twitched and whimpered as his tongue continued to lick you. Eventually you pressed your hand against his forehead, making him let you go.

“T-too much, Jayce!” You whined.

Sliding off of his face, you flopped belly down onto the bed. Jayce eyed your bare ass and legs, licking his lips with anticipation. He slid behind and over you. Turning to watch him, you felt your thighs clench. Flopping against his belly was probably the most enticing cock you had ever seen. Tip flushed an angry red, just begging to be fucked. 

Jayce looked at you, the hunger in his gaze making you shiver. Wiggling your hips, you urged him to continue. He spread your legs, and pressed down on your back. You lifted your hips, whining impatiently.

Because of that, Jayce decided to tease you. Dragging his cock between your folds. Gathering up your ever-accumulating slick dripping out of you. His cock caught on your entrance, making you whimper. Fuck, you needed him to fill you. You felt like you were floating and sinking at the same time. A pleasurable bliss that was about to get better. 

Slowly, Jayce pressed himself into you. Thick cock stretching you out deliciously. Both of you moaned as he continued to push his length inside. His cock brushing against the gummy spot that had you keening. 

“That feel good?” He leaned his body over yours, murmuring into your ear. 

It felt too good. You couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Instead, you decided to nod vigorously. Hoping he would move inside you. 

“Mmm, good.” He crooned, pulling out slowly then slamming back into you. 

Your whole body jolted with pleasure as his cock began to abuse your sweet spot. Head of his length continuing to hit it over and over again. Clutching the bedsheets you were a sobbing mess. The oversensitivity from your high mixed with the pure pleasure the man was giving you caused tears to prick at the corners of your eyes. 

“J-Jayce!” You cried out and one very intense thrust. 

“F-fuck,” he released a stuttering breath against your neck. “Please cum, please cum for me. I need to feel you. So fucking bad.” He nuzzled into your shoulder.

Jayce would soon be getting his wish. An intense pleasure was blooming within you, making you gasp and moan. This man was making you feel like an overstimulated puddle. Each press of his cock makes the pleasure grow tenfold. Your entire body was ready to shatter. 

And shatter you did. Jayce’s cock thrusting in and out of you, draggin your orgasm along with it. Your pussy clenched his cock, drenching your bed sheets as you came. 

Jayce groaned, but held himself back. He needed to feel you do that at least one more time. 

You whined when he pulled out of you, then yelped when he flipped you over. A brief moment of soberness had you remembering that he was actually really strong. Then your stoned brain chimed in with how fucking hot it was that he was manhandling you so desperately.

He had you on your back, legs hooked over his shoulders. As he pressed back into your wet heat, he gave you a sloppy kiss. The two of you catching eachother’s moans of pleasure. He pushed up your shirt to your shoulders. Warm hands cupped your breasts, teasing over your nipples. The action makes you shiver all over. 

His hands moved to your waist to give him more leverage. Fast thrust pummeled the sweet spot within you. Jayce managed to hit it perfectly in this position too. Crying out, you felt a sting of pleasure. Thick fingers were circling your abused clit, sending sparks shooting through your body. Moans and whimpers escaping you with each circle. Your hands clenched his biceps for purchase as your body shook. 

He could feel your pussy pulsing around him. Another climax building inside you. He chased your high, wanting to cum with you. Knowing he could burst at any moment, Jayce hoped you would join him. The tightness in his balls was growing a bit too unbearable. 

As if your body was answering his wish, he felt you clench against his length. Unconsciously thrusting your hips as you chase down your orgasm. A scream of pleasure ripping out of you as you gushed around him. 

Warmth filled you as Jayce was granted his release. Cock twitching deep inside you as hot ropes of his cum poured in. A pleasurable feeling that seemed never ending. Jayce’s orgasm lasted long after he had fully unloaded in you. Cock overstimulated with the feeling of your tight twitching walls around him. 

Both of you came down from your orgasm highs. Still extremely high from the brownies. Something that could easily be read based on your drooping eyelids and dopey smiles. Before pulling out, Jayce kissed all over your face. You giggled as his lips pecked all over your cheeks.

“That was amazing.” He purred against your neck, giving you a kiss. “You are amazing.” 

“You feel sososososo good, Jayce.” You pressed a kiss to his lips. 

With a groan, Jayce pulled out of you. His eyes transfixed on your pussy now dripping out his spend.

“That’s hot.” He looked up, chuckling at your confused expression. 

Kissing your forehead, he stood up. 

“I’ll get us cleaned up.”

After a moment, Jayce returned with a wet washcloth. Softly he wiped you down. You softly thanked him for helping you. He responded with a sweet kiss. 

When you were both cleaned up, Jayce returned to snuggle up in your bed. Large warm arms held you close to him. You felt yourself drifting as Jayce spoke to you softly. The man letting out a stream of compliments and fond memories. Occasionally he would kiss you, feeling like he was drowning in your lips. 

“We should do this again.” Jayce said softly.

“Yeah? Yeah.” You giggled, answering yourself.

“Though I think we could skip the brownies next time.”