fancypeacepersona

[fancypeacepersona]

Nothing but noise

SUMMARY: Jake, a guitarist and singer with a deep, captivating voice, is a rising rock star, adored for his raw charisma and intense performances. But behind the spotlight, he hides deep wounds and a temper as wild as his music.

You, a music critic renowned for your sharp writing and uncompromising perspective, attend Jake's concert with cold impartiality. After listening to his highly anticipated latest album, you write a frank but scathing review, denouncing music that, in your opinion, lacks soul and is "nothing but noise."

This criticism immediately goes viral, angering and frustrating Jake, who feels betrayed and misunderstood. Your inevitable encounter turns into an intense confrontation, where every word exchanged becomes a battle. Yet beneath the electric tension, a complex bond—one of defiance, attraction, and shared hurt—begins to form.

Between powerful riffs and silences heavy with unsaid things, you will have to learn to understand each other, to break each other and perhaps to rebuild yourselves together.

GENRE: Contemporary romance, drama, music, enemies-to-lovers, slow burn, angsty, emotional

PAIRING: Jake Sim (guitarist and singer) x reader (music critic) — Enemies to Lovers

WARNING: Insults, harassment, conflicts, emotional tension, strong language, verbal abuse, psychological manipulation, rivalry, argumentative scenes, frustration, anger, humiliation, cynicism, bruised ego, romantic ambivalence, alcohol consumption, social pressure, jealousy, misunderstandings, touchiness, emotional non-consent, dark themes, drug use (brief mention and one instance of consumption), smoking (tobacco use).

CONTENT WARNING / TW: Explicit sexual acts (18+), strangulation (consensual), violent face fucking, tear kink, saliva/spitting, profanity, mild domination/humiliation, obsession, crude language, fierce love, toxic addiction, forced kissing, rough sex, sex act involving a guitar.

IMPORTANT NOTES : Please practice safe sex. Also, please do not use your guitar for masturbation — it’s dangerous and highly discouraged.

→ These elements are depicted for narrative purposes only and do not promote or encourage risky behavior. Substance use and unsafe sex practices are harmful to your health.

⚠️ If you read this, you agree to enter a filthy cult. You have been warned.

WORD : 25k

Riff (n.) — a short repeated phrase in popular music and jazz, typically used as an introduction or refrain in a song.

✘ The Collection ✘ | DIVIDER by @thuringwethilsfangz

The ceiling's neon lights hum with the sinister regularity of overly lit spaces, where artificial light desperately attempts to mask the exhaustion that permeates every surface. The Dissonance's office is a rectangle of steel, raw concrete, and cold glass, a sanitized cocoon slowly swallowing the souls of those who work there. Exposed bricks, covered in dust and the scars of time, stand alongside artificial plants with dead leaves frozen in a perpetual illusion of life. Here, music no longer sings. It is dissected, sliced ​​into pieces, packaged, and sold. And you are the skilled scalpel, the pen that writes on the still-warm flesh of a suffocating art.

You just finished a review of a watered-down pop singer, another calibrated product of the system, a voice formatted to please the greatest number of people without ever disturbing them. You felt neither hatred nor passion, just that warm emptiness that has been eating away at you since music became a livelihood rather than a devotion. Your fingers strike the keyboard in a clinical, mechanical, almost soulless rhythm, as if each sentence you type distances you a little more from the girl you were, the one who still believed in the magic of a pure note.

A knock at the door. Then a second. A third. Three sharp, short, relentless knocks.

You close your eyes for a moment. You exhale deeply. This noise, this brutal reminder of the outside world, is already racking your nerves. This office, this glass cage, is your last refuge, your fragile bubble, and now, harsh reality is injected into it without warning. You inhale deeply, trying to drown this growing irritation in the air you breathe.

“Come in,” you say, your voice weary, more tired than polite.

The door opens onto Giselle, your director. She is an austere and rigid shadow, the cold guardian of the rules that govern this microcosm. Every day, she reminds you that it is not talent that stands up in this universe, but submission to its invisible laws.

Her stiletto heels click against the floor with the precision of a deadly metronome, echoing through the room like bullets fired in slow motion into your head. Each step is a blow to your already frayed patience, another beat in the dull, awakening migraine. Her black hair, impeccably styled, smooth as blades, waves slightly at the tips, as if even her locks are trying in vain to defy the rigid order that governs her person. She wears a pristine shirt, white as an oath, and a charcoal gray pencil skirt that hugs the rigidity of her curves. Everything about her exudes control—and a soft, latent, almost palpable threat.

You can't help but notice his smile, too wide, too bright, that shark smile that always precedes the storm. 

"Y/n! How nice to see your dejected face. Are you still working on that poor guy with the ridiculous falsetto?"

You look up from your screen. Giselle's gaze pierces you, charged with a cruel mix of amusement and defiance. Not a smile, just that look that screams: I know you're on the verge of breaking down, and I love it.

"Giselle," you reply, your tone dry and laced with sarcasm, "your morning irony is a real delight. Should I make you an iced coffee with it, or are you just planning to wreck my mood on an empty stomach?"

She bursts into that fake laugh, a light sound that bounces off the narrow walls of your office and resonates like an ironic echo in your chest. You know it feeds her, this electric tension between you, like a drug she injects herself with shamelessly.

"Come on, relax. I have something for you." Her tone changes, softens, becomes almost flirtatious. But you know this little game. Behind that sugary voice, she hides a trap.

She pulls out a thick, black folder, cold as a tombstone, and places it in front of you with the solemnity of an executioner laying down his knife. You don't move. You don't even open it. You stare at that damn folder. Sober. Heavy. Full of shit.

“No.” Your voice falls, sharp, betraying your fatigue and pent-up anger. She scrutinizes you, one eyebrow arched, both amused and intrigued. “I say no, Giselle. I barely finished my last paper. I sleep three hours a night. I have tinnitus screaming in my temples. My eyes want to divorce myself from my face. And you come to tell me you have another fucking genius to butcher me?”

She says nothing, moves forward slowly, like a cat about to pounce. Her impeccably manicured nails slide over your shoulders with a venomous softness, a touch that lights a fire of irritation beneath your skin.

“You do what you do better than anyone here. You take an artist's heart, strip it naked, pierce it, and throw it on a page. You make the truth raw, palpable.” Her voice gets lower, more honeyed, but each word is a blade. “A doctored truth. A truth that sells.” You open your mouth to retort, but as always, she cuts you off, imperceptibly, with that predatory smile. “This story isn't just an article. It's THE article. If you nail it, if you knock this guy off his fucking pedestal… you move up. A real promotion. An office with a window. Maybe even a vacation. You know, the kind of thing you haven't seen in years.”

You laugh, bitter, a dry laugh that doesn't touch your eyes. "So if I reduce an artist to ashes, I get a week of sunshine? Have we really sunk that low, then?"

Giselle doesn't move an inch, sure of her move. Because she knows. You too. You'll give in.

"At least look." She pushes the file toward you. You take a deep breath of icy air in a stuffy room and lift the covers.

Your blood runs cold. The name on the front page: Jake Sim. The guitarist. The singer. The deep, haunting voice. The face of a dented angel. The fucking phenomenon we love to hate. You see his furious riffs again, his hoarse screams in your headphones, his last album that kept you awake at night without ever finding the right words. Savage. Broken. But hollow. You wanted to write an honest, human, nuanced review. But now…

"Wait... is this for the concert this weekend?" you ask, trying to keep your voice neutral, but your heart thumps a little louder. 

“Of course,” she replies, a twisted smile on her lips. “No way you’re missing this.” She crosses her arms, her imposing figure seeming to tower over you, crushing you under an invisible but overwhelming pressure. “And no bland criticism, Y/n. Not this time. We want blood, dirty blood, real blood. This concert is the event. Do you want to stay cloistered in your concrete ivory tower for the rest of your life?”

Giselle’s words hit like hammers, echoing in your head. Each syllable is a hammer blow on a wall you thought was solid. The file in front of you suddenly becomes heavier, almost burning, like a weight on your chest.

You slam the file shut, the noise tearing through the silence that had settled, heavy, in the room. Your throat tightens, a ball of anxiety mixed with anger rises in your chest. You feel your blood boiling, but also this dull fear, this fear that slides into your stomach, icy, paralyzing—the fear of what is expected of you, of what you will become.

You stare at Giselle, searching for some humanity, a sign that this is all a bad joke. "What if I refuse?" you blurt, your voice almost breaking, a defiance hidden in your gaze.

She steps closer, her face closer to yours, the heady, pungent scent burning your nostrils. Her gaze is an icy, implacable abyss. "Then you're free, Y/n. Free to look for another job. Another newspaper. Another future." She turns on her heel, slamming the door behind her, leaving you alone with this black file that weighs like a dull threat, this name that burns your lips, this veiled promise of pain and opportunity.

Silence closes around you like a glass cage, invisible but unshakeable. You're trapped, caught between your integrity and your survival, between the truth you want to defend and the need to hurt, to write what's asked of you, what the world expects—a critique that tears, that hurts, that makes noise.

You already know you're going to write this article. But you also know that you're going to leave a part of yourself in it. A part you may never get back.

𝙎𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩, 𝟮𝟭:𝟰𝟮 — 𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝘼𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙖

You're in the pit. Not in the far-flung stands where polished commentators take notes by the pale glow of their tablets, chewing on empty phrases they'll whip out the next day to save face and collect their fees. Not in the sanitized private boxes, where glasses clink more than voices rise, where laughter sounds false, where handshakes are stuck to calculating glances, without an ounce of warmth.

No.

You're in the belly. Heart pounding. Chaos. You're where it screams, where it pounds, where the bass rises in your bones like heartbeats too powerful for your own body. Where music is no longer an art but a wave, a warm, animal, almost sexual mass. You're where you lose your footing. Where rules no longer apply. Where the smell of sweat, leather, stale beer, and saturated electricity catches you in the throat like a warning.

You're in the pit. And you have no business being there.

Your shoulders aren't covered in ink. Your nails aren't bitten by waiting. Your spine isn't stiffened by faith. You don't have that obsession in your eyes, that demented flame you read in those around you, pressed against each other, like the faithful pressed against the fire of their own damnation. They're young, old, disillusioned, or exalted. But they all have the same thing in their eyes: they're ready to burn for him.

You didn't come to burn. You came to watch the flames. You're a journalist. An observer. A surgeon of sounds and words. You dissect, you analyze, you bleed dry illusions and collective enthusiasms. You're not supposed to let yourself be sucked in. You're here to write. Not to feel.

And yet... Your heart is already beating too fast. You don't yet know if it's the bass or the fear.

You repeat it to yourself. Over and over again. Like a mantra. You're not here for him. Not for Jake Sim. Not for the myth he's become. Not for his wounded-animal screams, his overdriven riffs, his fallen-preacher aura. You came for the truth. The one you were ordered to tell, brutal and naked.

“No bland criticism, Y/n. Not this time. We want blood. Dirty blood. Real blood. This concert is the event.”

That's what they told you, up there at The Dissonance. The bigwigs. The vultures. They want a sacrifice. They want to strip him. Expose him. Flay him alive with your pen. They made you their blade. And you, the good little soldier, you came. Notebook in hand. Sharp gaze. But you didn't anticipate... this.

The light goes out. Not gently. Not like a controlled fade. No. A sharp snap. A decapitation. An absolute blackness, sharply cut, without transition. And in that suspended second, something dies. The screams, the whispers, even the breath. Everything is swallowed by this brutal nothingness, of an almost indecent violence.

The silence hits you harder than the noise. You feel it under your skin, like a thrill you can't name. An expectation. A fear. A desire.

Then comes the explosion. A scream. A tidal wave. A howl that doesn't come from a single throat but from a pack. A mass. A cry of offering and appeal, hysterical, incandescent, irrational. It screams as if every throat wants to be heard. As if the love, the rage, the lack, the overflowing emptiness of these stuck, compressed bodies had waited for this precise moment to split in two.

And you, there you are, in the middle of this clamor. Trapped. Prisoner. Magnetized. You breathe in. But it's already too late. The fever has entered through your pores. A red beam lacerates the stage. Brutal. Sharp. Not a halo. A cut. And there he is. Jake. But not the one they sell you. Not the one who fuels the stories, the playlists, the numbers. Not the polished icon, dressed by brands and studio lighting. You don't recognize this one. Because he has nothing to do with a product. He has nothing to do with what we call a "star." He is other. Other like a warning. Other like a fracture in the world. Other like something your instinct identifies as dangerous, even before your thoughts have time to put a word to it.

He's not moving yet. He holds stillness like a weapon. And yet, everything about him is suspended movement: the nervous tension in his arms, the barely perceptible tremor of his jaw, the way the light traces the line of his ribs beneath his black T-shirt. Lean. Angular. Inhabited. He looks like a man who has never learned to rest. A body meant to survive, not to please. His shadow precedes him. So does his silence.

And when he speaks—no, when it slams—the room tears itself apart.

"Tonight... I want you to burn with me." His voice is a rasp. Not that of a singer. That of a survivor. Raspy. Deep. Cut with night and tobacco. He doesn't speak, he bleeds the words. Each syllable is a blow from a rusty blade, straight from his entrails. And that voice is not forgotten. Because it is not listened to. It is imprinted. It marks. It infects. "We're going to set this fucking night on fire."

And you roll your eyes. Instinctively. A cynical defense. You're a journalist. Not a groupie. You're here to judge, not to thrill. But your heart has just tightened. There's that beat, faster. That thrill you refuse to name. That fluttering in the pit of your stomach that only the truth provokes—and the fear of admitting it.

Jake grabs his guitar. Not a jewel. Not a trophy. An instrument like an extension of his body. A dented Telecaster, lacquered with memories too heavy. The varnish is cracked. The wood is scratched. The attachment has been patched with black tape. It's a weapon, not an accessory. He places his fingers. Strums a string. And the sound that comes out... is not a sound. It's a scream. A steely howl. A screeching, wild, dirty moan. No pitch. No melody. Just a vibration that scrapes the inside of your stomach.

And suddenly, there's nothing outside. No audience. No journalist. No cynicism. Just him. And that sound. And you. As if the rest of the world has slipped out of view. As if that moment were a dark room where he comes to unfold his ugliest, most burning truths.

And you're going to see them. You won't have a choice. Because it's not a concert. It's a stripping bare. An electric exorcism. A face-to-face with his demons. And maybe yours. You're not taking notes anymore. Your notebook is still there, pressed against your ribs. But your fingers aren't moving anymore. Because you're no longer a spectator. You're contaminated.

And then… The song begins. No. It doesn't. It implodes. Inside. Not an intro. Not a build-up. Not a skillfully orchestrated crescendo. Nothing planned. Nothing clean. Nothing polished. Just a blast of doom. A shockwave. As if someone had pressed a detonator, without warning. And that “someone” was him. Jake Sim. And what was exploding was you.

The bass hits you first. Not in the ear—in the ribcage. It doesn't vibrate: it percusses. Like racing heartbeats in a dying body. As if each note were looking for an organ to puncture. And they find it. Your stomach. Your lungs. Your silence.

The drums hammer. Not in rhythm. In rage. Like a heart beating against its own cage. Like blows struck into the void. Dry. Heavy. Inflexible. They don't play: they strike. This isn't an appetizer. This is a public execution. And you're in the front row of the condemned.

And Jake… Jake enters. Not onstage. Into the song. Like a wolf entering the pen, jaw clenched, gaze haunted. As if he's not performing, but summoning. He doesn't hold his guitar. He stabs it. He doesn't tune it: he bends it. His Telecaster hangs on his hip like an all-too-familiar weapon. It's scratched, dented, worn to the bone. This guitar has seen it all. It's survived rages. Endless nights. Meltdowns.

And tonight, she tells everything.

Jake attacks the strings as if he wants to make them pay for something. Each riff is a sonic scar. A scream that doesn't come out of the mouth, but from the fingers. An assault. A sonic rape that lacerates space. He doesn't look for beauty. He looks for the flaw. And he finds it. Immediately. Inside you. Not in your ear. Under your skin. You feel it: there, under your sternum, where even you don't dare look. That's where he insinuates himself. Without warning. Without asking. Without mercy.

And then Jake sings. And then everything falls apart. 

You'd never heard him, not really. You'd listened to him, yes. You'd heard songs, read lyrics. You thought you knew his voice. You thought you could analyze it. But what you hear there... It's not a voice. It's a wound. A cracked, worn voice, pierced by something you can't name. It's deep, but not in the technical sense. It's deep like something you bury, something you stifle. Raspy, yes. But it's not an aesthetic. It's a bleeding throat. And above all, it's... incandescent. Like a bare cable. Like a high-voltage line ready to run right through you.

Every syllable sounds like a piece of soul being torn out. It's not clean. It's not controlled. It doesn't sound right. It sounds true. And it's much worse.

I burn the stars to feel alive

Your silence cuts me like a knife…

You should write. You should time it. Take notes. Locate chords. You should protect yourself. But you can't. Because he's already got you. Not with his hands. Not with his eyes. With pain. He doesn't play. He exorcises. He doesn't sing. He implores. He doesn't perform. He accuses.

And you understand, right there, that you're not watching a concert. You're witnessing a public dissection. And it's not him being cut open. It's you.

You look at me like I’m a sin

But you’re the one who let me in

And suddenly, it hits you. It's not a song. It's a message. An intimate revenge, slow, painful, poetic like a recurring nightmare. And even if he hasn't seen you, you'd swear he's talking to you.

You whom he disembowels.

You, whom he hunts, syllable after syllable.

You could write that it's too much. That it borders on caricature. That it's overflowing, that it's almost ridiculous in its desire to touch. You could line up a dry, glossy, cynical piece of paper. Something that stands out.

“A freewheeling set that confuses pain with demonstration. Too much screaming, not enough flesh. Hysteria coded as aesthetics.”

You could. But you'd be lying. Because this song... it knows. It knows you.

You’re so pretty when you break

When your voice begins to shake

I see the cracks, I hear the screams

Underneath your perfect seams

You're breathing too fast. You hate it. You hate feeling it. You hate that it's touching you. But he took you. Without looking at you. Without touching you. Just with his pain. And when his fingers glide over the strings, it's not the notes you hear. It's the friction of his skin against yours. It's your epidermis he's scraping, down to the bone.

When her voice breaks, wavers just enough to reveal the flaw... it's your own heart that gives way. And when her gaze sweeps the room, never stopping, you understand what true terror is: To be seen. Without being looked at. To be guessed. Without ever being understood.

You say I’m noise, you say I’m fake

But I’m the wound you never shake

And there you are, trembling. Not with fear. With gratitude. You know exactly what he's saying. You know what it's like to be too much. Too intense. Too fragile. Too loud. Too real. And not knowing where to put yourself. Not in your own skin. Not in the world. And you, critic, are there. Without a line. Without an analysis. Just a breath too short. Just a void too full. You wanted to remain cold. But you're burning.

And when he whispers the last verse, everything explodes into silence.

I bleed in keys you’ll never hear

You write your truth, but it’s unclear

Is it hate or is it lust?

Tell me, which one do you trust?

And there. There, you die a little. Because he's right on target. You don't know anymore. If you're there to destroy him or for him to devour you. You don't know anymore if you want him to be silent or to scream until he tears you apart. You don't know anymore if you want to write about him... or for him to write inside you. You don't know anymore if it's hatred. Or desire. Or just an abyss.

But you know you're going to lie. Not in the chords. Not in the syntax. Not in the construction. But in the tone. In the false detachment. In the icy irony you'll apply like a varnish. Because you'll pretend. To have felt nothing. Experienced nothing. Understood nothing.

But you know it, deep down:

Tonight, Jake Sim cut your stomach open. And you didn't bleed. You burned. And the worst part? You're not sure you want it to stop.

𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵 — 𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮

The backstage area smells like the end of the world. Not the end of the world with screams and guitars, no. The other one. The one that comes after the euphoria, when the lights go out and the silence returns too quickly, too heavy. The one where the glamour cracks to make way for what remains: fatigue, sweat, the truth.

You walk slowly down this faded corridor, your heels barely echoing on the raw concrete. The fluorescent lights buzz above you, some crackling, others blinking, as if breathless. The air is saturated with stale tobacco, spilled beer, and that sour smell left by bodies burned by adrenaline. You could turn back. Spare yourself that. But you keep going. Because a part of you—the one you still refuse to face—wants to understand what you felt there, in the pit. What stirred you. What you refuse to admit.

You find him there. Slumped on a couch ripped open like a doomsday throne, Jake Sim is the perfect image of sexy disaster. A damp towel rests on his bare shoulders, his torso covered in dried sweat and tattoos half-erased by the stage. His guitar rests in a corner, like a tired lover. He's smoking, staring up at the cracked ceiling, as if waiting for something—or someone—to come and finish him off.

He doesn't look at you right away. You could be anyone. A lost fan. A shadow. A hallucination. Then he speaks to you, without looking away. "Groupies aren't allowed here... even the prettiest ones." His voice is hoarse, raspy, laden with fatigue and suppressed contempt. Then a sneer splits his face. "And even less so music critics."

You freeze. Not out of fear. Out of… shock. He knows. Of course he knows. “You know who I am.” It’s almost a whisper, more to you than to him. You hadn’t expected him to recognize your face, your name, your words—the ones you haven’t published yet but already vibrating in the air around you.

Jake finally gives you a real look. Raw. Straightforward. Something in his eyes is hurt. And dangerous. “Of course. Who doesn’t know Y/n? The illusion breaker. The one who bleeds artists with black ink.” He lets out a raspy, bitter laugh. “You have this knack for sneaking up on the hurt. And writing it down in a notebook.” He crushes his cigarette against the floor with a sharp squeak.

You cross your arms. "I don't bleed anyone. I decipher. I refuse lies—yours, ours."

Jake straightens slowly. His body is tall, heavy with fatigue and tension. He approaches, step by step, without taking his eyes off you. A presence. He doesn't need to shout to impose silence. You feel the warmth of his body before he's even a meter away from you.

"And you came to decipher me?" He sneers. "Didn't you get enough during the show? I hear I'm 'loud but empty.'"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because he's getting closer again. And suddenly, the distance collapses. Jake gently pushes you—too gently to be violent, too abruptly to be innocent—against the door. His arm is resting beside your head, his mouth so close to yours you could taste it. Tobacco. Salt. Anger.

"I want an exclusive interview." You say it without thinking. And immediately, you feel bad about it. What a load of rubbish.

“Do you want an interview?” His breath is hot against your cheek. “We’re going to have to be honest this time. Not with your piece. With you.”

You swallow. “I want to understand. What you throw out on stage. What you hide behind your chaos.”

Jake smiles at you. Not a real smile. Something broken, mocking, almost tender. "You want the truth?" He rests his forehead against yours. Your breath catches. "The truth is, I saw the look in your eyes tonight. You don't just want to understand me. You want to know why it's bothering you. Why you're shaking."

You try to push him away. Your hands brush against his burning skin. But he doesn't move. He doesn't hold you back either. He's waiting. He's testing you.

"And you?" You whisper. "What do you want?"

A silence. A second of absolute tension. His gaze sinks into yours.

“I want you to write to me the way you felt me. Not the way you think you should. Not for your fucking diary.” Her voice barely trembles. “I want to be your favorite poison.”

Then he walks away. As if none of it had happened. He crosses the room, grabs another towel, and without a word, sits down again. As if the interlude had been just another piece. A rise. A drop. A fall.

You stand there, against the door. Your heart is pounding. Your breath is short. Your hands are shaking. And something inside you, very deep, very ashamed, says to itself: it will be impossible to write this article without lying. Because what he made you feel there, just now… it wasn't just noise. It was you vibrating. And you don't yet know if you'll survive that kind of silence.

𝙃𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙡 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧 — 𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙢 𝟯𝟯𝟳 — 𝟮:𝟭𝟯 𝘼𝙈

You shouldn't be here. You knew it as soon as your heels clicked on the worn marble of the lobby, between dusty curtains and lightbulbs that flickered like relics of a more flamboyant era.

You shouldn't have even offered. This interview was just a pretext—an illusion of distance, a professional excuse sewn with white thread. A web of lies to justify the fact that you had returned to Jake Sim's toxic orbit. That black sun around which you were beginning to gravitate again.

The name of his band, Ashes from Eden , was no longer just an industry name. It was a curse, a harsh whisper escaping everyone's lips. Too raw for pop. Too sensual for metal. Too painfully honest for rock. And him... He was the core of this perfect dissonance. The voice that made the songs bleed. The backbone of chaos. The poison you thought you'd purged from your veins... but which still lived inside you, under your skin, in every beat of your heart that was a little too strong.

And yet, you were there. In the dark lobby of the Blackstar, that hotel that smelled of decadence and simmering secrets. Leather, aged bourbon, the sweat of endless tours. A haunt of faded rock stars, burned-out poets, weary lovers. A place that sticks to you like a refrain you can't forget.

You clutched your notebook to your chest like a talisman. Your white shirt was too tight, pulled across your chest, the buttons threatening to pop with every breath. The sleeves rolled up over your bare forearms, stained with ink and tension. Your tailored skirt was a mistake—too short, too straight. It rode up your thighs with every movement, with every shiver. And you shivered far too much.

You felt it the moment he looked at you. That look. The one he reserved for hysterical crowds. For stadiums. For you.

Jake Sim was slumped in a black leather chair, a battered throne that didn't clash with his battered king aura. His dark hair was tied back hastily, falling over his shoulders as if he didn't care. And he did. About anything, except what burned. His dark circles were deep—the kind of tiredness you can't cure with sleep, only noise. And his fingers, veiny, full of scars and promise, still wore those silver rings. One for every gig he'd lost.

His glass of whiskey—amber, almost honey-colored—captured the sickly light of an old copper lamp. When he raised the glass to his lips, you watched the throat swallow, the tendon strain. And you thought of his hands. Of his mouth. Of everything you had forgotten and that your body had never let go. 

"Why do you keep going?" You tried to be professional. But your voice rose. A little too high. A muffled scream. A string tightening. He shrugged. Quietly. As if he'd been expecting this question. As if he'd been preparing for it. His glass returned to the table, slowly, with a dull thud.

Then his voice slipped between you. Hoarse. Deep. Damaged. The voice of a man singing things he'll never say. "Have you ever tried stopping breathing?"

A thrill. No surprise, no. Recognition.

"It's not the same thing," you said. And you scribbled in your notebook to keep your fingers busy, not to write things down.

Jake stared at you. A slow, icy, deep gaze. A dissecting gaze. Not to judge. To understand where to strike. And then he whispered. Not to you. To himself. Like a confession whispered around a muted microphone, in an empty room after the concert. "You're right. Breathing is easy. Going on stage... is like jumping into the void with a knife between your teeth."

You didn't flinch. You looked at him. You felt that sentence like a bite under your skin.

"And you like it?" you asked. But it was more of a plea than a question. And you would have given anything for him to say no. Or for him to say yes. But not what he said.

He laughed. Not really. Just a breath. A broken thing that comes out of the throat. The laughter of those who don't give a damn anymore but are still bleeding. "No. But it's the only thing that makes me forget I'm drowning."

You looked down. Not because you were weak. Because you knew what it was like to drown, too. But you were writing. He was screaming. You scribbled in your notebook as if it would keep you from remembering.

"You're good at talking like you're deep... when you're just fucked up."

A silence. The kind that weighs. That waits. And then, he leaned in. Not quickly. Slowly. So slowly that each second became a flutter in your stomach. You should have backed away. You didn't. You felt your heart rise, your thighs tighten, your breath come shorter. But your face remained stone-faced.

"You say that like you're not hiding behind your pen."

Jake was too close. You could smell him: leather, whiskey, sweat, memory. You lifted your chin. Your gaze hardened. You were ready to hurt. Because he'd already broken you. 

"Maybe. But I don't fuck my subjects."

The silence crackled like scratched vinyl. And then he smiled. Slowly. Widely. That beautiful, bastardly smile. The one you hated to love.

"Who says I'm not the one getting fucked?"

And then, the world stopped. The room no longer existed. Just the two of you. The desire, the bitterness, the pain, the rage. Everything that should have exploded years ago. But remained there. Boiling. Silent. You closed your notebook. Click. Like a gun being reloaded. 

Jake reached out. For your Zippo. You pulled it out. You placed it in his palm. Your fingers brushed his. Too long. You did it on purpose. Or not. And he didn't blink. He took the lighter, lit it. The flame danced. But it wasn't the cigarette he wanted to ignite. It was you. And you were already burning.

The Zippo continued to light, but Jake didn't hold a cigarette near it. He stared into the flame as if he saw something no one else could understand. His gaze became more distant. Less arrogant. More real. For a moment, you saw the boy from before. Before the tours. Before the dope. Before the fall.

"I quit, you know." His voice cut through the silence like a dull blade. No inflection. No pathos. Just that—a statement. Brutal in its sobriety. He wasn't looking at you. He was staring at a vague point on the table, somewhere between the empty whiskey glass and the dented Zippo that still bore your imprint.

You frowned. You already knew that. But hearing him say it, from his own lips, still blew you away. "I know." Your voice was softer than you'd intended. " I read the article in Rolling Sound . Three months clean."

Jake slowly turned his head toward you. That dark gaze—too dark, always too dark—attached itself to yours like the hook of a badly tuned guitar. A smile played on his lips. A smile without light, without nerve, more of an automatism than an emotion. One of those smiles he wore the way others hide their scars.

"Are you spying now?"

You shrugged. A cowardly gesture. Of course you were spying on him. Of course you knew everything. The setlists. The overdoses canceled at the last minute. The shows where his hands shook too much to play. The rumors. The silences.

Silence was your only response. Jake laughed. Not a stage laugh. Not a rock 'n' roll laugh. Something raspier. More dangerous. The laugh of a guy who's stared at the ceilings of empty hotel rooms too much. A laugh of habit.

"You haven't changed. Always trying to find the tragedy behind the riff." He looked at you slowly. "You like it when it reeks of pain. You call it authenticity. I call it an obsession."

You pursed your lips. You didn't want him to say that, because it was too close to the truth.

"I just hope you're not falling back into it," you breathed. And this time, your voice cracked. It wasn't your notebook talking anymore. Not you. It was the girl who'd seen him collapse in the dressing room, his veins cold, his eyes glazed over. The one who'd held him, crying, for an entire night while he was delirious on acid, thinking he was drowning in his own music.

Jake closed the Zippo. Snap. A sharp, metallic sound, too sharp. Like a door slamming in an empty cathedral.

"You want me to be clean?" He slowly raised his head. He was staring at you now. "And then you're going to write that I've become boring? That I don't make good albums anymore?"

You clenched your jaw. He was spot on. Like always. He knew you loved him for what he was capable of turning into music. And he knew that music came from his rotten gut.

"I never wrote that."

He gave an even bitterer laugh. "But you thought of that."

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. 

"I was scared I'd find you dead, Jake. And you keep digging." You spat it out louder than you meant to. Like a slap.

Jake sank back into the chair. There was this low, golden, almost unreal light, casting sharp shadows across his cheekbones and dark circles. And suddenly, you weren't sure if he was still handsome... or just broken.

“No.” His voice was low. A deep, vibrant note. “You’re afraid that if I get better… you’ll be less interested in me.” You blinked, stunned. He leaned in a little. Slowly. The tension was so thick the air was sticky. “You want the monster. You want chaos. You don’t want to save me, Y/n—you want me broken enough to make you feel needed.” He was looking right into your gut. “He’s not the man you love. He’s ruin.”

You straightened up, your throat burning. "Fuck you," you said, without shouting it. It was more dangerous that way. But you already had tears in your eyes. And he saw it. He leaned in closer, so close you could smell that scent you knew by heart—leather, sweat, tobacco, pain.

Jake's voice was barely a whisper. But every word was a fucking scalpel. "You want to save me... so you can kill me in an article."

And then, you felt the thread snap. Your heart thudded in your chest. You closed your eyes. You gathered your things. Not neatly. Not quietly. You stood up. You weren't breathing. The sound of your heels on the wooden floor was an alarm. Tick. Tick. Tick. As if each step brought you back to everything you'd destroyed together.

Jake didn't follow you. He stood there in the dirty light of that room, his back hunched like a wounded animal that doesn't know whether to bite or fall asleep forever. And when the door closed behind you... Jake picked up the Zippo again. He lit it. Blue flame. Cold. Perfect. Like an old riff you play over and over again because you already know the ending. He took a small baggie from his inside pocket.

"Just a little. To calm myself down," he whispered to no one.

𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙧

You'd been dating Jake Sim for two years, that incandescent hurricane of music and chaos, the guy who could rock entire crowds with his heart-rending riffs and wild screams—a brutal, blinding light on stage, a poet maudit in freefall. His music was a storm of emotion, an explosion of pain and violent beauty, but behind every burning note hid an abyss no one really wanted to see. The hell of substances, those filth he swallowed like so many illusory promises, to forget, to keep, to be the stage monster the world adored.

You had seen the descent, you had screamed, begged, broken and glued back together a thousand times what was left of him. He had promised, repeated that fucking oath every time his dark eyes lost themselves in yours: "I'm getting clean again. Three months." Three months of silence, three months where you had clung to this fragile illusion like a message in a bottle. But tonight, under the pale light of a studio where the fluorescent lights crackle, half-extinguish, you find him as always: slumped in a worn armchair, half-drowned in thick smoke. The room is a sanctuary of debris and shadows, a space where time seems to have stopped between two crises.

Before him, a thin line of white powder, a deadly invitation. Jake inhales it slowly, like a ritual of agony, feeling the burn slide from his inflamed nose until it sets his brain ablaze with a cruel, artificial fire. His pupils explode, drowned in a veil of oblivion, but his eyes search for you, eventually find you.

Your voice trembles, sharp and fragile at once, a release of pent-up emotion, anger and pain mixed together. "Fuck, Jake... You promised. You swore to me it was over. Three fucking months clean, remember?"

A raspy, dry, hollow laugh escapes his lips. Jake is elsewhere, lost in his own chemical storm, but he's watching you. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if to escape a reality he can no longer face, then runs his fingers through his wild mane, suspended between two worlds.

"I didn't lie. I just... slipped. Once."

You clench your fists until your skin tears, the physical pain overpowering that of your broken heart. Your eyes burn with a dull, painful rage.

"Once? What the hell is once to you? What is that?"

He stands up slowly, wobbly but determined, approaching you with that tired rocker stance, that mix of arrogance and despair that tears you apart even more. Jake's voice is raspy, broken, but surprisingly gentle, like a desperate caress amidst the chaos. "I'm fucking sorry, Y/n, but I'm not a fucking countdown. You never got that, did you? You wanted a miracle. I'm just a guy trying not to die."

He grabs your chin firmly, almost violently, his fingers digging into your skin, anchoring the pain in your flesh. Tears rise, unstoppable, sliding down his fingers as they hold you prisoner in a suspended moment.

Your voice breaks, choked with sobs. "I just wanted you to live, Jake. Not die and make me think everything would get better."

He laughs again, that raspy, bitter laugh that burns everything in its path. “Fuck, I’m alive, Y/n. I’ve never felt so alive.” He tilts his head, brushing your tears from your cheek, a tender gesture that doesn’t soothe anything, only exacerbates the hurt. “I’m not a hero. Not a guy without anger or fire. I can never be that dream you want, baby. This is who I am. You have to accept that.”

Jake's smile is bitter, broken, sincere. Then, abruptly, he presses his lips against yours. You recoil, pushing the burn away with the force of your pain, your fingers trembling.

With a lump in your throat, your voice trembling but firm, you whisper:

"Since your only love is drugs, let me go. I stopped believing in your love a long time ago."

You turn on your heels, your heart breaking, your breath caught. Every step, every resonance of your heels on the ground, hammers away at your pain, like a slow, throbbing rock beat tearing at your soul.

Behind you, his laughter echoes, a mad cackle of disbelief and euphoria. In the closet where Jake hides his demons, that night, he sinks into coke, into whatever junk he can find. He overdoses. And you're already gone, broken but alive, the fleeting silhouette of a destroyed love, the bitter promise of an uncertain future.

The office was a ring. A fucking ring where blows aren't delivered with fists, but with words. You were once again in a corner, out of breath, your body tense like a guitar string about to snap under the intensity of the sound. Giselle was advancing towards you, a sharp silhouette, queen of chaos and calculation, her hands resting on your desk like a mistress demanding her prize. Her sharp voice ripped through the silence, a saturated and brutal riff, an electric howl that twisted your skull.

"So, Y/n... How's your article on Jake Sim coming along?" The sentence fell like a cymbal crash in an already overdriven, chilling solo. "I hope you haven't been idle. We want blood, real, raw. Not smoke and mirrors."

You bit your lip, that nervous tic betraying the storm tearing you apart. Your fingers gripped your pen, scribbling absently in a faded notebook, a fragile attempt to bring order to the chaos. "I'm working on it..." you breathed, fragile, almost broken, as if this damn project might swallow you whole.

Giselle took a step closer, settling onto your desk with the casualness of a rock star claiming all the space. Her gaze was a laser, sharp, piercing your defenses. "Are you moving forward, or are you stalling?" she spat out each word with the precision of an aggressive, brutal solo. "Those are two different fucking things, darling."

An icy anger rose within you, dull, a thunderous rumble in your chest. This wasn't just a professional matter. This was Jake. His fall. His aborted rebirth. That fragile hope you wanted to protect at all costs.

“I said I was working on it. It’s my number one priority,” you replied, voice wavering but tenacious, a sustained note in a dissonant chorus. “When I’m done, you’ll know. Let me work.” You stared at her with a mixture of annoyance, burning anger, and visceral pain. You didn’t want to write this article. Not like this. Not by exposing what was left—what was left—between you. You wanted to believe he’d changed. That he was clean. That he was standing, even if shaky.

But Giselle saw nothing but a scandal machine. To her, you were just a cog in this flesh-starved industry, a trafficker of raw emotion. Her voice rose a notch, a sharp blade ready to cut. "I know you and that rock star had a thing going on. A fucking romance. But you can't mix work and personal life, Y/n. If you want that fucking promotion, this article has to be explosive, insane. Your job, mine, everything's on the line. And I don't plan on losing my job because of your fucking heartbreak."

The office seemed to close in around you. Each word struck like a dissonant note in a symphony of pain. Your breath quickened, your heart hammered against your ribcage like a shattered drum set about to give out. The pressure crushed against you, heavy, relentless. Giselle was playing for survival by leveraging your vulnerability, a danse macabre between excessive expectations and personal limitations. This farce, this circus, was exhausting you. You no longer had the strength to pretend. Your fingers clenched your badge, the cold metal sending a shiver of rebellion and defiance through you.

“Giselle, don’t you ever raise your voice at me again,” you spat, trembling but firm, the pent-up rage you’d suppressed for too long. “If you want that article, ask someone else. Because I’m quitting.”

The sharp slam of the badge on the wood of the desk was a final, brutal, irrevocable blow.

Giselle frowned, trying to keep her mask on, but the crack was there. "Y/n, you have no right to leave like that. You have notice, you have to finish your work, you can't run away..."

You didn't let her finish. "Shut the fuck up for once, Giselle!" your voice rose, saturated, laden with that long-suppressed, dull anger. "You're a fucking leech, never satisfied, always wanting more. Well, I won't be the one to give you that. So fuck you. And never let us see each other again. As for the notice, you can stick it where I think it is."

You turned on your heels, breathless, legs trembling, heart in pieces. Each step echoed in this narrow corridor like a raging solo, a broken melody that signaled the end of a fight fought too long. Behind you, his voice was still screaming, but you couldn't hear it anymore. You were already somewhere else. Where the pain burned, where the music fell silent, where Jake's shadow danced with your disillusionment.

𝟭𝟮 𝘾𝙖𝙢𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙂𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝘾𝙖𝙢𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙏𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙣 𝙉𝙒𝟭 𝟴𝘼𝘽 𝙐𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙙𝙤𝙢

It rained as if the sky itself were trying to drown out the screams you could no longer utter. Not a romantic, cinematic rain. A raw, thick rain, grating like poorly adjusted amp feedback. A wall of liquid sound, heavy, aggressive. A celestial dissonance that fell on you like a verdict. It didn't wash anything away. It dirty everything. It clung to your skin like a song you regret writing, but are unable to forget.

Your footsteps echoed in the night like isolated notes of a broken solo. It was a march without tempo, without direction. But your body knew where it was going. Where it had to go. As if every fiber of your being still vibrated in tune with a name you refused to speak.

Jake.

And then you were there. In front of his house. In front of that door that, in the past, had slammed in your face, had kissed you against it, had seen you collapse to your knees. A scene you thought was buried—until the world spat you out in that same setting, like an old refrain that can't be killed.

You didn't knock. You didn't scream. You didn't beg. You collapsed. Literally. Back against the door, arms around yourself, knees to your chest, soaked to the skin. And it wasn't the rain, not really, that soaked your cheeks. It was your own ghosts. Your own choices. Your own fucking heart, which you no longer had the strength to carry.

You were crying. Silently. The kind of crying that's written in minor chords. The kind you don't sing because it chokes you. You'd given up your job, your armor, your last fucking facade. You no longer knew if it was courage or monumental weakness. All you knew was that you were hurting. And you were alone.

And Jake… Jake was watching. He was at his window, a shadow behind the fog, a familiar silhouette, cut to the quick. He could have turned away. He could have done what was expected of him: nothing. But he opened it. And the moment the door opened, you fell backward, as if sucked in. Your head hit his leg, gently. You looked up. Your face was ruined—mascara in gothic drips, lips erased, complexion collapsed. You looked like a punk song the day after a gig: wrecked, beautiful in its ugliness, true in its fall.

You blew:

“I’m sorry…” Your voice. A cracked note, broken by too many silences.

Jake didn't answer right away. He looked at you with that expression only those who have loved can have: both empty and saturated, hard and burning.

“It's cold outside.” His voice was a rumbling bass. Deep. Tired. Worn like overplayed vinyl. He turned on his heel, leaving the door open for you. It took you a while to get up. As if every muscle refused to obey a will that had disintegrated.

But you walked in. You walked like a ghost. Feet dragging, heels in hand. Water dripped off you like a sad melody that refused to stop. You were dirtying his floor. But you didn't care. He didn't care either, apparently.

The living room was bathed in warm, subdued light. Two cups were steaming. He handed you one. Cappuccino. Of course. He hadn't forgotten. You took the cup. Your hands were shaking.

“Thank you.” And then you cried. Really. Not pretty tears. Not sexy tears. Ugly tears. The kind that make your eyes swell and your mouth twist. And Jake… he stood there. Silent. A spectator to your chaos. You hated that he saw you like this. But you were tired of playing. Tired of being strong. You just needed to be.

He whispered, almost reluctantly:

"You should take a shower."

And that was it, the moment. That sentence. That banal gesture, almost tender, almost cowardly. It was the final straw. The final chord.

You put down the cup. You looked up. Bright. Wet. Hot. "I don't need a shower, Jake. I need you." And you took off your top. It wasn't a seduction. It was a declaration. A scream. One last song played in slow motion. You had nothing left to offer but that: you, trembling, exposed, unfiltered.

Jake looked away. He clenched his jaw. He hesitated. "You're in no shape…"

But you were already half naked. Already too far gone. "Please..."

Your skirt slipped down. Wet. Heavy. The sound resonated like a brutal bass. You approached. Slowly. Barefoot. Cold skin. Forehead pressed against his back.

"Your baby is in pain..." Your voice broke. "And he needs to be comforted." A whisper. A plea. You clung to him like a last note stretched on the edge of silence.

Jake trembled. Then he turned. His hands came to frame your face. Gently. As if he were holding a rare vinyl record. Fragile. Sacred. His thumbs slid over your dripping cheeks. And in a raspy breath, almost a rattle, he whispered:

“If this is what my baby wants… how can I refuse him?”

There was this moment—this fucking suspended moment—when the air between you was charged with electricity, saturated like a bass line rumbling too loudly in the gut. He looked at you like a man returning from hell and rediscovering his favorite poison. And you stood there, soaked, shivering, your eyelashes heavy with rain and tears, your lips parted as if you were about to implode.

You were a broken song, a scratched old vinyl you put on when you want to hurt just a little more. And he was that damn guitar solo—heartbreaking, out of tune, but impossible to forget. You had just begged. To bare yourself. Not just physically. You had thrown yourself into his arms like someone throwing themselves off a cliff, eyes wide open, heart in a tizzy.

And Jake… Jake cracked.

It wasn't a kiss.

It was a fucking impact.

His hands slid into your soaked hair, gripping the back of your neck with an almost desperate brutality. And his lips, hard and broken, collided with yours with uncontrolled violence. Your teeth clashed. The shock made you take a step back, and a moan escaped your throat, half in pain, half in relief.

Jake did it again. This time, deeper. Dirtier. His tongue forcing its way in, hungry, rough. You felt saliva trickle down the corners of your lips, your mascara mixing with the taste of his breath, with that kind of sticky urgency that made your heart beat too fast. You kissed him as if you wanted to destroy him, as if the taste of his mouth could erase you. Jake bit your lip, hard. You groaned. Not a cute moan: a raspy, almost animalistic sound.

It was a kiss of survivors. Of people who had been burned, abandoned, and who were returning to seek themselves in the still-warm ashes.

Your hands gripped his shirt, tugging at it until you could hear the seams complaining. Jake pulled back just enough to pull the shitty fabric off, revealing his warm skin, his marked torso—and you lunged at him again, like a pain-starved groupie. Your teeth grazed his collarbone. You bit him, just a little, just enough for him to grunt in your ear.

And damn, that sound… It was more than a sigh. It was a low, raspy note, like the ones you hear in choruses that are too heavy, the ones you can't sing without your throat bleeding a little.

"Say you need me again," he breathed, his voice barely human. His fingers had lodged themselves under the band of your bra, tracing lines of fire against your icy skin.

You complied. Trembling whisper, tight throat:

"I need you, Jake." And then you say it again. Again. Like a mantra. Like a song you can't forget, even though it destroyed you.

So he lifted you up, carried you against him, your bodies pressed together, your mouths seeking each other again, ever harder, ever more painful. Each kiss was a shock. Each breath, a silent scream. Your teeth chattered, your tongues clashed in a desperate ballet, almost ugly, almost too real to be sexy—and yet terribly hot.

Jake pressed you against the wall, the cold paint on your back contrasting with the warmth of his skin. His hands moved down to your hips, pressing, almost scratching, as he growled again between kisses.

"Do you know what you're doing, baby? Do you know what you wake up?"

You nodded, unable to speak. Because yes, you knew. You were waking up a fucking monster. But it was yours. And you wanted it to eat you whole.

Jake's gaze was a pure electric shock, a distorted guitar riff that struck you right in the heart, that unbearable mixture of suppressed rage and wild desire that blazed in his eyes like a black firework on a stormy night. He was no longer just a man, but a sacred fucking monster of rock, a cursed poet whose every breath vibrated with extreme tension, like a huge, heavy bass pulsing, threatening to explode. You felt that vibration in your bones, that all-consuming urgency that made your blood boil.

You lowered yourself slowly, very slowly, like a breath-hold descent into a sonic tunnel where each second stretched into an unbearable wait. The cold, damp parquet floor beneath your knees made a dull, dirty sound, a dull beat like a snare drum hammering out an obscene, sensual rhythm. Not a submissive genuflection, no—a rite, an offering, a deviant prayer to this living demon, this chaos incarnate that stood there before you. The hardness of the floor bit into your skin, soaked, pricked by the cold, while your fingers clutched at his thighs like one clings to a last shred of reason.

Your mascara had run, leaving black streaks down your cheeks, those salty tears flowing like a bass solo both violent and melancholic, bleeding onto your skin like a dirty confession. You didn't give a damn. You just wanted this—to swallow him up, to devour him, to feel this whole body, raw, alive beneath your trembling fingers. Not a game. Not a set. A primal scream.

Jake stared at you, motionless, his jaw clenched like a singer holding his voice before the explosion, his breath suspended in silence before the scream. His gaze was a fucking controlled implosion, a black storm ready to tear through the night, to make the air vibrate around you.

“Y/n…” His voice was low, raspy, a warning, a threat, a plea all at once—a dangerous invitation that seared your soul.

But you left him hanging, your voice coming out hoarse, low, laden with defiance and toxic sweetness, the kind of sweetness that kills you:

"Let me..."

He gave in, or maybe he wanted to see you fall, lose yourself. It didn't matter. You unzipped his pants slowly, with the precision of an artist who knows his instrument inside and out, savoring every second of this prelude. His fingers trembled, pressed against your cheek; the contact was an electric shock, a violent shiver that ran up your spine. His cock, already erect, hard, and swollen, tense like a wild solo screaming at the top of a bridge, was a raw promise, an explosion waiting to happen.

You released it gently, your breath catching in the moment. This contrast, this wild beauty, this unleashed monster, it was like listening to an alternative rock song where each note is a blade slashing at your skin and leaving you naked, fragile, but burning.

You kissed the tip, wet and glistening with that clear, salty liquid—that pre-cum that beaded like dew on an electric guitar left out in the rain. Jake groaned, a low, guttural, almost animalistic rasp caught in his shaggy beard. The sound thrilled you, made you lose all restraint.

You began to spread the liquid over his cock, your tongue caressing the skin with the vicious delicacy of a guitarist making his instrument sing, alternating between softness and violence, playing every inch like an incendiary riff. You soaked him, making him shudder, utter hoarse moans, muffled curses, like an amp pushed to the limit.

You licked his tip, your tongue sliding along his ridge, slowly rising like a solo that builds in power, a crescendo of ecstasy that made him shudder, swear under his breath, his eyes closing in wild pleasure.

“Fuck baby, I missed you… I missed this…” Jake’s words, both burning and broken, were muffled howls, distorted riffs that ripped through the heavy silence around you.

You took him in your mouth, rolling your tongue around the tip where Jake was leaking, each movement a mad drumbeat, a frantic rhythm that you followed with precision. He moaned louder, pulling you violently by your hair, guiding you roughly because he wanted it all, now, without compromise, without gentleness. Your throat opened, deep and ardent, a dark cavern ready to swallow him.

You absorbed every pulse, every vibration, every hoarse grunt. Your saliva cascaded, soaking his cock and the wooden floor, making a wet, sticky, dirty, almost bestial sound. Jake stared at you, his eyes half-closed, lost in a storm of pain, pleasure, obsession. He stroked your cheek with his fingertips, a tender gesture in this obscene chaos, and moaned at the way you swallowed him, all the way down your tense throat, making you moan too, trapped in a wild symphony.

Your fingers didn't stay idle: they played with his testicles, caressing, squeezing, and manhandling these fragile treasures with the precision of a passionate musician who knows every detail of his instrument. Jake gripped your face, pushing you further, deeper, making your throat swell, pulling harder. Your tears fell, hot and salty, like rain on a burning stage.

He continued to fuck your throat without stopping, trapped by this storm, this fire that consumed everything in its path. Then, when the explosion came, Jake froze deep in your throat, panting, his body tense like a rope ready to break. He ejaculated violently, spitting his come back into you in a burning deluge. You choked, the bitter, burning taste invading your mouth, but you took it all, every drop, never wavering.

He pulled out slowly, still trembling, and continued to release his cum onto your face, splattering your hair, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead—that raw, living paint, each drop a primal scream, a piece of rock etched into your skin.

You slowly parted your lips, ready to receive everything, but his pleasure scattered over you, each trace an indelible mark of this moment. Then, with the ritual slowness of a musician returning to silence, you slid your fingers down your cheek, gathered the rest, and brought it back to your lips, tasting his presence, his fire, his life, like a final poignant chord that would resonate long after the piece ended.

"Fuck." The word roars through the room like a saturated, violent, nervous riff, a distortion that vibrates the material and makes the walls of this old squat tremble, its walls oozing with history and transgressions. 

There's no warning, no plea for gentleness: Jake grabs you sharply, lifts you in an explosion of brute force, pinning you against him like a guitar being ripped from its strings in a mad solo. Your body instantly closes around his waist, your legs wrapping heavy, hot, possessive, chained to his hips, unbearable and burning. Your arms twist around his neck with the savagery of a rampaging animal, your burning skin pressed against his, your breath coming in short, mingled breaths, rage and hunger pulsing between you like a rumbling bass.

Your mouths explode in collision, not in a tender kiss, but a fierce struggle, a muted battle where every lick is a bite, a claim. Saliva intertwines, acrid, hot, saturated, burning—your tongues play a chaotic, wild duel, like the furious solos that tear through the night. This is not gentleness: it is chaos, an unbridled symphony where every note wounds, consumes, possesses.

He carries you like a wild beast, smashing your body against the walls, banging furniture, sending everything flying in his path in a wild, disordered, and violent rhythm, like a drummer in a trance. Your nails lacerate his skin with the force of a raging riff, digging, marking the flesh with your anger and your passion. You want to tear him apart, mark him, chain him to you, but more than anything, you want him to destroy you, to take you back, to belong to you body and soul.

Then, suddenly, he throws you onto the bed, the fall taking your breath away. He rips your bra off with a sharp, brutal snap, resonating like a guitar string breaking on a note too high. His mouth slides along your bare skin, devouring, devoid of softness, a trail of fire. His black, hungry gaze devours you—you are not a delicate muse, you are the wild flame he burns to extinguish and devour.

An electric shiver runs down your spine. You're vulnerable and proud of it, exposed in all your raw truth, with that painful, desperate intensity he can read. Jake looks at you like a man starved for years, a predator marked by the rage to possess your skin, your flesh, your pain.

You see his hard cock, thickened with desire, the tip glistening with pre-cum in the dim light. You stand there with your mouth open, your eyes bathed in a burning light, mesmerized by the raw power before you.

“Look at me like that again,” he growls, his voice a raspy, dark growl laden with menace, “and I’ll take you right here, right now.”

You don't move. You don't look away. Slowly, painfully, with that mixture of audacity and submission, you spread your legs, offering yourself entirely. The friction of the fabric against your skin resonates like a primal beat, a call to war.

"Do it. I can't take it anymore."

He leaps onto you, crushing you beneath his weight, like a bass drum hammering against your ribcage. His hands, hard and hot, explore your dripping skin, assert their territory, sweeping away everything in their path. You're soaked, saturated, drowning in this storm of desire that refuses to die down.

Abruptly, Jake grabs your throat—his fingers squeeze, firm, merciless, making your skin pulse, barely depriving you of air—fixing you with a dark, feral stare, burning with primal, possessive rage. His hot breath fanned against your sensitive skin, his low, menacing voice piercing your eardrums:

"Are you still looking at me, whore? Do you want me to fuck you until you beg?"

And without warning, he spits into your mouth—a hot, bitter, humiliating stream. The acrid, salty taste burns your throat. You swallow involuntarily, a mixture of humiliation and excitement coursing through you. You are at his mercy, completely, totally, and that's what you wanted: to be broken, possessed, reduced to his savage instrument.

“Say my name. Scream. Be my slut.”

Your hands grip his hair, scratching, pulling, trying to anchor yourself in this mad chaos. Your broken voice rises, hoarse, saturated with devastating desire:

"Jake... Jake... take me... fuck me..."

He squeezes your wrists, pinching them until the pain flares, pushing you toward total surrender. Ecstasy and pain merge, a tumult of wild emotions where you are nothing more than his plaything, his raw work.

Jake didn't hold back. He came at you like a punch to the stomach, brutal, sharp, without any mercy or gentleness. No foreplay, no languid caresses or silent promises. No. Just the raw, naked violence of a man who claims you entirely, body and soul, as if your flesh was his only right.

You didn't feel it coming, just that sharp, cold, sharp blow that tore you apart from the inside, like a blade plunging unannounced into tender flesh. His manhood invaded you all at once, filled with rage, obsession, primal desire. Your breath caught, your eyes widened, your entire body tensed and let itself be shot through with an electric shock of animal intensity.

"Fuck, you're mine, damn it..." he growled, his voice low, raspy, vibrating with wild possession, like a wild animal declaring its territory.

He dominated you relentlessly, hammering your flesh, each thrust slamming against your taut skin, your stomach, your hips, hitting hard, too hard, like a furious drum. You felt the raw power of his cock, hard and hot, penetrating deeper than anything you had ever known. You were trapped, caught in a hurricane, tossed between pain and pleasure, strangled by this bestial urgency.

His rough hand grabbed the back of your neck, his fingers digging roughly into your skin, immobilizing you like captured prey. He wanted to control everything, down to the slightest breath, the slightest resistance. His mouth then descended on your throat, nibbling, pinching, digging red, violent, and hot marks, indelible memories of his hold on you.

Pain mingled with pleasure, burning, incendiary. Your entire body vibrated beneath the fire, every fiber of your being consumed, torn apart, turned in a wild spasm. You clung to it, to the pain that had become your oxygen, your only truth in this chaos.

"Can you smell that?" he whispered in your ear, his voice trembling with fierce rage and all-consuming obsession. You could only nod, too weak to speak. "You're the one driving me crazy."

And then, without warning, in a dirty, raw, and humiliating gesture, Jake spat into your mouth again. The acrid, harsh, sticky mixture that flowed between your lips was like a challenge, a wild promise. You swallowed, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, the filth mixed with desire, with possession.

His cock pulsed furiously inside you, each thrust hitting that sensitive spot, that raw nerve that was making you lose all reason. He roughly tossed you onto your back, still holding your neck, his fingers squeezing tightly like a silent oath: you belonged to him, body and soul, without appeal.

Jake's mouth devoured your breast, biting so hard you had to grit your teeth, until the pain turned to burning pleasure, to conflicting spasms. Your back arched, your hands tried to free themselves, but he pressed them violently against the mattress, dominating every breath, every shudder, every moan.

"You're not going to run away from me, are you?" he spat between blows, his voice rumbling, vibrating with a ferocious obsession. "You're mine, and that's not going to change."

Every thrust of his hips was an explosion, a wild blast. He pounded into you like a raging drummer, his cadence wild and unpredictable, making you scream inside. You cried silently, overwhelmed, fractured, unable to think of anything but the delicious pain that consumed your very soul.

Jake growled, tense, panting like an animal in heat, his muscles tense, his skin covered in sweat. Then, abruptly, he grabbed your head, pulled you toward him, and kissed you with savage urgency, his lips biting yours, forcing himself into your mouth like a conquering invader. His tongue lapped you, aggressive, smothering, drawing you into a chaos of sensations, overwhelming you completely.

"What do you want?" you gasped, your voice cracking, trembling between pain and desire.

"You. Nothing but you. That you're mine, damn it." Jake replied, his voice raspy, laden with a consuming possessiveness.

Without letting you catch your breath, he violently turned you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees. He roughly yanked your hair back, forcing you to arch your back even more, exposing you entirely to his domination. Without slowing down, he started again, wilder, more bestial, hammering your flesh like a madman, each blow a painful explosion that made you scream silently.

Your head was spinning, your eyes were clouded with tears, your breath caught. Your body was vibrating, fractured, hungry for his blows, his bites, the marks he imprinted on you like burning tattoos.

"Look at you, damn it…" he breathed, his voice low, almost contemptuous, but saturated with a burning desire. "You're at your wit's end, you're dying of desire."

When he finally released his grip, his fingers massaged your bruised neck, his lips sought yours for a tender, almost fragile kiss, fragile like a promise after the storm. A moment of raw aftercare, rare and precious.

“You belong to me. Nothing and no one can save you from me.” He murmured, his lips against yours, as you sank, exhausted and fulfilled, into the complete possession of his strong arms.

Jake never stopped, not for a second, he continued to penetrate you with an unbridled rage, his cock hard as steel, hot as a blazing inferno, plunging deep into your lust-filled pussy. Each thrust was a raw, violent, merciless explosion. You felt his skin stuck to yours, dripping with sweat, sliding and rubbing against your soaked flesh in an animal, bestial, savage friction. His pelvis slammed against yours with an almost primal force, a cruel pounding that sent burning lightning rippling through your entire body, from your thighs to your heaving chest.

Your pussy, tight, pulsed around him like a hot, suffocating, tight cage, unwilling to let go or let him out, as his thrusts dug deeper, ripping every millimeter of mingled pleasure and pain from your skin. Each thrust pushed you closer to the edge, pushing you into a churning sea of ​​sensations too intense to contain.

His hand, wet, slippery with your own lubrication and your still-warm pleasure, ventured slowly, tracing a burning path between your pressed bodies. His fingers massaged, searched, finally found your clitoris, that tiny but devastating spot, and grabbed it firmly, brutally. He didn't spare you: his fingers pinched, pulled, rubbed with delicious brutality, alternating heart-rending caresses with sharp bites that made you lose your mind. His hand undulated in rhythm with his thrusts, multiplying the sensations, playing with you like a merciless tyrant.

You were out of breath, your ragged breathing exploding into muffled moans that escaped in wild, almost bestial cries, echoing your total abandonment. Your entire body was consumed, set ablaze by this surging, uncontrollable wave of pleasure, ready to submerge you, to crush you beneath its weight. Your legs trembled, your pelvis undulated to follow its every movement, your chest heaved with disordered spasms.

Then, suddenly, your orgasm tore a brutal, devastating cry from you. Your muscles contracted with unbearable intensity, your pussy clenched around his cock as if to imprison him forever, twisting your flesh, almost painful, almost cruel. Jake almost pulled out, but didn't: he didn't slow down. Instead, Jake pushed harder, deeper, biting savagely into your neck with ferocious savagery, his teeth clawing at your fragile skin, digging red, painful marks that still pulsed long afterward.

You screamed, your voice trembling, choked by the mingled pain and pleasure, as hot tears welled up in your eyes. They fluttered, unable to open, overwhelmed by the intensity of the fire consuming you.

Jake was possessed, unleashed, a raging animal that wouldn't stop, that wanted you whole, for himself, down to the last drop of your burning essence, until you were reduced to a naked, raw state, offered defenseless under his total domination. His hand, still slippery, slid back to your clitoris, soaked with your burning pleasure, wet and viscous like hot oil. He rubbed with fierce insistence, pulled, pinched, multiplying the stimulations in a symphony of delicious torture, while his cock continued to penetrate you, to pound, to strike your pussy, wild, chaotic, incandescent.

His balls slammed heavily into your ass with each thrust, hammering your tender skin as your chest crushed against the soaked sheets, sweat and arousal mingling in a suffocating mixture. Your breaths became short, raspy, panting, your entire skin buzzing, vibrating with extreme tension, oscillating between pain and pleasure, violence and raw tenderness.

“Say you need me…” Jake breathed, his voice raspy, broken, saturated with effort, desire, and a dull rage.

“I need you…” you gasped, your heart beating so hard it felt like it might burst, your throat tight, your cheeks burning, your eyes bathed in tears of wild ecstasy.

" Again. "

“I need you, Jake… fuck… make me cum again… eat me up, burn me, drive me crazy, take me all…”

Without a word, he tightened his grip around you, his pelvis slamming brutally, wild, unleashed. The crash of his cock against your vulnerable flesh resonated like a jackhammer through your body. You felt his total dominance, the way he broke you, crushed you, reduced you to ashes under his raw power. He wanted you all his, whole, until your last breath, until your last tear of pleasure.

Then, abruptly, without warning, he came inside you, with a guttural rasp, a muffled hoarse cry, a wild growl, his hot sperm spilling slowly, deeply, saturating your burning flesh. He growled your name, grinding it in his throat like a primal, almost demonic incantation, a wild prayer to your fused bodies.

He collapsed on top of you, panting, trembling, his face buried in your neck, his breathing heavy and chaotic, like a raspy gasp of survival at the end of the world. And you too, your lungs burned with the same violence.

A deep silence fell then, dense, enveloping, like a veil suspending time.

In that damp darkness, between sweat, tears, visible and hidden scars, you felt his arms embrace you gently, tenderly, like a fragile, silent, mute promise. No excuses, no pretenses, no assured tomorrows.

Just two shattered souls, two scarred, wild, broken bodies that had found themselves in the heart of the storm, clinging to each other in a last shared breath.

🗞️The Dissonance Column : “One Album Too Many?” Review of Cinders & Saints by Jake Sim — by Y/n.

“This isn’t an album. It’s a narcissistic farce, drowned under layers of autotune and sonic artifice.”

Jake Sim serves up thirteen tracks that he sells as pure, sincere pain. In reality, Cinders & Saints is nothing more than an empty shell, a product calibrated for those who mistake spectacle for music and inner chaos for marketing.

His voice, once rough and soulful, now sounds like a hollow echo, filtered through a distorting mirror. He no longer sings; he contemplates himself, imprisoned by his own sonic reflection.

Each track is a pose, each silence an awkward silence. There are no ashes, no embers, just a simulacrum of emotion stifled in a sanitized studio.

"Jake no longer composes: he mimes, he recites a role worn to the bone. The result is a tired record, emptied of all authenticity, saturated with poorly disguised pride."

The themes of love, loss, and intimate violence are hammered home with the subtlety of a jackhammer. Everything is polished, overdone, as if written by an algorithm programmed with his worst interviews and most superficial whims.

And that incessant howling, that desperate need to shout out every chorus, feels more like a spoiled child's whim than a true artistic expression. As if the high volume could mask the emptiness behind the lyrics.

"This album is not a confession, it's a rant from a star in need of attention."

Yes, Jake Sim may have suffered. But suffering isn't enough. Making music requires courage, truth—and, above all, knowing when to keep quiet.

It's not an album you listen to. It's an ego you endure.

Rating: 1/5 – for the sound design effort. The rest is thrown away.

The morning light wasn't gentle. It slashed through the room like a new blade, slicing through the shadows, hunting down the slightest trace of tenderness to finish it off. It brought nothing but this certainty: the night is over. What shone in the dark, in the sweat and the sighs, never lasts very long under the neon lights of reality.

Your body was there, still warm, still wet from him—damp sheets, hair plastered to the back of your neck, bare legs tangled in his sheets like some post-concert scene you're never allowed to show. You were wearing his T-shirt. The one from the 2021 tour. The one where he still sang like he believed what he was screaming. Remember that? Back then, his voice had scars. Now it's just veneer.

And he was in the kitchen. Jake Sim. Fallen king of tortured rock. Tiny god for emotionally overdosed teens. Your ex. Your mistake. Your fantasy. Your personal hell.

You hear the coffee maker's rumble, mechanical and violent, like a drum kit in the back of the room. Then the sharp thud of his phone against the counter. Notifications. One. Two. Twenty. Digital avalanche. Media buzz. You don't want to look. But you know. You know exactly what's about to explode in his face. You recognize that kind of silence. It's the silence of a man reading his own execution.

And then it comes. The voice. It's no longer human. "...Is this some fucking joke?" Not a scream. A broken bone. 

You raise your head slowly. You feel like you're in the wrong music video for a band that took itself too seriously. The light on your face is almost cruel. You want to explain. But he's already there.

Jake enters the room. Barefoot. Shirtless. Phone in hand like a poorly drawn gun. The screen glows, cruel and merciless: “The Dissonance — One Album Too Many?” And underneath, your name. Black on white. Like a signature on a death warrant. He throws the phone on the bed. Not violently. That's the worst part: he leaves it as evidence.

"Tell me it's not you."

And that's when you understand: he still wants to believe. He still wants to hope that it's a mistake, a theft, an illusion, a nightmare. But he reads your style like one recognizes an old song—every sentence, every line, every stroke of the scalpel. It's your work. Your crime.

You mean it was before. That you never thought he'd read it. That you didn't know he'd touch you again the way he touched you that night, like a man who believes in orgasm more than love.

But he raises his hand.

“No. Don’t say anything. Not yet.” Jake’s voice is calm. Too calm. You know it. It’s the one he used before he blew everything—a contract, a tour, a hotel room. Or a girl.

He moves forward.

“You sleep in my bed… you wear my fucking T-shirt… you scream my name like it still has meaning. And meanwhile, you murder me in a column of three thousand characters with the coldness of a surgeon on coke?” Jake laughs. Dry, high-pitched. A poorly controlled guitar distortion. No joy. Just a vibration of pure, out-of-tune hatred. “You drained me. You squeezed every last note, every last tear, every last breath—and you expect me to believe it wasn’t personal?”

You open your mouth, but he won't let you breathe.

“You say I screamed to mask the emptiness. But you're the one who put the emptiness inside me.” Jake approaches, roughly. You see his eyes. Red. Swollen with fatigue, with pain, with memories. He's not crying. Not yet. He's fighting. It's nobler to burn than to sink. “Do you want to see what I look like when you kill me? Look at me. Look closely, Y/n. That's what you did. That's your song.”

You lower your eyes. Not out of shame. Out of survival instinct. But he continues. He wants you to feel every word. Every syllable like a slap.

“Are you saying I sold an image? That I made an album to please? You think it's a product, Cinders & Saints? You were there, Y/n. You were there when I wrote it. You saw what I spat in it. You licked up that blood. And now you act like you've never seen the beast.”

A silence. A crack.

Jake sits on the edge of the bed. His back to you. He's shaking. He clenches his fists. His back is marked. Scratched. You left your evidence everywhere. And yet, he's the one bleeding.

“You know what’s killing me?” He whispers. His voice is raspy. Dry. An end-of-song breath. “I thought you came back.” And then he turns away. His eyes are shining. No rage. Not yet. Just that dull ache, that internal break that even music can’t fix. “You used me. Again. Like a fucking microphone. You took my pain, you took my scars, you took my fucking heart—and turned it into a one-star column.”

You cry. Silently. Because he's right. Because you killed him with words. And he deserved them. But not like this.

He stands up. Grabs his jacket. His keys. Leaves his phone like a body on the parquet floor. And before leaving, he looks at you. One last time.

"When you're done enjoying the storm, close the door on your way out." And he slams the door. You stay there. Alone. In the unmade bed. In the silence. In your own field of ruins. And the truth is, what you just did... you won't recover from it either.

𝙋𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙋𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚 — 𝙏𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙃𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙍𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 — 𝟭-𝟮𝟯-𝟮 𝙏𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙣, 𝙈𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙤-𝙠𝙪, 𝙏𝙤𝙠𝙮𝙤, 𝙅𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙣

Sunghoon's office wasn't a place you entered. It was a place you fell into. A hermetic airlock. A place outside of time, outside of life. The kind of space where souls came to agonize under the weight of verdicts and cold truths, never hoping for anything more than an administrative murmur to accompany them on their way out.

Everything about it exuded manic discipline.

The walls, a too-somber gray, seemed to ooze an authoritarian calm, as if emotions had been expelled there with injunctions. The shelves—filled with codes, files, lives passed through the legal mill—were organized mausoleums, perfectly symmetrical, like a cemetery where each tombstone bore the name of a client he had brought down with logic and coldness. The desk itself wasn't a piece of furniture: it was a battlefield cleared after the massacre. Not a piece of paper out of place. Not a pen out of place. Not a human trace.

Even the light had something surgical about it: harsh, white, without warmth. It seemed to have been tamed, bridled, contractually forbidden from softening anything.

And in the center, like a king without a kingdom, Sunghoon twirled a pen between his fingers. Methodically. Click. Click. Click. A dry rhythm, almost perverse in its regularity. It wasn't nervousness. It was a metronome. That of a heart that had long since stopped beating for anything other than survival.

Then the door opened. Jake hadn't knocked. He hadn't had the strength. Or maybe he didn't care. He came in like a long-suppressed scream. Like an emotional hangover no pill could soothe. He looked broken. But not the brokenness you heal with a Band-Aid and a little hope. No. He looked the way someone who's lost something they never get back. Something intimate. Dirty. Irreparable. 

Jake wore a black T-shirt, stained with dried sweat, a threadbare jacket thrown over his shoulders like a remnant of pride. His hair clung to his forehead, and his eyes were craters. Empty. Reddened. Inhabited by ghosts that didn't even have names anymore. In his right hand, a glass of whiskey, half-empty and shaking as if holding onto what little control he had left.

He stank of the stage, the night, the music, the alcohol, and something even darker: the mourning of an illusion. And when he set foot on the immaculate floor of Sunghoon's office, it was as if death itself had invited itself into the bunker.

Sunghoon didn't look up until he'd twisted his pen three times. Not out of curiosity. Out of calculation. He knew. He'd heard the shuffling footsteps, the dislocated sigh, the silent call of a presence that hadn't come to plead. He adjusted his glasses. Like a surgeon before making an incision. 

And Sunghoon's voice fell, clear. Sharp. Legal. "We can sue her for defamation." He paused. Snap. "And with me as your lawyer, you won't lose."

Jake didn't answer right away. He stood in the corner of the office, a hesitant shadow. His eyes drifted, fixed on memories Sunghoon couldn't—or wouldn't—see.

Then Jake spoke. Not loudly. Not like a man trying to convince. But like someone surrendering. "I love her." He swallowed. A mirthless laugh clawed at his throat. "I can't do this to her." There was no pride in his voice. Just waste. A raw pain, like a wound you keep licking even though you know it won't heal. His gaze wandered into the whiskey glass, and his wrist swirled the liquid as if hoping to find an oracle.

Sunghoon didn't answer. He picked up the pen again. Click. Click.

"So what are you doing here?" Sunghoon's tone was the same. Not a shiver. Not a variation. As if Jake's love was just another incident. An administrative detail. "I have work to do. And no time for your love stories."

Jake grimaced. His glass shook. Not from the whiskey. From the pent-up rage, the grief digested too quickly.

“Can't you just be human once?” His voice was low, raspy. “I need some fucking emotional support, Sunghoon. I'm not asking you to fix me. Just… to be there.”

A silence fell. Heavy. Visceral. Sunghoon slowly put down his pen. Removed his glasses. Wiped them like cleaning a blade. 

"Jake… I'm a lawyer. Not a shrink." He looked at him. Finally. "If you want a hug and cookies, go to Heeseung's. He loves picking up skinned people." Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him. "Me, I have people to defend. Enemies to defeat. And a fucking bank account to feed." His jaw tightened. "So if you just need a place to cry, you're in the wrong place."

Jake exploded. Not with a shout. But with that acidic sarcasm that flows like venom when you've got nothing left to lose. "You know what?" He downed the rest of his glass. "You're an asshole, Sunghoon. A real one." He took a step closer. "And I wonder what will happen the day someone takes that broomstick you've got stuck up your ass. The day you fall in love. And find yourself begging for a hand you've never extended to anyone."

Sunghoon remained frozen. But his eyes had lost something. A sparkle. A distance. He seemed, for a split second, almost… human.

“Love is a curse.” Sunghoon’s voice was lower. Almost a confession. “Don’t wish that kind of shit on me. I already have enough blood on my hands. I don’t need another woman.”

Jake didn't answer. He turned. Walked to the door. And left. Quietly. Just as he had come. But leaving behind something irreparable. A bitter taste in the air. A cutting silence. And in that silence…

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Sunghoon's pen resumed its dance. As if nothing had happened. As if he had never been tempted, for a moment, to reach out.

Giselle's office reeked of hollow success. An overpowering scent hung in the air, a chemical mix of vanity and faux leather, expensive candles and overpolished trophies. The walls were covered in Photoshopped memorabilia—framed magazine covers, selfies with dead people inside, gilded plastic trophies. Ego on display. Every object screamed “look at me,” but none said “feel me.” It was a mausoleum of marketed glory, a temple dedicated to the cult of image, where dreams came to die in the spotlight.

And you stood there in the middle of this gilded morgue. The anger inside you rumbled like an overdriven amp. Your heart was beating too hard, too fast, like a poorly controlled drum kick. You had the metallic taste of betrayal in your mouth—that flavor of blood, adrenaline, and everything you can't hold back when the dams burst. You felt like if you opened your mouth, it would be to scream. Scream at the world that you couldn't take it anymore. Scream its name. Scream your pain. Scream until something inside you finally gave out.

Giselle, on the other hand, was sitting with her legs crossed, her chin held high. Beautiful as a false advertisement. She smiled with all her teeth like an overly made-up doll, proud, cruel, with a sharp, empty beauty. She looked like those stars who no longer have a soul but continue to pose. The kind of beauty that dazzles you just enough to not see the emptiness behind it.

"Why did you do that?" you spit. Your voice has risen. It's a little off-key, like a guitar that hasn't been tuned, but still vibrates in tune. It's not a scream. Not yet. But it's a solo that's starting. A dissonant note that announces the storm. You were already too far gone to come back. Already more in love than alive. Already too hurt to speak softly.

Giselle doesn't even look up right away. She makes the silence last. A dramatic pause. Like a producer waiting for the drop to come in. Then she looks at you. And she bleeds you dry with a single look.

"I did what you didn't have the balls to do." Her voice cracked. "Whatever it took to save us. To save you. Be a little grateful, Y/n."

Giselle snorts, a dry, unpleasant sound, like fingernails on glass. Her blood-red nail polish gleams in the light. She slowly runs her fingers over her nails, as if she's just carved a sentence into your flesh and is admiring the calligraphy. As if she's making fun of you, but in high definition.

You stare at her. You feel like your heart is melting. But not from love. From helplessness. From rage. From that sadness that's too heavy to cry, so it eats away. You breathe. Painfully. You tremble. You're standing, but you've already fallen.

"You destroyed me," you said under your breath. A whisper. But sharp. "And most importantly, you destroyed him."

And then Jake's image comes back to you. The look in his eyes when he read the article. That emptiness in his eyes. The kind of emptiness that swallows up whatever light is left. You saw him decompose. You saw him break inside without saying a word. As if every sentence he read was stabbing him in the throat. And there you were. Silent. Powerless. A stray bullet in the story of the man you loved. You wanted to tell him it wasn't you. That you'd tried. But you were too slow. And now you had blood on your hands, and no song to absolve him.

“I told you I was quitting, Giselle. That I was leaving everything. The paper, the file, the fucking media world. I didn't want to sully it. I didn't want to… lose it.” Your voice breaks. It squeaks, it twists, it fades. Like a vinyl record skipping at the most fragile point in the song. It's not anger anymore. It's grief.

But Giselle? She bursts out laughing. Not a hearty laugh. Not a laugh of shame or embarrassment. No. A dry laugh. Brittle. Like a punch in the ribs.

“Your thing with him was a joke, Y/n. A shitty romance between a journalist having an existential crisis and a stoned singer. Seriously? What were you hoping for? A Netflix redemption? A happy ending?” She stands up. Moves closer. Every word is a dirty riff, a bass that vibrates too loudly in your eardrums. She sizes you up like a slut, a cliché. “He’s over. And he would have over you too. You should thank me for publishing your article. He would have dragged you down with him.”

And then you see red. Not an expression. Literally. Everything turns red. Crimson. Incandescent. Your fist goes off. Instinctive. Animal. The sound of the impact is obscene. Flesh against bone. A crash that resonates like an over-amped bass thump in an empty room. His head swivels. His lip bursts. A drop of blood lands on the bleached floor.

She lets out a cry—not in pain, no. In shock. As if she never imagined you could become this. But you have. You grab her by the hair, without thinking. You pull. Her head tilts back. Her eyes, once superior, are now wide. Terrified.

“You will take this article down.” Your voice is hoarse. Worn out. Like a singer gasping for air at the end of a set. “You will issue an apology. Public. Clear. And sincere.” She whines, tries to push you away, but you tighten your grip. “And you will never speak his name with your filthy mouth again. Because he’s not screwed. He’s fighting. He’s drowning, yeah. But he’s fighting.” You gasp. Tears mix with your sweat. “I saw his sleepless nights. I held his hands when they shook. I picked up his pieces. You just put words to it to sell papers. You saw nothing. You lived nothing.”

Giselle trembles. Her voice is no more than a breath:

"Okay... okay... fine... let me go, damn it."

You release her with a sudden gesture. She falls. To her knees. Breathless. Mascara running. A diva in ruins.

"You're sick, Y/n. Completely crazy."

You laugh. A dry laugh. Broken. Not mad. Desperate. You kneel in front of her, gently. Your eyes are calm, but it's a calm like an ocean's just before a storm. "No. I'm just a girl who loved a boy. And saw what was behind his screams. Behind his songs." You stare at her. A merciless look. "And you ain't seen nothing yet."

You leave the room. You slam the door behind you. A sharp, sharp sound. Like a clap of thunder in a recording studio. Like the last note of a song that's too loud, too real. The kind of note that leaves feedback in your skull. And for a second, you're standing in the hallway, straight, icy, victorious—then you collapse. Against the wall. Against yourself.

Your back is slowly sliding. Your legs are giving out. You're out of oxygen. You can't breathe anymore. Your breath is short, ragged, as if you've been running for years toward something that, deep down, maybe didn't exist. And now, you're just here, on the floor, lost in a hallway that smells of air conditioning and betrayal.

Your mascara is running. Your cheeks are black with anger, makeup, and pain. You're crying. But not those pretty movie tears. No. You're crying like someone bleeds. You're crying like someone screams inside. You're crying like your soul wants to tear itself from your body and run to him. To Jake.

Jake. Jake. Jake. Jake.

His name rings in your head like a chorus loop. An obsession. A cursed melody. You have it stuck in your head like a song you can't get rid of. You have it in your heart like a vinyl needle stuck in a wound.

You cry for him.

You cry for yourself.

You cry for what you were. For what you could have been. For this fucking story that even the most heartbreaking songs couldn't tell without distorting it. You loved like someone jumps off a cliff. He loved like someone falls. And in the end... no one landed.

You're crying because you hit Giselle. Because you yelled. Because you said everything. Gave everything. And yet... It won't change anything. Jake read the article. Jake saw you keep quiet. Jake saw your silence as a betrayal. And Jake... Jake may never come back.

Because deep down, that's the cruelest thing: you wanted to protect him. You wanted to love him better than drugs, better than music, better than his own darkness. But you weren't fast enough. Not strong enough. You failed.

And in this sterile corridor, lit by neon lights that are too white, you have this violent, brutal thought that atomizes your heart:

Love, sometimes, is more toxic than any drug. Because you're still addicted. And Jake, he might already be gone.

𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 — 𝙉𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙧 𝙉𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙗 — 𝟯:𝟭𝟳 𝘼𝙈

You were there, lost in that nightclub, Nadir—a temple of madness, a sanctuary of broken souls. Strobe lights swept through the thick smoke like blinding flashes in an endless night. The bass pounded against your chest with the violence of a tribal drum, hammering your fractured ribcage, resonating even in your blood, a dull, cruel beat. It was the sound of your own agony, a deadly rhythm that reminded you that you were still alive—and yet dying.

A year. A fucking year. A year that his shadow continued to haunt you, seeping into every vein like a poison you refused to spit out. You drank, again and again, shots of burning tequila, numbing your pain so it would finally stop screaming at the surface of your skin. You drank to drown the anger, the sadness, the madness. You drank until you vomited, until you lost consciousness, until the world gave way beneath you and nothingness opened up—but the fucking blackout never came.

You wanted an alcoholic coma, a complete breakdown, a temporary end to this internal torture, but your body refused to give in. Each blow a reminder, each brutal memory tore you apart a little more.

On the dance floor, sweat slid down your skin like acid, mixed with the blaring lights and the music saturated with black electricity. A visceral cacophony that seemed to want to engulf you. That's when he came, a thick shadow in this incandescent chaos. He stuck to you, his hungry hands sliding over your waist like a beast on its prey. Your mind foggy, your body numb, you didn't yet perceive the threat, only this morbid need to forget, to disappear into this toxic fog.

You danced, absent, a ghost among the living, until he crossed the line. His hands became brutal, violent. This indecent contact broke the alcoholic torpor that enveloped you, lit a bitter fire in your icy veins. You had a survival reflex: push back. But he was too strong, too determined, clinging to you like a wild beast, restraining you, locking you in.

"Come on, babe," he breathed, his voice thick with lust and threat, "don't you want to make this more... fun?"

He turned you around roughly, pressed his lips against yours, making you gasp for air. Trapped, suffocating, rage rose within you like a black wave. With a ferocious gesture, you bit his lip, tearing the flesh, feeling his hot blood flood your mouth. The man growled, glaring at you, his eyes brimming with hatred and promises of revenge.

"You dirty whore," he spat, "you made me bleed."

Without warning, he grabbed your hair, yanking violently, tearing out a muffled scream that the music immediately swallowed up. You wanted to scream, to shout for help, but the bass crushed everything, reducing you to a whisper lost in the storm of sound.

Then, in the visceral chaos, he arrived. Jake. A dark figure slicing through the crowd, a flash of anger ready to devastate everything. He had seen it. He had seen the scene you lacked the courage to face alone.

His gaze darkened, the shadow of black anger fell upon him like a destructive hurricane.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jake roared, unleashing a brutal right hook, the force of his blow slicing through the air, threatening to shatter the man's jaw. His fist blazed with a rage as old as the pain consuming you both.

The man's nose burst into a geyser of blood, glowing red against the darkness.

"Sorry, man," the attacker stammered as he backed away, raising his hands in surrender, but Jake stared at him, implacable. The man fled, cursing, his face burning, leaving behind a metallic smell, the bitter taste of threat.

Jake turned to you, his dark eyes searching for the invisible scars you bore. You faltered, ready to fall into nothingness, and he caught you, firm and solid, an anchor in this infinite chaos.

“Come on,” he breathed, his voice raspy, broken, but protective. He grabbed your arm, dragged you out of the club, away from the harsh lights, the noise, the fake party where pain hid behind every fake smile. The icy night air bit at your skin, but you felt nothing. Not the bite of cold. Not the bite of life.

He opened the door of his car, made you sit down, motionless, a ghost on the edge of the abyss.

“Fasten your seatbelt,” he ordered, without looking at you.

Your hands trembled, clumsy, paralyzed by emotion, alcohol, shame, fatigue. You tried, but failed. His hand, heavy and warm, covered yours; the touch was a spark, a fragile fire, a half-whispered promise. His skin against yours, the weight of his presence, the raspy breath escaping him—this was all that remained of a love torn apart, destroyed by storms, but never completely extinguished.

Jake buckled his seatbelt slowly, inhaling as if to hold back a torrent of words he didn't want to say.

The car's engine purred like a wounded beast, a low, steady rumble—the continuous bass of a rock song too slow, too desperate for the radio, but perfect for an intimate end of the world, just as Jake had started it. The car sped off into the pitch-black night, headlights cutting through the darkness, flashing across the scars of a city too exhausted to judge.

Inside, the cabin vibrated with a thick silence. Not a peaceful silence. No. An electric, saturated silence, like a guitar left to cry between two bursts of distortion. Everything was tense. Moist heat. Sticky skin. Unshed sighs. The smell of alcohol, blood, fear. And that sadness, that damned acidic sorrow that hung like a sheet of smoke.

You were curled up in the passenger seat, back hunched, hands clutching your thighs, your dress soaked and wrinkled, sticking to your skin like a second shame. Your makeup had run, washed away by the tears you no longer knew how to cry. You had that metallic taste in your mouth. Blood. Aggression. Alcohol. The past. Everything mixed together. Everything overlapped. Like a song remixed to the point of agony, until it had no meaning or rhythm, just a sick melody.

And him. Jake. Jake, driving. Jake, inches away. Jake, the other half of your hell.

He said nothing, but you could feel it vibrating like a deep, continuous, raging bass. His hand gripped the steering wheel, white, tense like a guitar string about to snap. The other nervously ran through his hair, over and over again. He'd always had this tic. He had it the night you broke up. He had it the day he got off. He had it again tonight, as if everything had frozen. As if time, despite everything it claimed to heal, only repeated the same fucking dissonant chord.

You weren't looking at him. Not yet. But you felt him. His silence. His breathing. His heart pounding, heavy, behind his ribcage—that damn black drum you knew by heart.

You'd come to escape, to drink, to forget yourself. And you'd run into him. Obviously. Because there was always a song playing somewhere, something that brought you back to each other. Even on the dirtiest nights. Especially those. So you spoke. Not to break the silence. But because you no longer had the strength to remain silent.

"Thank you." Two syllables. Weak. Bare. And yet, in that car, they smacked like a slap on already reddened skin. As if you'd ripped a bandage off an infected wound.

He didn't answer. But you saw it. His jaw tightened. He inhaled slowly, as if he were keeping himself from exploding. His hand slid down his thigh, trembling. He was driving fast, too fast, as if he was running away from something—or maybe both of you. You didn't need an answer. Because Jake didn't speak with words. He spoke with silences. With looks. With those trembling gestures he thought were invisible.

You finally looked at him. And you remembered. You remembered his lips on yours. His hands on your skin. The way he looked at you before going on stage, as if you were the only real thing in his life made of amps, pills, and lies. You remembered everything. And you would have given anything to forget.

But there you were. You were there. And so was he. Like a cursed loop that never ended.

"What were you doing there?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer. You just needed to hear his voice. That deep, gravelly timbre, like sandpaper on your heart.

He answered bluntly. "Jay was DJing. I was doing a little promo for him. You know him… he always wants it to be packed." His voice was calm, almost detached. But it wasn't. Because his jaw twitched again. And you saw him swallow something bigger, dirtier. The real question. The one he wouldn't ask.

You, what the hell were you doing here? What the hell were you doing here, alone, drunk, lost, getting crushed by a guy I could have killed?

But he was silent. Because he still loved you. And he hated you for it. And you felt it. The love there. The hate. The failure. The pain. That misshapen thing vibrating between you two. That hellish riff you'd never managed to finish. So you turned to the window. To keep from crying. To keep from screaming. To keep from begging him.

But he was looking at you. And you felt it. And the car kept going. And the night never ended.

𝟭𝟮 𝘾𝙖𝙢𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙂𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝘾𝙖𝙢𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙏𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙣 𝙉𝙒𝟭 𝟴𝘼𝘽 𝙐𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙙𝙤𝙢

The morning was nothing like a morning.

It was a morning after. A nasty morning after. The kind that lingers in your bones like an emotional hangover. The kind that feels like the burn of black coffee on an empty stomach and the bitter taste of what you didn't know how to say. A pale light filtered through the curtains, and in the too-quiet kitchen, every sound sounded like an echo too loud: the sizzling pan, the bare footsteps on the tiles, the ticking of the clock that reminds you that time goes on, even when your heart refuses.

Jake was there. Silent. Making pancakes as if he could fill the cracks with flour and sugar. The bacon crisped in the pan, a familiar, almost warm smell. A normal scene. A false scene. A scene of respite between two storms.

And you… you were watching.

Sitting there, knees against your chest, curled up in a sweatshirt that was too big—maybe his, you couldn't remember. Your heart was beating like a snare drum, too fast, syncopated, desperate. You'd been holding your breath since yesterday. And you knew it had to come out. That if you didn't say it now, you'd never say it.

And then you spoke. Not out of bravery. Not even out of necessity. But because your heart was beating like a poorly tuned distortion. Like an empty concert hall where a muffled scream still echoes in the walls. Because his silence was screaming in your chest.

"You know... that day, I quit." Your voice was just a hoarse breath, a broken note in a song without a chorus. And in that kitchen silence, that calm too clean for the story you carried, your words sounded like grunge on morphine.

Jake didn't answer. But his body vibrated. An almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, a slight tremor in his hand, a strand of hair that fell without him pushing it back. Details. Tiny details that only you knew how to read, like the sounds of an old demo tape that was never meant to be released.

He flipped the pancakes with the coldness of a surgeon in despair, and you felt your chest implode. There was nothing innocent in his silence. There was everything. And you were there, naked but not naked, decomposed in that oversized sweatshirt and your wounds too fresh.

But you had to keep going. Because if you stopped, you would die. Not physically. But that part of you he had touched—that core, that pure note—would die for good.

“I didn't let the article go because I didn't care. I begged. I cried. I screamed into glass offices where people looked at me like I was crazy.” You smiled, a grin distorted by tears. You sounded like a song on the radio that you change too quickly because it hurts without knowing why. “But it wasn't enough. I was too late. They had already planned your downfall. And I had your blood on my hands.”

Jake wasn't flipping pancakes anymore. The pan steamed, forgotten. He was listening. Or maybe he was fighting not to listen to you. Not to hear you say what he'd been waiting for, all the while fearing it more than anything.

You barely inhaled, your throat full of shards of glass. And then you said what had been haunting you since the night, since the last time, since you. "I didn't want you to think I slept with you to sell you out." Your voice cracked like a guitar being thrown on stage after a set that was too short. "I loved you." You closed your eyes. It hurt so much. Like screaming into a crackling microphone. "And I still love you."

The silence that followed was unbearable. It was suffocating you. So you moved. One step. Then another. As if the distance between you were a solo to be crossed. Each step weighed a ton. Each second was a cymbal suspended above the void.

And when your hand brushed his, it wasn't a touch. It was a confession.

Jake turned around. And that's when you saw him. Not the Jake of the tabloids. Not the rock icon. Not the mythologized lover, the adored nightmare. No. You saw him. The man. Tired. Worn out. His eye red from crying too much in silence. His mouth trembling from killing his words too often before they came out.

He looked at you the way you look at a song you loved and thought you'd forgotten—but which returns one evening, by surprise, and leaves you defenseless. And then he reached out. His fingers found your cheek. And there it was. All his tenderness. All his fear. All his humanity.

"Don't cry." His voice... his voice, it was a stolen demo. A voice you don't show to anyone. Fragile. Naked. And you, you collapsed inside. Not because you couldn't take it anymore. But because it was him. And it was you. Again.

Jake approached. Slowly. Like approaching a fire you've already been through. His hands rested on your waist. He held you tight. Tight. But not too tight. As if he was afraid you'd slip away. As if he was afraid he'd wake up.

“I didn’t blame you. Not really. I was just… free-falling. And it was easier to blame you than to look at me.” He closed his eyes, and his voice cracked. “You tried to save me, and I… sank your raft.” A laugh. Short. Bitter. Like a snapping rope. “I saw the article. I saw the apologies. But what I saw most was that you were still here.” He rested his forehead against yours. The gesture was violently intimate. A lipless kiss of the soul. “You were there. And you never really stopped trying.”

His tears fell, hot. Real. And when he breathed your name, it wasn't a plea. It was a muffled cry. A prayer. A goodbye he didn't want to let go.

“So… I’m sorry, baby.”

That word, that forbidden note, tore you open. You melted into his arms. And Jake caught you. As if he'd always known. As if he'd been waiting for this moment. As if, despite everything, this was it, the end of the song. Or maybe the beginning of a new verse. 

Your bodies, your regrets, your scars. Intertwined.

Two survivors of an emotional crash. Two broken voices trying to sing as one. In that kitchen, amidst the smell of cold bacon, burnt pancakes, and incandescent memories, there was nothing left to prove.

Nothing more to explain. There was only you. Two dissonant chords. Two unfinished choruses. Two hearts still beating, against all odds. And the sound it made might not have been pretty. But it was true.

And it was yours. Just the two of you.

The kiss exploded between you like a wild, distorted guitar solo, tearing through the air and souls alike. A dull, brutal explosion, a riff launched at full power, uncontrollable, where each note vibrated in your ribcage and shattered your defenses like ancient windows under a sledgehammer. 

Jake wasn't kissing you anymore—he was devouring you. His mouth was a hungry abyss, a burning amplifier spewing raging flames, engulfing your mouth in a furious pogo where every lick hit your throat like bass shattering the walls of your chest.

You were lost, engulfed in this burning assault, this sonic and carnal chaos. Where did you end? Where did it begin? 

His saliva—viscous, burning, insistent—flowed between your lips like a hot, red river. It mingled with yours, trickled in thick cascades onto your tongue, overflowed, escaped, slid over your trembling lips, trickled down your chin to end its indecent course, marking your skin in the valley between your breasts. Dirty, brutal, visceral—the very essence of your tension, distilled into a burning nectar that you drank without restraint, to the last drop.

Jake growled, that hoarse, primal sound, bordering on a bestial scream, a hungry whisper that made your fingertips tremble, fractured you from the inside out. His hand, strong and possessive, gripped your jaw, squeezing the skin like marking territory, like carving a song into marble, so you'd never escape. He tilted your head, imposing his rule like a stage leader imposing his rhythm on a trance-ridden crowd.

His bite fell on your tongue—firm, painful, electric—a cymbal crash that cracked the melody of your breathing. You thought your mouth would tear under his force, that your heart would explode in your chest saturated by the tension of this love struggle.

“Fuck… fuck, I love you,” he spat between wild kisses, his teeth tearing at your lower lip, drawing out a stream of hot blood that you would have drunk, thirsty, without hesitation.

You didn't answer.

Your mouth had become a battlefield, a warring territory where his violent tongue explored relentlessly, a theater where every sigh, every moan, was a note both painful and intoxicating.

You tugged at his hair, eliciting a hoarse growl—an animal warning, the promise of an even wilder storm—and he dove back in, deeper, shoving his tongue down your throat, crossing all forbidden boundaries, digging, delving, dominating like a relentless riff that refuses to stop, that embeds itself in your head and your body.

Jake loved you in that kiss. As much as it destroyed you. 

Then, without warning, you pulled away, panting, out of breath, your heart beating like a drum set unleashed in an explosion of sound. Your chest rose and fell, burning, saturated with an electric fever that consumed you from the inside out, your cheeks burning, damp with fine sweat and incandescent desire. A trickle of icy saliva still hung suspended between your lips, the last trace of an animal kiss—dirty, wet, visceral—a brutal release that had torn you apart and consumed you all at once, like a distorted guitar riff tearing through the night.

But Jake didn't let you walk away. His deep, incandescent black eyes stared at your silhouette like a spotlight on a burning stage. He watched you descend slowly, resolutely, to your knees before him, a submissive warrior ready to plunge into the savage arena he dominated.

Your hands trembled—between fear and excitement—but they were firm, hungry. They slid over the rough fabric of his sweatpants, feeling the raw heat radiating beneath your fingers, that pent-up tension ready to explode like a drum solo shattering the silence. Slowly, almost defiantly slow, you slid the fabric down, freeing his proud, red, and straining cock. It glistened in the dim light, splashed with a burning liquid, viscerally alive—a pulsing flame that rippled with the slightest stir.

Your gaze couldn't tear itself away from this weapon ready to devastate everything. There, planted like a red-hot nail, a vertical piercing—cold, hard, intrusive—crossed the glans, screeching against the skin with a wild promise. This jewel, this padlock, this silent defiance, was Jake's mark. A secret tattoo, a wild claim etched into his flesh.

You swallowed, your stomach tightening with a mixture of fascination and dark, almost forbidden desire. Your fingers brushed against the metal, tracing that cold line that electrified your skin, igniting a fire both burning and cruel. The contact awakened a torrent of emotions within you—curiosity, confusion, a thrill of anticipation that twisted your soul.

“Fuck, Jake… you got a fucking piercing in your dick.” Your voice, raspy, vibrant, vibrated like a distorted bass in a ballad heavy with tension.

Your hand slowly stroked the shaft, playing with the intrusive jewel that seemed to dominate his power, a cruel reminder that this body wasn't just his, but a prison and a fortress all at once. You felt the cold shaft rest against the burning skin, then the sticky liquid—hot, salty, thick—running and splashing against your hand, sticking you with a burning, raw moisture. This intimate nectar, this prelude to the storm, was the very essence of this brutal struggle between domination and surrender, pain and pleasure.

“It’s… so… hot.”

You looked up at him, capturing the fiery glint burning in his eyes, that mixture of childish embarrassment and bestial desire, a wild fire that made you grin like a predator with sharp fangs, ready to bite.

“It’s not just a jewel, baby.” His voice, deep, raspy, tore through the air like a distorted guitar riff, aggressive and furious. “It’s a fucking lock.” Suddenly, his fingers dug into your hair, gripping with a grip that sent a shiver of ecstasy and pain rippling down your spine. He pulled hard, cruel, precise, that perfect blend of dominance and violent caress, a cymbal crash that explodes sweetness. A hoarse growl ripped from his throat, primal and laden with threat as much as promise. “I mark what’s mine. And you… you’re mine.”

It's dirty.

Brutal.

Visceral.

Nothing sweet, nothing tender. Just you, kneeling on the cold wooden floor, your mouth half-open and your hands trembling with longing, expectation, and need. You look like an unholy prayer, a broken offering, an overly faithful groupie returning to sacrifice herself on the altar of her fallen idol. There's only him in your field of vision—Jake, the fallen king of your heart, the singer of your fall, the only one who knew how to capture you like a song you never forget.

You run your fingers up his thigh, like stroking the neck of an electric guitar ready to scream. Every vein beneath your palm pulses like a string stretched to breaking point. He's hard, warm, alive. You feel his tension vibrate through you. It's tense like a scream you haven't been able to stifle.

And you want him to scream. You want him to scream your name as he comes down your throat.

"I've always belonged to you," you breathe, your voice hoarse, almost broken, your throat tight with an overflow of memories, tears, and longing. And it's true. Even when you hated him. Even when he thought you'd betrayed him. Even when your article was published. Even when he left you. You already belonged to him. Body. Heart. Ashes.

Your hand grabs his cock, hard and swollen like a microphone hot from singing too much. You grip him tightly, as if you're going to scream through him, as if you're going to swallow all the music he's silently left you. You let your thumb stroke the underside, slowly, feeling the heat, the blood, the life. And then, your mouth moves closer. You don't kiss him right away. You make him wait. You look at him. You dominate him with your gaze, even though you're down there, even though you're naked, even though you're nothing but ruins at his feet.

Your tongue darts out. You lick the tip, slowly. You taste the salt of his desire, the metal of his piercing. You shudder. That fucking jewel. Still there. Insolent. Cold. A provocation between your lips. You do it again. Again. Again. The tip of your tongue circles the head, then you take it in your mouth, gently at first, and already you hear Jake growl—a low, raspy, dirty rumble. Like a bass riff in a grunge song too dirty for radio play.

And you open up. You open your mouth, your throat, your tears, your damn need.

You swallow him. Slowly at first. Then deeper. And deeper. You feel him shudder in your mouth. You feel his piercing scrape your throat. You moan, your eyes still fixed on his. You want him to see. You want him to look at what you've become without him: a creature on its knees, dirty, burning, devoured by a love too big, too ugly, too true. You want him to see your tears, even if they fall silently.

You keep sucking him, dirty, brutal, your saliva dripping down your chin. You drool over him like a woman possessed. Your tongue won't stop. You lick him, you eat him, you destroy him. Every thrust of your mouth is a confession. A silent scream. A fucking love song you scream on your knees.

He moans louder. He rocks his pelvis. He starts fucking your mouth. You let him. You open even wider. You want it all. You want to swallow him deep, until you choke. And you do. You gasp, but you don't pull back. You squeeze. He fucks your throat, brutally, like an animal. You don't care. You've already gone somewhere else. Into his arms. Into his voice. Into his pain.

"I belong to you too," he moans. It's brutal. Almost a scream. Almost a sob.

And then you crack.

You're really crying. One tear, then two. Your eyes are brimming without you knowing why. Too much love. Too much hate. Too much missing. You moan against his cock, and he feels it. He grunts, and fucks you harder. He pounds into your throat, and you clench, loosen, and start again. You want to finish him off. You want him to lose himself inside you like he always has.

You can taste his salty taste on your tongue. His precum. More and more. You keep licking him, sucking him, as if your mouth is the last stage where he can scream without being judged. Your hands slide to his hips. You cling to him. As if you're going to collapse. As if you're going to come just from sucking him.

You're soaked. Literally. Your thighs are sticky. Your sex is throbbing, wet, aching. You're crying from your throat and between your legs. You don't want to think anymore. You just want this. Him. Now.

“Fuck… baby, you take me so well.” Jake’s voice is a tightrope. Raspy, cracked like a distorted guitar solo, scratching at the eardrums and setting the nerves on edge. He’s not really talking to you. He’s panting, he’s moaning, he’s intoning something between a prayer and a punishment. The whisper of a man collapsing to his knees before what he no longer knows how to love except like this—violently. To the bone. On the verge of breaking.

His fingers dig into the back of your neck like claws. He pulls you toward him, harder, as if he wants to tear you away from yourself and reshape you around his cock. And you come. You come without resistance. Without shame. You come like a silent scream, your mouth open, your lips already swollen, ravaged by greed.

You swallow it. All the way down. You feel it hit your throat, brutally, savagely, without any tenderness. It's raw, dirty, direct. You gag. You choke. You hiccup. And yet you stay there, saliva dripping from your mouth like a visceral offering, tears already welling in your wide-open eyes.

You cry. And he gets harder.

Your tears. My God, your tears.

Jake drinks them in with his eyes like a thirsty man bleeding from the inside. There's nothing sadistic about it. Nothing calculated. It's worse. It's sincere. Almost sacred. He watches you suffer for him—to make him feel better—and he becomes sick with love, with hate, with fucking desire, with all the stuff that's always been beyond him.

“Look at me…” he growls, his voice cracking, his jaw clenched. You look at him. Your eyes are bright, misty, rimmed with wet lashes. You look like a fucking Madonna who would get her throat fucked instead of praying. A saint on her knees for a sin she wants to taste every last drop.

He pushes deeper, and your throat tightens. He lets out a hoarse scream, the kind he also lets out on stage when he explodes in the middle of a solo. This isn't just sex. This is a drum solo in a flooded garage at 3 a.m., using his guts as drumsticks.

He feels your tears falling onto his thighs, hot, salty, real. He feels your tongue sliding against him, even as you struggle to breathe. He feels your love in the back of your throat.

And it drives him crazy.

His hips slam against your face, the rhythm uneven, brutal, almost desperate. You hold onto his thighs to keep from falling. Your fingers dig into his skin. You scratch, you cling, you take. You take everything. As if he could save you by destroying you a little.

Jake trembles. Literally. Every thrust is a shot. He's barely holding back. The cold metal of his piercing slams against your hot throat with each thrust. You feel it. You endure it. You love it. A delicious torture, a filthy devotion. He penetrates you like you're tearing yourself away from pain, as if he wants to punish you for still being here, still so perfect, still on your knees for him.

And you answer him without words. You moan around his cock, throat choked, breath stolen, eyes drowned. He's there, inside you, whole, and he's never been more real.

"Fuck, look at you..." He gasps. "You've got tears falling on my skin and you keep sucking me like you were born to do it."

And maybe that's true. Maybe that's your role in this twisted story: crying for him where he can no longer cry. Loving him in your mouth, on your knees, while he breaks in the back of your throat.

His eyes shine. A tear falls from his lashes, silent, treacherous. He doesn't brush it away. He lets it flow. Like an offering to yours. A silent confession.

Jake pulls harder on your hair. Your head tilts, your neck exposed, tense, vulnerable. He pushes into you again, again, always, deeper. And this time, he closes his eyes. There's nothing else. Only you. Him. This scene, both pornographic and sacred. Your face ravaged, dripping, exposed.

And this fucking unbearable truth: he loves you like a wounded animal, and he knows you're the one who'll kill him.

But for now, he moans your name. He trembles. He explodes in your throat with a wild, desperate rasp. A storm in his mouth. An end-of-the-world sigh.

You stand there, throat burning, tears on your chin, and you swallow it all. Like a declaration. Like an oath. Like proof that love, true love, isn't sweet. It's not clean. It's not pretty. It's dirty. It's hurt. It's naked. It's raw.

And damn, that's why you stay.

“I need you, baby. On the bed. Now.” Jake’s voice growls. Not a command. Not a demand. A fucking growl. Like it’s not him speaking, but the beast beneath his skin. A beast with sharp fangs, a hunger he can no longer hide behind his tattoos, his music, or his rock star mask.

And when he pulls away from your mouth, slowly, you feel everything: the obscene elasticity of your saliva clinging to him, like a trail of still-hot lava between your swollen lips, and his veiny, hard, twitching cock. There's a taste of ash in your throat, a taste of his rage, and the bittersweet burn of having been used like an instrument. Like a fucking resonating chamber.

You don't speak. You can't. Your throat is stiff. Your knees, cold against the ground, are shaking. But you nod. Slowly. Like an offering. 

You get up, clumsily, as if after an earthquake. You slide your panties—soaked, almost transparent with shame—down your legs. They fall to the floor with a dull, crumpled thud. You don't even look at them. This fabric no longer belongs to you.

Jake, on the other hand, never takes his eyes off you. Not for a second. He looks at you like a starving man looks at a last meal after months of agony. As if he were going to tear you apart, empty you, love you to death.

He steps closer. Grabs you by the waist, pulls you to the floor. You slide onto the sheets, he arranges you just the way he wants, like a guitar before a solo. Your legs fall on either side of his hips, your back half-raised, your heart in turmoil.

"You're fucking wet..." Jake groans, low. Almost angry. Almost disgusted by how much you want him.

His thumbs dig into the tender flesh of your thighs, spreading you shamelessly, until you feel vulnerable, dirty, sacred. And then he dives in. Not like a lover. Not like a romantic guy who wants to “please.” No. Like a monster. Like a beast descended from hell, eager to taste the only thing that might calm him.

His tongue traces a first line—slow, bestial—along your pussy. You jump. Your back arches, your voice chokes. Jake continues. Lips parted, slobbering, he sucks you as if he wants to erase your thoughts. He grunts as he does so, that low vibration resonating deep in your stomach.

And you're already crying. Not because of the pain. Not because of the pleasure either. Because it's too much. Too intense. Too real. Because Jake is devouring you like you were made for this. To be broken under his mouth, to be drowned in this animal trance.

Your hands cling to the sheets. Your nails dig in.

"Jake..." you breathe, between tears, but he doesn't listen to you.

He licks again. He bites. He clicks his tongue against your clit, sucks it with sadistic slowness. You scream. You moan, you whimper, you almost bleed with emotion. And Jake, he smiles against you. He likes it. Your betraying body. Your hips moving on their own. Your clit beating like a heartbeat too fast. Your taste. Your cries.

He steps back a little. Looks down at you. He's as beautiful as a waterfall, as cruel as a guitar solo screamed in the rain.

"You've got tears on your cheek, baby..." he says, raspy, his lips wet. He runs his tongue down your thigh, slowly, watching you collapse. "You like that, huh? Being eaten until you cry?"

You nod, trembling, unable to lie for another second. Your naked body is there, offered, a saturated electric guitar, the strings ready to scream under the bite of the metal. Every inch of your skin is a charged filament, vibrating with raw tension, a wild fire that only he knows how to stoke. You are his chaos incarnate, his favorite disorder, the fucking muse who resonates in his storm. 

Jake doesn't come for a gentle ballad, a languid slow jam where the notes stretch out like a sigh. No. He bursts forth, he destroys the stage, he massacres the silence. His solo is a primal scream, a wild drumbeat that saturates the sound to the purest distortion.

Jake doesn't know tenderness. He knows rage, unbridled desire, the need to burn you whole. His lips slide over your skin with that restrained violence—they nibble, graze, tear like nails scratching the paint on an old electric guitar, the one that still bleeds after every riff.

But his lips don't set the pace. It's his fingers, his two fingers, wide, powerful, almost brutal. They plunge into you without warning, deep, without any gentleness, all the way to your palm. As if he wanted to open you up, to pierce you, to seize your soul as well as your flesh. No caress. Just an unleashing of carnal violence, a desire that isn't bothered by any gentleness.

You scream, a shrill cry that tears everything around you, a high note that bursts into the night. This scream becomes your loudest music, the one you can't hold back, even if you wanted to. And the tears... they fall, slow, betrayed, salty, sliding down your temple, splashing the damp pillow. They are pearls of your pain mixed with your pleasure, drops of a dirty, offered ecstasy.

Jake's raspy breath, his gritted teeth, the dark hunger burning in his eyes—all of it pushes you to the edge, pulls you apart like a drum ready to explode. You're nothing more than a burning sanctuary, an angry volcano ready to spit out your pain and your pleasure, to make you bleed and moan all at once.

His fingers move with infernal, relentless speed, hammering your body in a savage, uncompromising rhythm. You are the snare drum of his drum kit, struck, beaten, broken, vibrating under his domination. Your entire body is a pulse, a fractured beat, a magnificently cruel chaos.

Jake's mouth becomes omnipresent, a hungry beast devouring your quivering skin, tearing at the folds of your flesh, biting at your weakness. He licks, sucks, nibbles with the voracity of a man who hasn't eaten in days, as if plucking the invisible strings of your voice, shattering your screams into distorted pieces.

You are now nothing but a sound—a hoarse breath, a broken cry, a distorted note echoing in the heavy silence of an empty concert hall, abandoned to your fury.

“Cry for me… keep going.” His voice is a sharp blade, a razor gliding across your burning skin. “That’s it. You’re mine. My fucking tragedy.”

You cry, you scream, you moan. You have lost all sense of place, of time, of yourself. You are drowning in the storm he unleashes within you, in this chaos where pain and pleasure mingle mercilessly.

Then the orgasm arrives. Not like a gentle wave. Not like a sliding whisper. No. It's an explosion, a collapse, a total implosion that rips everything apart. Your body twists, tears, consumes itself beneath his ever-present fingers and mouth, merciless, relentless.

You were born for this—to be destroyed, consumed, savagely loved and devoured by Jake. But even at the height of your fall, he doesn't slow down. His tongue scoops up every drop of your juices, every salty tear, every hot ooze from your contracted sex. Jake licks you like drinking a delicious poison, a forbidden secret, a dirty, sweet truth.

Between two hoarse, panting moans, he murmurs:

“This is just the beginning, baby.” His voice is broken, cracked, like a singer who has just given it his all on stage, out of breath, exhausted. “I’m going to make you cry again. Again and again. Until you can’t take it anymore. Until you forget your own name.”

“Take me. Fuck me. Bleed me. But take me, please.”

Your breath is short, broken, charged with this visceral burning that devours you from the inside, this unregulated hunger that shakes your entire body, makes you vibrate like an overtightened guitar string, ready to break in a wild cry. Your clitoris beats, strong, furious, like an overheating engine, inflamed, incandescent, under your trembling fingers. Your pussy, wet, drips, a hot and thick river that flows slowly between your thighs, this shiny and heavy liquid that promises abandonment, fall, loss.

Jake sneers, that harsh, cruel laugh, like a distorted, sharp, raw riff. He hits your pussy with a hard, sharp, precise blow—a brutal smack that makes you jump, an electric shock, a thunderstorm that erupts and shakes you to the roots. Your juices splash against his chin, glistening in the pale reflection of the lamps, and he licks, slowly, with a demented greed, as if you were a black, toxic wine he'd drink down to the last drop. 

“Fuck, you’re disgusting, baby.” He growls, his voice deep and distorted, raspy like a bass rumbling in a concert hall. “You stink of lust, you stink of fucking filth.”

He slides his hand down to his cock, his bare skin glistening in the pale light, rubbing his head against your burning pussy. The burning contact electrifies you, makes you bend, bend again. Your breath quickens, breaks, you feel the cold metal of his piercing against your burning flesh, that cruel and delicious touch tearing your pain into thin strips of acidic pleasure. You bite your lip, holding back a hoarse moan that threatens to escape, to betray you. 

“You like that, huh?” His voice is a sharp whisper, almost mocking. “I knew you’d like it, you dirty little slut. You adore me.”

Jake hits you again, harder, more brutal. His cock bounces, hammering your pussy like a raging drum kit, wild, primal. The rhythm is wild, anarchic, like a guitar solo that races and carries you away into chaos. You moan, hoarse, desperate, completely lost in this tumult of emotions and sensations. Your body becomes the instrument of his violence and tenderness, the stage for a furious concert, and you, the groupie screaming in both pain and pleasure.

Then, without warning, he penetrates you. Dry, hard, tearing you apart with a violent blow, filling you with a tender, savage, and uncompromising brutality. You scream, a heart-rending, raw scream, that primal scream that tears you from yourself, pushes you to the brink of madness. 

Your eyes revolt, rolling back in their sockets as his cruel cock plunges into you, his fiery piercing savagely hitting your walls, making you cry out in pain and desire, like a whip of fire and steel. Every movement of that cold metal against your burning skin opens you, tears you open, expands you in a senseless explosion of pain and pleasure.

“Jake… it feels so good…” You let out his name in a shaky, almost pleading breath, clutching his arm like a lifeline in this destructive whirlwind.

Jake begins to thrust, long, deep, slow, and then brutal, pulling at your pussy like a rope stretched to the limit, each stroke tearing at your body and soul a little more. Your skin folds and tightens, stretching painfully around him, each movement a precise tear, a dull crack. 

You let yourself go, abandoned to these inner turmoil, moaning louder and louder, your voice rising in the echo of the room, rough, animal, marked by suffering and desire.

Jake tilts his head, fixing his black, incandescent gaze on yours. That gaze that marks, that demands, that burns everything in its path. He kisses your chin with a sharp gentleness, his tongue sliding, licking, sucking the fragile skin, then slowly descending to your neck, nibbling with a restrained, precise violence. Each bite is a signature, an indelible scratch on your skin, proof of his cruel and ardent possession.

But he doesn't slow down. His firm, relentless hand, clamped against your hip, holds you there, vulnerable, offered up, like a trophy to his fury. His thrusts intensify, wild, fast, merciless. His piercing slams against the inside of your pussy, each stroke a blade of fire, an electric shock that slowly consumes you, destroys you, rebuilds you. You are annihilated, overwhelmed, lost, invaded by a tide of pain, pleasure, filth, raw passion.

Tears roll down your cheeks, hot, salty, mixed with sweat and unbridled desire. These tears are not of sadness, but of that pure pain, that painful ecstasy that makes you waver, fall, slide between torture and ecstasy. 

You scream, moan, howl, over and over again, lost in the wildness of this moment. Jake crushes you, devours you, possesses you completely. In this electric night, to the wild rhythm of your hoarse breaths and brutal thrusts, you know you'll never want it to end.

"Fuck, I love you." Jake spits the words against your bare skin, his breath rasping, racked with the tension of a singer on the verge of exhaustion, a cry as hollow and broken as a guitar string about to snap, but still holding, burning, vibrant, wild. His acrid breath mixed with the raw smell of sweat and whiskey sticks to your skin, devours you.

His mouth presses into the burning hollow of your neck, and his teeth sink in—not a touch, no, a savage fang that tears at the fragile flesh with an almost bestial voracity. You feel the bite, the metallic taste of blood that invades his mouth as he slides his wet tongue over the wound. The contact is a cruel paradox: burning pain, an incendiary kiss. The trickle of hot blood flows in thick drops, a red trace that marks your skin like a torn score, scratched by madness.

Your scream bursts forth—not just a scream, but a wild, high-pitched, distorted howl that tears through the night and reverberates like the feedback of a raging electric guitar. Your throat burns, your voice cracks with the violence of ecstasy and pain mingled together. 

Your tears well up, hot and salty, falling in a disorderly rain on your trembling cheeks, splashing his hands that hold you. They flow in torrents, ardent witnesses to your exposed vulnerability, your total surrender.

Your sobs break into loud, violent, dissonant gasps, like a chopped, wild, uncontrollable bass riff, in a smoky cellar where bodies vibrate, feverish. This mixture of agony and pleasure devours you entirely, consumes you. The world disappears, only you remain, this tumult, this wild fusion.

Jake doesn't let go, savoring the raw taste of your bitten skin, the bloody bond he's carved into you. His tongue slides, soft and wet, caressing the wound, erasing the pain in a shower of burning, hungry kisses. It's the caress of a guitarist before he shatters his strings, the alternation of sweetness and violence, like a torn melody that haunts.

“I… love you too,” you whisper, fragile and torn, each word exploding between the hoarse moans that shake your body, a dissonant but vibrant chord, saturated with desire, need, dependence.

But there's no rest in this hellish concert. Jake accelerates, intensifies like a crazed drummer hammering his drums in a frantic, chaotic, hypnotic rhythm. His body moves inside you with animal precision, hammering your pussy with deep, brutal, relentless strokes. Each thrust resonates like a wild snare drum hit, a primal beat that both tears and fills.

Your pussy contracts, spasms, wraps itself around him with the violence of a raging bass, vibrating under the fingers of a mad master, in a trance. He pounds you, opens you up, stretches you relentlessly, tears you apart like a riff that races and explodes, without limit, with no way back. You feel every inch, every vibration that resonates in your flesh and your soul.

Then, with a sudden yet tender gesture, he grabs your hands, your wrists, and squeezes them tightly. His fingers intertwine with yours in a powerful, rhythmic, vibrant embrace, like the bass pulsing in a song that's accelerating, building toward climax. Slowly, he lifts your arms above your head, immobilizing you in this sweet captivity, this burning consent to the delicious violence, to the ecstatic pain that consumes you.

He finally kisses you, his lips pressed against yours, delicate at first, almost timid, then the kiss turns wild, a fierce battle between sweetness and rage, a bloody and magnificent battle. His thrusts become languid, almost painful in their intensity, a saturated, incandescent solo. His penetration is a wild symphony of pleasure and violence, each thrust more brutal than the last, making your whole body vibrate, tearing you away from yourself.

You cry. Not out of weakness—on the contrary—these tears are the visceral, raw translation of your ecstasy. They flow, salty, splashing the sweet brutality of this moment. Your sobs tremble in time with his blows, giving your kisses that raw taste, saturated with passion, sadness, possession, and absolute freedom.

You press your lips against his, timidly, as your pussy tightens around him with animal strength, a snake encircling its prey. Your head becomes heavy, foggy, drowned in an electric, sensual mist. Jake slides his tongue into your mouth, playing, teasing, fighting yours in a wild duel, a firework of unleashed emotions and desires.

Then, without warning, you explode—a violent, wrenching, sudden orgasm. You squirt, shaking, burning, your muscles contracting wildly, your body screaming silently into the night. Jake doesn't slow down; he pushes deeper, penetrating you to the very depths of your flesh, to that visceral, wild part of you that only true demons can reach.

Then it comes—long, powerful, a hot, cruel jet that fills you entirely, possessing you in this last act of savagery, this electric, carnal catharsis.

Jake finally stills, his heavy, raspy breaths caressing your burning skin, his loose hands falling on your tired hips. He kisses you tenderly on the forehead, like a leader reassuring his band after the chaos of a wild concert, that cruel gentleness of a man who knows he's left you scarred, broken, whole.

Then he captures your mouth in a deep kiss, sealing this night of brutal ecstasy, dirty love, and wild devotion—like the last note of a song that ends in a heartbreaking scream, a suspended breath, a silence laden with everything that has been burned, broken, given away… and perhaps, reclaimed.

𝘽𝙤𝙣𝙪𝙨 𝙎𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙚 — 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝘽𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙪𝙥 — 𝟭𝟬:𝟱𝟵 𝙋𝙈

The room was full of emptiness. The kind of emptiness that screamed silently, saturated with dried sweat, scents that never leave, and the ghost of his voice. Jake had been gone for weeks. A round. Lights, screams, other cities, other bodies that weren't yours. You were left here. Naked. Alone. Abandoned like a forgotten relic on its altar.

And his guitar, it sat there. Thrown carelessly against the scuffed leather chair. The same one he held like an extension of his body. The one he practically bit on stage, his mouth open as if he were going to swallow it. The one he clutched tighter than he'd clutched you lately.

You approached it like a poorly healed wound—drawn in spite of yourself. Your fingers brushed against the wood burned by tours, worn by adrenaline, arrogance, and sleepless nights. It still smelled of him. The varnish clung a little to your skin, impregnated with the salt of his palms, the heat of his chest, the blood of his concerts. You leaned forward, slowly, as if in a forbidden reverence, and your tongue slid over the edge of the splint. The taste hit you like a memory: iron, salt, sweat—and that dirty, animal smell, Jake's.

You moaned, all alone in the room, like a muffled note on a string. And without meaning to, your finger pressed down on a string. It vibrated. Sharp. Raw. It echoed through the room like a brutal scream, like a taunt. You smiled in spite of yourself. Jake would have given you a mocking look, the bastard. He would have hissed, “That’s not how you play my guitar, baby.” And he would have laughed. You would have hated him for getting you so worked up.

So you sat down slowly, careful to rest the guitar on its side, the strings facing you. You didn't want to break it. Just... use it. Just slide onto it like you would have slid against him. Your hips began to undulate. Slowly. Like a muffled riff. You rubbed your soaking wet sex against the guitar, the strings lightly scraping your skin, clawing at you with desire. The wood creaked beneath you. You moaned louder. You felt him everywhere. Jake. His shadow. His absence.

And you imagined it. His calloused fingers inside you, playing with the same brutality as on stage. His insolent tongue sliding over your stomach. His raspy voice in your ear: “You need me so much that you're playing my guitar, is that it?”

Your fingers gripped your breast. You pinched your nipples angrily. You almost thought you were him—possessive, hungry, animal. Every movement of your pelvis was dirtier than the last. The wood was soaked with you. And you didn't care. You even hoped he'd see it. Come in. Find you there, offered up on his fucking instrument like a demented groupie, like a lover who can't stand loving him anymore.

And Jake came home.

His dusty boots clatter against the floor like a hammer blow to your chest. He says nothing. He looks at you. A gaze that tears, that burns, that condemns. His body is tense like a rope ready to snap, every muscle charged with contained violence.

You feel his desire, his anger, his wild possessiveness, a whole universe of conflicting emotions that engulf you in an instant. You're trapped. Prey ready to be devoured.

He advances, fast, brutal. He rips the guitar from your hands like a piece of flesh. You don't even hear the sound of wood against the wall. All you feel is Jake's presence engulfing you.

His hands grip you, rough, greedy. He pulls you towards him, his breath against your skin like a whiplash. His teeth bite, his fingers tear, his tongue commands and insults.

You scream. You let yourself go. You become his instrument, his wild solo, his animal storm.

Every blow, every bite, every growl is a note in a symphony of violence and raw passion. You are both the stage and the audience, the fire and the ash.

You feel his cock against you, hard, pressing, demanding. He penetrates you with a bestial urgency, each thrust a declaration of war and love. You scream, clinging to him like a lifeline in an ocean of pain.

The walls echo with your screams, your fury, your wild embrace. The music is dead, but you are the noise, the dust, the chaos. A concert ending in an empty room where only the two of you remain, broken and perfect in your filth.

And when he comes, it's a final chord, a last breath before absolute silence.

You're wrecked. You're alive. You're his fucking muse.

PERM TAGLIST: @immelissaaa @rosepetals09 @zhangyi-johee @idkwiexist @aliceskzfan @zhangyi-johee @baifyjakeywifey @hoonsgirlie @cheesecakehoyeon @firstclassjaylee @enchantedcherryblossom @calumspengo @ii2sanrio @synielve @doraemon02

[fancypeacepersona]

DARKLINE

These are not love stories. These are stories of control, of fire, of abandonment.

One for each city. A woman for every flaw.

DARKLINE is a series of four one-shots—four beats, four men, four ways to fall.

Divider by @/bbyg4rlhelps

✧ One-shots :

Nothing but Noise — [Jake | rockstar · London]

She looks at him once. He consumes her forever.

→ [link here] | [teaser] | [moodboard]

Under the Cream, the Fire — [Heeseung | pastry chef · Seoul-Paris]

She thought he was just sugar. She discovered the fire beneath the cream.

→ [link here] | [teaser] | [moodboard]

Frost and Fire — [Sunghoon | Elite lawyer · Tokyo]

The truth burns. So does he.

→ [link here] | [teaser] | [moodboard]

Under Neon Skies — [Jay | DJ underground · Seoul]

He plays for the crowd. But he mixes it.

→ [link here] | [teaser] | [moodboard]

PERM TAGLIST: @immelissaaa @rosepetals09 @zhangyi-johee @idkwiexist @aliceskzfan @zhangyi-johee @baifyjakeywifey @hoonsgirlie @cheesecakehoyeon @firstclassjaylee @enchantedcherryblossom @calumspengo @ii2sanrio @synielve @doraemon02

[fancypeacepersona]

⚔︎ Chapter One: The Longhorn Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Other Tags: Assassin!Taehyung, Assassin!Reader, Assassin!Jimin, Dad!Jimin, Assassin!Yoongi, Gang Leader!Yoongi, Assassin!Namjoon, Swordmaster!Hoseok, Chef!Hoseok, Pimp!Seokjin Genre: Assassins! AU, Exes!AU, Lovers to Enemies, Action, Comedy, Suspense, Martial Arts, Drama, Thriller, Romance (if you squint), Heavy Angst, Violence, Age Gap, 18+ only Word Count: 16.8k+ Summary: A former assassin awakens from a four-year coma after her ex-lover Taehyung tries to kill her on her wedding day. Driven by revenge for the loss of her unborn child and stolen life, she creates a hit list and embarks on a ruthless mission to take down everyone responsible. Warnings: graphic violence, blood, bar fight, underage drinking, drinking under 21, alcoholism, implied child abuse, implied CSA, stabbed by pool cue, hitting with bottles, male/female fight, threats of violence, there's just so much violence in this series, homeless character, food insecurity, murderous thoughts, murderous intent, very strong language, This is the most tame chapter moving forward btw, can only think of one other that's this chill, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: And so it begins... Surprise dropping to celebrate my birthday. Thanks so much for reading!

prev || masterlist || next

The Longhorn didn’t sit so much as it slouched—just off Highway 87, somewhere between Amarillo and Canyon, like a half-dead dog that hadn’t figured out how to lie down properly. It looked slapped together from scrap and bad intentions: walls patched with corrugated tin, tar smeared in ugly gobs over leaky seams, warped boards nailed by someone with more liquor than judgment. The wind didn’t bother whistling here—it groaned, a tired old man dragging chains through its guts. It wasn’t much to look at, not even enough to mock. But it didn’t give a damn. Never had. It was as much a fixture as the sunburnt sky and the stretches of withered land it squatted on. It simply was, and had been long enough that no one could remember a time it wasn’t.

It was July 18th, 1990, and the heat in South Texas had stopped pretending it was part of the weather. It was punishment. The kind of brutal, mind-numbing heat that didn’t beat down on you—it crawled up inside, found the tender spots, and stayed there. The sun poured itself across the land like molten brass, draining the world of color until everything looked cooked. Bone-white sky. Rust-red dirt. Yellow grass scorched to ash. Even the road gave up—blacktop rippling like oil on a skillet, the edges of the highway blurring into a hallucinatory shimmer. The mesquites had folded into themselves, brittle things waiting for death, while the cacti stretched wide and thick, crawling over the far side of the highway.

But the Longhorn didn’t blink. Its porch sagged in the middle like a drunk passed out halfway through a fall, the planks beneath it creaking with each gust of wind. Boards had been replaced without reason or rhythm, patched like wounds with scraps of whatever could be nailed down. The windows weren’t windows anymore, just grimy lies with more filth than glass, fogged over with years of grease and cigarette smoke until they were better at keeping secrets than letting in light. Above the entrance, a twisted chunk of tin swung halfheartedly from rust-choked chains. The lettering—once proud—was chipped to near-oblivion, “The Longhorn” barely decipherable in the right light. Below that, a bleached cow skull dangled crookedly, one horn snapped clean off, the other yellowed and worm-bitten.

But it wasn’t the look of the place that got you—it was the smell. The stink hit you like a sucker punch. Hot grease that had gone sour, diesel baked in the heat, leather soaked in sweat and left to rot. Stale beer that had melted into the wood decades ago and never left. Underneath it all, something sharp and chemical, like industrial cleaner that didn’t clean so much as announce its failure. The kind of stink that settled into your skin, your hair, your lungs—and lingered, no matter how long you scrubbed.

The parking lot was more suggestion than surface—dust, gravel, and spiderweb cracks that split like lightning strikes through dried-out earth. A few trucks sat there like bleached carcasses, sun-blasted and peeling, their windshields so caked in grime they looked frosted over in filth. Heat waves shimmered up off their hoods like steam from a dying engine. The trucks weren’t abandoned, just forgotten for the moment. Their owners were inside, soaking into the shadows, becoming part of the walls, drinking like they didn’t expect the next round to taste any different than the last.

Inside, it wasn’t any cooler. Ceiling fans turned with all the urgency of molasses, creaking like they hated their job. The air moved just enough to spread the heat around evenly. Smoke stains marbled the ceiling, the walls stained a nicotine yellow so deep it looked baked in. Lightbulbs flickered from overhead like they were considering retirement. Everything was faded. Everything was slow. Nothing was clean, and nothing wanted to be.

The air was thick—cigarettes, old beer, something decaying in the background like a warning no one bothered to heed. Something had died back there. Maybe a rat. Maybe something with a name. The jukebox gasped out a tired Waylon Jennings song, skipping and sputtering like it was coughing through the lyrics. It didn’t matter. No one was listening.

Behind the bar stood Ellis Clifton—tall, broad, a man who looked like he’d been built, not born. His skin was burnished bronze, like metal worked under the sun, and his face was stone, still and solid, except for his eyes. Those eyes moved like they had all the time in the world. Ellis didn’t waste words. Ellis talked like molasses ran in his veins, but when he did speak, no one dared interrupt.

The name on the deed belonged to Frank Dickman, but Frank hadn’t been seen in half a decade. Rumor said he’d gone soft in the head, wandering around Sabinal with a Bible and a blank stare. His daughter, Betty Anne, was still figuring out if she wanted to sell the place or just wait for time and termites to do the job for her. Ellis kept it going, because it was the only thing he had ever done well. Before this, he was a ranch hand, and he wasn’t about to go back to chasing cattle and eating dust. Not when he had his boots planted behind a bar that needed him more than anyone else ever had.

The regulars were stitched into the furniture. Ranchers with bark for skin and hands that looked like they’d lost fights with barbed wire. Truckers with road-glazed eyes who stared past everything like they were still watching mile markers flash by. Old rodeo men who still walked with the pain of a thousand falls and wore championship buckles to remember the time when they mattered.

The women were jagged, loud, and weathered by hard years. Lips stained red, lipstick feathering into the cracks at the corners, eyes sharp from squinting through too many lies and cheap sunglasses. They wore jangling bracelets and too much perfume, their laughter hard and half a second too late. Their stories didn’t change either. Same soap-opera misery, same whispered grudges, same bad jokes chewed down to the gristle. The only thing that shifted was who was saying it, and how drunk they were when they did.

Far corner, near the window no one bothered looking through—not because the view was anything special, but because everyone knew better. There was no sign on that booth, no rope to keep people out, no brass plaque to explain its gravity. It didn’t need one. Some places earn their boundaries the hard way. People just knew. That booth belonged to a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard, a man whose silence could clear a room better than a shotgun blast. He didn’t ask for space. He was the space.

Taehyung Kim. That’s what he said when people asked—not that many did. But names in this part of Texas had a way of bending around the truth, and Taehyung collected his share of nicknames like shadows collect dust. The one that stuck was Snake Charmer, whispered more often than spoken, and never, ever said to his face. Juan, his Mexican friend, had been the first to say it out loud—said Taehyung had a way with men, with moods, with danger, like he could whisper something terrible into the world and it would listen. It fit. Not because he looked like a threat—he didn’t—but because that was his trick. Lean and still, calm like dusk before a wildfire, slow like a fuse you don’t see until your eyebrows are already gone. He didn’t look dangerous. And that’s what made him dangerous.

He first rolled into town a decade ago, young enough that he shouldn’t have been drinking, old enough that nobody said shit about it. There was something in his stare—flat, quiet, heavy—that made men older than him reconsider their words and shift their stance. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He just was, like some goddamn force of nature wearing skin. He came and went over the years, like a storm system that couldn’t make up its mind, and every time he came back, someone ended up across from him in that corner booth. They’d talk. Or they wouldn’t. They’d sit for ten minutes, or an hour. Sometimes they walked out together, looking changed in the kind of way that made you wonder if they’d sleep again. Sometimes they didn’t walk out at all. Sometimes their names showed up on the news. Other times, their names just stopped getting said.

When Taehyung came into the Longhorn, the temperature changed. Not the heat—that stayed, clinging to your skin like wet gauze—but the air, the tension, the vibe. It went still, like the room was holding its breath. Voices dipped. Conversations thinned out. People suddenly remembered their drinks were worth studying. No one offered him a beer. No one asked why he was there. He didn’t want company. He didn’t want attention. He wanted the booth. He wanted the door in his line of sight. And he wanted time to tick the way he decided.

That night, he wore black. He always did. A western shirt with thin red piping, neat but lived-in, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the white scar curling like a worm from his wrist to his forearm, and the silver watch that never ticked. His pants were clean, creased like he cared. His boots, scuffed at the heel and toe, looked like they’d seen more road than the trucks out front. On one finger, a turquoise ring; on his pinky, a plain silver band—old, worn smooth, the only thing he still wore from his brother Namjoon, a man who’d once been something before the world took it from him.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance around like he was sizing anyone up. He just sat. Still. Pinned to the leather seat like gravity worked a little harder on him. One hand cradled a glass of scotch, the liquid already gone lukewarm. In front of him, untouched, a shot of tequila. Next to that, a sweating glass of water leaving a wide wet ring on the wood that made his jaw tighten every time he looked at it. He drank slow, if he drank at all. Everything about him was measured.

Above the bar, the clock was lying again. It always had. Plastic molded to look like brass, hung crooked since ’78 when Ellis put it up and never bothered to fix it. The second hand twitched every few ticks like it had arthritis. The minute hand sagged like it knew it was running late. But Taehyung didn’t look at it. He didn’t need to. He knew. The kid was ten minutes late. Exactly ten. Not enough to make it personal yet, but enough to speak volumes.

Tardiness wasn’t neutral in his world. It was communication. A statement. It said something about respect, or the lack of it. It said something about fear, or its absence. Being late meant one of two things: you didn’t understand what you were walking into, or you did—and didn’t care. Either way, it wasn’t smart. Not with him. Once, maybe, Taehyung might’ve let that kind of thing slide. Back when he still believed in second chances and the redemptive power of mercy. But that man burned out somewhere far from here, in some booth like this one, in a town that doesn’t get mentioned anymore.

He moved, just a little—so little it could be missed if you weren’t watching close. His right boot creaked as it dragged an inch forward. His knee bent slightly. A casual observer might call it relaxed. But they’d be wrong. Taehyung didn’t relax. He readjusted. He calibrated. He made the necessary shifts to maintain control. The scotch caught the yellow light overhead, glowed like old honey, and stayed in his hand as if the feel of it mattered more than the drink itself. The ring from the water glass kept spreading, a slow, wet insult he couldn’t stop seeing.

The ceiling fans above groaned in their lazy, lopsided circles, stirring the same stale cocktail of cigarette smoke, hot breath, and old secrets that had been hanging in the Longhorn since the '70s. The air moved, but it didn’t get better. Voices still murmured in pockets around the bar, but they came out slower now, hushed and cautious, like the words were watching their own backs.

Taehyung’s eyes moved through the room with that slow, sweeping stillness of someone who never looked rushed but missed nothing. He saw the guy at the bar, the one with the nervous lighter—snap, flick, snap, again and again. He saw the woman across the way tapping her fingers on the tabletop in a rhythm that didn’t match her mouth. And he saw the two brothers hunched in the back booth, not speaking but clearly angry at each other—one of them slamming his boot against the floor just a bit too hard, making sure the other felt it. Taehyung didn’t need to hear what any of them were saying. Bodies always spoke louder than mouths.

He’d given the kid twenty minutes. That was the unspoken line in the sand. Not a rule—those were too flexible. Anyone worth meeting knew better than to cross it. Show up too late, and it wasn’t a mistake—it was a message. It meant you thought you could get away with it. It meant you thought you had leverage. At twelve minutes past, Taehyung began tapping his thumb against the side of his glass. His patience was wearing thin.

Then the cowbell above the door gave out its signature death rattle—dry, cracked metal on wire, like bones tumbling inside a soup can. It had sounded sick for decades. No one remembered the last time it rang clean. Still, it worked. The room reacted as one—spines stiffened, mouths shut mid-sentence, a card half-drawn from a deck froze like it was afraid of the outcome. Forks hovered, cigarettes paused just short of lips. Heads turned slow, like livestock catching a scent they didn’t like. First the men, instinctive, sizing up whatever was coming through that door. Then the women, slower, more surgical. Women at the Longhorn had learned early the difference between looking and being looked at. One was defense. The other, liability.

Standing there was a girl.

She stood in the doorway like a dropped match—small, sharp, a flicker of something that might catch fire if given the right wind. Maybe eighteen. Maybe younger. Hard to tell through the grime and the glare of the beer sign behind her, lighting her up in flickering blue like a ghost in a neon fog. One foot inside, one out, caught in that thin moment between flight and arrival. She looked like the road had tried to eat her and only half succeeded. Her blue hoodie hung loose and sun-faded, collar stained with sweat and something darker. Sleeves shoved up past the elbow, arms streaked with dirt, maybe blood. Hair yanked back with a shoelace. Clothes clung to her wrong—too tight where they shouldn't be, too loose where it mattered. Jeans torn and dragging. One boot held together with duct tape, the other torn up and covered in mud. A duffel hung off one shoulder, canvas worn to threads, the strap frayed like a wound that wouldn’t close.

She stepped inside. The door swung shut behind her with a groan that matched the floorboards swallowing her footsteps. The temperature didn’t change, but the air did. Taehyung smelled her before she got halfway to the bar—hot pavement, bad gas station coffee, motel shampoo, and the ghost of somewhere worse. She didn’t drop her gaze. She scanned the room with the kind of look that had nothing to do with hope and everything to do with survival. She wasn’t looking for help. She was counting exits. Taking stock of threats. Her eyes swept past the men and women and smoke without sticking. Not even the ones who leaned a little forward, trying to catch her eye like a hook.

Near the jukebox, an old-timer—face cratered like a busted moon, grin decades past its expiration date—gave her a smile he probably thought was charming. She didn’t blink. She didn’t stop. She moved through the Longhorn like a needle through old leather—clean line, no hesitation. Straight toward the bar.

The duffel hit the wood with a thud that turned heads. Ellis Clifton, mid-pour, froze. The whiskey overflowed, a thin trail running down the side of the glass, pooling at his fingers. He didn’t move. Just watched her. He didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. She climbed onto the barstool without looking around, folding in on herself. Elbows on the bar, shoulders hunched, eyes down just enough to make herself smaller. Anyone with eyes could see the girl did not want to be noticed.

But the Longhorn didn’t let things slide past unnoticed. Not when they walked in like they were dragging ghosts behind them. The place remembered. Not in a conscious way—no scribbled notes or whispering walls. Just something quieter. A sense that it was all being filed away somewhere under the floorboards.

Taehyung still hadn’t moved. The scotch sat beneath his hand, glass fogged with sweat, the warmth of his skin still sinking through it. He wasn’t staring—nothing that crude—but his attention had tilted. His eyes tracked her the way a hunter watches the wind. Not locked, but fixed all the same. Still as stone, still as shadow. He hadn’t twitched. Hadn’t even adjusted his seat.

She wasn’t the one he was here for. That part was obvious. But there was something about her—something that stepped outside the lines. The way she moved. The way she held space like she didn’t need permission. She didn’t look around, didn’t perform for the room. She sat like she was casing the joint without trying. And that, more than anything, snagged his interest.

She was cute, sure. He could admit that to himself. Had the kind of look that might’ve turned his head a few years back—too young to carry the weight she wore, too old in the eyes to pretend she didn’t. But Taehyung wasn’t twenty anymore. He didn’t chase pretty. He didn’t chase anything. Not unless it bled.

If this were another life, another night, maybe he’d have stood. Maybe he’d have crossed the floor and offered a drink she didn’t ask for. But not tonight. Tonight he was here on business. And something told him that if he so much as sat too close, the girl would gut him with her eyes before she even thought to reach for a weapon.

Still, he didn’t look away.

Two stools down, Waylon Cordell stirred—if you could call it that. He moved like something arthritic and forgotten. Waylon had been part of the Longhorn longer than the termites. He was the living, breathing equivalent of a beer stain—permanent, unpleasant, impossible to scrub out. His gut hung heavy over his belt, his scalp patchy like peeling wallpaper. Red veins mapped across his cheeks, skin shining with the wet gloss of cheap bourbon and cheaper regrets. He turned his head toward her like it took effort and leaned in.

“Well now,” Waylon said, his voice dragging the syllables like they were coated in syrup, thick with phlegm and the kind of back-bar bourbon that didn’t burn clean. “Ain’t you somethin’. Let me buy you a drink, sugar.” 

His grin came apart in real time—one side curling around a yellow tooth that didn’t quite fit, the other hanging slack beneath a sagging eye that always seemed a second behind the rest of his face. Whatever charm he thought he still carried had long since expired, dead and buried in the same dirt as his last three marriages and any self-respect he might’ve once owned. He dropped his elbow to the bar with the, leaned in heavy, dragging the reek of sweat, sour booze, and hopeless years into the space between them. He didn’t move his feet. Didn’t ask permission. Just inserted himself, claimed the air she was breathing like he was entitled to it.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shrink or shift or shy away. Just turned her head toward him with that same mechanical smoothness she’d used at the door. Her eyes met his, and in them was no fear, no discomfort—just a kind of quiet, calculating clarity. Like she was already writing him into the margins of a plan, mapping his bulk, his range, how long it would take to move if she had to.

Then she smiled.

It wasn’t the kind of smile you returned. It wasn’t warm, or soft, or anything close to an invitation. It was a ghost of something long dead, summoned up like muscle memory, a reflex fired off from somewhere deep beneath the hard-set lines of her face. But it changed her. Briefly. Like stormlight cutting through clouds—quick, sharp, gone. Behind the grime and road-dust, underneath the brittle tension of her jaw, something softened. And in that blink of surrender, there was the faint suggestion of who she might’ve been once. Not innocent, not untouched, but maybe not always carved out of survival. Maybe, a long time ago, before the bruises learned how to fade faster than the memories, before silence became sharper than screaming—maybe she had known softness. Maybe it had been stolen. Maybe she had given it up. Either way, what remained now was just the echo.

Taehyung saw it. That flicker. That shape her mouth made and how it changed everything about her face for half a second. Her usual edge—tight, defensive, braced for impact—smoothed out just long enough to show the shape of the weapon beneath it. Not innocence, no. But the memory of it. And it struck him then, unexpected and uninvited, that she was beautiful.

“Hello,” she said, voice rough like gravel under a tire, worn thin but steady.

Waylon’s grin widened. Too drunk to notice the razor behind her calm. Too slow to see the trap already set. He leaned closer, his gaze already drifting lower like gravity was dragging his thoughts down with it. He didn’t see the way her jaw tightened beneath that smile. Didn’t see how her hand hovered just above the bar. He was the kind of man who’d spent his life mistaking survival tactics for flirtation. The dumb ones always did. The dangerous ones, too. Waylon managed to be both in the same breath.

At the other end of the bar, Ellis Clifton set a bottle down with a dull, deliberate thud. Heads turned. Cards paused. Dice sat still where they landed. Even the jukebox, halfway between songs, gave up and went quiet.

Waylon hesitated. He blinked—slow, wet, and confused—then turned, sluggish, toward the source of the weight pressing against him.

Ellis didn’t speak at first. Just kept wiping that same glass, slow circles etched into the shape of habit and second chances. His hand moved like it had its own memory, but his eyes—they were locked on the girl now. Steady, thoughtful, drawn not to the bruises or the grime but to the way she held herself. Too still. Too deliberate. It wasn’t the kind of stillness you get from fear. It was the kind of stillness you get when the walls are already closing in and you’re figuring out which one to punch through. She looked too young, sure, but not in the skin—that could lie, caked in dust and road-sharp edges—but in the way her shoulders carried weight like they’d been braced since childhood. In the way her gaze scanned the bar without moving her head. In the way she sat like a chair might break beneath her or turn into a weapon. She didn’t belong here. She belonged somewhere with clean sheets, central air, warm coffee, and the kind of silence that wasn’t earned through violence. But Ellis had been in the Longhorn long enough to know what belonged didn’t always get to stay.

His wife used to look like that. Back when they were seventeen and something in her flinched when people got too close. It had taken months to get her to stop checking every door twice. Years before she stopped tensing at raised voices. And here was this kid—this dusty, carved-up girl—carrying that same silent alarm in her bones. Ellis knew the type. Knew what they needed, too. And he knew Waylon Cordell even better. Knew that slow, boiling temper that made every room a match waiting for a spark. He didn’t want to scrape anyone off the floor tonight, least of all a girl who’d already survived more than Waylon ever could.

“Ma’am,” Ellis said, voice cut low and flat, a sound with weight. “Gonna need to see some ID.”

She turned toward him like she was moving through water. No twitch. No panic. Just that careful stillness again. Her movements weren’t slow because she was afraid—they were slow because fast meant fear, and fear drew predators. She turned like someone who’d been prey before and knew speed didn’t save you. Her eyes opened a little wider, just enough to read innocent if you weren’t paying attention. Her mouth parted like a lie was about to fall out, soft and practiced. Then came the mask. That fragile, feminine tilt of the head. The breath caught just short of trembling. The helpless look girls wear when they’ve been taught that survival depends on making other people feel needed.

But Ellis saw through it. Not because she was bad at it—hell, she was damn good—but because he’d seen it too many times. That wasn’t fear, not really. That was muscle memory. That was calculation. She wasn’t scrambling—she was adjusting. Choosing a different play from the same worn book. Not a girl bluffing her way out. A girl trained to weigh every angle. And that meant something—something important.

Taehyung hadn’t moved from his booth. Still leaned back, fingers loose on the scotch glass, the tip of his thumb resting just above the base like a conductor holding time. His body gave nothing away, all muscle memory and quiet patience—but something inside him had shifted. Subtle. Mechanical. Like a camera lens narrowing its aperture. Not interest. Not pity. Focus. He was reading her now. Parsing her choices, her posture. The smile that lived only in her mouth and never touched her eyes. The angle of her shoulders. The refusal to give Waylon the full turn of her body. She wasn’t playing the scared girl—she was playing the smart one. She’d picked Waylon because she knew exactly what to expect. Not safety. Predictability. That made her dangerous. Taehyung had seen it before—in cold basements, strobe-lit clubs, and safehouses where nothing was safe. This girl didn’t flinch. She calculated.

Maybe the scene would’ve held. The fragile balance. The illusion of harmless tension. Maybe she could’ve kept Waylon strung out on his own assumptions for another few minutes—long enough to slip the hook. But then Waylon slapped the bar.

It came down like a wet slap to the face of the room. Loud. Crude. Designed to be heard, to remind everyone that Waylon Cordell still thought he mattered. The wood rattled under his palm, sticky with decades of spilled liquor and sweat. His grin curled into something rotten.

“Come on, Ellis,” he slurred, words dragging behind the bourbon. “She’s with me. My treat. You know how it is.”

Ellis didn’t answer right away. But the Longhorn did.

A pool cue hit its slot like a bullet casing. Chairs shifted as boots planted. Someone near the back put down his fork like he’d lost his appetite. And the jukebox—already half-dead—gave up the ghost completely. The only thing moving was Ellis’s rag, slow as ever, like he hadn’t heard a thing. But his jaw was set now. Shoulders tight under that oil-stained flannel. He was calculating too, same as her, just older. More tired.

“Rules are rules,” Ellis said finally, and the grit in his voice scratched like sandpaper on steel. “I ain’t gettin’ caught up with the law for ya, Mr. Cordell.”

Waylon blinked. His face twitched like a computer error—couldn’t process. He didn’t get it. Couldn’t. He’d coasted through life like a dull knife, cutting nothing clean but always expecting someone else to do the sharpening.

“What the hell you talkin’ about?” Waylon said. “Since when do you care about IDs, huh? You served that kid from Tatum Creek with the busted nose and no shoes.”

“That kid,” Ellis said, folding the rag and setting it down like punctuation, “was sixteen, scared, and left me a ten-dollar tip. He didn’t grab no one, and he didn’t act like the place owed him a favor. He drank his Coke and walked out. You?” He leaned in, voice lowering. “You’re a liability with a mouth.”

Taehyung’s glass tapped the wood. Once. Then again. Then a third time. Not a threat. Not a countdown. Just the sound of time thickening.

The Longhorn knew tension the way a dog knows storms. Not through the sky, but through the bones. And this storm was coming in close. People could feel it. You didn’t need a forecast when your teeth ached and the floor started to hum.

Y/N felt it too. Not fear—she’d buried that years ago, left it behind with the taste of metal and the sound of sirens. This was a different sensation. A shift. A recalibration. Like gravity had tilted and her center of balance had moved with it. Her spine lengthened. Her breath slowed. Hands flat on the bar, elbows loose, body not braced but prepared.

Waylon didn’t see it. Couldn’t. Still too soaked in his own sweat and stale ego. He leaned in again, breath thick with smoke and sour mash, thinking he was about to get what he wanted.

“C’mon, Ellis,” he tried again, voice fraying. “Me and the little lady—hell, we might even—”

Taehyung looked up.

Nothing moved on his face. No twitch. No warning. But his eyes—those eyes—cut through the noise like a scalpel. Cold. Clean. He didn’t see a bar. He saw math. Angles. Time. She wasn’t waiting to be saved. She was waiting to move. He’d seen it before—in Havana, in Marseilles, in motel bathtubs under red lights. This wasn’t a girl in trouble. This was a weapon not yet drawn.

Waylon slapped the bar again—this time with the weight of someone used to getting his way. The sound cracked, louder now. Ugly.

“Just give me the fuckin’ drink, Ellis!” His voice was breaking. “I’ll deal with her if she gets too frisky.”

Everything stopped. The room exhaled into silence. The pool table held its breath mid-break. Dice stayed in stasis, fingertips still curled around them like they were sacred. The men in the booths, who’d been half-watching with the passive attention of wolves pretending to nap, turned fully now. One of them, eyes shaded by a trucker cap that hadn’t been clean since the Clinton years, let out a slow whistle between his teeth. Another—older, lean, hollowed out by desert years and harder work—shifted just enough for the glint of metal on his hip to catch the light. No one made a move, but the bar had already turned.

Ellis didn’t blink. His hand, once circling the same glass like a man scrubbing his conscience, froze flat against the wood. Not clenched. Not flexed. Just still. And that stillness held something heavier than sound.

“Say that again,” he said, voice soft as worn gravel. “So I can make sure I heard it right.”

Waylon blinked slow, like his brain was swimming through bourbon. His eyes darted from face to face, expecting support, finding none. Even the jukebox had abandoned him—still stuck in its own silence like it didn’t want to be part of what came next.

“I didn’t mean nothin’,” he muttered, all that confidence leaking out through the cracks in his tone.

“You never do,” Ellis replied. “That’s the problem.”

Y/N shifted. Subtle. Not a flinch—she didn’t flinch. Just realigned. Like a hinge settling into place. Chin up. Shoulders squared. Not tensed. Not bracing. Ready. Her hands didn’t tremble. They waited. And that waiting felt louder than any threat Waylon had ever heard.

Ellis drew a breath. Long. Deep. It tasted like smoke, dust, and hard choices. He let it out like a man resigning himself to a job no one else would do. His eyes closed—not out of fear, not weariness. He’d seen this before. Hell, he’d lived through it. Too many bars. Too many girls. Too many Waylons who didn’t know when they were one bad sentence away from being a headline.

He thought about his Tina. Before she stopped twitching. Before Ellis learned how to speak without volume. That memory, tight and uninvited, rose in his throat like smoke from a backdraft. He looked at the girl again—at the weight behind her stillness, the gaunt sharpness in her cheekbones, the grit pressed into the corners of her mouth—and he knew. She hadn’t eaten in a day. Maybe longer. Probably hadn’t had clean water either.

So Ellis reached for the bottle.

The shot hit the wood with a low scrape. He slid it to her without flourish. With his other hand, he reached under the bar, pulled out a chipped glass, and filled it with cold water from the gun and set it beside the shot.

She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t nod. Just kept her eyes locked on Waylon like she was watching a rabid dog decide whether to bark or bite.

Waylon, still drunk on ego and sour mash, saw the drink and mistook it for victory. He grinned, sloppy and wide, and grabbed the bottle like a trophy. Sloshed it over the lip of a knocked-over coaster and settled into the stool beside her with all the grace of a landslide.

“So,” he slurred, sliding closer, breath hot and damp, “what brings you ’round these parts?”

She turned.

“I’ve had a shitty few years,” she said. Her voice didn’t tremble. It carried the weight of every night she hadn’t slept, every bruise she’d earned, every hallway she’d walked where the floor threatened to fall out from under her.

Waylon laughed. That stupid, wet, snorting kind of laugh that men like him thought counted as charm. “Shit, girl. Welcome to the club.”

She didn’t respond. Just watched him like he was weather.

Ellis slid the shot glass again. Louder this time. A knock, not a suggestion. Like a judge tapping the gavel and daring the room to argue. Waylon reached out to pour himself another, but his hand missed the mark. Liquor sloshed across the bar and down the front of his shirt. He didn’t notice. Didn’t care. Just pushed the bottle toward her like it was a gift, like this was his moment.

“To you, sweetheart,” he said.

She didn’t toast. Didn’t look at him. She took the bottle with calm, calloused hands, poured a clean shot, and knocked it back like she’d done it a hundred times. No wince. No fanfare. She set the glass down like punctuation.

Then she reached for the water. Held it in both hands for a beat too long. Looked at it not like she was thirsty, but like someone who hadn’t been allowed to need anything in a long time. Like the glass itself meant something more than hydration. She drank it slow. Not cautious—deliberate. Like her body knew this was the only clean thing that might touch her that night. Every swallow quiet, drawn out, reverent.

Behind the bar, Ellis watched her the way a man watches a candle burning too close to a curtain—nervous, conflicted, unable to look away. His jaw was tight, stomach turning slow and steady like gears in an old clock. He’d seen plenty walk through the Longhorn who didn’t belong, but none quite like this. She didn’t need help. That much was clear. But she hadn’t eaten. Probably hadn’t slept either. And Ellis had the sick feeling that if he didn’t give her something tonight—one small kindness—she might not live long enough to ever ask again.

So when Waylon reached for the bottle again with all the grace of a drunk reaching for relevance, her hand was already there. Calm. Still. But firm—an unspoken line drawn across the bar. She didn’t yank it back. Didn’t push him away. Just stopped him, expression unreadable.

“Appreciate the drink,” she said, voice flat.

Then she stood. Boots hit the floor like punctuation, heavy and grounded. She didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. The bottle hung loose in her hand, balanced perfectly. She was almost to the door, nearly free of the moment, when the word came flying at her—petty and sharp and desperate.

“Bitch.”

She didn’t stop. Just tilted her head a little, like a dog catching a new scent. Her shoulders shifted, subtle and slow.

Thick fingers—greasy, unsteady—wrapped around her wrist with a sloppy kind of force. Her arm jerked, not from the pressure, but from the audacity of it. She froze. Not in panic—but with a focus that came from somewhere far worse than fear. Her breath slowed, her jaw locked, her shoulders squared. Every inch of her body had gone still in that dangerous way predators do just before they strike.

From the booth, Taehyung tapped his glass and watched.

Waylon leaned closer, breath sour with booze and rot. “No way you walk out with that bottle,” he muttered. “Not without givin’ me something.” His grip tightened. His thumb dug in. His other hand found her waist, fingers clumsy and sliding.

“You came in lookin’ for trouble,” he said, thick and breathless. “Guess you found it.”

Her knee came up in a blur—fast, brutal, and perfectly placed. It slammed into his gut just beneath the ribs with a sick thud. His breath left him in a choked grunt, spit trailing from his lips. He bent forward like a folding chair. Before he could even process the pain, her fist followed. Hard and clean, it cracked across his face with a sound that turned heads—sharp and wet. His cheekbone lit up like a struck match, and his nose exploded in a rush of red that painted his chin and shirt.

He staggered, blinking stupidly, hands to his face—not to protect, but to understand. He clipped the edge of a stool, lost balance, and hit the floor hard, knocking the wind out of himself in a grunt that silenced what little noise had been left in the room.

She stood over him, unmoved. Her breathing was calm, her stance balanced. Blood dripped from her knuckles in slow, thick drops. The bottle still hung in her hand, not raised, just present. She didn’t speak. Didn’t make a show of it. She just watched him writhe, one leg kicking against the sticky floor, face smeared red, groaning like he couldn’t figure out how things had turned. She waited. Not for applause. Not for backup. Just to see if he’d try again.

In the booth, Taehyung leaned forward. Slow. His elbow slid across the worn surface, casting a flicker of green from the neon sign across his forearm. His eyes tracked her movements—posture, grip, breath. He wasn’t surprised. There was no awe in his gaze. Just understanding. Like he’d seen this before. Like he knew exactly what kind of history shapes that kind of silence.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t gloat. Waylon whimpered—small, pathetic, a broken noise that crawled out of him like a surrender. She gave him a slight nod. Barely a tilt of her chin. That’s enough.

Then she turned.

The bottle swung gently at her side, catching slices of fractured light from the buzzing sign overhead. She didn’t step over him. She stepped around him—like you would a puddle of something you didn’t want to track through the house. Her walk didn’t change. Her pace didn’t rush. It was the walk of someone who knew this was done. Over. Handled.

She passed the bar like a ghost that bled warmth on contact, dragging silence behind her. Ellis hadn’t moved since the shot hit the counter—still as driftwood in a tide he knew better than to fight. The regulars stayed rooted to their stools, eyes following her like they were afraid to admit they were watching. No muttering, no whispers, no shift of cards or low jokes. The Longhorn had gone dead quiet, as if the bar itself held its breath. Her boots thudded soft and steady against warped floorboards, each step deliberate. Her shadow stretched long behind her, thin and sharp across blood, tile, and cracked linoleum. The jukebox stuttered, caught in the throat between tracks. A neon sign near the door fizzed once—bright blue, then nothing. It popped and died with the faint sigh of something old giving up.

Waylon coughed. The sound shattered the tension, sliced through the hush like a beer bottle through a windshield. 

“You fuckin’ cunt!” he barked, voice shrill and breaking, ugly with rage. 

He rose in a flurry of blood and slick hands, using the bar to haul his weight up, knocking a stool out of the way with a violent scrape. He stood swaying, shirt half untucked, breath snarling out of his busted nose. Red smeared his chin. The room didn’t move. No one intervened. Ellis didn’t twitch. The towel in his hand hung limp now, soaked and forgotten. His face stayed locked in that same blank calm that only came from long exposure to hopeless things.

Taehyung was no longer lounging. The slow, silent watcher had shifted. Elbows on the table, shoulders forward, posture coiled. His eyes had changed—no longer curious, no longer detached. He wasn’t watching a girl anymore. He was watching potential.

Waylon didn’t see it. He never had. All he saw was blood on his shirt and laughter in his head that wasn’t real. He saw mockery. He saw her walking away. He lunged.

He grabbed her arm and yanked hard. Her boots slipped on the slick spill of liquor. She hit the ground on her knees, the breath punched out of her with a sharp gasp between clenched teeth. He loomed over her, reeking of fury and rot, his breath hot on her ear. “Come back here, bitch,” he hissed, voice thick and low. “I ain’t done—” His hand clawed at her shirt, and that’s when the bottle moved.

She didn’t hesitate. Her grip shifted and the glass cracked down across his wrist. Bone met glass. Glass won. Waylon howled and stumbled, clutching his arm, face twisted in shock and pain.

She was on her feet before the noise finished echoing. Two sharp breaths, two quick steps, and she vanished into the shadows past the pool tables, disappearing into the darker end of the Longhorn, where the lights were low and neon signs barely clung to life. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. The rage behind her boiled like oil on flame. The heat of it rose off the ground. Taehyung tracked every step. His body looked relaxed, one arm casually stretched across the booth like he was just another drinker killing time—but the lie stopped at the shoulders. His eyes had never left her. Not since the door. Not since the first shot. Not since the moment she dropped Waylon like a sack of potatoes.

It wasn’t beauty that caught him. It wasn’t even her power. It was her usefulness. She moved like a weapon. There was no panic in her steps. No hesitation. She was the kind of woman who wouldn’t ask what the job meant, only what it required. Taehyung had seen men like that. Rarely women. Rarer still with that kind of calm.

Then Waylon screamed.

“COME HERE!”

It sounded broken. More animal than man. All throat, no thought. Chairs scraped out of his way as he stomped forward, boots slick with liquor and blood. Glass crunched beneath his soles. He shoved tables, knocked over a barstool. The Longhorn didn’t move to stop him. No one did. Not Ellis. Not the regulars. Not Taehyung. The air pulled back. The room tightened, bracing.

She reached for a pool cue, her eyes squinting as the older man ran at her.

The sound it made—when it cracked across the side of Waylon’s skull—was almost too clean. Like a piece of wood splitting in winter air. He froze. Eyes wide, mouth open, confusion replacing fury. Then he buckled, knees giving way beneath him. He dropped, landing with a weighty thud that shook the floor.

She stood over him, cue in hand, breathing slow and even. Her grip didn’t loosen. Her feet stayed planted. Taehyung never blinked.

Waylon laughed. It was a thin, sick sound—somewhere between a wheeze and a sob. “You gotta be shittin’ me…”

She didn’t wait. The second swing was harder, sharper. She brought her full weight behind it, the cue slamming down across his arm. Wood cracked. The stick flew from her hands and clattered across the floor into the dark, out of reach.

Waylon howled, not from shock this time, but real pain. Raw, honest agony.

“I’m done with this!” he bellowed.

Waylon went for her again, and their bodies slammed into each other. Her shoulder hit the ground first, then his elbow cracked against a chair leg. They rolled in a tangle of limbs. 

A pool ball knocked free and danced across the tile. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then still.

The cue splintered beneath them—wood snapping, splinters flying. He landed on top, breath hot and ragged. His knee jammed into her hip. An elbow ground into her shoulder. His face hovered inches from hers, twisted in fury, mouth a stink of blood and whiskey.

She didn’t scream. Her knee drove up into his gut. He gagged.

She shoved hard, rolled, scrambled. Now she was on top, one hand pressed to his chest, the other gripping a jagged shard of cue stick, holding it just above his throat—close. Not touching. But the threat was unmistakable.

Her face was a mask of bruises and blood. Her lip was split, one eye starting to swell. Hair stuck to her face. But her eyes stayed cold. Focused. She didn’t blink.

“You shouldn’t’ve called me a cunt,” she said, voice flat.

Waylon spat, blood streaking down her boot. He grinned through it. “Not rude if it’s true. You ain’t tough. You ain’t nothin’.”

His hand shot up, gnarled and fast, tangling deep in her hair and yanking like he was trying to rip the past out of her skull. Her head snapped back with a raw, guttural sound—part pain, part rage—body jerking with the sudden violence. Her grip slipped, control blinking out like a lightbulb catching a surge. His boot lifted and struck her in the ribs with its heel. She flew, weightless for a half-second, then crashed shoulder-first into the floor with a fleshy thud. The breath was torn from her lungs, her back arched, her mouth filled with the sharp copper burn of blood. For a second, everything tilted. Ceiling lights swam above her, distant and warped, the world yawning sideways.

But she got up.

Waylon tried to rise too, but his knees weren’t listening. He pushed up and swayed, arms shaking, breath like steam escaping a cracked pipe. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat and blood and whatever fight was left. He stood there, trying to remember how to be a man again, trying to pretend he had control. But it was all gone.

Across the bar, Taehyung sat motionless. One hand near his untouched glass. Posture loose but unreadable, all shadows and stillness. But his eyes told the truth. They hadn't moved since the first punch. He wasn’t watching a bar fight anymore—he was watching a test unfold, watching a decision unravel in blood and breath. Not judging. Not intervening. Just witnessing.

Waylon reached for a stool.

His fingers curled around the seat, knuckles red, blood-slicked. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth creaked. His shoulders twitched. He lifted the stool overhead, wobbling under the weight of it. His eyes were wild now, unfocused, the way animals look when cornered. His breath came short and shallow.

“COME ON, BITCH!” he roared. “Let’s see that kung fu shit again!”

He swung.

She dropped. Just folded like a hinge. The stool arced wide, missed by inches, and exploded against the wall behind her. The impact cracked plaster, sent wood flying. A shard spun into the jukebox. The beer sign sparked once, then fizzled out with a soft hiss. And she was already moving.

One sharp pivot. Her boot snapped sideways, low and fast, catching the broken stool still clutched in Waylon’s hand. It knocked it loose, sent it spinning across the floor, where it skittered under the jukebox with a shriek of metal and wood.

Waylon howled and charged. He didn’t think. His hand found her wrist. Yanked hard. And that was it.

The broken cue still in her other hand came up fast. She didn’t swing. She drove it straight into his arm, just above the elbow. There was a sound—wet, wrong, thick with resistance. Muscle splitting, cartilage groaning. Blood sprayed, bright and sudden, like something had burst.

Waylon froze. Mouth open. Silent. Then the scream hit, all at once—high, raw, animal. It tore from his throat like something alive. Blood gushed from the wound, hot and red, speckling her shirt, her arms, her face. It soaked into denim, streaked across skin. She didn’t flinch. She stepped in closer.

Her hand pressed against the base of the cue, and she shoved. It slid deeper. Flesh parted. Waylon’s eyes went glassy, knees wobbling. One hand tried to find the shaft, clawing at it like it might disappear. The other flailed, seeking purchase on nothing.

She dropped to one knee beside him, quiet, smooth, no wasted motion. Her knee pressed into his ribs, pinning him. One hand braced the cue, the other hovered above his chest like a promise. Her face was close—calm, blank, surgical.

When she spoke, her voice was low, carved from something old and cold. “You’re right,” she said, no tremble in her tone. “I am a cunt.”

A drop of blood fell from her hand, landing on the pale fabric of his shirt.

“But you were still rude.”

Her palm settled gently on his chest, the cue trembling faintly between them. She didn’t press. Everyone in that bar knew if she leaned in, he wouldn’t get up.

Then a voice cut the silence, low and deliberate. Smooth like oil, sharp like broken glass. “Some people,” it said, “aren’t worth killing for free.”

Her hand didn’t move, but her head turned. She stayed crouched over Waylon’s broken body, jeans soaked at the hem, shirt clinging to sweat and blood, arms streaked with bruises that hadn’t even started to bloom yet. Her lip bled in a slow trickle down her chin. Hair stuck to the sides of her face.

The low light from the busted sign caught her face as Taehyung stepped into view. She looked up at him. When he knelt beside her, his shadow stretched long and heavy across Waylon’s broken form, swallowing him up in its blackness. He reached out his hand, offering it to the girl. His fingers brushed over hers. She hadn’t even realized how hard she’d been holding onto the cue until his warmth broke through it. Her knuckles were white, her hand rigid. He didn’t try to take it. It was then that Y/N realized exactly what she was about to do.

The broken cue slipped from her grip, falling with a dull clink to the floor, spinning once before settling in a patch of blood. Taehyung didn’t pull his hand away. She met his gaze.

There was no softness there, no patronizing comfort, but no judgment either. His eyes held something that she sometimes saw when she looked into the mirror. He gave her the faintest smile, so slight it barely existed.

“Take my word for it,” he said, voice low, calm, firm in that way only truth could be. “He’s not worth it.”

She didn’t respond, but her breath shifted—slower now, more controlled. Her shoulders dropped the tiniest amount. Behind them, Waylon whimpered.

It was a pathetic, high-pitched sound, too soft for a man his size. He clutched his arm with both hands, blood pumping down his side in thick pulses, soaking his shirt, pooling beneath him. 

“She... she was gonna kill me,” he stammered, voice full of disbelief, wet with panic. “Jesus, man... if you hadn’t—if you hadn’t showed up—” He coughed, deep and rattling, like something was trying to crawl out of his chest. “You’re a... a fuckin’ lifesaver.”

Taehyung looked at him. “Leave.”

Waylon nodded, jerking his head like a puppet with frayed strings. He moved to push himself up, grunting with effort, face twisting with each inch like his body hated him for trying. He reached for a stool, missed, cursed, then tried again. No one helped. No one moved. He didn’t look at her, but he made the mistake of glancing at Taehyung.

Whatever he saw there cut straight through him. His eyes dropped fast, shame folding him in half. He turned and staggered toward the door, one hand clamped to his ruined arm, the other dragging along the wall. A dark trail followed him—thick, uneven smears of blood across the wood that would stain. The cowbell gave one half-hearted jingle. The hinges moaned. The door slammed behind him as he left.

Behind the bar, Ellis gripped the sink like it was all that kept him upright. The towel in his other hand hung limp, half-dried glass forgotten in his grip. Sweat had begun to line his forehead, beading along the hairline. His face was tight, jaw locked, lips pale. The long, exhausted resignation of a man who knew he’d remember this one and it would follow him to his dreams tonight. His wife would be horrified if he told her what happened that night.

The jukebox tried to come back—gave a stutter, a spark, then died again. One last cough of sound, then silence.

Taehyung rose without a drop of fear, like he hadn’t just stared down a man bleeding out on the floor. This wasn’t the worst he’d seen. Maybe not even the messiest. Just another page in a book already full. His coat brushed against splinters and glass, the hem dark with spilled beer and blood, dragging through the same grooves worn into the wood by years of too many boots and too many regrets.

At the bar, he didn’t pause. His voice cut through the room—quiet, level.

“Two damp towels.” It wasn’t a request.

Ellis blinked like he’d just remembered his body, ducked down without a word, and came back with two thick towels—still hot, still smelling faintly of bleach and age. They were stained already. Nothing clean stayed clean here. He handed them over in silence.

Taehyung took the towels and turned back to the girl. She was still on the floor, knees pressed into wood that had seen too many nights like this one, grain dark with sweat, beer, and blood that no mop ever reached. Her hands sat in her lap—bloodied, open, trembling just enough to betray the cost of what she’d held in. Her shoulders were slumped. Each breath she took was uneven, dragging in through grit-lined lungs and slipping out like glass.

She looked wrecked, but her eyes were clear.

Taehyung knelt beside her without a word, his coat folding around him, his presence settling into the space without disruption. He moved with that same quiet intention he’d carried since the beginning, because nothing ever surprised him anymore, and this girl had managed to. 

One towel he held out. The other he brought to her temple, pressing it against dried blood with a kind of care that told her that he’d done this before. There was no hesitation in his touch. She didn’t flinch, didn’t lean away. She let him clean her face without any fuss.

When he offered her the second towel, she took it, gaze never leaving her hands. She wiped them slowly, mall, grinding motions, circles, pressure and pause. Like she’d done this before, maybe too many times, and never gotten clean enough. It made him wonder who else’s blood she’s had to clean off.

Taehyung didn’t speak. Just kept at it—behind her ear, along her jaw, down her neck. The bar around them didn’t make a sound. No footsteps. No glass clink. Just smoke rising, blood dripping, and the low hum of tension bleeding out into stillness. Her elbow still wept crimson in slow, steady drops that soaked into the wood.

“I wasn’t going to kill him,” she said, voice thin and stretched but not shaking.

Taehyung didn’t answer immediately. He folded the towel neatly, blood inside, and placed it by her knee. Then he looked at her fully—her torn lip, the bruises blooming dark across her cheek, the red coating her knuckles, and the eyes beneath it all. Calm.

“Maybe not,” he said after a beat. “But if the wind had changed... you would’ve.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t nod either. 

Taehyung kept his eyes on her. Trying to place her. She had the stillness that came after chaos, the kind that wasn’t taught but burned into your bones. She carried a certain calm about her that he knew he carried with himself. He had a few years on the girl and had managed to get over the rage she carried along the way, but he remembered a time when he made the stunt she pulled that night look like child’s play.

He held out a hand—palm open, fingers loose. There was a smear of blood across the base of his thumb. She stared at it.

“Taehyung,” he said. His voice was low, even, patient.

She didn’t take his hand right away. Her eyes moved over him slowly, methodically. She took in the details—his collar, slightly crooked like he didn’t care much for appearances. The thin scar over his knuckle, healed badly. The boots, expensive once but worn down with miles. His face was unreadable. Not cold. Just still. Not inviting, but not closed off either. And then she reached forward.

“Y/N,” she said. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

Taehyung nodded once. “Well, Y/N,” he said, dry, “you don’t strike me as someone who drinks Jack by choice.” His chin dipped toward the busted bottle still bleeding into the cracks of the floor. “How about something you actually like, sugar?”

Her eyes followed the gesture, then slid back to him. A brow lifted.

“You offering because you feel bad?”

He breathed out—close to a laugh, but not quite.

“Not unless I should. I’m offering because I feel like it.”

She studied him. “Nothing more?”

“Nothing less.”

Y/N didn’t speak right away. She traced the edge of the towel, thumb moving through blood caught in the seams of the fabric. Her jaw worked slightly. Her gaze flicked to the door—out of instinct—then back.

“Margarita,” she said. “On the rocks. No salt.”

That earned her a smile. A real one this time. Slow, uneven, like the muscles hadn’t been used in a while. It made him look younger, more handsome and boyish.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Taehyung said. “Though I like the salt.”

Taehyung tipped his head toward the corner booth he’s been sitting at since he got there. It crouched in half-shadow, half-flicker, backlit by a dying COLD BEER sign that stammered through its last few breaths in twitching red and blue. The letters didn’t glow so much as tremble.

Y/N rose without a word. She crossed the room unbothered by the stares, her limping not stopping her from holding her head up high. When she slipped into the booth, the vinyl groaned beneath her and gave way slowly.

Behind the bar, Ellis’s shoulders rolled like they ached, his hands shook but he didn’t fumble. Didn’t speak. He didn’t look their way. Just reached for the bottles without another word. Two glasses—one rim salted, one bare. Lime dropped in hers with a heavy thunk. Ice cracked. Liquor poured. He tried his best to think about how lost the girl looked earlier rather the the blood staining through her clothes.

He had said Waylon didn’t know when it quit. It was only a matter of time before something like that happened. Ellis just never expected it would be from an emaciated little girl. Or that a pool cue would be involved.

Taehyung returned with both drinks in hand, boots whispering across the sticky wood. He set her glass down with the kind of care that made noise unnecessary. The glass kissed the tabletop, condensation already forming in a slow ring.

“No salt. On the rocks,” he said, and then lowered himself into the booth. One arm draped across the seat, legs stretched out, weight sunk in. The booth shaped itself around him.

Above, the neon sputtered—red, blue, red again—washing their faces in bruised light. Shadows crawled across their cheeks and hands, flickering over old scars and fresh cuts. The drinks caught the color too, fractured beams glinting off the surface.

Taehyung swirled his drink and stared into the cloudy green like it might offer him a better story than the one they were already in. 

“Looks like antifreeze,” he muttered, then took a sip and grimaced. “Once had the real thing. Shack outside Baja. Bartender looked ninety. Said the tequila was older than him. Dust in the air. Gunfire on the horizon. Best night of my life.” He stared at his drink again. “This tastes like piss with lime.”

Y/N sipped hers and flinched like she’d been hit again. Her mouth twisted, tongue curling against the aftershock. “Christ,” she muttered, swiping at her lip with the back of her hand. “It’s a good thing I don’t care about what I’m drinking.”

Taehyung laughed. Not a breathy sound or a polite exhale—laughed, real and cracked and full. She didn’t react beyond another sip. She drank again anyway. It didn’t taste better the second time.

They stayed like that for a while—no rush, no questions. Just two people sitting in the smoke-thick silence of a bar that had seen too much and cleaned too little. The jukebox, somewhere behind them, fizzled out into static, then gave up entirely. Blood dried into the floor behind them in slow, rust-colored stains, and the air thickened with the weight of everything that had happened—and the things no one said out loud.

Flies had started surrounding the pools of blood.

Taehyung leaned back again, his posture loose but grounded, one arm slung along the booth, the other hand near his glass. He didn’t speak right away. He let the silence hang. Let it wrap around them like smoke.

Then: “What you did back there—clean.” He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t grin. Just looked at her and let the words land. “Thought you’d freeze. Or fold. Most people do.”

A beat. Then something in the corner of his mouth pulled tight—not a smile. More like the shape of respect. Dry, edged.

“But that?” he said. “That was magical.” He paused, voice dropping half an octave. “And yeah. Looked cool as hell.”

Y/N didn’t lift her head. Didn’t blink. Just stared into the bottom of her glass like there was something in it she hadn’t found yet. Then she tilted it back and drained the rest in one motion. The ice clinked, then settled.

Taehyung watched her, still as a man waiting on a trigger. He looked at her like someone might look at a coyote pacing just beyond the edge of the firelight—half curious, half cautious, and fully impressed.

“How old are you?” he asked, flat.

“Nineteen.”

No pause. No flicker of doubt. Just truth, clean as a cut.

He nodded, no change in expression. No raised brow. Just cataloguing.

“Where you from?”

“Alabama.”

“You don’t sound like Alabama.”

She shrugged—left shoulder only, just enough to be called motion. “What’s it supposed to sound like?”

Taehyung shut his eyes for the length of a breath, just long enough to drag a picture from the dirt. He didn’t need the details—not names or places or dates. Just enough to sketch the edges. Dusty roads the color of sunburnt skin, trailers bleached pale by heat and regret, dogs sleeping under rusted-out cars that hadn’t run in years. A girl sitting barefoot on a porch with her knees pulled up, staring out past the treeline like she already knew everything behind her was poison. A place that didn’t need bars to keep you in, just silence thick enough to choke. A girl who didn’t cry, didn’t shout, just waited for the first excuse to leave—and the second not to come back.

“You leave on your own?” he asked, still watching the past unfold behind his eyelids.

She nodded.

“How far’d you get before someone tried to stop you?”

“First night.”

Taehyung leaned back. He rested against the booth, mind already trying to plan out the rest of the conversation. The girl either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was analysing her like this. Wouldn’t have mattered either way.

“Nineteen,” he muttered. “Alabama girl with no accent, walks into a bar in Texas, and stabs a man with a cue. Am I supposed to believe that?”

She tilted her glass, watching the ice melt into weak liquor, the way someone might study blood swirling down a drain. “You’re the one asking.”

Taehyung let out a short breath, more ghost than laugh. “You any good at poker?”

“Never played.”

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t have to.

He studied her then, not to figure her out, but to understand the edges she was carved with. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She took another sip, winced like it bit back, swallowed anyway. “I get that a lot.”

“Why Texas?”

Another shrug. “It was west.”

His eyebrow arched. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the truth. I want California. Heard there’s stuff there.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Her gaze lifted, just slightly, like the word itself had weight. “Stuff I ain’t seen.”

He took a slow sip, face unreadable as he swallowed. The taste didn’t improve. He grimaced, set the glass down with a dull, hollow thud. His fingers tapped once against the rim. Then stopped.

“You ever kill someone before tonight?”

“Yes.”

That made him pause.

“Would you have killed him, too, if I hadn’t stepped in?”

She didn’t rush her answer. Didn’t posture. Just swirled the last inch of her drink, watching it settle, then lift again. “Maybe.”

Taehyung didn’t blink.

“You sure?”

She tilted her head like an animal would. Her ponytail slid over one shoulder, damp and matted with sweat, blood, and road dust. The neon above them buzzed once, flickered red, then blue, and back red again. Then her eyes met his, full-on, steady.

And she asked, without hesitation: “Do you want it to be?”

Taehyung didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But something in him stilled. A gear locking into place. He saw it now—not the scrapes or the broken skin, not the way she kept one foot metaphorically planted like the fight might start again. It was in her stare. That terrifying calm that didn’t come from practice. It came from origin. From blood. From birth. It was violence that had never needed translation. A reflex, not a strategy. She didn’t think in pain. She thought in reaction.

She wasn’t broken. She was built like this.

His mouth twitched. Just a flicker. Barely there. The closest he got to smiling.

“Okay, Alabama,” he said, voice low, laced with dry recognition. “You win this round.”

She didn’t nod. Didn’t answer with a smirk or a glance. Just drained the last of her drink in that slow, resigned way people take medicine they know won’t help. The glass hit the table a little off-center, left a faint ring in the sweat pooled beneath it, and stayed there like a held breath.

“I’ll get you another one,” Taehyung said, already half-turned.

“Okay,” she replied.

He flicked his fingers toward Ellis, who understood without needing to. Five minutes later, the bartender returned—one fresh margarita, no salt, lime hanging limp on the rim. Y/N didn’t thank him. Just picked it up and took a long, unbothered swallow.

Silence followed. The jukebox fizzled out into static.. Blood dried in curling stains across the floorboards, blackening into something permanent. The flies continued their buzzing.

Taehyung leaned in a little, elbows on the table. His voice came lighter, almost casual—something slipped under the door instead of knocked out loud. “You into kung fu flicks?”

She didn’t blink, didn’t lift her head much, but something in her eyes shifted—fast, subtle. A flash of recognition. Not quite warmth. Not quite nostalgia. But it stirred the dust.

He saw it. Grinned a little. “The old ones,” he said. “Bootlegs. VHS copies with the tracking lines jumping like crickets. Dubbing so bad it felt like it was from a whole different movie.”

Something broke loose in her chest—a sound that might’ve been a laugh in another life. Rough, breathy, unfinished. “Yeah,” she said, voice uncoiling. “Used to wake up early for ’em. Local station ran ‘em before cartoons. Half the titles were wrong. Didn’t matter.”

She smiled. Small. Crooked. Disappeared before it could mean too much.

“Had five tapes,” she said. “Played ‘em till the reels stretched out. Could quote half of Drunken Master before I could spell my own name.”

Taehyung didn’t speak. Just watched her remember. He liked the way her eyes lit up.

“The dubbing was garbage,” she added, quieter now. “Voices didn’t match the faces.” She took a sip. Winced again. Same bitterness, same fire. “I didn’t care. I was hooked. I read about the styles. Cranes, tigers, mantis. Probably bullshit, but it was fun.”

Her voice dropped. She drank again. It tasted like chemicals and broken air conditioners, but she got it down.

“People thought I was weird,” she said, finally looking at him. “Didn’t say it. But I knew.” A shrug followed—left shoulder only. “Then Jason Mathers tried to grab me in gym class.”

Taehyung’s brow arched slightly.

She smiled again. This time with teeth. “Popped his shoulder out of the socket.”

He laughed. It caught high in his throat and dropped low in his chest, like it hadn’t been used in a while. A few heads turned toward the sound, then looked away just as quick.

For a second, the bar seemed to relax. Even the ceiling fan gave one low groan and spun to a stop. The jukebox didn’t even try to resurrect itself.

She sat back, glass nearly empty, knuckles torn open, lip split. Jaw bruised. But there was something in her posture that hadn’t taken damage. Something behind her eyes that still burned—not like a wildfire, but like a pilot light that never went out. Defiance in its purest form. Not loud. Not reckless. Just unwilling to die.

Taehyung saw it. Sat with it. Leaned back slowly, keeping his gaze on her. He’d seen killers. He’d made a few. Broken more. But this girl wasn’t forged yet. She was still fire and metal, not finished into anything. A knife in the middle of becoming. He could feel it in how she held still. Not with fear, but with control. Like she knew her edge and didn’t care who else did.

“You’re not Jackie Chan,” he said, voice low, something dry threading through it. “But for someone raised on warped tapes and bad years, you’re ahead of the curve.”

His smile came slow. Uneven. Genuine in the way most things aren’t anymore.

Then Taehyung leaned in again, elbows settling on the table. His rings caught a flicker of the busted neon light overhead, purple and sickly, cutting across the knuckles of a man who’d learned more with his fists than most did with their mouths. His voice dropped.

“I’m gonna tell you something,” he said. “But first—” He didn’t blink. “If it leaves your mouth, even once... there’ll be consequences.”

Y/N didn’t blink. Didn’t ask what kind of consequences. Didn’t twitch like someone about to bluff. She just nodded once.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said.

And Taehyung, who didn’t believe in many things—especially not people—believed her.

He watched her a second longer. She wasn’t tense. Wasn’t performing. She just was.

“Good,” he said. He leaned in just a hair more. Not enough to break distance. Just enough to change the temperature between them. Close enough she could smell him—burnt whiskey and sweat-soaked denim, the sharp tang of powder and metal, leather baked by the sun, the stale bite of something mechanical. “Because if you talk,” he said, voice low but clean, “I’ll kill you.”

She didn’t move.

“You ever made good on that before?” she asked, swirling her glass, ice clinking.

He raised a brow. Let the question hang.

“Once or twice.”

She didn’t dig deeper. She leaned back just slightly, enough to let her spine breathe, let her ribs remember where they were supposed to sit. She studied him. Not the boots. Not the scars. The man. The shape of him beneath it all.

“What did you see in me?” she asked.

He rolled one shoulder. His leather jacket creaked.

“Something familiar.”

She waited.

His eyes dropped to her hands—blood cracked in her knuckles, skin tight over bruised bone, muscles still twitching like they hadn’t gotten the message yet.

“I’ve seen tough,” he said. “And I’ve seen a room full of pussies with their chests puffed.” His eyes met hers. “I can assure you, you’re the former.”

He drew a circle on the table with one ringed finger. Voice low, but steady.

“What you did to Waylon... your body got there before your mind even caught up.”

She let that sit. Felt it settle. Then gave a slow nod. She did not think about these things.

“Yeah,” she said. “Guess it did.”

“Where’d you learn it?”

Her eyes stayed on his.

“Life. You hit first, people stop testing you. Eventually.”

He nodded. Like someone who’d heard it said before, or maybe said it himself, a long time ago.

She watched him a moment longer.

“Doesn’t scare you?”

His head tilted slightly. One brow low.

“Should it?”

She looked down at her drink. The ice was all but gone now.

“Most people either try to fix me,” she said, voice quieter, “or they run.”

He lifted his glass. Raised it halfway.

“I don’t fix people,” he said. “And I don’t run from shit, Alabama.”

She raised hers to meet his. The glasses touched with a soft clink.

Outside, the wind kept scraping leaves across the roof. A semi moaned down the blacktop, its lights flashing through the window and gone before anyone could blink. The jukebox sputtered once, gasped, and then Patsy Cline’s voice crawled out—ragged, beautiful, dragging heartbreak behind it like a rusted chain. Y/N thought about her mother. “Crazy” had been one of her favorite songs.

Taehyung didn’t speak right away. Just stared into his glass, letting the tequila spin slow and sullen, like dirty runoff circling a drain. His hand stayed loose on the rim, thumb dragging against the condensation like he could wear a groove into it if he tried hard enough. His eyes didn’t blink, didn’t flick, just watched the swirl like it had something honest to tell him. And then—finally, like a match catching wind—his voice cut through the stillness.

“There’s people out there,” he said, not with cynicism, not with envy, just with the weight of knowing, “who keep things simple. Fix trucks. Run registers. Marry the first person who smiles and never ask why they stopped.” He looked up. Met her eyes. No smile. No sell. Just locked in. “And then there’s people like me,” he continued. “Maybe like you.”

Y/N could not tell if she believed him or not, but something about him made her second guess her hesitation.

“We live under things,” he said. “Behind gas stations. Under bridges. In the spaces polite folks pretend don’t exist when they say grace. The cracks in the system that people cover with prayer and tax returns.” And she still hadn’t spoken. Just listened. She knew about those things more than most people realized.

“I run a crew,” he said. “We call ourselves the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad.”

He waited a beat, watching her. Most people laughed at that part. It was a litmus test—see what the smile meant, if it was fear, disbelief, or just nerves. She didn’t laugh. Her face didn’t even twitch. He almost smiled at that.

“Stupid name,” he said, and his mouth curved a fraction. “Friend picked it. I kept it after he died.” He threw the last of the tequila back, slow, savoring the burn. Then set the glass down with a slow spin, watching it turn. “We’re contract killers.”

He watched her—not her face, but the way her body held the silence. That stillness. That self-control. That rare breed of calm that didn’t come from peace but from the kind of pain that teaches you to breathe around a scream.

“You want someone gone? We make that happen. Two hundred grand gets you in the door. More if they want peace of mind along with the body.” His eyes narrowed. “They’re trained. All of them. But they blend. No one expects the girl in beat-up sneakers. Or the busboy with a lisp.”

He leaned forward. The neon buzzed above, flickering against the metal of his rings. His voice dropped, low and certain.

“I’m not a pimp,” he said. “We don’t sell bodies. We sell death.”

She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Her fingers just tightened on the glass.

“I train them,” he went on. “Me and the ones who’ve lasted long enough to matter. Knives. Guns. Close quarters. Vanishing. Walking away clean. No flare. No loose ends.”

Then softer, “How to end someone with your hands—and still remember to feed the dog before midnight.”

Still, she didn’t move. Just held the glass like it might anchor her. And maybe it did. He reached across the table and gently rested his hand on her forearm. His thumb traced a line, just once. She looked at him. He could see she was measuring him up.

“I know where you come from,” he said. “That kind of pain doesn’t show much. It sits in how you breathe. How you stop asking for anything you don’t think you deserve.”

He gave her arm the smallest squeeze Then pulled back, let the distance return. All the while she watched him with that same blank expression on her face.

“You didn’t crack,” he said. “You came out sharp. As sharp as all the others did.”

He leaned back. The booth let out a soft groan. His gaze didn’t leave hers.

“What I’m offering isn’t revenge. It’s not justice. It’s not a fucking redemption arc.” His voice was sandpaper now, worn down to the grain. “It’s a life. Real. Dirty. Paid in scars and years you don’t get back. That’s the cost.”

She traced the condensation ring on her glass.

“You’ll see the world. Make real money. And yeah—you’ll kill people. Most will deserve it. Some won’t. Tough shit.” He spun his glass one last time. Then let it stop. “It’s not clean,” he said. “It’s not easy.” Then, softer. Lower. “And it costs everything.”

He lifted his hands, palms up, empty. He wasn’t selling. He was showing her what the road looked like. Nothing more.

“Your name. Your past. Every person who thought they knew you—gone. You get a codename. You start over.”

Then he stood. The booth gave a tired creak beneath him, the table shivered under the shift in weight, and her glass wobbled in its condensation ring. Taehyung stepped out with that same unfazed grace, boots silent on the warped floorboards. His hand came down on her shoulder, firm and hot to the touch. She didn’t look up.

“I’m going outside,” he said, voice flat. “There’s a cherry-red ’67 Mustang behind the ice machine.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgement. Didn’t reach for her gaze. His own was already turned toward the door.

“If you’re in,” he said, “go left. Get in the car.” A pause. “If not... go right. No hard feelings. You won’t see me again.”

And then—just as quiet, just as strange—he bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Quick. Dry. Not romantic. Could’ve meant goodbye. Could’ve meant nothing. Could’ve meant everything.

“Fifteen minutes,” he whispered.

Then he walked away. No backward glance. Just the whisper of the door swinging open, the groan of old wood under practiced boots, and the Longhorn folding around the vacuum he left behind.

She didn’t watch him go.

She stayed right there. Elbows on the table. Palm pressed damp against the warm glass. Her eyes unfocused. The drink wasn’t cold anymore, and when she set it down, it landed off-center with a small, definitive click. It wasn’t loud. But it was enough.

The bar breathed again. Like something had let go. The jukebox stumbled back to life, vomiting up Willie Nelson. Laughter rose from the back—too loud, too sudden, trying to shake off the static that still clung to the walls. A cue ball cracked. A chair scraped. The fan above ticked once. Then again. Spinning. Moving. Like life wanted so badly to pretend it had never paused.

But for her, nothing had started moving again.

She hadn’t broken. She’d just... shifted. A slow click back into place. A truth she hadn’t known was off until it corrected itself. It didn’t hurt. It was relief. Like breathing through your nose after years of congestion. And now her brain was ticking through its lists again.

Find food. Something fried. Don’t taste it. Start a fight. Win it. Don’t bleed. Take a drink. Leave it half-finished. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t ask. Don’t explain.

Then one more line. Slipped in like it had always been there.

Join a crew of contract killers?

It should’ve felt absurd. Surreal. Something from the wrong end of a bad dream. But it didn’t. It sat right next to the other rules, like it had always been waiting for its turn.

She let out a breath—short and jagged. There was too much blood in her mouth. Too much silence in her chest. Too much of this one day shoved into the same body she’d been dragging around for nineteen years. The bar’s light was slanted now, cut into ribbons by grime-streaked windows. The dust caught in it hung like ash. She watched it float.

Somewhere in her mind, her mother’s voice cracked through, scratchy and cigarette-shredded.

The world don’t care about your feelings, girl. It’s gonna keep turning whether you like it or not.

Funny, she used to laugh at her mother. Call her stupid. Crazy how much her mother was right about the world.

And her thoughts spiraled back to fists and bone, to the grip of a cue stick, to the clean contact of knuckle on jaw.

This wasn’t a decision. Not really. It was just the next thing. A step she’d already taken without realizing it. A door she’d already passed through. She leaned back into the booth. Vinyl squeaked, stuck to her bare arms. She folded them tight across her chest.

Her jaw set. Her eyes dropped. There, etched into the table, were initials. Faded. Carved in shallow. Maybe ten years old. Maybe older. A scar in the wood no one had ever bothered to sand down. Her reflection sat beside it, faint in the gloss—just a suggestion.

They used to call her an old soul. Like it was a compliment. Teachers. The old ladies at church. Rhonda Portnoy with liquor on their breath and too many stories that never ended right. 

No one ever asked what it cost to know too much too young. Maybe she was deep. Or maybe they just didn’t want to look long enough to see she was drowning. Her eyes burned. She blinked them dry—twice. 

The Longhorn still stank. Of sweat, beer, bleach, old fry oil. But under it—she could still smell the blood.

What the hell just happened?

She already knew. Even if her bones hadn’t caught up.

A man had walked in. The kind who didn’t need volume to make people listen. He didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t promise rescue. He’d promised a life. Maybe not a safe one, but it was more than she’d had going for her.

And she hadn’t flinched.

What filled her now wasn’t fear. It was interest. It lived in her chest like smoke behind a locked door waiting for a crack.

She reached for her glass again, out of muscle memory. Swirled what was left. It shimmered like a coin tossed into deep water. No answers there. She drank it anyway. The burn barely registered. Her hand was steady.

Willie kept singing. The cue ball cracked. Somebody laughed too loud. The fan overhead ticked on, blades slicing the air with lazy threat.

The Longhorn had moved on, but not her.

Something in her had shifted. Slid into place. And the ache that followed wasn’t a wound. It was release. She felt light. Like she’d stepped out of her old skin and hadn’t quite landed in the new one yet. The girl she’d been was fading fast. Just static now.

One step left and she was gone.

She didn’t move. Not yet. But the voice inside—the one that never screamed, never rushed—was speaking now.

Walk left.

Toward the door. The gravel. The Mustang behind the ice machine. Toward the man who hadn’t lied. Who hadn’t asked for anything but the truth of who she already was. All she had to do was stand.

Could I actually do this?

Because this wasn’t instinct. Wasn’t heat. This wasn’t defending herself. This was choice. A step you didn’t come back from.

Taehyung hadn’t sold her a dream. He’d shown her a blade. This is the life. Take it or don’t. He’d said she had the eyes for it. And he wasn’t wrong.

There was something awake behind her eyes now. The low hum she always carried had risen—quiet, sure. Like a machine warming up after years at rest.

Sick? Maybe. But it felt right.

She’d always known she was off. Not cracked—just tilted. Enough to make teachers cautious, the old bitches from church quiet, other girls keep their distance without knowing why.

She used to kneel on threadbare carpet, rewinding battered kung fu tapes until the ribbon whined. Not for fantasy—for form. Breath, stance, control. The blade under her pillow wasn’t a a made up fantasy, it had been a promise to herself. A promise she’d never acted on.

She never told anyone about the dreams. Not about hurting people. Not about blood. Not about killing her father. Not her mother, too tired to listen. Not the church girls, all soft smiles and sharp whispers.

But she remembered the fire that took her daddy from her. Remembered the nights before it—his shadow in the doorframe, the silence after. She was seventeen when she walked barefoot into the dark, half-packed bag in one hand, his truck keys in the other. The moon spilled over her shoulders like it was waiting for her to speak. She didn’t.

She never looked back. But she thought about that night every day.

And when she couldn’t go back, she started hitting other men. The ones who leaned in too close. Who mistook silence for weakness. Who brushed her arm like they owned it. She didn’t flinch anymore. She struck.

She got good. Because no one expects the punch from the girl who doesn’t raise her voice. Not from the reverend's good little girl who went to church three times a week and spoke on Sundays.

Now here she was. Slumped in a cracked booth that stank of bleach, beer, and too many bad nights. Lip split. Fists aching. Warm drink gone. No sirens. No screaming. Just stillness. 

Nothing had changed. Except everything had.

She stared at the ring her glass left on the table. Traced it once. Faint green glow from the beer sign above caught in the condensation. It looked like an answer. Or maybe a door.

That flicker still burned. The one that lived deep in her chest, behind the ribs, where no drink could drown it. The one that lit up not in fear, not in rage, but in the clean, quiet snap of bone under knuckle. It was still there. Low. Steady. Waiting. Like a pilot light in a dark house. She could ignore it for a while, maybe even forget it—but it never went out. Never really dimmed. And now it was humming. Calling.

Six minutes, maybe seven had passed. She hadn’t moved. Barely breathed. But the thought that had cracked her open when he left hadn’t faded. It had taken root. Sent feelers into her ribs. Started to grow.

What kind of person wants to kill?

Not one who’s good. But she’d stopped pretending to be good somewhere around thirteen. Maybe earlier. Good had been ripped out of her the day the belt came out of its loops, the jingle waking her up out of her sleep.

Ten minutes.

What if I said yes?

A Mustang parked behind the bar like it had been waiting since before she was born. A man she didn’t know, not really—but somehow, he’d seen her clearer than anyone ever had. No questions. No promises. Just a job. A life. Violence that meant something. Hurt that paid.

Right was more of the same. Dead towns with names she forgot before the motels gave her keys. Fights in alleys and parking lots that ended in bruises and nothing else. Rotating faces. Static nights. Cheap whiskey and cheaper exits. Right felt like a story she’d already finished, flipped closed, and tossed aside. It didn’t feel real anymore. Just a rerun on a broken screen.

She didn’t move. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. Her pulse murmured in her ears, each beat a warning or a countdown—she couldn’t tell the difference. Her fingers tapped against the tabletop, quiet and relentless. The ring left by her glass still glowed faint under the beer sign, warped and uneven. She reached out and touched it, pressed her fingertip to the cool wet rim, like it might tell her something.

It didn’t.

She said it anyway, under her breath, to herself, to the moment, to the whole damn weight of it.

“Fuck.”

Then she stood.

The chair scraped back hard, loud in the hush that followed. Heads turned. A glass froze mid-pour. Cigarette smoke spiraled up, caught midair. But no one spoke. No one stopped her. She didn’t look at them. Didn’t give a single glance. Let them stare. Let them guess. They’d already stopped mattering.

Her bag hung from the hook beside her, the same frayed canvas thing that had followed her from shelter to shelter, couch to cot. She grabbed it without flinching, swung it over her shoulder, felt the strap bite into her skin. It was heavy with places that never held her, but it tethered her. Always had.

She walked through. Past the jukebox bleeding out some slow, sad country tune. Past the cracked stools and stained bar and the men too far gone to lift their heads. She didn’t look back. Not once. She walked like she’d already left. The door was just a formality.

Outside, the heat punched her full in the chest. Thick. Wet. The kind of southern night that clung to your ribs. She paused on the warped porch, boards groaning beneath her boots.

To her right: the same spiral. New towns. Same lies. Rotting from the inside. Same weight, different grave.

To her left: gravel crunching under old tires. A red ’67 Mustang parked under a crooked streetlamp, dust dulling its lines. And him—Taehyung. Leaning back against the driver’s side door like he’d never been unsure of anything in his life. Coat loose. Boots crossed. Eyes watching, steady as midnight.

She didn’t hesitate. One breath. Then she turned left. 

Right on time.

The Mustang didn’t sparkle like she expected it to. She crossed the gravel like it was a bridge, not a road. Her shadow stretched long under the lamp’s sickly flicker. She stopped at the fender, turned toward him, met his gaze head-on.

Chin high. Shoulders square. Spine tight and straight.

“Okay,” she said.

No tremble. No emphasis. Just fact. Like she’d known she would say it all along.

Taehyung nodded once. “Of course you do.”

He pushed off the Mustang with that same lazy grace, unhurried and unbothered, and opened the driver’s side door. The creak of it echoed across the lot. She stepped around the front of the car, dust catching on her boots, gravel crunching like bones underfoot. Her hand found the passenger handle, and for a second she just held it.

The roar came out of nowhere—engine high and desperate, headlights screaming white across the dark. A truck barreled into the lot too fast for the space it had. Tires locked. Dust exploded in plumes. The whole lot filled with the sound of friction and panic and that awful skidding pause that always came right before something crashed.

But nothing crashed.

The truck slewed to a crooked stop like it was throwing a tantrum. The door flung open before the dust even settled.

Out came a boy. Mid-twenties. All sweat and noise and denim swagger. Cowboy hat pulled low, shirt stuck to his spine, boots worn past style into utility. He moved with a kind of reckless confidence that didn’t come from experience—it came from never being hit hard enough to change.

“Taehyung! Shit—sorry, man!” he called, jogging toward them. “I lost track of time!”

Taehyung didn’t move. One hand still rested on the door. His silhouette didn’t shift. But something about him changed. The unbothered ease Y/N had come to know was melted away and in its place was a man with sharp eyes and tense muscles.

Y/N didn’t wait. She slipped into the passenger seat without a word. Shut the door. Rested her elbow on the frame and tapped her fingers against the glass in a slow, even rhythm—tick, tick, tick.

The guy noticed her then. Slowed mid-step.

“Oh,” he said, dragging the vowel like he wasn’t sure what he’d found. “Didn’t realize you had... company.” His eyes lingered a beat too long. Smile tried to form, didn’t stick. “Didn’t know you had a lady friend.”

Taehyung closed her door. A quiet, measured push. Then he turned toward the boy.

“She’s not company,” he said. His voice didn’t rise, but it filled the air like smoke. “She’s taking your place.”

The guy blinked, smile cracking at the edges. “What?”

“You were late,” he said. “She wasn’t.”

The guy laughed, too fast, and it broke in the middle. “Come on. Her? I was late, yeah, but—”

“Thirty minutes,” Taehyung said, flat as pavement. “And fate doesn’t wait.”

He reached the driver’s side and stopped. One hand on the handle. The other hovered near the fold of his coat—casual, almost lazy, but close. Deliberate.

“I don’t run a boys’ club,” he said. There might’ve been a smile there, buried under steel. Or maybe just the ghost of one long dead.

Color crept up the other man’s neck, flushed and hot. His fists curled like he didn’t trust his own fingers. His jaw locked. He was building toward something he couldn’t carry.

“Wait. Just—”

Taehyung didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“There’s a gun ten inches from my right hand,” he said. “How close is yours?”

The guy froze. You could see the thoughts rearranging behind his eyes. Anger giving way to math. Math giving way to fear. Then, finally, defeat.

He stepped back. Shoulders loose now, but not relaxed.

“Fine,” he muttered, like it was the last word he had in him.

He turned and yanked open the truck door. Slammed it like it owed him something. Peeled out hard, tires screaming again, dust rising in a curtain behind him as if trying to cover the embarrassment.

Then silence returned.

Taehyung slid into the driver’s seat without a glance. The door thunked shut with that same clean, heavy sound. Leather groaned. The engine turned over—growling awake like something half-feral and starved.

Inside, it smelled like sun-baked leather, old metal, and something harder to name. Heat. History. Maybe a stale pack of Newports. The Longhorn blinked once in the mirror—neon twitching like a dying eye—then slipped away, swallowed by dust and distance.

Taehyung rested one hand on the wheel. The other on his thigh. Just a man doing what he was built for.

“You ready?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him. Just kept her eyes stitched to the road as it unspooled in front of them—blacktop like a scar across the desert’s pale skin, long and cracked and endless, the kind of road that never really took you anywhere, just farther from what came before. Her hands sat locked between her knees.

“Does it matter?” she asked.

Next to her, Taehyung’s mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite. Just a flicker, a shift in the lines of his face. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The answer was already in motion. He dropped the Mustang into reverse and the tires crunched over the gravel like brittle bone. The gear clicked into drive, and the car moved forward, slow at first, then steady.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t say goodbye. There was no last look at the bar behind them, no sentimental drag to the rearview. The Longhorn blinked out behind them like a cigarette going dark in an ashtray—smoked down, used up, done.

By the time the Mustang hit third, the world behind them was gone.

The wind cut in hard, dry and wild, tangling her hair and slapping it against her face. She didn’t fix it. Didn’t tuck it back or smooth it down. Just let it whip and twist and get in her way like it belonged there.

Taehyung’s voice slid through the hum of the road like gravel dragged across glass. “You ever been to Mexico?”

She turned her head a little, enough for him to see the slope of her jaw, the shape of her mouth. “No,” she said. “But I’ve seen all of Texas. Different towns. Same ceiling.”

He gave a short laugh—low, real, and rough around the edges. “I love Mexico,” he said. “Didn’t grow up there. But it’s where I figured out who I was.”

Fourth gear clicked in like a final decision. The Mustang stretched out, engine dropping into a deeper, meaner hum. The road ahead unfurled in shades of gray and heat. The desert didn’t welcome them—it just made room. Wide, flat, indifferent.

“Mexico’s messy,” he said. “But it’s free. Less noise. Fewer eyes. You want to vanish, you do. You stay vanished.”

He let that hang. No sales pitch. No persuasion. Just another truth left lying in the space between them.

“I bought a place there in February,” he said. “Hilltop. Nothing fancy. Just quiet. No neighbors. No questions.”

He looked over, just a glance. Not searching for approval—just checking for signal. “Think you’d like it.”

She didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Her fingers curled against the inside of the door. He saw it. Knew she was anxious, but didn’t press the issue. The girl would get over that in time.

He shifted again, and the Mustang eased forward like it was being pulled by something older than maps. Fences blurred by. Power lines strobed overhead like broken film. The desert slipped past without memory. No towns. No signs. Just the land and the dark and the feeling of being farther and farther away from anyone who could spell her name.

The moon climbed up behind them, casting everything in that bruised kind of light. It touched the side of her face, the curve of her cheekbone, the line of her throat. She didn’t notice. But her shoulders loosened—barely. Just enough to tell someone paying attention.

He was. He caught it. Said nothing. Just nodded to the night like it had answered something for him.

“You’ll like it,” he repeated.

Still, she didn’t reply. Didn’t need to. Silence filled the car. Worn in like an old jacket. Engine noise. Wind. The occasional rattle in the dash. The Mustang didn’t ask questions. It just ran.

She didn’t fidget. Didn’t twist in her seat or look out the window for meaning. Just sat there, jaw tight, hands quiet, eyes locked forward. She didn’t know what was coming—not the killing, not the weight of it, not the cleanup or the silence that follows after—but if she did, if some part of her already understood what kind of blood she was signing up to wear, she didn’t flinch.

She just rode.

Taglist: @haru-jiminn @fancypeacepersona @futuristicenemychaos @cranberrycupcake @mar-lo-pap @wannaghostbts @solephile @paramedicnerd004 @stargirl-mayaa @calmyourtitts7 @bjoriis @11thenightwemet11 @screamertannie @everybodysaynoooooo

[fancypeacepersona]

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.

[fancypeacepersona]

[fancypeacepersona]

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐃𝐀𝐃’𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒! 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 & 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋

‎ ‎[ 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 ]

kinks: daddy kink, loss of virginity, threesome, brat taming, ddlg elements, daryl is a little submissive, light spanking, dirty talk, oral sex, fingering, dumbification if you squint, mentions of slapping and manhandling

warnings and triggers: age difference, reader is a little annoying but she’s just horny, some angst and fluff, mentions of violence and death, reader is romantically involved with both men, reader is very feminine and pretends to be a little ditzy

word count: 19.7k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

dbf! rick & daryl masterlist + drabble

you need rick to fuck you. daryl too, if you’re being honest.

it’s not fair that the world went to shit before you lost your virginity, and you’re still pretty pissed that on his death bed, your father made rick promise to look out for you like you were his own daughter. talk about being a major cockblock, even from beyond the grave. and it’s just your luck that rick and daryl are the only two men you’ve ever met that would turn down a beautiful woman in her twenties who’s obviously desperate for them. they’re good guys - which, you guess, is part of their appeal. it’s so annoying.

both men frustrate you to no end, and it doesn’t help that you’re living in the same house with them in alexandria. living behind the walls in this community has made life so much easier - you’re no longer in survival mode, and you’re able to focus on other things…

like getting daryl and rick to fuck your brains out. or at least, pop your cherry. you’ve never trusted anyone as much as you trust these two men, and you want them. in every single way.

you just need to convince them.

Rick has a problem - and that problem is you. 

Which, okay - he feels fucking bad for even thinking that. You’re not a problem in the general sense of the word. He doesn't resent you, he doesn’t think you’re annoying, and he doesn’t dislike you. In fact, the opposite is true. 

He likes you a little too much, and that’s the fucking problem. 

He’s supposed to protect you. He’s supposed to keep you safe, keep you alive, make sure nothing happens to you - it’s his job to look after you. Rick swore to your father on his death bed, after a supply run gone wrong, that he’d be around to help you make the best out of life in this new, fucked up world; and he’s really fucking trying, but it’s hard. 

Rick doesn’t regret taking on that responsibility. Not at all. He’s known you for long enough now, knows that you’re a smart girl, and when your father died he didn’t want his friend’s final thoughts to be worries about what would happen to his daughter now that he wouldn’t be alive to look out for her. 

Gripping your father’s hand, Rick had tried to hold back tears. Your dad was a good man, strong, and more than losing a valuable member of the group - Rick was losing a friend. If your father’s death was that painful for him, after only knowing one another for a little over a year - he couldn’t imagine what you were going through. You’d always been close to your father, and the look in your eyes when you had to leave the room so someone could take care of him before he turned into a walker, well. Rick would never forget it.

Heartbreaking. 

Before your father was gone, Rick promised him that he would protect you. Yeah, you’re a grown woman, smart and strong just like your dad, with a good head on your shoulders and a helpful, fighting spirit. But even though you’re an adult, you’re still young, with the kind of reckless abandon and bravery that only the youth still have; the kind that’s constantly getting them into trouble. 

So Rick assured your dad, holding onto his hand as he took his final breaths, that nothing would happen to you. That he’d take care of you, look after you like you were his own daughter. It was the right thing to do, the good thing to do - 

But Rick didn’t anticipate how hard you’d make it for him to fulfill that promise. 

He didn’t think you’d be so, so. God, he doesn’t even fucking know. He doesn’t want to use the word to describe you, because you’re an adult, not a petulant kid - 

But you’re a fucking brat. 

He’s not sure if you’ve always been like this, and your dad was just able to calm you down enough so that the rest of the group didn’t notice, or if it’s a new thing you’re dealing with from the grief and the life changes that losing your father brought on. 

Rick’s not a psychiatrist. He doesn’t know enough about the moods of women to even attempt to get through to you, and he doesn’t have the nerve to ask you to fix your attitude when life these last few years has been full of constant, challenging changes for everyone - and he especially doesn’t want to ask for help or guidance from anyone else regarding these problems, because that would mean admitting he can’t control or handle the responsibility of keeping a young woman in check. 

He’s led a group of people through an apocalypse of the walking dead, and he’s letting a twenty something year old in pink sneakers get under his skin with an eye roll? 

No. He’d never admit to that.

Even if it’s obvious to anyone who sees the two of you interacting. 

Right now, Rick’s sitting in a chair on the porch of his home in Alexandria. It’s bittersweet, to have a semblance of normalcy. Had the group found this community back when your father was alive, he never would’ve died. Would’ve never had to make that risky supply run looking for something to help your fever and headache that led to him getting bit by a walker and ultimately dying. 

Having to be killed just to put him out of his misery. 

Rick’s trying to enjoy the feeling of normal on this porch, surrounded by his friends that are so close they’re like family - but deep down he knows that things will never be the way they were before the world went to shit. And the things he’s done, the things you all have done - they happened, and none of you can pretend that they didn’t. Life, every single one of you - will never, ever be the way it was before. 

He’s drinking a beer - okay, he’s on his third, trying not to let the negative thoughts weigh him down. The last thing he wants to do is flip the switch like he did last year, the one that turned him into a raging lunatic, so bad that Daryl had to beat his ass when he started to turn into someone he didn’t know. Back when he was a danger to himself and others. That can’t happen now. 

Not when he’s got a community of people to look out for. Not when he’s got you to care for. A clear head, enough mental agility to make rational decisions - Rick owes everyone that. He owes the group that. He owes you that. 

But why do you have to make his life so damn difficult? 

There’s a party in the community tonight, and even though Rick is more or less in charge of this place, this get-together wasn’t his idea. He would never plan something like this, even back when he was married and just a small town cop. Before walkers and danger lurked at every fucking corner. 

Rick can pretend all he wants, that he fits in or that this normal shit, a sort of block party in this case, was anything he missed, but it’s a lie. 

He’s hardened from all the time he’s spent outside - but he wants the rest of the group to try. To want this. This has always been the goal, the plan. Finding and living in a place like Alexandria. Right? 

So he’s on the sidelines, sipping beer and watching the rest of his group learn how to be proper humans again. It’s an outdoor thing, with kids in the community running around and food made with actual ovens and stoves, alcohol that’s poured into glasses and cups instead of sipped out of a dirty bottle found in a stranger’s leftover backpack while on the road.  

The street is blocked off with picnic tables and everyone’s being a touch too loud for this event to be considered safe, but Rick’s not going to ruin their fun yet. 

Because he’s watching the group - but his eyes keep falling on you. 

Just to make sure you’re okay, he tells himself, but in his tipsy mind he knows that’s a lie. 

You look damn good in the dress you’re wearing. 

To be fair, despite the filth and the starvation and the level of grime every single person in the group wore for months straight, you’ve always looked good. You’re beautiful, even when you’re covered in dirt without a trace of makeup on your face. Some women just have it, the type of body that fills out clothes like everything is made for them to wear. The kind of face, features - the raw kind of beauty that’s appealing even in the middle of the apocalypse. 

That’s you, Rick thinks, and he wonders why you chose to wear such a cute little number to this party when the rest of the women are wearing long pants. 

Maybe you’re doing it on purpose. Maybe you’re - 

Rick wants to slap himself in the face. He’s been feeling that urge, to get himself in check, whenever he thinks about you these days. 

He promised your father that he’d look out for you. Keep you safe. Protect you. Yet here he is, catching himself checking you out again, because yeah, this is definitely not the first time he’s noticed your figure. 

Your father - Rick truly considered him a close friend, and he blames himself for the miscommunication that ended up with him promising to look out for you like you were his own daughter. Your father just knew that Rick cared about you, which is true. Saw the way he was always willing to protect you, to defend you, to make sure you were taken care of. 

Must’ve noticed the long talks you two had, saw the way Rick so helpfully taught you how to shoot a gun without wasting all the bullets. The way he let you wear his shirt one day, because it was the only extra after getting caught in a storm and your own shirt was soaking wet, sticking to your body and - 

Holy fuck, Rick thinks, finishing off his beer and slamming it down a little too harshly. He can’t think about that. Can’t think about the way your tits looked in that wet shirt, the way your body felt, warm and soft when he pressed up behind you and gripped your hand, showing you how to properly use a gun. The way you hugged him, cuddled into his side while he gave you advice and you had your long talks, because you wanted the wisdom of someone mature who wasn’t your father. 

He’s not a bad man, he swears. Rick’s never been attracted to a woman as young as you at his age, and he hates himself for it. It’s wrong, but he can’t deny the magnetic attraction he feels when he looks at you, thinks about you, is around you. It’s chemical. 

Plus, he reasons to himself, trying to avert his eyes when you bend down to pick up something off the ground. That dress is way too short, and although Rick really isn’t looking (lie), someone else notices, and Carol steps behind you to hide the free view of your purple, little panties that you’re giving every man at this outdoor party. 

Rick doesn’t know if he should thank Carol for covering you up or tell her to move. 

Your father - he must’ve misread those moments between the two of you. Thought, because of your age difference, that Rick was just being fatherly towards you - because any man his age with a conscience would never be attracted to a woman as young as you. It probably didn’t even cross your father’s mind that Rick thought of you as anything other than his friend’s daughter. 

Which makes him feel even worse. 

You’re not bent over anymore, and you and Carol share a laugh about the length of your dress while Rosita teases you and Maggie walks over with two glass bottles of beer in her hands. You’re quite the social butterfly.

Rick can’t hear clearly, but he thinks he makes out someone asking where he is, and you spin around looking for him, looking so cute and clueless and Rick hates himself even more because why is that confused look on your face so fucking cute? 

When you spot him on his porch, you point and then grin. Like he’s your favorite person and he’s been lost for much too long and you’re so excited to finally find him - when in reality, you just haven’t spoken in maybe thirty minutes. Rick doesn’t know why you’re smiling so big looking at him, but he can’t deny the way it warms him up. His face, his neck, a good feeling that spreads down his chest and goes directly to his cock. 

You wave, all happy, with a little bounce in your step when you raise on your toes to properly see him over the porch railing, and Rick is so fond it makes him sick. The wave, the pretty smile, the enthusiasm. It makes you look so young, so beautiful, and Rick can’t stand how much he likes it. 

How much he likes you. 

He waves back, just as Maggie comes up the porch steps and hands him another beer. She asks if he’s going to join the party soon, or if he’s playing the part of Daryl since even the lone wolf himself is sitting with a few other people at a picnic table, although his face is deadpanned and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Rick laughs. 

When Maggie walks off, Rick notices that you’re still watching him. Not at all listening to whatever Carol and Rosita are talking about. It’s like you were waiting, to capture his attention again - and once you have it, that smile returns and you blow him a kiss. 

And Rick? God, he’s such a fucking idiot. He feels like such a creep. But it’s not like he can ignore you, because what kind of person would do that? You’re just being sweet. That’s all. And he’s just excited because your sweetness is a nice break from how fucking bratty you’ve been all week. 

Rick repeats that excuse in his mind like a mantra.

He pretends to grab the kiss, face red at how juvenile this is, and then he blows one back. He’s drunk now, he’s sure of it, and he’s embarrassed that he’s even playing this game with you.  

But you look so satisfied when you grab his kiss, and you hold it in your palm and don’t open your hand, like you’re saving it. And that - goddamnit. Rick’s going crazy. You’re too fucking sweet, you’re too fucking pretty, you’re too fucking good for him and you’re too young for him and -

Rick catches Daryl’s eyes over the porch. It’s hard to read him, but it’s pretty clear he saw that. The exchange. The way he looks between the two of you, the little tilt of the corner of his mouth. He knows - he knows something. 

Rick tips his new beer back and swallows, shaking his head. 

Yeah. He’s got a fucking problem, alright.

────

Daryl is not this guy. 

This guy, being the kind of man that thinks about a woman your age in an inappropriate way. It’s unlike him - but it’s unlike him to think about romance and sex at all, to be honest. He’s always been too busy for that shit. Too busy surviving, taking care of himself. At the end of a long day, all he can think about is going to sleep so he can do this human and living shit again the next morning. 

And that was before the fucking apocalypse of walkers. 

After the world was overrun with them, romance and sex were even further out of his mind. Nothing hot about sneaking off in the woods or to an abandoned building to fuck in a room that smells like decaying bodies. Daryl has no idea how Maggie and Glenn do it, can’t believe that Rosita once let Abraham fuck her on the floor of an old church they were staying in, with walker guys splattered on the wall next to them. 

Which is saying a lot, because Daryl doesn’t even have a weak stomach. Doesn’t get grossed out by things most grown men would have a fit over. It’s not his style. He just can’t picture ever wanting to fuck bad enough that he’d do it while living in a world like this. He doesn’t think with his dick - fuck, the truth is? Sometimes he used to wonder if it even still worked after all the shit he’s been through. 

But...things have changed since the group got to Alexandria. After a few months, with no starving and with a pillow and a mattress to sleep on, being able to close both eyes instead of just one during the night - Daryl is starting to notice that his priorities are changing. Bit by bit everyday, he’s slowly turning into someone he doesn’t recognize - and that scares him. 

It terrifies him. 

Alexandria is nicer than any place Daryl has ever lived before - like, way nicer. Before the apocalypse, he’d never even be allowed within fifty miles of a community like this, he thinks. There’s running water, warm water, and he’s starting to get a little scared that he, along with everyone else from his group, are getting a little too used to these luxuries. 

He finds himself waking up with a hard cock whenever he sleeps in his own bed. That’s the first sign that his body is adjusting to...comfort? Every single morning, without fail, he’s hard. Except when he goes on his recruiting runs with Aaron and he’s forced back into a tent on the cold ground. But when he comes back from those runs, it doesn't matter how many days he’s been gone, the next morning in his own bed always means he’s going to have to change his boxers. 

Can’t exactly go around Alexandria with his precum dried in his pants. 

Daryl doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like, this, this - what does he even call this? Health? Finally feeling like he belongs somewhere, so his body can let down its guard? 

He’s worried, about what that means, because as nice as this new little community is for everyone - it might not last. That’s a total possibility, and he’s getting way too soft with all this hot coffee with creamer and warm meals and electricity. Fuck this place (he thinks, somewhat fondly). 

So, Daryl’s fighting back. 

As of late, he’s starting to refuse getting used to this place. Will go a week without a warm meal and will head straight out to the woods to eat a raw squirrel or frog whenever he finds himself excited about spaghetti for dinner. If he finds himself jacking off under the warm water in his shower, eyes closed while he enjoys the smell of eucalyptus from his bar of soap - he’ll curse and hop right out, head straight back into the woods to rub dirt on his clothes and get mud under his nails again. What kind of fucking man notices the smell of his soap? 

A man that dies when things get bad again. That’s who. No, Daryl cannot have that happen. Fucking stupid soap. 

He throws it in the trash can and goes back to the almost gone, orange and white looking bar he’s used for the last year. Unscented. 

But everything he’s doing - there’s just no point. No matter what Daryl does, how uncomfortable he makes his own life, his dick is still getting hard. 

He got mad at Rosita during breakfast the other day for wearing those fucking tiny shorts of hers. He’s not even attracted to her - she’s not his type at all, and then when Tara joined them at the table, obviously not wearing a bra, Daryl cursed at them and stormed off. Told them to put on some fucking clothes. He doesn't think either of them are particularly hot, but his dick does. Sees a pair of long legs these days, a jiggle of breast, the round shape of a woman’s ass - fuck, the color pink, and his fucking cock is ready to go. 

Daryl can’t even remember the last time he had sex. Because sex doesn’t really matter these days, and Daryl doesn’t want it to matter. He doesn’t want manners to matter either, which is why he won’t even join the rest of the house for dinner after he caught himself putting a napkin on his lap. He can hear Merle’s voice in his head when he remembers to chew with his mouth closed - goddamn, he’s supposed to be a survivalist. Not a suburban douche. 

Obviously, he’s going fucking crazy. He would say he’s having a hard time adjusting - but it’s kind of the opposite. Daryl’s adjusting to life in Alexandria much easier than he expected, and that’s what’s crazy. 

And you - that’s where his real problem comes in. You’re driving him fucking insane. 

You’re living in the same house as him, you’re constantly around, and Daryl doesn’t know what to do with the emotions you bring out in him. He tries to avoid you as much as possible, but you’re always around the corner, usually seeking him out. When thoughts start swirling around in his head, his stomach, his dick, all of them relating back to you, he tries to drown them out with beer or something harder, tries to distract himself, tries to tire himself out so he has no room or time to think about you. 

But he’s starting to realize that, unfortunately, the only way to get you out of his mind is through his dick. And that’s only a temporary solution, before he sees you do something else that’s sexy, like existing, and he’s back to where he started. 

Wraps a fist around his cock in the middle of the night, jerking himself off to the thought of you, biting the inside of his cheek so nobody else in the house can hear him - cheap ass new construction with the thin ass walls. Everything pisses Daryl off these days, but maybe he just needs to get laid. 

But deep down - he thinks, no, knows - that his problem is you. 

When Daryl first met you, he didn’t like you. Thought you were annoying, saw your girly appearance and assumed you’d be a dead weight to the rest of the group, but your father was someone that the group would be lucky to have. Military training, big and strong and smart. Daryl loved that guy, almost as much as he cares about Rick - and he was devastated when he passed. If someone like your dad could die, it meant anyone could, but watching the way you handled yourself after his passing made Daryl really start to think of you differently. 

He started to respect you. See you beyond just a pretty package that talks too much and wastes too much water and snores so fucking loud you’re like a siren alerting the walkers right to everyone, at least before the group arrived behind these walls. You’ve, in a way…grown up? Right before his eyes. You’re kind, you’re pretty helpful when you want to be, you’re smart, even if you play up the ditzy princess role for attention, and Daryl’s not actually not sure how old you are, just that you’re in your early twenties, and, well. 

You’re fucking hot. Look like a woman from the posters Merle would hang up on his bedroom walls back when he was still alive. Daryl never did any shit like that, feels bad even noticing your beauty, but, hell - 

He’s definitely not the only one. 

He walks into the living room, because he has to if he wants to get to the front door. Daryl wants air, and you keep lighting fucking candles that some dumbass gave you as a welcome gift in the community, and they smell too sweet and they make his throat itch, and the smell fucking wafts up to his room. Daryl wants to smoke, too scared of Carol bitching at him again if she sees him from the house next door, out his window, putting his cigarette out on the freshly painted window pane. Women. Toxic fucking candles are cool, but cigarettes, a necessity that's almost as important as water, are a no go? Utter bullshit. 

Daryl’s already dreading having to interact with you when he sees you on the couch. You’re sitting criss-cross, in a dress, and at this point he thinks you have to be trying to show off, but maybe not.

Why would you? Not like you’re around a bunch of young dudes or anything. Maybe you’re just that comfortable around the people in the house, and if that’s the case, well - that makes Daryl a little happy. You annoy him, sure - but he cares about you like he does everyone from his original group. 

Wouldn’t hurt you to put a bra on or close your legs more often though. Better yet - close the fucking door to the bathroom when you take a shower. Daryl’s getting heated, in more ways than one, just thinking about your carelessness. 

Rick’s sitting on the couch next to you, his elbow resting on the arm of the sofa, his head halfway in his hand. You - you’re chatting his ear off, as you always do. “It’s kinda keto, you know? Eating just meat. That’s partly why we’re all in such good shape, Rick. I swear with all this pasta and canned food we’ve been eating since we got here, I’m going to gain a million pounds,” you stop when you notice that Daryl walks in. Rick looks up, lifts his hand in a meek greeting at him, and attempts to say something but you cut him off. 

“I was just telling Rick about the keto diet. You know, just meat, no carbs. You’re sort of keto, Daryl, before we got here at least, it’s-” Daryl cuts you off. He doesn’t want to get involved. Doesn’t want to look you in your pretty eyes and feed into whatever fucking verbal whirlwind you’re on about, because someone really shouldn’t let you drink coffee but you’re too damn grown to have someone monitor your caffeine intake, but he literally can’t stop himself. 

“What the fuck ‘re you talkin’ about?” He deadpans. “I’ve never been on no fucking diet.” Rick snorts in reply, and you smack him on the arm. 

“Hey,” Rick warns, voice a little too loud and too stern for the move. You’re pretty tiny - not like your violence could hurt him, but you turn your pretty pout into a neutral expression at his scolding anyway. “Enough. Stop worryin’ about gaining weight, and just be happy you’re alive,” he reprimands, shaking his head. 

This time, you scoff. “It’s a joke, Rick,” you mutter, suddenly uncomfortable with your vulnerable sitting position. You shift and sit normally, but there's still way too much skin on display in a room with two men twice your age. You cross one leg over the other. Daryl’s drawn to the soft skin of your thighs, your little foot in a bright white sock, the bottom a little dirty.

He sees Rick literally shift his position to get a better view of you sulking. Arms crossed, which inadvertently pushes your tits up and makes them sit high. Where the fuck did you even get a dress like that? What suburban mother in this neighborhood had clothes for - 

Nah. Daryl’s not going to go there. You look good, and he’s not the only one who thinks so. 

But that’s obvious. Everyone around Rick, around you, around you two together can see it. Daryl hopes he’s not that fucking obvious. The funny thing is - Rick thinks he’s slick. That nobody else sees the way he’s all starry-eyed, like a fucking cartoon character whenever you’re around. 

He pretends like he hates it, shouldering the responsibility of looking out for you. Like he can’t stand all the cute little knick knacks you’ve managed to collect from the other women in Alexandria, scattered around the house, like he’s so annoyed when you ask to sleep in his room whenever the amount of walkers at the gate gets so big the entire community can hear them while they sleep, like he’s bothered whenever you get tipsy and fit yourself right next to him, warm body pressed into his side. Ask him to open jars for you like you’re not strong enough, when everyone’s seen you bash a walker’s head in with an empty wine bottle and kill a bird with a stick for something to eat.

The best one, was when Rick made a huge commotion about having to teach you how to shoot a gun, as if you weren’t the daughter of a former military legend who managed to survive this long. Daryl actually laughed at that, wondered if you were truly playing Rick, or if he knew your incompetence was just a lie to get closer to him, and he played along because he wanted the excuse just as much as you.

You play the role well, Daryl will give you that. Whenever Rick comes around, you’re…softer. Sweeter. You play dumb. Daryl doesn’t know why, although maybe he does, just doesn’t wanna admit it because it’s wrong. 

Isn’t it? Or maybe he’s just fucked up. Maybe you really do see Rick as a sort of surrogate father figure since your dad is gone, and if that’s the case, well - it makes sense that you might try to make yourself seem like you need him. Maybe you really do. What the fuck does Daryl know? 

Just kind of weird, ‘s all. You’re too hot to be acting like that. And Rick - Daryl’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to play this game with you. 

He clears his throat to interrupt whatever tension is going on between the two of you. Doesn’t want to see Rick groveling to get you to behave, or the opposite - because if he hears you beg, well.

Daryl's not going to chance it. Thinking with his dick lately, remember? He starts walking to the front door. 

“Wait,” you say, because of course you do. Daryl thinks about pretending like he didn't hear you, but you get off of the couch and manage to get behind him, soft little hand on his bicep while you try to stop him. “Where are you going? Can I come with? I wanna see the sunset,” you explain, and shit. What a cute fucking sentence. Daryl literally hates himself. 

“Not going sunset watching,” he grumbles, pulling his arm away from you. Your delicate, tiny touch is burning his skin. “This ain't a vacation,” he adds, because someone around here has to be the negative one, right? This world is still fucking shitty, even in this little piece of protected suburbs. Rick calls out your name. 

“Leave him be, go find something useful to do,” he orders, and Daryl doesn’t even have to look at you to know you’re rolling your sweet little eyes. Again, he has thoughts that make him berate himself. Sweet? Eyes? He’s two seconds away from going next door and asking Abraham to kick his ass just to bring him back down to reality. 

“Stop telling me what to do all the time,” you bite back, and just to stop the bickering, Daryl relents. Not like he was doing anything anyway, just wanted to go for a little walk to clear his head, check the wall and make sure the new adjustments to it are still intact, still keeping this place safe. 

Being able to keep his head on straight for a night would’ve been cool, but here you go, using all that feminine charm on him to get him to do what you want. No wonder people in the olden days thought sexy women were witches. Maybe they were onto something. 

“Jus’ hurry up and grab a jacket, kid. Shit,” Daryl curses, and you practically squeal and run up the stairs, going to your room to put on some shoes and a little coat. To be fair, when you’re not around Rick - you’re not so fucking immature. You’re always cute, nice, smart - but Rick brings out thoughtlessness in you that’s truly insane to witness. Sometimes it’s like you’re a different person.

When you come back down with your jacket on, which isn’t a jacket but more of a little white sweater, you actually go back to Rick to say goodbye, pat his arm while Daryl watches his attempt to be cool, even when it’s obvious that your presence, anytime you touch him, sends him into a panic. Daryl knows that feeling. Rick stands and grabs a handgun from a drawer next to the couch and hands it to you, because that’s a rule around here. Every adult needs to be armed when they’re walking around. 

You roll your eyes. Again. “Would’ve been safe with Daryl,” you grumble, and that’s true, but knowing you think that makes Daryl almost jump out of his skin. It’s…good. Shit, you really confuse him, and you’re only a young little thing. 

He can’t imagine the power you’ll hold when you get to be his age. If, no - when. Because you’re going to make it. Rick promised your father you would. Daryl didn’t promise him anything, but it’s still important to him too.  

“Bye, Rick,” you say, before following Daryl out the door. You’re halfway off the porch when Rick stands in the doorway, seeing you off. He doesn’t say anything to Daryl, doesn’t need to, but he does call out to you. 

“Don’t ask for a cigarette, you hear me? Don't do anything fuckin' stupid,” he warns, and you just laugh out loud, slide the gun that he handed you into your boot. Daryl doesn’t get it, the dynamic between you two, but it’s weird and awkward and frankly, a little hot. Maybe he’s more like Merle than he thought. 

You walk to an empty area of Alexandria, somewhere you can sort of see the sunset. He fishes his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. What good is being outside if he can't have a smoke?

“Want one?” Daryl grunts, and you giggle and take it, because yeah, Rick told you not to smoke, but Rick ain’t his daddy. He ain’t yours either - but as Daryl lights up, he supposes that Rick… sort of is?

He nags you, protects you, takes care of you. Made you move into the room next to his so he could keep a closer eye on you. Daryl's pretty sure he heard Rick tell you to eat your vegetables the other day, and whenever you hurt yourself he's always the first one coming to you, gently fixing up whatever little wound you might have.

Maybe you want that. The Daddy thing. Maybe you like that. Maybe -

Daryl’s a sick bastard. Must run in the Dixon DNA. 

You nod, but before he can give you your own, you just grab it from his lips, almost burn your finger while you do it too. You get pink lip gloss on the cigarette, and you never end up giving it back. Such a bratty, spoiled thing to do. Would be enough to start a fight, where Daryl’s from, being greedy like that - but you're fuckin' cute and you know it. You know the power you have, and that's a turn on for Daryl.

And yeah, he could easily reach back into his pocket, get his own cigarette, but he’s content. Dick halfway hard in his pants, watching a beautiful thing like you look all pretty and pink and proper, smoking on a cancer stick.

Daryl doesn’t know what comes over him when he says, “He’s too old for you, ya know that, don’t cha?” He’s talking about Rick. Obviously. Is not at all (lie) trying to gauge your reaction to an older man. Isn't inadvertently (another lie) trying to figure out if you're purposely bending over, just so he can see your cleavage on full display while you pick a flower growing in the grass by your feet. 

You smile, taking a final inhale then tossing the cigarette on the ground and stubbing it out with the toe of your sneaker. Deanna’s going to kill you for littering so shamelessly.  

You shake your head, blow out the smoke. “No, he’s not,” you say, taking the flower and putting it behind your ear. You lock eyes with Daryl. “And neither are you.”

────

Living with you requires a special kind of patience that Rick doesn’t have at his age. 

Honestly, he doesn’t think he’s ever had the kind of patience required to live with someone like you. Although, patience and restraint could be interchanged in this scenario. 

You’re driving him crazy. 

There’s four rooms in his designated house in Alexandria, but the house still doesn’t seem big enough. Your presence is suffocating to him, in the best way possible, but it’s overwhelming when he’s got so much on his plate. The safety of the entire community is a big responsibility, and his focus has to be on keeping people alive and fed and prepared, in case something happens. 

Rick feels like he never gets a chance to breathe, with someone somewhere always wanting something from him. And it’s not like he can relax when he gets home, either - because you’re there, and Rick physically cannot calm down around you. It’s not your fault. It’s just his body’s natural reaction to you, and maybe in another world that would be something amazing, but in this world it’s wrecking his nervous system. 

God, he really sounds like an old man these days. It’s a good reminder that, in comparison to you, he sort of is. 

It’s been a long day. Rick’s walking up the stairs, ready to collapse into his bed until he’s inevitably woken up again in a few hours for something the people in the community could handle on their own. He’s literally yawning, resisting the urge to rub his eyes when you quickly round the corner and try to scamper down the stairs around him. 

As if that would work. The houses in Alexandria are big, much nicer than the home Rick lived in before this whole mess started, but a staircase is still a staircase. Too narrow for the both of you to squeeze past each other without touching. 

Rick grabs your wrist to stop you, not hard, but you whine like he just tried to saw your arm off. Such a dramatic brat. Instead of rubbing his eyes, Rick resists the urge to roll them now. 

There’s no curfew for the residents of Alexandria, not really, but there’s no point in leaving the house after dark. Your group has spent a year wishing for a safe place to lay your head at night, and being outside this late just seems foolish and unnecessary. 

And a little suspicious. 

And - Rick is nosy. He hates how frail your wrist feels in his hand, so he drops it, and gets a good look at you. “Where are you goin’?” He asks, annoyed at how fond he feels when he sees your bottom lip poke out. 

You’re pouting. You’re pouting and he hasn’t even nagged you about anything yet. That’s a new record, for sure. 

You shrug, and the movement draws his eyes to your chest, where your tits bounce ever so slightly in your tight, little tank top. Rick can feel the wheels of brat moving in your mind, and he lets out a breath because he knows whatever is about to come out of your mouth is bullshit. It always is, whenever you speak to him. 

It’s clear you love to rile him up, although he’s not sure why. Maybe you see him as a safe place to get your frustration out - he’s the closest thing you’ve got to a parent these days, so maybe giving him a hard time is coping skill or something. 

At that thought, the parent one, Rick lifts his eyes from your chest. He hates that when you’re this close, he can smell the sweet scent of your perfume or shampoo or whatever it is that women use to smell delicious. He hates that when you’re this close, he can see the twinkle in your pretty eyes, the sparkle of whatever product you have on your lips that makes them look so soft. He hates -

Well, most of all, he hates himself. For noticing these things. For thinking these things. He can’t even reason that he knows every detail about your face because he’s known you for so long - because he’s known Maggie and Carol and shit, Daryl, even longer than you - and he truly can’t even recall the color of their eyes. 

This attention to detail - it’s definitely a you thing. 

You quirk a brow, one that’s perfectly arched. You must’ve spent three hours in the bathroom when the group arrived in Alexandria. Rick remembers that you waited for everyone else to have a turn rinsing off, just so you could take your sweet time after everyone already went to bed. You guard the scented shampoo that Deanna left for you with your life, and the bathroom care package someone dropped off the first week, that came with tweezers and razors and mouthwash. Rick knows you made nice with the other women in the community just to ‘borrow’ the perfume that they had before the start of the apocalypse.

It’s cute, and the femininity you’re showing in this community has Rick almost forgetting all the times he’s seen you smash a walkers head in or eat from a can of uncooked ravioli with your fingers - which was a luxury find a few months ago. Crazy how fast life can change. 

“Just getting some water, Rick. Why do you think I’m going somewhere?”

Well. Rick didn’t think about that. The kitchen is downstairs. 

But Rick knows you better than that. Apparently, he pays more attention to every single thing you do than he even realized. If you were just going to get water this late, you’d be in your pajamas - which is more often than not, a pair of boxers and a shirt that's much too big for you. You swiped them from Daryl’s room when someone from the community brought everyone a fresh change of clothes - you’ve really gotten comfortable here. 

Right now you’re not wearing anything comfortable, and that’s how Rick knows you’re lying. That little tank top, no bra, the tiny pair of shorts you’ve got on - how fucking stupid do you think he is? You’re wearing shoes - he knows you’re planning on leaving. 

Which is fine. You’re allowed to. But you’re also his responsibility, and he’s beyond tired, and there were more walkers by the walls today, and - you know what? Rick’s not letting you off this easy. Call it payback, after your fit yesterday in front of Deanna and Abraham, when you stomped your cute foot and called Rick a control freak since he wouldn’t let you go on a run yourself. 

He can give you a hard time too. So he does. “I know you’re lying, and you’re not leaving the house tonight. It’s too dangerous,” and that’s not really true, but your bottom lip juts out again and then you cross your arms, and that just irritates Rick more because now you’re covering up his view. Fuck, he’s really sick, isn’t he? Maybe he just needs to go to bed. 

He should just let you go out. Move out of your way, so you can pass him on the stairs and go where you want to go so bad, wherever that is. Carol and Sasha are patrolling, and there’s a card game at the house in the center of the community where Glenn and Abraham and Maggie, as well as others, are all together. You’d be fairly safe if you went out for a walk, and truth be told, Rick isn’t really worried about your safety right now. 

If he’s honest with himself, deep down - he just doesn’t want to let you out of the house in that fucking outfit. He’s got to talk with Deanna, tell her to tell whoever’s in charge of the clothing in Alexandria to give you a bra and some shorts that fit. Christ, he thinks, running a hand down his face in pure exhaustion and frustration, because you quickly head down the stairs after he tells you no and he can clearly see the bottom of your asscheeks, round and firm and - damn. Those shorts belong in the fucking trash or on a pedestal where Rick can properly thank them. 

“I’ve got plans,” you say, pretty mouth no longer pouting, but pulled into a cheeky smile. Rick realizes that you’re pleased, because you’re already getting the attention you wanted from him, without him even realizing it. He follows you down the stairs so you’re both standing in the living room now, and Rick’s too old for all this bickering, too tired, but he plays along anyway. Knows this is just a game, to terrorize him, because you’re a little menace and you enjoy pissing him off. 

And shit - he can admit it. It feels good that someone like you wants his attention this bad. So he'll play along.

“Yeah? Well, tell me what they are. Don’t be shy. Where the hell are you goin' dressed like that?” Rick’s falling into the trap, because he’s fucking stupid, because you make him stupid. He could easily walk back upstairs and go to sleep just as easily as you could walk out the front door and do - whatever the fuck it is you want to do right now. But you’re both standing here, two adults arguing for no reason, and that’s when Rick realizes why he even entertains your little tantrums and ploys at getting him to argue. 

Maybe he just likes that someone is brave enough to question his decisions. You make him feel human - like he’s more than just a leader. 

You uncross your arms, and Rick wishes you didn’t. He wanted you to a minute ago, but now he just wants to run upstairs to his room to pull out a shirt and pair of boxers to force you to wear, to hide that figure of yours that was only made hotter from all the fucking physical activity the entire group did every day for a year. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Rick. God, stop being such a freak. I’m just watching a movie with Daryl.” 

Your answer knocks the wind out of Rick, because now he knows you're really up to something. Wearing that, to watch a movie with Daryl? It's shady, and yeah, Rick knows that you like Daryl. Everyone can see it.

You love to tease him and torment him, say things to make him blush, and if Rick's not around you cling him to like a teddy bear, ask to follow him around and help him with runs or whatever needs to be done. Rick always just assumed you had a little crush on him - which was sort of cute, in a weird way. Showed Rick that you like older men, and out of everyone - Daryl's harmless. He wouldn't act on any stupid thoughts, and probably doesn't even think of you in that way. He's a good guy.

Unlike Rick, apparently.

Even your father could see it. When he was still alive, when the group was constantly on the move, Daryl carried you on his back for miles, told Rick that giving in was better than hearin' your bitchin'. Rick still remembers the look on your father's face when he saw Daryl put you down that day, his posture fucked, dripping sweat - and he still handed you his water bottle before he even got a sip.

"She's somethin'," your dad said with an eye roll, although fond. You were the apple of his eye, but even your father knew you could be a goddamn handful.

Now though, with the possibility that your little crush could be more, Rick feels weird. Uncomfortable, an emotion burning in his chest that he realizes is - no, it can't be -

Jealousy? He feels weirdly possessive, he -

Hears the garage door close, then heavy footsteps, until Daryl’s standing on the other side of the room.

“What’s all the ruckus? Was just cleaning my bike,” Daryl starts, a little disturbed at the way Rick looks like he’s about to have a heart attack or crumble to the floor in frustration. He steps further into the room a little tentatively, before his eyes look to you, and suddenly Daryl is glad that he’s learned to control his emotions so they don’t ever register on his face. 

Because your outfit - if it can even be called that…well, Daryl’s starting to realize why Rick looks like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown. 

Daryl can’t help himself. He says it without even consciously realizing it, asking, “Where the fuck you goin’ dressed like that?” All while pretending to be casual, wiping motorcycle grease off of his hands with a dirty towel he brought in from the garage. 

Daryl’s comment must send you over the edge, because you huff and groan and then run upstairs, slamming your door like a fucking teenager. 

It’s silent for a second, with just the two of them in the living room, before Daryl breaks the silence. “What’s her problem?” He asks Rick, who stays silent for so long, eyes closed and a hand over his face, that Daryl wonders if Rick even heard him. 

But then Rick laughs. The kind of laugh that stems from being so irritated, instead of breaking something all he can do is angrily chuckle. Now Daryl is really confused, but Rick isn’t. 

You were lying about watching a movie with Daryl, as Rick expected, and he shakes his head. The outfit and the shoes to pretend you were going somewhere and the attitude were all just to rile him up. He thinks he's starting to realize why you want to get a rise out of him so bad, and it makes his stomach turn and his dick chub up in excitement.

“She said she was watchin’ a movie with you,” he explains, which only further perplexes Daryl, because he doesn’t watch movies, and you were wearing shoes - but he knows when to leave a situation alone. Whatever you and Rick having going on - that’s between you two. 

Daryl turns to go back to the garage, and Rick’s about to walk up the stairs when the sound of your bedroom door opening is heard, and then a few light footsteps. Both men brace themselves because you’re sure to have something to say now. 

It’s sort of cute, although neither one of them would admit that they like this attitude - that you needed to take a minute to gather your thoughts just to come up with something nasty to say back to Rick. 

“Daryl,” you call from the top of the stairs, “I was just about to ask if you wanted to hang out. We could've gone for a walk, or watched a movie, or - anything! Rick’s just so mean, he doesn’t want to watch a movie with me and,” Rick stomps up the stairs and you squeal. Daryl bites back a laugh at the way you act around Rick, a smile spreading across his face that he’s glad no one else is around to see.

It’s weird, that he finds you so fucking charming. You’re annoying as shit, but it’s endearing, and the way Rick acts around you - like a human, instead of a tough robot - it's nice to see. He keeps that to himself, not going back to the garage until he hears Rick tell you to go to bed. “I just wanted to watch a movie,” you whine, and as the door shuts, Daryl hears Rick. 

“Watch one? In that outfit, looks like you’re trying to make one. Quit lyin' and put some fuckin' clothes on.” 

────

Just like that, everything changes.

All thanks to that little outfit. God bless Deanna for sending over those little shorts that you cut even smaller, and those tank tops you took from the community closet that were definitely meant for someone younger than you - but they did the job you needed them to do perfectly. 

That outfit changed everything. It got Rick, and Daryl, to see that you were only trying to show off. That everything you’d been doing, especially since you got to Alexandria, was just to get their attention.

And yeah, maybe that makes you feel a little pathetic. It’s the end of the world, and all you’re thinking about is how to seduce your late father’s close friends, but there’s another way of looking at that too. For instance, you could literally die tomorrow. So could Rick, Daryl - anyone. Every single day that you go to bed, you know that it’s all just luck. Like winning the lottery. So why not have fun while you still can?

In your opinion, that should be everyone’s viewpoint. 

The next morning, after your little lie about watching a movie with Daryl, Rick made sure everyone was out of the house so that he could talk to you. He found you in the kitchen.

“He’s too old for you,” he says, all parental and bossy in a plaid button down shirt, hand on his hip. He reminds you of your dad a little, with the disapproving tone and the stance. Back when your father used to disapprove of every fucking guy you brought home for him to meet. It’s funny, although depressing, and even though you didn’t have the best relationship with him, thinking about your dad now that he’s dead hurts. You shake the thought and the memory from your head, scooping a spoonful of oatmeal into your mouth. You shrug. 

“Daryl says the same thing about you,” is your reply after you swallow. Rick lets out a big sigh, always a drama queen, but you love that you have him where you want him. Jealous, maybe. Seeing you as someone beyond just his late friend's daughter. You’re a woman that a lot of people want, and Rick should know that. Should feel lucky, that you like him so much and want his attention so badly. Sometimes you honestly think that Daryl and Rick are a little ungrateful about all the attention they get from you. 

“Yeah, well, he’s right,” there’s a pause, like Rick doesn’t really want to say what he’s going to say. You look up at him, blink your eyes slowly in a way that you learned gets men get flustered, and Rick stutters as it comes out of his mouth, he sighs after he says it. “You’ve gotta stop this.”

You know exactly what he’s talking about. What Rick means to say is: You’ve gotta stop coming on to him and to Daryl. To stop being such a tease, to stop acting like a little harlot that needs to be punished and fucked so bad she’s running around one of the last standing suburbs in the United States with her panties showing and her tits out. 

You get it, really - you do. 

You just don’t want to stop. 

“Stop what, Rick? You know I’m attracted to you. To Daryl. I literally can’t be any more obvious. Why can’t I have a little fun? Does it seriously bother you? Or is it just your morals getting in the way?” Not to sound like a selfish, immature brat - but you’re pissed at your dad for freaking Rick out. Before he passed, you really were getting closer with Rick, spending all your free time together, sort of affectionate when nobody else was looking. You’d stay awake with Rick at night to talk, you’d go for walks with him, go on runs whenever you were allowed, help him with whatever he needed. 

You were getting somewhere, and your dad’s final dying wish took all your hard work and dumped it in the trash. 

Now, you know how it sounds. Like you’re a total bitch that was a shitty daughter with no empathy or emotions, but that’s far from the facts. The truth is - you were never close with your dad. You happened to be visiting him during a break from college when shit hit the fan, and he was prepared. You'd have been stupid not to stay with him. And, yeah, he kept you alive and you definitely got closer after spending a year on the road together in some of the worst human conditions ever - but it wasn’t like you were daddy’s little girl or whatever else Rick likes to imagine to torture himself more.

You miss your father, sure, and you’re also sure Rick misses having another trustworthy male in the group, but treating the last words of a man who was going crazy with the walker virus as gospel is just plain crazy. Even for Rick.

And, to be clear, it’s not like you’re trying to force yourself onto Rick or Daryl. You know for a fact that if you were, if all your teasing and affection was making them uncomfortable, they’d say something about it. You’re desperate for them, yeah, but if either of them truly wanted you to fuck off, you’d respect that. 

It’s just that - you know they want you. It’s clear, in the way their eyes follow you around a room, the way their touch lingers on you, how protective they are. For fuck’s sake, you’ve felt the hard outline of the bulge in their pants whenever you plop down on their laps, and you swear that Rick was using any excuse to get in the bathroom while you were taking a bath the other day. Needed his floss, yeah fucking right. It was cute though. You want them to want you. 

And, anyway - you don’t understand why it’s such a big fucking deal. You’re in your twenties, and who knows how much longer you all have left? Daryl and Rick can’t be more than what, forty? Corpses learned to walk, and they’re worried about a little bit of legal age difference?

God, they’re driving you crazy.

In the kitchen, Rick curses. He doesn’t know what to say in reply to you. Does it really bother him, all your teasing? 

Because the answer is - yeah, it does bother him. 

It bothers him, that he can’t even fantasize about pushing you down on his bed and fucking your brains out without images of your dying dad flashing through his mind. It bothers him, that you’re so sexy and hot and sweet and soft and that you want him so bad, make him feel so needed and appreciated in ways no woman has ever made him feel before, yet you’re young enough to be his daughter. It bothers him deeply, that you’re the only thing in his mind all day long and the only thing that truly matters to him, which is why he’s always giving you such a hard time, which also makes him feel like the worst leader ever - because he’s got the safety of an entire community on his shoulders. People are counting on him, and all he can think about is you you you.

It bothers him, that he feels like a dirty old man around you, and that he doesn’t even care. Actually likes the way that people look at him when you’re on his arm. Likes to help you when you’re pretending like you can’t do shit yourself, just because you’d rather have him do it. And it really fucking bothers him that your tits are perky and that you hate wearing a bra and that your skin is clear and that you smell like a goddamn vanilla cupcake in the middle of the apocalypse. 

Sometimes Rick hates you, for the way you bother him. 

But right now, what bothers him the most - is that he’s not even bothered that you want his best friend to fuck you. The only thing that bothers him about you wanting Daryl so bad is that he wants to see just how badly you do, and that makes him feel like a fucking pervert. A bad, bad man.

What the actual fuck is wrong with him? He’s supposed to be the good guy. 

“You’re just too damn young,” is all he says, and then he starts to walk away. It’s shitty, yeah, to leave you hanging like that - but Rick doesn’t want to be this guy. The one who takes advantage of a young, beautiful thing like yourself. It’s wrong. 

He used to be a cop. Married. Looked down upon men who’d hook up with the first young thing that wanted them. He used to hate on his friend, Shane, gave him so much shit about going after younger women who wanted an older man. Told him that young women who looked for older men had daddy issues, and what kind of decent person would take advantage of that? 

Is that a real thing, Rick wonders, daddy issues? Do you have that? Is it because your father died? Because Rick’s pretty sure you’ve been coming onto him and Daryl even back when you first joined the group. Do you think you have to…act the way you do so he’ll take care of you? Look out for you, now that all your family is dead? 

“You don’t need to…cater to what you think I want,” Rick starts, unsure of how else to phrase it. He knows that no matter how he puts it, you’re going to be pissed. “I’ll still be here for you, always, to protect you, take care of you, even if you’re not,” he regrets it the minute it comes out of his mouth, “sexually appealing to me.”

You stand up so fast your spoon clatters out of your oatmeal from the force of your hands on the counter, pushing your chair out and standing up. “Are you kidding me?” You’ve had it now. No more bratty little girl, no - now you’re a pissed off woman.

“I’m not some fucking kid, Rick. I’m not trying to seduce you because I’m worried you’ll kick me out of the group. I can pull my weight as much as the next person and you know that.” It’s insulting, what he’s saying. You literally want to punch him for saying that shit. 

“I’m trying to seduce you so you’ll fuck me. What’s so hard to understand? Do you want me Rick? Because I think you do. You’re just too chicken shit to,” but you don’t get to finish because he rushes forward, pushes you against the kitchen counter and turns you around. Manhandles you. 

You bite your lip to stop from grinning. This is what you wanted. Maybe not the fight, but the feeling of him holding you tight, locking you in place against his strong body. You feel his hard stomach, strong arms, and you’re shameless when you lean down on the counter so you’re completely bent over it, pushing your ass towards the bulge in his jeans. 

“You don’t wanna finish that sentence,” he warns, but maybe you do - because you feel him, hard against you. He likes this. Rick wants you, just as bad as you want him. You say a silent prayer, thanking the angels above that nobody else is home right now. “‘M not chicken shit about anything.”

You scoff. “Yeah, you are. Got me bent against the counter and you’re still talking. God, Rick, maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you can't handle this, maybe,” you go on and on, trying to stand up while he holds you down. He’s got a hand literally pressing into your back to keep you from getting up, and you’re so aroused you feel the dampness in your panties. You try to squeeze your legs together, but you can’t get any relief in this position. 

Then you realize that this must’ve been the position Rick put people in when he’d arrest them. Officer Grimes. Holy shit, that’s hot to think about. Such a force of power, so strong, so smart, so trustworthy. Rick, who takes care of you and comforts you and bends to every stupid whim you make up to test his loyalty towards you. Rick, who puts on a pair of sunglasses before he oggles your tits because he wants to seem like a gentleman so bad. Rick - 

Who’s pulling your pants down over your ass, panties too, until they’re down to your knees and he can see your bare ass. That fast, huh? You wiggle your ass with no remorse for being so greedy. 

“You’re really somethin’, you know that?” He murmurs, running his hand over the smooth skin of your ass. Then he smacks a hand down on it so hard that you’d jump if you weren’t being held down. It’s unexpected, but so fucking hot, and you’ve definitely fantasized about Rick spanking you before. Been begging for it, actually, with all your bad attitude these last few months. 

“You think you’re so grown. Pick and choose when you wanna be a grown lady or a bratty kid, whatever you think might get my attention. ‘M not stupid, I see it, just let you think you’re pulling the strings, ‘cause you know what? ‘S cute that you think you’re in charge,” Rick’s just letting the degrading so fucking sexy dirty talk flow, all the while he drops hits onto your ass. 

Part of the appeal, the desire growing in your belly and making all your limbs feel tight and hot, is that anyone could walk in at any time. Sure, right now the house is empty, but at any point someone could walk in and see what Rick is doing to you. What you’re letting him do. You whine at the thought. 

“You’re right, Rick,” you say, because come on. You haven’t been this desperate just to play hard to get now that you’re underneath him. You’ve been begging to see this side of Rick, to be on the receiving side of all this testosterone, to see if the most powerful man you’ve ever met is like that in every aspect of his life. He’s controlling, and sometimes mean, has a cold streak that’ll ice you out but also carries a warmth to thaw it -

And, you’re realizing, he’s turned on punishing you. Kinkier than you thought, honestly. But you're thrilled that he is.

“Didn’t think I’d ever hear those words out of your mouth,” he replies, and then he stops holding you down to the table. Instead, he lifts you up so your back is to his chest, and you lean against him, very aware that as he holds you to him his hand trails lower and lower, until his fingers are prodding between your legs, and you let out a gasp. 

Who knew Mr. Grimes had all this dirtiness in him? You always hoped, but. It’s better than you expected. You’re literally grinning when he rubs down your slit, so wet, back and forth while barely grazing your clit. He knows you want it bad, but he’s not going to give it to you just yet. 

Payback, maybe? You’ve never been so excited. 

“Fuckin’ drippin’,” he murmurs, voice in your ear. His breath smells like spearmint and you’re such a romantic that it makes you almost moan. It’s the same toothpaste you use. How domestic. How fun, how kinky - that it kind of feels like you’re his little wife letting him fuck you in the kitchen. 

Because yeah, that’s a fantasy of yours. You’ve got a lot of them, and Rick and Daryl are at the center of each one. “Rick,” you whine, and you feel him shake his head against you. 

“Not my name, is it? Rick wouldn’t spank your ass, but I know someone who would. What’d you call me the other day, huh? When you were teasin’ me because I said you couldn’t patrol by yourself?” He sticks a finger inside of you, a little too rough to be pleasurable, but that kind of dominance makes you moan. His thumb rubs over your clit, presses down hard, and the feeling is so much that you try to pull away. 

“Daddy,” you answer, and then he gives you some relief. Turns the hard touch on your little button to something pleasurable with a few soft strokes, adding another finger inside of you. 

He hums. “‘Atta girl. Just feelin’ you. Been imagining what this sweet little cunt feels like since I’ve known you. Figured it had to be as pretty as the rest of you. Tell me,” he lifts his fingers from your pussy, shiny under the kitchen lights from how aroused you are, “It as sweet as I imagined?” He shoves the digits in your mouth and you suck, hard. You moan against his fingers. 

“Look at you,” he utters, even though he’s literally craning his face to see you at this angle. “You’re a dirty, dirty girl. This what you wanted? Wanted to show me how dirty you could be? Guess the only time you’re gonna listen is if Daddy’s got a finger in your mouth or in one of your,”

The sound of footsteps make the both of you freeze. Rick takes his fingers out of your mouth, but he makes no move to pull away from behind you or help you pull your pants up. He’s frozen. 

The steps enter the kitchen, and when you realize who it is, your stomach sinks. Fucking Daryl. 

“The fuck?” He asks, looking around like he does when there’s a new location the group is checking out that he’s skeptical of. It’s impossible to read his expression, and in typical Daryl fashion, you think he’s just going to walk away. Slam the door to the garage, hole up and work on his bike, avoid you like the plague until the end of time because you’re such a little slut. That last part really isn’t his character, fine - but it makes you sick, thinking about Daryl thinking differently about you. 

But he doesn’t walk away. Instead, when Rick steps out from behind you and you quickly pull your pants up, Daryl walks up to him and literally punches him in the face. You gasp, and Rick curses, damn near falling on the ground. 

“Fuckin’,” but Rick doesn’t finish, because Daryl drops whatever he’s holding and shoves at him again, until he really does almost topple down. 

You don’t know what to do. “Daryl,” you say, trying to make your voice sound loud, not whiny. “What the hell are you doing? Rick, he’s. God, leave him alone!”

Daryl does as you say, but he’s fucking pissed. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this fucking mad. Rick holds his nose, because blood is dripping from it and ruining his shirt that you just bleached for him. 

“What the fuck ‘re you thinkin,’ man? She’s just a kid,” but you cut Daryl off, stomp your foot very maturely and let out a loud, irritated groan. Very attractive, you’re sure.

“I’m not a fucking kid! You’re both always acting like I don’t know what I want, that I can’t handle it and it’s just. You’re wrong, okay? How much more obvious do I need to be? I want Rick. I want you, Daryl. Stop making a big deal out of nothing,” as you rant, they’re both looking at you like you’re crazy, and it honestly feels like Daryl’s looking at you in disgust. 

“We’re twice you’re fuckin’ age. You can’t handle it. ‘Less you’ve got experience that I don’t know about, you need’a be with someone your own fucking age,” apparently this is a hill Daryl will die on. You’re so fucking irritated. Why would you chose the two most morally gold men the entire fucking community, you have no idea. You guess that it sort of is part of their appeal, but -

Now Rick’s cutting you off, using a towel to stop the blood coming out of his nose. He looks ridiculous, towel pressed to his face, blood all over him, still trying to establish himself as leader in this kitchen with a hand on his hip. 

You think he’s going to defend you. He did just have you bent over the counter and was playing with your pussy. But Daryl’s guilt is spilling onto him now, and he nods, letting out a sigh like he’s just given up. 

There’s a lag in conversation, until Rick finally says, “Yeah. Man, I know, I just got caught up. ‘S easy to get carried away, and,” you make a noise that's like a whine and a groan and brat all at the same time - and both men look at you like you’re proving their point - you’re acting immature. 

“You both suck, you know that? Any man here would want me, and you’re acting like I’m ugly and,” you don’t finish because Daryl cuts you off. He’s still pissed, and your eyes widen as he walks towards you and backs you up against the refrigerator. 

“You know goddamn well you ain’t ugly. Stop playin’ dumb and stop with the bullshit. You’re actin’ like a fuckin’ cat in heat around here and I’m sick of it. What do you need, huh? You wanna get fucked, is that it?” Daryl’s trying to be mean, scare you off, get you to leave him alone - which tells you two things. One: He’s probably so good with dirty talk. Two: He must feel something for you if he’s trying this hard to keep you away. 

“Daryl,” you hear Rick warn from behind him, because he is pretty much yelling at you in the kitchen. 

Daryl waves him off. “No. Shit, girl, you’re drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy. When’s the last time you had it? Had a man on top of ya given’ you what you want?” You blush bright red, and you reach out to loop your finger into the belt hook of Daryl’s pants. You think for a second he’s going to push you away, but instead he leans closer and barricades you between his arms against the fridge, rolls his hips and grinds himself, dick hard, against you. You moan, even though there’s no friction for you. It’s just hot, you just like it, and you want more and - 

“You like that? So desperate for attention that you’ll take anything, won’t ya? People dying left and right, world overrun by fucking corpses and all you can think about is a pair of old men getting in your panties. This what you want, isn’t it? Would make your daddy real fuckin’ proud,” he takes your hand and sets it on his bulge, and you feel it, squeeze it, know that he must be packin’ some fucking heat to be acting the way he is right now.

Rick grabs Daryl by the shoulder to move him out of the way, telling him, “Man, calm down, she’s -” but he doesn’t finish. Looks at you and sees your eyes so big, cheeks so red, looking at Daryl in utter adoration, and that’s when he realizes how fucked they both really are. Daryl would’ve just scared the shit out of another woman - a big man, looming over you like that, talking a bunch of shit - yet you’re looking at him like he’s the sun or something. 

You’re really something. Same woman that cries when insects and animals die is the same one that could probably kill a walker with her bare hands. Same woman that sleeps with a stuffed animal she found in a drawer of the house, is the same one begging two old men to fuck her. Pink and bratty and pretty and full of fucking bite, Rick will never understand you. He’s never met another woman like you, didn't know one existed. He’s -

“When’s the last time?” He asks, loving the absent minded look on your face when you turn your head to him. Rick knows you're smart - has seen you problem solve and debate with everyone, knows you were pretty educated before all this shit went down, and you definitely have street smarts. Maybe that’s why it’s so cute, to be the one to make you lose your mind. That you trust him enough to care for you. 

Or maybe he’s just a sick bastard. 

You take too long to reply and Daryl gently nudges you, takes your fingers out of the loop of his pants and holds your hand instead. He must have the same reaction to seeing you like this, because he’s calmed down considerably. 

“Last time you had sex,” he says gently. Back to the big, soft, fuzzy teddy bear version of Daryl - your description of him, when you saw him in his new brown poncho. Rick doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t need to. You’re cute, and the things you say are sweet, period. 

You lick over your bottom lip, tongue cute and pink, just like the little shirt you’ve got on. You let out a tiny breath. “Mm, well,” another pause, when you look down and then back up, from Daryl to Rick. 

“I’m a virgin.”

────

“It could work, you know,” Carol says, voice a little smug. She’s teasing, but Daryl’s got no idea what the fuck she’s on about. Carol sees his expression and huffs out a laugh, nudging him in the shoulder with a strength he’s not even sure she knows she carries. He grunts. 

“It’s a differently world now. Age, our lives before this crap. Doesn’t mean anything. If you,” Daryl cuts her off right there. He shakes his head, downs the rest of the beer that he’s been nursing all night. 

“Don’t know what the hell yer talkin’ about,” he grumbles, but that’s a lie. Daryl knows exactly what Carol is referring to, because it’s right in front of him. 

It being you. 

Carol nudges him again, this time with her shoulder. They’re sitting on the couch together, drinking beer after one of those community meetings Rick loves to have so much, and Daryl feels uncomfortable. Not because of the people he’s around - no, the group he made at the start of all this shit is the reason he feels good. They’re his family. 

It just feels weird, to sit around and drink and hang out when there’s a crowd of walkers that could be lurking anywhere, at any time. Daryl will never get used to it, this false sense of normalcy, but maybe that’s just because he’s never had it before. 

Fucked up as it is to say, he’s never had a quality of life quite this good. His life was made better during the apocalypse, and he’s pretty sure he’s the only one that can say that. Once again, Daryl feels lonely. Misunderstood. Which makes him feel like a fucking loser and a jerk at the same time. He grabs another beer, straight out of Glenn’s hand who’s standing next to him, and downs it before slamming it down on the coffee table. Glenn shakes his head and walks off, and Carol barks out a laugh.

She’s right. Maybe not about what she said, but Daryl was looking at you when she said it. Maybe he’s just as oblivious as Rick when it comes to you, heart eyes popping out of his head whenever he sees you, all the lust and protectiveness spilling out of his body in the form of annoyance and irritation. 

You’re sitting on the kitchen counter, which Daryl can see from the couch. Cute feet dangling while you sip on a glass of something clear. Could be vodka, could be water - hard to fucking tell with you. Are you acting like a grown woman, smart and strong and capable, with skills that came from being raised by a father with military training? That’d mean you’re drinking vodka. 

Or are you the girl who’s all pink and frills, needing help with the smallest tasks, starting arguments just for attention, showing off too much skin for the end of the fucking world? That’d mean you’re drinking water. The easiest way to tell what version of you you’re going to be is to check if Rick is around, and tonight, of course he is. 

Looks like you’re all pink and frills tonight.

Daryl watches you throw your head back and laugh, so pretty, so free - and it makes Daryl happy that you’re happy, despite it all. Your hair is a little messy and Daryl likes it, loves the way your sweater falls off your shoulder and that your sock is slipping off your foot. He’s never liked a woman so much, never met another person who was able to dig themselves so deep under his skin that they’re impossible to remove, even with all the warm showers he’s been taking. 

So much for refusing to get used to this place. It’s getting harder and harder to go without these luxuries as time goes on. But that’s a worry for another time. 

Rick, coming from out of fucking nowhere, since you were just talking to Maggie, stands next to you. Daryl watches him, the way he places a hand on your leg and bends to slip the sock so gently back onto your foot. He asks you, because it’s a pretty small house so Daryl can hear, if you’re doing alright. Must be vodka you’re drinking then. You nod, looking up at Rick with something like sparkles in your own eyes, and that’s when Carol clears her throat. 

“That’s what I’m talking about,” she says, finishing her beer off. Daryl blushes bright red, because that means she saw him stare. What a fool he is. 

Carol stands to walk away. “‘S how she looks at you too. Just so you know. You deserve what you want, Daryl.” And then she walks off. Fuckin’ Carol, he thinks, shaking his head to himself. She’s his closest friend, probably knows him better than Rick, and she’s got wisdom Daryl can’t even comprehend. He hates that maybe she’s right. It’s too much to think about.

Daryl knows you like him. Shit, he’d be stupid not to see it. He just doesn’t know what to do with that information. Can’t stop thinking about you, what you looked like against that fridge. Like he could do anything to you, and you’d thank him and ask for more. The way you looked at him, like you were seeing a rainbow or an open bar for the first time or some shit - why do you see him that way? What are you seeing when you look at him that he can’t see in himself?

Makes him fucking uncomfortable, but he can’t deny that it does sort of feel good. 

Daryl can’t keep his eyes off of you the entire night. Watches you lose your ass to Eugene on the chess set in the living room, bites back a laugh when you ask to see Abraham flex his bicep as a joke, and Rosita nearly pushes you away. When you ask Tara if she thinks you’re hot, all teasing until she blushes - and as everyone trickles out to go to bed, you end up sitting next to Rick on your regular spot on the couch. 

You’re such a tease. Such a flirt. Daryl wonders how you grew up, that you’re just so used to getting your way. So used to having people see you the way that you want, know that nobody would ever tell you no. Nobody can ever stay mad at you, or annoyed with you. You’re just…magic. Beyond the new feminine clothes that you picked up in Alexandria, even back when the group was on the road - there was something about you that was unlike any other woman Daryl had met.

Maybe it’s because of your father. Daryl can’t imagine growing up with a man like that. Especially as a woman as girly as you. Your father was cool - tough, strong, smart. Told war stories that made Daryl’s head almost explode, and he loved listening to that shit. Loved being able to trust another man, take some of the load off his and Rick’s back. But he was strict. 

Always giving you a hard time. Telling you what to do. In a way, since he passed, it’s like Rick turned into him - took some parts of his personality at least, when it comes to you. 

You’re a virgin, probably thanks to your strict father, because girls that look like you should not be virgins still. Daryl can imagine high school and college boys showing up at your door, pictures a nice suburban house, you all dressed up, waiting to be wined and dined and screwed on a Friday night. You deserve a life like that, normal, but you’re never going to get it. There’s no men your age even around now, which is maybe why you’re looking for something in him and Rick - 

Or maybe you’re just looking for a daddy. Since yours is gone. Maybe you’re so used to it, being taken care of, that you want it again. 

Daryl drinks and drinks and drinks until everyone is out of the house. It’s just you and Rick and him, the usual, and he never realized it until now, that people might be purposely keeping their distance from all of you. One thing, to see a girl like you with an older man, but two of them? Hell, Daryl would wanna keep his distance too. 

Just the three of you. In the living room. You drape your legs over Rick’s lap and lean back against the arm of the couch, and Daryl just watches. Your legs are cute. The little bit of skin that sticks out between your shirt and your jeans where the button digs in is cute too. Sexy. Seeing your body fill out ever since you got to Alexandria is a turn on that Daryl didn’t know he had. 

You’d look good at any size, any weight, in any outfit. Just that kind of woman. But seeing you gain some weight now that there’s proper access to food is nice to see. Makes Daryl happy, in a weird way, knowing you’re taken care of and -

“Daddy.” 

Daryl and Rick both freeze, make eye contact across the coffee table and then both turn to you. With both eyes on you, you shyly giggle, and Daryl truly can’t tell if it’s a role you’re playing or if this is you.

“Come on now,” Rick says lightly, pushing your feet off of his lap. Gently, of course, but you plop them right back down. He sighs, but relents. You’ve really got Rick wrapped around your little finger. 

“What? Just seems right to call you that,” you explain, and Daryl laughs. Can’t help but talk shit about Rick too, because honestly, he’s drunk enough for it. 

“Yeah, man. She ain’t wrong. Got you doting on ‘er and adorin’ her. Takin’ care of her too. You sure you ain’t her daddy?” The playful mood of Daryl’s doesn’t come out much, but he and Rick have been through a lot together. They’re like brothers. Besides, it’s funny. 

Daryl has to laugh so he doesn’t get hard.

Rick is embarrassed, but he laughs anyway. Shakes his head. “You’re one to talk, man,” he says, running a hand over his face. “Two words: Piggyback. Ride. You do a lot for this girl, Dixon,” he looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. Daryl smirks, shrugs, and you furrow both eyebrows and tilt your head to the side. 

“Piggyback ride sounds like three words. Piggy,” you hold up your fingers, attempting to count. “Back. Ride. Yeah, three.” Daryl and Rick are silent as they look at each other, and then they burst out laughing. You grin, which is how they both know you’re fucking with them. Playing that role you love so much.

It’s cozy in the house, and Daryl is suddenly hit with the itch he has to run somewhere less warm. Candles are lit, the heat is on, the wall is secure and everything feels pretty good right now. You’re all like family, have been through so much, and as much as Daryl wants to sink into this moment, he also wants to run away. You must catch the look on his face. 

You sit up, drawing your knees to your chest. Like you’re protecting yourself. You change the subject, before anyone can interrupt you. 

“Have you put any thought into it?” You ask, looking at Daryl, then Rick. They’ve both got no idea what you’re talking about. You sigh, annoyed, then continue. “Taking my virginity. Will you do it?”

Shit. 

You really were serious about that shit? Daryl doesn’t know what to say to that. 

He thinks about what to say, but Rick cuts him off. “Still can’t believe that you’re a virgin,” he says, shaking his head. “You’ve done nothing?” You blush so pink, Daryl wonders if you have superhuman speed and you snuck into the bathroom without him noticing to put on some of that weird pink makeup shit women love to wear.

“I’ve done…other stuff,” you say, as if to prove yourself. “Oral sex, and sometimes ana,” Rick will not let you finish that sentence, thank god. Daryl breathes a sigh of relief as he says, “Don’t. Don’t wanna hear about you letting boys touch you. You gotta lot bravery, kid, acting like a little tease when you’ve never even had a man inside of you. That Daddy shit too. You crazy or something?”

You’re still embarrassed, but you roll your eyes. Rick turns his body more towards you, likes the way you blink at him, lashes long and eyes wide, like you’re waiting for what he’s going to say. 

“Maybe I just know what I like. I’m a modern woman and I -” you start going on and on, as you do. And it’s cute, really. Rick likes it, how much you talk, can pretend to be annoyed by it but he really doesn’t want to ever miss a word. But this time he zones out, and all he can focus on is the way your lips look, open and talking and nagging, and he doesn’t want to hear it anymore. Thinks that maybe, since you want it so fucking much - he should help you out. 

Should put that pretty mouth to good use, shouldn’t he? Sounds like a good idea to him. 

He stands up, liking the way you look up at him. Like you’re waiting for him to give you directions. He feels his dick swelling up - but then again, he’s been half hard ever since you said daddy. He nods his head to you, motions for you to stand up too -

And because he’s daddy, yeah yeah, he puts a hand out for you to grab it. He helps you up, while you and Daryl look at him like he’s a crazy person. Rick nods to Daryl too. 

“You comin?’” He asks, nodding toward the stairs. He squeezes your hand. “Think we oughta give her what she wants now. Been patient, ain’t that right?” He looks to you, and you nod, so over eager you almost trip over your own feet. Rick looks back to Daryl. 

“‘Bout time we give her what she wants.”

────

“Is it going to hurt?” You ask, because after all this talk, all this teasing, now that you’re really in Rick’s bed - you’re so scared of what’s to come. You’re not scared of Rick and Daryl, because you literally trust them with your life. You’re scared of what it’s going to feel like, having something inside of you that’s bigger than a few fingers. 

You look at Daryl and Rick at the side of the bed. Daryl looks a little more hesitant than Rick, keeps watching you like he’s sure you’re going to say you don’t want to do this anymore, but you’d never, no matter how scared you are. Rick looks at you as he takes his belt off, leans down and rubs a hand comfortingly on your head, scratches at your scalp. 

“Won’t hurt too bad,” he says a moment later, in just his boxers. “Gonna have Daryl lick you out, get you nice and wet so it’s easy for me to slip in. ‘Be easy to stretch you out after you’ve cum a few times, ain’t that right, Daryl? You cool with that?” Something about Rick ordering Daryl around is doing it for you. You’re scared, but you’re pleasantly tipsy, limbs loose and brain sharp, focused on the feeling of arousal pooling in your panties, stomach warm with the possibility of what’s to come. 

“Sure have thought about this, man,” Daryl says in reply, and he walks to the edge of the bed to get on his knees. It’s funny, because he’s right - Rick’s been all, you’re too young for me, kid and I’d never go against your father’s wishes, he was my friend, but here he is, ordering the two of you around like he’s had this scenario planned out in his head for months. Maybe he’s just drunk, or maybe he’s just a born leader. Whatever it is, both you and Daryl obey, and your cunt drips at the thought. You make a whiny noise. 

“You gonna get her clothes off or what, man? Think that’s a job for her daddy, ain’t it?” Daryl says, one hand looping around your ankle, wanting to pull you down to the edge of the bed to go down on you. You whimper, voice leaving your throat, because Daryl using that nickname in regards to Rick is making your head spin. 

How many times have you had a finger on your clit with your legs tightened, trying to squeeze an orgasm out, with the only thought in your head daddy daddy daddy while you thought about Rick or Daryl playing with your pussy, ordering you around, fucking you so hard it hurt to talk? Too many fucking times. In your fantasies, you imagined your father finding out, wanting to get back at him for every horrible thing he ever did to you by fucking both of his friends. 

Look at me now, dad, you think, warmth spreading throughout your body because you’re a sicko. It’s so hot, being bad, being grown enough to do this but young enough to know that it’s naughty and wrong.

Not that you only want to fuck Rick and Daryl to get back at your dad. No, they'd still be hot as hell even if you didn't have issues.

Rick sits you up. Maneuvers you like you're a fragile doll, all while you try to commit the look of him shirtless, skin slightly tanned, the scruff on his face, to memory. The look of Daryl at the edge of the bed, wanting to pleasure you. Rick’s calloused hands, fingers taking off your shirt and then your pants, handing them to Daryl to put off to the side. You can take your own clothes off, but Rick wants to, and for some reason that sends your brain blank.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. 

“Lay back down,” Rick says gently, pulling his own boxers off. His cock is hard, and he jerks it for a second, holds the head of it loosely and rubs his thumb over the tip, spreads the precum around and lets out a soft breath. “You’re alright, sweetheart. Let Daryl get you nice and wet so I can fill you up. Can you do that? Know you want it,” and since you’re naked now, Daryl pulls you all the way to the edge of the bed, where he spreads your legs and keeps your knees under his big hands to keep them apart, licks a stripe from your hole up to your clit. “Know you’ve been thinking about it,” Rick says watching. 

Rick has a nice cock, just like you expected. It’s big, pink and veiny, and under the dim lights in the bedroom the look of the head all covered in precum makes you lick your lips. Rick must see that, because he moves to sit by your head, chuckling like he can read you that easily even when you're spread open for his friend to lick your pussy.

You shiver.

Daryl pulls away, the warm feeling of his mouth gone, and it makes you ache. “Ain’t that something,” Daryl murmurs, head leaned against your thigh for a second. “Pussy just as pretty as the rest of ya’.”

Holy fuck. You lean back, gripping at the sheets of the bed, until Rick grabs your hand. He alternates between squeezing your hand and brushing your hair away from your face. You’ve had oral sex before, sure, but those times were all with preppy suburban boys who didn’t want to get dirty. You’ve seen the way Daryl eats. Slurps, fucking goes all in. He’s doing the same on your pussy, and his tongue is so warm, so wet, you try to close your thighs around his head because the stimulation is just too much but it’s impossible with the way he’s holding you down. Your back arches, and you squeeze Rick’s hand so tight you worry you’re going to break it.

“Not done yet,” Daryl scolds, pulling away from your cunt with a glossy chin. Rick tsks you as well, tells you to relax and take it, to cum all over Daryl’s tongue so he can fit his dick inside of you. 

It only takes a minute more, of Daryl sucking on your clit while slipping a finger inside of you, prodding around like he’s curious, and for Rick to say, “Dirty girl, you are. Letting a man twice your age stick his tongue inside you. Daddy’s gotta keep an eye on you,” because woah. Just. Fucking hell. You cum with a cry, moaning Daryl’s name like a prayer while bucking your hips up, pussy squeezing his fingers that are prepping you for Rick’s cock. 

Daryl keeps licking, sucking, until you thrash and cum again and Rick tells him to stop. Not because you can’t handle it, no, it’s probably because Rick is so ready to fuck you, his dick is literally leaking onto his fingers. Both of his hands are going to ache, from the way you’re squeezing one and the way he’s jacking himself off with the other. He grabs some of his own mess, sticky, and uses his pointer finger to spread it over your lips like lip gloss. He grins, all sexy and cocky - and you’re not even thinking, body so trembly and hot from Daryl eating you like you're his last meal. 

Daryl Dixon eats pussy like it’s going to make him cum. You wonder if maybe it could, file that fantasy away for another time.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you murmur in regards to the lipgloss, and you lick your lips to taste it. Tongue pink and wet, expression fucked out and he hasn’t even got his cock in you yet. 

Rick - he’s gotta fuck you. Like, now.

When Daryl stands up, gets off his knees, you look up at him and ask him to take his clothes off. “Wanna see you, Daryl, please?” You beg, wanting him to get naked. You know he’s sensitive, about his scars and just his body in general. Doesn’t realize how fucking sexy he is, all strong and big and tough and perfect. But he shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he replies, although his voice isn’t scolding. You can tell that he hates disappointing you. He helps Rick pull you up so you’re laying on the pillows, pushes your knees up so your feet are resting flat against the bed, giving easy access to your sopping wet cunt. “Tonight’s about you, girly. Don’t worry ‘bout me.” You pout, but you’re not going to pressure him. He sits beside you on the bed, right next to the pillows, and grabs your hand, looks down at you and for the first time ever: 

Asks if he can kiss you. You nod, You’ve never kissed Daryl before, or Rick for that matter. Have been so focused on cock, you’ve never really thought about it, which is kind of embarrassing. Skipping some steps. You’ve always gotten ahead of yourself.

When Daryl leans down to kiss you, cupping your face with one big hand, you feel Rick grabbing at your tits. He’s such a gentleman, so traditional outside of everything that has to do with you, that his…freakiness is kind of unexpected. But you like the feeling, of him admiring your body, touching your waist and the little plush part of your stomach, rubbing his hands up and down before cupping your breasts, thumb playing with your sensitive nipples. 

Your back arches off the bed, and Daryl’s lips, slow and soft as he dominates your mouth is such a stark contrast to the way Rick is touching you like you’re an object for his amusement, tip of his cock poking into your leg. “Fuckin’ beautiful, just like I imagined. Little body just made to be admired and touched,” he murmurs, and you moan into Daryl’s mouth, which makes more room for his tongue. “Almost feels like a shame to get you all dirty. Break your little pussy in until it craves my cock.”

You’re clinging to Daryl while Rick talks about you, feeling like you’re in heaven with the two men you trust most in the world on top of you. “Bet you want me to though, silly girl. Tell me you want me to ruin you. Want me and Daryl ruin you for anyone else.”

You pull away from Daryl’s lips as best as you can to whine, reach a hand out to Rick to get his attention, as if you need to do that. You always imagined you’d be a seductress in bed, know exactly what to say and do and be confident about it. But right now you can hardly form words, so overwhelmed with having Rick and Daryl hovering over you, it’s hard to even form thoughts - your pussy clenches though. 

“Nobody else. Ever,” you say, voice soft and a little spaced out. You’ve always gotten like this after an orgasm, clingy and spacey and very, very pliable. You whine again. “Cock, Daddy. Please. Now.”

This time, Daryl pulls away, takes a good look at your body and palms himself through his pants. Perfect tits and a perfect body, cute hips and a bellybutton with a scar, must’ve had a piercing at some point, which fits just how sexy and cute you are. Your sweet little socks are still on and you’ve got a shiny anklet on during the middle of the apocalypse. You’re a perfect woman, and what you see in him, Daryl will never understand - but he’s not going to take it for granted. Isn’t going to overstay his welcome either. He makes eye contact with Rick, and yeah, this is uncomfortable. Slightly. 

Because Rick has his dick out. But it’s not like Daryl’s looking at him, no, it’s all about you. He can’t wait to see the way you take Rick’s cock. Can’t believe that he gets to be part of this - because it’s always been Rick, you know? That’s who you wanted first. You want Rick, might even love him, if Daryl is reading the light in your eyes correctly. He wants that for you. Love. He wants whatever you want. 

“Go gentle,” he tells Rick, to which the other man snorts, a noise kind of unsexy given the moment, but you still make grabby hands at him, grip at his biceps so hard and dig your nails in. Rick hisses. “Fuck, alright, alright, ‘m going,” he murmurs, then shoots Daryl a look. “Should tell her to be gentle,” he grumbles. 

Rick positions himself at your entrance, looking at you closely. There’s something Daryl sees there, a spark, so magnetic it’s like a physical thing, the energy between you two. Feels like he’s intruding on something, but he leaves it, just squeezes your hand when you let go of Rick’s arms. 

“You’re good, sweetheart. Gonna feel real good in a second. Hold onto Daryl’s hand, alright? Your Daryl’s got you. Trust him so much. don’t you? Daddy’s got you, gonna be, shit,” Rick pushes himself all the way inside of you, and holy fuck, he’s never felt anything like this before. Didn’t know a pussy could grip this tight while still being so wet. You’re fucking made for him, Rick’s sure of that now, because every thrust and every noise out of your mouth makes his head feel cloudy and his body heat up with nothing but love for you. 

Goddamn, Rick loves you so much. 

He looks down at you and sees a beautiful woman who’s been given the short end of the stick in this life. Deserves so much more than this world, deserves so much more than Rick, and maybe that’s why the idea of Rick and Daryl is okay to him. You deserve it, really, you do - such a pretty young thing with a cunt and a body sculpted by a perverted old god somewhere, and dammit if Rick doesn’t want to protect you and give you anything and everything you could ever want. 

When he cums, spills his seed inside of you and presses his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, he swallows your little noises and without even thinking, reaches for Daryl's hand.

All for you.

────

Daryl tenses up when Rick enters the kitchen, frozen like there’s an animal he’s not trying to spook. Only this time, instead of a deer he wants to make his dinner, his hand is frozen around the handle of a jug of water that’s in the fridge. Purified, because every house in Alexandria has one of these. Spoiled brat suburban people, Daryl thinks, even though he’s technically one of them now. 

He waits for Rick to do whatever he’s going to do in the kitchen, but when he does nothing, just sits there and waits for Daryl to turn around, he knows the reason Rick is even in here right now is to talk to him. Daryl grumbles under his breath. 

“Yeah, man?” He asks, putting the jug of water on the counter and closing the fridge. Rick looks frazzled as fuck. Face red, the buttons on his shirt not lining up, because it looks like he got ready in a rush. He rubs under his nose in a quick gesture he does whenever he’s stressed out. Daryl knows this man well now. Really well. Even knows what he looks like when he cums, and for that - he’s fucking glad Merle’s not alive to see the situation he’s got himself in. 

After that night together, when good ‘ol Rick popped your cherry and Daryl watched on, comforted you - things changed. Without any further conversation, you must’ve taken it as all you needed to go forth and publicly claim Rick. And for that matter, Daryl too. It’s been weeks now, and everyone in the group stays clear whenever you’re all in the room together. You’re always kissing Rick on the cheek, sticking your hand in his jacket pocket to stay close, standing behind Daryl whenever he’s sitting with his back exposed, looping your arms around his neck just to get close or sitting yourself down on his lap at the most inconvenient times. 

He likes it, deep down. ‘Course he does. Daryl fucking loves you, everything about you, even when you’re greedy and spoiled and just plain annoying. Too perfect to be real, and he’d do anything for you. It’s annoying as fuck, but it is what it is. 

Just weird, wondering what people think of all of it. If anyone wonders what happens behind closed doors. When you wake up in Rick’s bed between them, after someone from the group has to literally seek Rick out because he’s been so distracted. Daryl will never forget the look on Eugene’s face, when he saw you in bed between them. Daryl could laugh just thinking about it.

But it’s not good, Rick being distracted. He’s gotta get his shit together, he’s - 

Oh, Daryl can’t talk shit and he knows it. You’re distracting him too. Once you got a taste of cock, of sex, you’ve been insatiable. Daryl hears Merle’s voice calling him a fool in his head whenever Rick watch you go down on him, sucking his cock and cupping his balls while he sits on the edge of the bed. Rick stands behind you, egging you on, pressing the bottom of his shoe against your back to make you take his cock deeper, tells you in a raspy voice, “Atta girl, fuck, mouth made for sucking cock, is that right? Look at you. Making Daryl feel all good. Prettiest little thing in the world, baby. Can’t wait for my turn after.” 

Rick’s a filthy bastard, even to Daryl’s surprise. But - it’s working. All of you. Together. Daryl doesn’t wanna see Rick’s cock any more than he has to, but he’s just happy to be part of something that makes you happy. Like he said, he’d do anything for you. 

And deep down, he knows he’d do anything for Rick too. Man has got him through some of the hardest, toughest shit of his life. Is probably the reason Daryl’s still even alive. People always joke, calling Daryl his guard dog. It pisses him off, because he ain’t no dog, but - they’re not wrong.

After Daryl’s done pouring a cup of water, Rick answers. He’s fidgety, and Daryl doesn’t like it. What the fuck is his problem? Did something happen? Rick’s supposed to be the cool, calm, collected one. But lately he’s been losing his shit. Daryl wonders if it has anything to do with you. 

Truthfully, Rick’s moods usually do have something to do with you. 

Daryl’s stomach sinks thinking something happened to you. 

“You seen ‘er?” Rick asks, looking guilt, like he lost a class pet he was supposed to be caring for or something. “She was supposed to meet me at Deanna’s for a meeting. She’s always runnin’ off, but something feels. I dunno,” Rick runs a hand through his hair, trying to remain calm. “Left Deanna’s and came to bed, thinking she’d show up, but I still haven’t seen her. I told her no more patrolling or guarding the gate, so I doubt she’s doing that. God, man, please tell me you’ve seen her,” Rick really sounds pathetic, Daryl thinks. 

Which scares the shit out of him. Where the hell are you? You’re always running off and doing stupid shit, which is annoying as hell because you’re smart. You know better. It’s almost like you’ve got something to prove to everyone else, especially now that everyone’s been so weird about you with Rick and Daryl. Maybe you left, went on a run without telling anyone? Took a shift patrolling even when you’re not supposed to, just to show you’re tough?

Daryl nods at Rick, like he understands, and then motions towards the door. “You wanna,” he’s about to ask if they should go look for you, but Rick nods, doesn’t even need Daryl to finish. 

They start walking, but it’s dark and Daryl doesn’t know where to find you. He asks, “You check with Maggie and Carol next door?” But he feels like a dick for even asking that. Of course Rick did, he’s not a fucking idiot. 

Rick nods, looks like he’s thinking the same thing, and then it’s silent except for the scuffing sound of them walking along the dirty streets. Rick makes a mental note to talk to Deanna about cleaning them up, figure out how to do so without taking too much energy out of everyone when there’s other important labor that needs to be done. 

“She’s drivin’ me crazy, man,” Rick says, shaking his head when Daryl looks over. He obviously knows Rick is talking about you. “So much shit going on, and she chooses right now to go missing? To not listen. It’s cute an’ all, sometimes. Gotta admit. That stubborn little streak, but hell,” they stop walking for a minute, turn to each other. “She’s fuckin’ killing me.”

Daryl gets it. Rick knows he does. But there’s nothing he can say that will make the situation better. Besides, as much as they get along, learning to properly share you and not get all up in their feelings about it - the boundaries are still a little blurred. Need to be discussed. Is Daryl allowed to tell Rick what to do when it comes to you? He’s got some thoughts, wants to tell Rick to stop spanking you for fun and instead use it to properly teach you a lesson. 

But he thinks that’d be overstepping his boundary. It already happened once, when Daryl walked in on Rick fucking you one morning. He was spooning you, dick buried deep inside of you, gripping your jaw while he told you filthy things that turned Daryl red. He didn’t mean to watch, but shit was going down with Deanna and Rick was nowhere to be found so of course Daryl went looking, and then he saw Rick hit you lightly in the face and Daryl couldn’t just stand by and watch that. 

Not you, so sweet that you spent last night massaging Daryl’s back even when he tried to scare you off of touching him like that multiple times. You kissed his scars, made up fake stories about where each of them came from - shark bite, alien surgery, some other bullshit that made him laugh. You said the truth about their origin made you sad. You cuddled him and kissed him and told him you love him, and he still feels like a dick for not replying. Not saying it back.

Daryl’s just not good at that shit. Hates himself for it, but he’s just not. ‘S why he doesn’t deserve you. 

But you and Rick are fucking weird. Sexually, Daryl is still learning. Rick made him look under the covers that day he smacked you, made you tell him how wet you were, how much you liked it a little rough just so Daryl wouldn’t beat his ass for putting his hands on you. And don’t get Daryl started, when you start sucking on his fingers, trying to have a normal conversation with Rick over a beer while you lick and suck his digits until one of them gives you the real thing - dick.

You’re a force, that’s for sure. And when Daryl and Rick hear your laugh by the opening gate of Alexandria, they both know that, once again - you went against their wishes. If you’re putting yourself in danger just to get punished, they need to have a talk with you. Because it’s not that you’re not qualified to stand watch - there’s just no need. 

Daryl would happily take any shift of anything if it meant you were safe. But you just don’t fucking listen, and every step closer to you is making Daryl, and Rick, for that matter - more and more pissed. 

“You’re a pretty little thing, you know that? Tell me, who’s in charge here? Certainly can’t be you. No offense, you’re just,” a pause, and when Daryl finally sees who it is you’re talking to, the voice finishes, “Too fuckin’ pretty.”

Rick and Daryl find you, weapon in hand, but you’re relaxed and casual and talking to someone on the other side of the gate. You wouldn’t be able to defend yourself while you’re all loose and giggly, when this is probably the most serious job in the fucking community. Daryl wants to haul you over his shoulder, take you home and smack your ass blue. He’s never been so pissed, and who the fuck is in the watchtower letting this shit happen?

The voice talking to you belongs to a man, tapping a baseball bat against the fence with a smile on his face. But it’s not just him. There’s at least three trailers behind him, spread out, and Daryl doesn’t even have to look at Rick to know he’s about to go psycho. 

Good, Daryl thinks, he’ll join him. What the fuck were you thinking, not calling for backup?

“Not exactly taking in new people right now. Supplies are…tight,” Rick lies, but you jump in, and it’s the first time Daryl has really seen how naive you are. Realizes that he and Rick have been putting you at a disadvantage - first you had your father, making all the choices for you, protecting you. And you got lucky with Rick and Daryl. Have never actually met a bad man in your life.

Just because someone is smiling, doesn’t mean they’re a good person. Are you - no, because Daryl doesn’t want to think anything mean about you, but surely you don’t think because the man standing behind the opening to the community is handsome, that he’s safe? Maybe you heard Rick talking about the community needing more men? But this is - goddamn, you have to understand that it didn’t mean letting random men into the community? At night? While you’re all alone? 

They’ve got to teach you better. Daryl is kicking himself right now.

“Rick, he’s friendly. They just need a place to stay and,” Rick cuts you off, grabs you by the shoulder and pushes you behind him. Sort of rough, but in this case? Daryl is glad. 

“No,” Rick says firmly, standing tall and firm. His hand is clenched into a fist so tight, Daryl worries he’s about to shatter the bones in his hand. His other hand is on his gun, and Daryl wonders where this is going to go. “C’mon,” he tells you, grabbing at your hand, but you slap it away.

Oh, you’re going to fucking get it when you’re back home. You’re going to wish Rick was the one spanking your little ass, because Daryl has never been so pissed at you. 

The man at the gate laughs, tip of his bat digging into the dirt. Daryl’s pretty good about picking up vibes of people, and this person is making his stomach sink and his skin crawl. Especially when some other men from the trailers walk up. 

“We don’t mean any harm,” the man says, and that’s sarcasm Daryl detects. He’s about to just start shooting, has a loaded gun on him for a reason, but then the man starts talking again. Directed at you. 

“Tell your daddy what we talked about. He is your daddy, ain’t he?” He asks, another joke that you don’t understand, nodding towards Rick. You shrug, biting on your bottom lip. “No. Well, yeah. Something like that,” you reply, and before anyone can stop you, you reach around Rick to open the gate.

thoughts on a part two? 💓

[fancypeacepersona]

𓊆ྀི󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠  ୨୧ ˖ ࣪ . . . 5.4k. black fem!reader ◞ countryside setting◞ lowercase intended ◞ soon to be married◞ rough sex ◞ unprotected ◞ age difference ꒰ 36 + 25 ꒱ ◞ praise ◞ oral ꒰  f. ꒱ ◞ fingering + finger sucking◞ hair pulling ◞ creampie ◞ pet name usage ꒰ darling, baby , sweetheart, old man ꒱ ◞ manhandling ◞ choking + spanking ◞ overstimulation ◞ minors aren’t welcomed! reblogs & comments are appreciated <3 𓊇ྀི

꒰ 𝑚𝑜𝑐ℎ𝑎’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒 ꒱ . . . my first rick fic soo i’m hoping i did his characterization well ! here’s some visuals for theme . <3 ‘n here’s the smut linkies > > ( ❤︎. ❤︎.)

the black 1967 chevy impala quietly pulled into the gravelly driveway of a small cottage nestled within a tiny town. the neighborhood’s always silent around these hours, only semi-peaceful disturbance of cicadas bellowing in the freshly mowed grass. the worn out cowboy boots on rick’s tired feet stumble up the main entrance of the home, keys jangling from the loop he had his finger secured in. when entering his house, it’s nearly pitch dark had it not been for the kitchen light being lit. an old white, floral printed couch that was usually wrapped in plastic was now pulled out to reveal a bed where two women slept peacefully in silk pajamas. your best friends, and bridesmaids. 

tomorrow was a special day. a wedding was to be held at a cathedral not too far out of town. something small, something memorable. he was never one big on attention, though family was sacred. he’d already planned to have a separate gathering for either side of your families to celebrate the marriage. the thought of being wed to you tomorrow brought joy to his heart. he’s waited so long to fully make you all his. he would’ve married you from day one had you not been difficult to lock down. however, he loved the chase. 

heavy feet thud up the old wooden staircase, nowhere near as quiet as he seemed courtesy to the alcohol running rampant in his veins. pushing forth the bedroom door, rick’s instantly soothed when he catches sight of you. sitting on the floors that bear the gentle patina of age by your side of the bed, a plush area rug in earthy tones providing a cozy contrast to the cold hardwood beneath. the large four-poster bed dominates one wall, its rich, arched mahogany frame polished to a warm sheen. soft, billowy curtains in a subtle floral pattern hang from the windows, filtering the moonlight into a cool glow. 

in the corner, there’s an antique sewing machine that sits atop an oak nightstand. you’re surrounded by spools of thread, sequins, and scissors. occasionally, you’d sip on your mug, or his since it read ‘daddy of the year’ — containing raspberry leaf tea. the fluff of your curly ponytail swings as you turn to face your fiancé, a smile beaming bright from his presence. there’s two long tendrils of hair that frame both sides of your pretty face. lashes still curled and brushed with mascara, and lips pigmented with liner and gloss. a natural beauty. 

rick notices you’ve got on a shirt of his. it’s nothing out of the ordinary, but it gets him out of character suddenly. he’s got a deep grin on his face, smile lines puncturing and blue eyes twinkling. you let him greet you with a hand patting at the top of your head, his hand easing down to cup your face before he’s plopping down on the floors before you. 

“hey there, darlin'," he slurred, his speech slightly slowed from the alcohol. 

calloused hands brush along your knee, your hands intricately stitching final touches to your wedding gown. his thumb absentmindedly rubs circles on your thigh, resting on his elbow as his gaze lazy drifts over your features. you always knew when he had a good time with the guys because he’d come home smiling like a lovebird just because he missed you. they were nice to be around, but nothing compared to coming home to you. 

“hi, baby. how was your night?” the delicate tone of your voice instantly brings peace, rick humming elatedly. 

“night was good. knocked back a few cold ones. even caught the falcons game. a damn tragedy,” rick says with a suck of his teeth at the end. 

“yeah? you bet money?” 

“only ‘bout twenty.” 

“mm, good thing it wasn’t nothin’ too drastic,” you go to cup the underneath of his jaw, holding the needle and thread in your other. you shift his jaw from side to side, the cap on his head hiding his eyes that haze over. you caught a whiff of beer and cigs on his breath and clothing mixed with his cologne. “can smell it on you for sure. got some tea on the stove if you want.”

rick pulls back slightly, chuckling. “sorry ‘bout that. i’ll take some in a minute.” 

his eyes drift along your figure, his baby blue button-up you wore hugs every curve of your body tight. a few buttons undone that shows your cleavage, a silver necklace or two swinging. the high pony on your head that’s curled at the ends sway around you heavenly. 

“played pool and stuff?” 

he blinks, humming, “yeah, shot a few rounds. daryl cheated though, swears he didn’t but y’know i can catch me a liar like nothin’ . — this shirt looks good on you.” 

rick’s voice is a low purr, fixating on the softness of your thighs he continues to rub on, a decadent scent resembling tiramisu casting over his nose. eyes even catching some glitter on your skin. “think you could show me what’s underneath this garment, sweetheart?” 

smiling, you continue sewing. “don’t try to turn this about me. you’re an hour late.” 

a contrite expression overtakes as he knocks his head back to look up at the clock on the wall, now realizing it’s way past the hour he promised to be home. rick sighs, lifting the brown cap on his head to run a hand back, curly ringlets sitting at the nape of his neck. “shit, i’m sorry, sweetheart. you know i always stick to my word.” 

a giggle escapes. “don’t beat yourself down, old man. it’s alright. i’m glad you had a good time with the boys.” 

“you a ‘lil jealous?” he tosses his hat aside, bringing himself closer to you to kiss your knee. 

rolling your eyes, you shake your head. “i was with my girls. we had a good time, too. couldn’t sleep, though. got an idea to add some embroidery to the dress.” 

it didn’t occur to rick that you’d let him see the dress this early on. honestly, you didn’t care too much for old traditions. they say it’s bad luck for the groom to see the dress, but superstitions didn’t bother you none. it was already untraditional that you were being wed without family. it was a plan you had for a long time. for your first wedding, you just wanted it to be something small with each of your close friends. run away together after. come back in two weeks and have a family gathering, then a couple years in, possibly five — you’d renew your vows with a bigger setting. and by then, hopefully, a big family of your own. 

“it’s lookin’ gorgeous, you did a good job.” 

“thank you, baby.” 

his touch maps the contours of your body through the fabric of the shirt. you’re sitting on your bottom but your left leg is folded in, foot resting on your other thigh. rick leans back a bit to adjust where he laid, catching sight of white lace underneath. he hinders himself. 

“i saw a few new homes they’ve been building in the newspaper. i figured we could go view them, you know, after we find some time.” 

rick nodded thoughtfully, now tracing patterns over your arm with his fingers. “yeah, that’s soundin’ good anything in particular you're looking for? big backyard for a garden? a nice kitchen so you can bake your famous pies?” 

“hmm, i’ve been wanting something really vintage, something built in the 70s. ‘bout forty acres, enough to have a garden and an area for you to grill with the boys . . and the kids to play,” you smile dreamily at the thought. “i love our home here, but a bigger space would be nice. that’s always been the plan, right?” 

rick nods assuredly. “right, we always talked about that. we can make that happen. i w’na make you happy. you deserve the big house with the wraparound porch, and the giant kitchen so you can bake me pies.” 

“you hungry or somethin’? you keep talking about these pies,” you joke. 

“i repeated myself? whoops,” rick palms his forehead, the both of you laughing. “guess i am. i need to sober up. c’mere.”

rick remains rested on his elbow, fingers trailing closer under your shirt, grazing your tummy and inching his face closer to your thighs. your back rests against the bed, biting your lip with a giggle as you clamp your legs shut.

“no, no, mister. save your energy. we gotta be up bright and early.” 

“gimme one of those sweet kisses, it’ll wake me right on up,” he’s playfully biting at your hips now, the dress you held in your hands now displayed on the floor. 

the quickness of heat encasing your face makes you shift back, stirring your waist unwittingly. full bearded face that grows like nothing, giving him a trim just a few days ago, patched with stubborn grays tickle your inner thighs the further he spreads them and the harder you clench them to stop him.

“nuh-uh, not when you’re like this. one kiss will lead to ‘em sneaking somewhere else. and you know it.” 

“mhm,” it’s like he’s not listening. “one little kiss, huh sweetheart?” his voice was a low rumble, body practically thrumming with tension and need.

pushing away your dress and tools so neither of you would get hurt, or your dress ruined, you nod for his approval, “just one, rick.” 

he couldn’t help the cocky smirk displaying as you relented, eyes glinting with triumph. “that’s my girl.” 

hands roaming your body possessively, each touch inflames you both, gasping as his rough hands grope your waist and leads up to your tits he kneads in his palms. rick loves to touch you, even if it’s for a simple kiss. they encapsulate yours with hunger, whimpering into his mouth when his tongue touches yours, tasting liquor and tobacco. tea tree scent of beard butter on his facial hair still strong and it weakens you. the kiss gets messier, rick grabbing at your neck as you lean your head back and accept every rough suck of your lips he takes. the two of you are eating at each others faces like it’s the first time you’d gotten to. 

he could feel the heat building between you, his restraint slowly ebbing away. he had broken the kiss to catch his breath, eyes darkening with raw pleasure, "damn, ꒰ ♥︎ ꒱',” he rasped, his voice rough. “i want you so goddamn bad right now.”

pawing at his chest, black shirt enveloping his muscles, you gnaw at your lips. “said one kiss. gettin’ greedy, rick.” 

rick’s lips trailed a path from the pulse points on your neck to just below your ear, his breath giving you goosebumps. “i said i need you.” 

as he sits on his knees before you, his big hands are tugging at your panties, face stern as he pulls them down your ass as you lift, the pads of his fingers digging into the plump of your ass. looking up at him in a daze, your mouth drops in submission once he’s tearing them off your skin, gasping from the air your slick folds are exposed to. without being aware, you’re full on soaked. lips between your teeth, you study the way rick lowers himself before you, crouching at your pussy’s level.

“let me see you, baby,” he whispered, lifting your legs and pressing them up to your chest. “hold ‘em f’me.” 

your face is in a pout, gyrating your pelvis forward, fingers hanging in your mouth with the gleaming, princess cut diamond ring stunning in view. raising your legs, you keep them straight, high, and pressed to your chest. opening yourself up for him, head resting on the edge of the bed. rick felt the way his dick twitched from the sight, indenting his fingers into your plush skin, guiding his thumb up and down your wet slit, knuckle delicately pinching at your clit, pulling back a bit to see the string of cum follow. you always kept her trimmed clean and smooth, shiny under the lamps light.  

“look at that, s’fuckin’ precious,” he grunts, your frustrated whines catching his full attention. sounding like a fragile little puppy. “oh, i get it. want me to shut up and get t’the good stuff, yeah?” 

you’re staring down at him in a haze, eyelids lowered and nibbling at your nails with your mouth hung, nodding with a pant. 

“don’t chew your nails like that, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice close to a growl. “givin’ me all kinds of ideas.” 

“mmm, like what?” you tease back.

“like having that pretty little mouth occupied. but it’s not ‘bout me right now.” rick’s teasing, landing a soft smack on your inner thigh close to your pussy. you jump, leaking down to your ass cheeks. it’s a sticky mess he created. “she needs it bad?” 

“y-yes, rick. need it now,” you admit. 

rick’s huffing out a chuckle, sucking on his thumb to get a quick taste before he’s groaning, ducking his head down to give your pussy a full, sloppy, open mouthed kiss. it sounds like water, his saliva leaking onto you.  “always taste so good, can’t wait till tomorrow baby.” 

“yeah?” it comes out in a nasally whimper, delving your manicured nails into the backs of your thighs. “a-are you happy?” 

“it’s g’na be the best goddamn day of my life, sweetheart.”

his admission makes your face heat up even more, grinding towards his in a desperate, silent plea. it gets rick off, honestly. seeing how fueled you are for touch now. the desire to eat at you is threatening to overwhelm him, so he engulfs you into his mouth without another thought. a small sob crawls in your throat, rick’s eyes primal as he catches yours while a guttural growl rumbles in his chest. teeth sinking into your lip, you whimper and continue holding yourself open for him, jaw dropping and panting heavy from every gentle lick he gives your clit. you gasp when his mouth trails up your inner thighs, spanking them on either side as he shifts his head to catch your bud into his mouth once again, pulling it between his lips gently before releasing and swallowing you up wholly. 

the method of his tongue starts off soft, then transitions to teasing laps followed by firmer, more demanding sucks, determined to wring every last drop of cum from you. with your stomach caving in, a high-pitched whine escapes your lips as he devours you, hips bucking wildly against his mouth as you try to escape the intense sensations crashing over you. using your strength to keep your legs in the air, your fingers thread through his hair, tugging harshly as you grind down onto his face, chasing the pleasure building in your core. losing balance when your knees bend, rick guiding his face all over your pussy, allowing you to use his face. the disgusting noise of rick slurping you up and matted beard scraping at your skin makes you lose your mind. 

“rickkk,” you’re crying softly, hiccuping and melting into his touch the more he molds at your flesh with his rough hands and sucks on your pussy. 

“y’cummin’, sweetheart?” his tongue continues to work, steadily sloshing it after pulling back the hood, tears welling in your sockets and feeble, whiny sobs surpass the lewd sound of spit swapping with cum. 

“mm—h-hmm. y-yes.” 

“c’mon, then. fuckin’ gushin’ all over my tongue. gimme somethin’ sweet to slide into.” 

with eyes rolled back, you mindlessly move your waist that stutters from every lick, sitting in a puddle of mess. frantically, your palms slam on to the backs of your thighs to hold them still as they tremble, smacking at them yourself to coax vibration towards your sensitive pussy all the while urging your fiancé to land a hit where you needed it. and he hits hard in repetitions on either side again like you love. the tickles of his beard makes you incredibly wetter as it scratches all the right parts. it’s getting creamier, and rick knows because there’s a sweeter taste on his palate, and when he goes to curl his fingers into you — pushing and pulling, and because the angle in which you sit is adding pressure to your tummy, it’s all on his hand. gooey and delicious. rick grunts, rubbing your clit with his thumb adjacent to fucking you with his fingers. 

“awee, fuck! g-god, baby,” your heartbeat picks up quicker, gasps flowing in the air as you grab his wrist and clamp your legs together creating more tension as you cum. 

it takes you quite a while to ease, arching your back off the side of the bed as your stomach presses into his face, rick smelling your lotion and kissing your belly. your eyes can’t help but stare in a daze, every rise and fall of your chest is followed by wheezily pants. legs shaking and skin getting sweaty. the shape of your eyes are daunting. biting your lip as you scratch at his semi-soaked beard to pull him in for a kiss, staring him down with blown sepia pupils and low lids mimicking feline. 

rick takes the way you look at him as a threat. 

“keep staring at me like that ‘n i’m liable to fuck you right now,” his voice is hoarse. 

“g’na keep staring ‘cause i love you,” grinning, you continue to play with him. you liked making him mad. 

“mhm, you love your old man?” he muttered gruffly, his grip on your hips getting tighter. 

your heart skips a beat, chest tightening with emotion. eyes fluttering closed briefly, then snapping back open to stare at him intensely. “yes, i love you.” 

it’s swift when rick goes to lift you up. scooping you up by the column of your underarms as if you were a small pet and placing you down onto the mattress that your body bounces onto gently. giggling in your state, you hum drunkenly as rick’s hands roam over your hot skin, turning you so you’re laying on your stomach with one of your knees raised by your side. the button-up you wear is well over hiked up your full ass, clenching your fist holding the material with visceral appetite, wiggling your butt and hearing your slick that’s glued to your inner thighs. 

rick’s got his neck bent slightly to the side, eyes squinting, your act of seduction only worsening his need to roughen you up a bit. he stays silent, unbuckling the hefty black leather belt on his waist and dragging down the zipper ever-so slowly. the lust in the room rises, the alcohol still thrumming in his system as he pulls out his cock. it’s . .  fat. pulsing visibly with a swollen head and dense veins — could be a replica of his forearm, really. it’s hanging halfway out of teal boxers, pubic hairs dark and unruly. pulling them further down his crotch so his balls fall out and jolt for your joy. loving the feel of them plopping against your sticky clit from behind. 

the sound of him patting the heftiness of it along the plump of your butt ricocheted in the small room. rick’s palming the arch of your back, pushing it deeper so he’d get you in the angle he wanted. bent just enough so he could catch a glimpse of your cunt soddened and open. 

“s' thing real pretty, ain’t it?” rick wets his lips, curls falling in front of the frame of his face as he gets a closer look like he’s never seen her before. or, like his face didn’t reside there only five minutes ago. “g’na get fucked real nice.” 

being under his monitor always felt nerve-racking. he’d take his time observing your body to see what makes you react to what, or simply get a kick out of the squirming and mewling you act out when peevish. stepping out of his boots and bottoms, he’s allowing you to feel just how scorching his skin was on yours. 

“rick.” there’s that crankiness he was talking about. it comes out as a solid groan, continuously swaying your legs side to side even though he’s got your waist locked. 

rick lowers his chin, spitting directly on his dick before wrapping his veiny hand around and pumping over the length of it, stroking over the sensitive head before he’s aligning the tip with your dripping entrance. the pink of it showing a tight ring after careful back and forth insertions. a sharp cry ripples from your throat as he fills you completely, walls stretching to pull in his size. you can feel every throbbing inch of him buried deep, the sensation bordering on yummy in its intensity. your nails dig into the sheets as you adjust to the sudden intrusion, body trembling with the effort of relaxing around him. unable to make a noise, you bite down on the sleeve of your shirt as your eyes falter shut. after a few moments, a dull ache of fullness only serves to heighten your arousal, breathless in his possession. 

“g’na fuck you so dumb, make you s’full,” rick hisses, sliding halfway out before plunging forward again. 

you push back against him, encouraging him to start moving as your pussy clenches greedily around his shaft. turning your head to look at him over your shoulder,

you keep your eyes on his, lashes kissing your cheekbones delicately while you see rick shuffle his black t-shirt up his midsection a bit more, drooling at the sight of his tanned chest and hard stomach. a stripe of hair leading down from the navel, strong arms with light brown frizzy hair, and deepset eyes that lure you in to danger. you fucking loved this man. 

“those eyes of yours, darling,” he announces almost with warning, wrapping his fist around your ponytail to pull your neck back for a quick, harsh peck to your full lips. 

letting go, his hand finds a new place to grip, and that was your neck. holding you in place while grinding his dick into you. your vision starts to blur as his hand compresses tight around your throat, clawing at his wrist as the pressure exceeds. the weight of your ass claps back onto his groin as the two of you rock together. rick’s thrusts rough and steady, pounding his cock into your pussy depravedly. 

“atta girl. take it all.” 

unexpectedly, your mind goes blank from the intensity of it all, and just a few thrusts sends you hurtling towards another orgasm, eyes scrolling back and sobs ensuing. rick’s hold on your throat loosens just enough to allow you a precious breath, but the momentary reprieve only fuels his own lust. he watches, transfixed, as your face contorts in pleasure. gasps coming out in ragged breaths, the sudden influx of oxygen only serves to amplify the sensations, and you stutter out his name as you gush and cum hard. pleasure ripping through you, pussy clamping down on his dick tightly. 

“ungh, f-fuck — ooh fuck.” 

you go to cover your mouth to muffle the sounds, not wanting to wake your friends sleeping in the living room, almost forgetting they were here. 

rick’s eyes narrow at your attempt to be silent. “ uh-uh, darling. i don’t give a fuck about waking your friends. don’t cover your mouth.” 

whining once again, your favorite, rick gropes your neck to keep you fully still as he fucks harder into you. “eyes on me. look me in the face.” 

doing as he says, you maintain eye contact as best you can, screwing your face up the deeper his dick hits inside of you, moaning when he goes to slap your cheek gently and clawing at the sheets in response desperately. every pound gets greedier, a sheen of sweat on rick’s forehead as he prolongs groans and grits his teeth while his hips slam against your ass. a particular noise you make full of broken moans ruins him. 

“yesss, good girl,” his brows are knitted, voice getting gruff and guiding your body to bounce back on his dick. 

“s’s-so — deep,” the broken tone of your voice emits, crawling your way forward for a sense of relief. just needing it a bit. 

“you ain’t goin’ nowhere, girl,” rick grumbles, pulling you back so both of your legs are straight now, grinding his dick into you before removing his hand from your throat to capture your ponytail to yank your head back. 

“p—lease, baby,” you beg. 

“just a lil’ more. just a little more,” rick nearly pleads, voice softening and turning into whimpers as he grounds his dick into you, lifting his weight off a little before crashing his hips back down again and again. “ugh, shit.” 

there’s specks in both of your visions, finding yourself sucking on your fingers as rick licks and nips at your neck, relishing the moment. the moonlight that was once outside began to disappear, clouds settling slowly into dawn. you don’t know how long it’s been since he’s stepped foot into the room, but you knew for sure that you’d both be ridiculously tired by morning. 

rick builds up the strength to let you go, for now that is. pulling out tenderly, he’s bringing you up off the bed and lifting your frame in his arms. with your arms draped over his shoulders, you nuzzle your face within the crook of his neck as he goes to sit on a wide wooden chaise facing the opposite side of the room. getting comfy for you both, rick’s got two of his palms on either side of your face to give you a few more sweet smooches. joining in soon was raw, wet kisses. descending his hands to smooth down your backside before kneading the doughy flesh of your butt. manspreading, he’s making sure you’ve got enough room to move, balancing yourself above him using the throw pillows as leverage for your knees. 

“drop down slow, baby — slow. listen to your cum coatin’ my dick,” rick whispers, hips stuttering, trying to find his own willpower in not fucking up into you. 

the moment narrows down to the pressure of splitting yourself open on him, the musky scent of his skin filling your nostrils, and the steady pulse of his heartbeat against your palms. arousal sticky and loud all over you both. weak whimpers spew as you sink further and further down to the hilt, taking your time and grinding your hips. a soft moan escapes your parted lips as you revel in the warmth and stiffness of him inside you, your pussy clinging to every throbbing inch like a second skin.

“baby, you’re in my tummyyy. you’re so deep. feels so good.” 

"you’re stuffed full, baby?”

“mmmhmm,” you murmur, eyelids drooping as you let yourself melt into the feeling of being so deeply filled by his dick. your hips continue to undulate slowly, grinding against him in a hypnotic rhythm that seems to draw him further under your spell.

switching up, you arch your chest towards his and keep your hands on his chest, driving your ass up and down on him to keep the tip of his dick nudging at your spot. it made you both feel good, rick’s touch back on your ass as you gyrate and fuck him. 

“get it,” rick grunts in your ear, guiding you up and down while easing his way into thrusting his hips upward, fingers sinking into your supple hips to urge you on.

the way you fuck him is steady and mildly rough, every pop of your ass onto his muscular thighs resounds in the room along with rick fucking up into you to match rhythm. the fat of your ass claps on his skin just as loud, rick raising two hands and slamming them down together before helping you fuck him. up and down, harder. he keeps you where you want to stay, but couldn’t fight the urge to grope your brown skin ravenously before pivoting his groin and beating his dick up each time you plummet. 

“r-rick, fuck babyy — mmmgh.” 

rick’s gaze is riveted to your face, breathing heavily into each others mouths as your bodies connect lewdly in the quiet confinement of your shared bedroom. birds began to chirp on the outside, and the light hitting your bodies felt poetic. his hand takes your ponytail and pulls your head back, your arch getting sharper and your mewls never ending. 

“w’na marry you right now,” you whisper out of high, giggling when his mouth laps at your collarbone. 

“you’re silly, sweetheart. you’d w’na get married while i’m fuckin’ you like t-this — fuck.”

“yess, with your dick in me. i love ittt!” 

rick gives your ass a playful spank, voice husky as he chuckles and keeps you grounding on his dick. his eyes blaze with unbridled lust and love as he watched you succumb and go dumb, body writhing. 

“you can marry me again with my dick in you later, yeah?” 

“yess, promise, baby?” you pout.

fuck, you really had a way with making him submit to your every wish. “long as you let me fill you up. c’mon, milk it baby. it feels so good. be a good girl. you’re doing such a good job.” 

the more he praises you, the weaker your body grows. you wanted to make him happy, and you wanted your promise granted, so you do what he needs you to and that’s bounce on it faster. rick chokes, jaw lowering as you lift and clench your pussy tighter, fucking him good. 

“mmm, fuck yeahh, just like that," rick growls, his voice strained with pleasure. "ride it nice ‘n good, darling. show me how much you want it."

he leans forward, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss as he continues to guide your movements, his tongue delving to tangle with yours. the chaise creaks beneath you, the wooden frame somewhat creaking and scraping against the tile floor with each frenzied bounce.

“i fucking love you,” you cry out, thighs trembling and close to giving out. that bubble ready to burst. 

“i love you too, darling.” 

rick delivers loving kisses to your lips, sucking and pulling at your lower lip and rushing tongues. he feels close to cumming as well, shoving your chest to his and planting his feet flat while leaning his back fully against the chair for sturdiness before he’s rutting up into your pussy as you claw at his skin. it wasn’t intentional for you to scream the way you did, certainly needing to apologize to the girls once they wake up — but he felt so, so fucking good. fucking you just the right way. 

spurts of cum trickle down his groin and thighs as you mindlessly find yourself squirting, biting at his shoulder with tears in your eyes. from the mirror nestled in a corner across the room, he could see you dripping down his dick along with your cream. 

“ooo, give it to me. give it to me.” 

every spoken word is aggressive with despair, rick fucking every ounce of cum out of you that he could get you to produce before he’s nutting warmly into you. jaw clenching, fingers embedding into your skin harder as if scared to let you go. thick ropes spurting and pussy sloshing over wetly mingled. 

he’s got his forearm thrown around you, cradling you into his arms warmly, and it’s comforting. resting his chin on your shoulder, he’s intaking your scent — a scent he’d have forever being married to you starting today. he had such a soft spot for you. you run circles on his back, staying put in the embrace, smiling stupidly. 

rick pulls back to see your face. “are you okay, baby?” 

nodding, you smile tiredly. “just sleepy.”

“mm,” rick scans the room for the clock on the wall. “it’s close to seven. i’ll make sure to get up and let the girls know you’ll need a lil’ more time before getting ready.” 

pawing at his jaw, you give him one big kiss. “you’re so sweet, baby. thank you. can’t wait to marry you.” 

rick smiles, adoring that you keep reminding him of that. it makes him feel ultimately secure. “twice, right?” 

“mhm, twice.” 

© 𝓢𝓣4𝓡𝓑𝓦𝓡𝓡𝓨! all rights reserved. please do not copy, steal, or modify my work simply because it is mine. stealing isn't cute. i'll ruin your life ♡

[fancypeacepersona]

[fancypeacepersona]

© nachiri | do not edit and/or crop logo

[fancypeacepersona]

So...... Are we ready for the rafayel angst?!? Omg he is not even my main but I still love him and they did him right 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

Fishie looks so handsome 👀

It inspired me to somewhat finish this old Sketch i did of a.... Hungry and sad siren raf

he just wants to eat you..... Why are you being mean to him?He is just a little guy. 😔

[fancypeacepersona]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ off the record ( sjy ! ) — part 2

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — jake x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 ⤷ word count — 14.5k ⤷ based on this request by an anon ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — here’s part 2 as promised! i really had fun writing this one (especially the smut scenes hehe), so i hope you enjoy reading it just as much <3 pace yourselves, loves. ily always 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), idol au, secret relationship, established relationship trope, idol!jake, idol!reader, possessive!jake, clingy!jake, overprotective!jake, a little toxic communication, breeding kink, mating press, oral (f receiving), creampie, overstimulation, squirting, possessive!jake, praise kink, slight dom!jake, clit stimulation, backshots, aftercare, whiny!reader, clingy!jake, post-sex softness, light bruising, post-orgasm cuddles, soft angst, toxic industry pressure, hurt/comfort, morning after fluff, and one extremely lovesick, whipped man

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — two years in, and jake sim still looks at you like he’s falling for the first time. but being an idol means love stays quiet—hidden in elevator rides, exchanged glances, and stolen moments between schedules. it’s always been worth it. until you’re on stage with another. until a harmless award and a scripted smile threaten to break the calm he’s clung to. jealousy was never part of the plan, but neither was loving you this much. where you win an unexpected couple award with someone else, and sim jaeyun realizes just how tired he is of pretending you’re not his.

You stared at your hands, cheeks flushing as the kitchen filled with stunned silence.

Then Jake sighed, a little more seriously this time. “I’ve already met her parents. Twice, actually. But this…” he gestured vaguely to the kitchen, to your members hovering around the stove and the stools. “This is way scarier.”

Yunjin set the ladle down and turned fully toward him, arms crossed. “Good. We should be scary.”

“He’s right though,” Kazuha piped up from her seat beside you, wide-eyed but amused. “I feel like we’re in the middle of a drama episode reveal.”

Eunchae returned from the pantry holding a jar of jam, blinking. “Wait, what did I miss?”

“Only the part where Jake-sunbaenim just confessed they’ve been dating for two years,” Sakura said, dazed.

Jake raised his hand in defense. “In my defense, I didn’t exactly plan on getting grilled over broth and strawberries.”

You buried your face in your hands. “This is the exact nightmare I’ve had, by the way.”

Yunjin tilted her head. “We’re not mad, dummy. We just wish we knew sooner.”

Jake turned to you, then looked back at the girls. “I didn’t want her to be the one carrying the weight of going public too early. It’s hard enough being an idol. Dating one? That’s another level.”

The kitchen fell quiet for a moment. Even the bubbling soup on the stove seemed to hush.

Your members stared at him in surprise—eyes flicking between each other and him, processing that kind of emotional maturity.

Yunjin finally broke the silence with a sigh, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she stirred the pasta sauce. “You know, sunbaenim… I always pegged you as the playboy type. Not someone who’s been in a committed relationship for two years.”

Jake immediately frowned, head whipping toward her. “Hey, what? That’s not—okay, rude.”

“And don’t call me sunbaenim, please,” he added, with a groan. “We’re not filming.”

That made Eunchae laugh as she popped up beside you and Kazuha, snagging a strawberry from your bowl. “Sorry, sunbaenim,” she teased under her breath.

Behind you, the oven beeped and Sakura pulled out a golden, bubbling lasagna with practiced grace. “This one’s done,” she announced, placing it on the counter before glancing over her shoulder.

“Now, spill—how’d you two even meet?”

Eunchae nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I wanna know! Like, was it fate or what?” she grinned, holding her hands out dramatically.

You passed her a strawberry slice with a chuckle before leaning against the counter.

Jake, now stirring the soup with a wooden ladle, hummed in thought. He turned his head slightly, catching your gaze for a soft second before saying, “I think… it was around Drunk-Dazed era?”

“Oh?” Kazuha blinked. “That far back?”

“Yeah,” Jake nodded. “I bumped into her in the elevator. Like, literally. She was wearing a headset and almost spilled her drink. I helped her pick it up and she just… smiled. I guess we started talking from then on.”

You looked down, cheeks warming at the memory. Your first real conversation had been about Genshin updates and whether or not it was worth pulling for Zhongli.

“But why?” Kazuha asked curiously, head tilting. “I mean, what made you like her?”

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “She’s my type.”

Sakura raised a brow immediately, unimpressed. “So you’re into gamer nerds now?”

You scoffed, throwing a napkin at her. “Excuse you—intelligent gamer nerds. Get it right.”

Sakura raised her hands in mock defense. “Hey, hey—I’m just stating the facts.”

Jake laughed behind you, stirring the pot once more. “She was funny, honest, didn’t care who I was, and somehow managed to make the elevator ride feel like ten seconds instead of ten floors.”

Eunchae clutched her chest dramatically. “Okay, that’s actually kinda romantic.”

Yunjin shook her head. “Still shocked. You’re like… boyfriend material? That’s wild.”

Jake turned to her, deadpan. “I am offended on so many levels right now.”

Yunjin only shrugged, completely unbothered, as she grabbed a stack of plates from the cabinet. “You’ll be fine. Now go set the table. (Y/N), wake Chaewon, please.”

Jake turned off the stove with a soft click, the boiling soup finally calming, and gave you a look that screamed good luck.

You stood, stretching a little before padding quietly down the hallway. You gently pushed open the door to Chaewon’s room, the lights still dim from when she knocked out earlier.

The curtains fluttered slightly from the breeze of the cracked-open window.

Careful not to startle her, you sat at the edge of her bed and nudged her shoulder gently. “Unnie… dinner’s ready,” you whispered.

She stirred, blinking slowly as she rubbed her eyes. “Already?”

You nodded with a smile. “Yeah. Also, um… my boyfriend’s here.”

Chaewon paused mid-stretch, one eye squinting open. “…Boyfriend what?”

You bit your lip, stifling a laugh. “Yep. He’s here. In the kitchen. With a knife. Very domestic.”

Her eyes shot open fully this time as she scrambled to sit up, brushing her hair out of her face in panic. “Who? Wait—what? Since when? You—what?!”

You grinned, standing up and helping her fix the knot of her oversized shirt as she grabbed a headband from her bedside table to look more like the responsible leader she was. “Two years,” you answered simply.

“Two—” she nearly choked, jaw going slack. “Two?!?”

You giggled, tugging her hand gently as you led her out of the room. “Yep. Come meet him. He’s real nice. Also your hoobae.”

Chaewon furrowed her brows in disbelief as you entered the kitchen, her gaze immediately locking on the boy in question—tall, fluffy brown hair, now setting down a pair of chopsticks beside each plate and laughing at something Eunchae said.

He spotted you approaching and perked up, flashing his signature soft smile. “Hi! I’m Jake.”

Chaewon blinked at him, then turned to look at you with a raised brow. You simply nodded with the biggest, most unapologetic smile on your face.

Chaewon turned back to him slowly. “…Yeah. I know who you are.”

Jake’s smile wavered for a millisecond. “R-right. Yeah.”

“She’s told me a lot about you,” she added calmly, walking past him toward the table. “Like, for example, nothing. Ever.”

You laughed as Jake scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes darting to you.

“Chaewon unnie,” you said sweetly, “Jake’s helped me sneak ramen at two in the morning during our first world tour. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Chaewon scoffed, smirking. “We’ll see if it counts after he survives dinner.”

Jake laughed nervously, nodding. “That’s fair… I think.”

Still ever the gentleman, he reached out and pulled a chair for you first, waiting for you to sit down before settling into the one beside you.

You turned to him with a quiet “Thank you,” and he just offered you a soft smile—like everything was worth it just to sit beside you.

You both clasped your hands in a tiny, automatic gesture of prayer before digging in. The clinking of utensils and quiet hum of satisfied eating filled the room as the girls passed dishes around the table.

Jake, without a word, reached out and gently placed a spoonful of lasagna on your plate first, then added a few slices of grilled eggplant and your favorite salad topping. Only after your plate was full did he even think of serving himself.

Chaewon, from across the table, paused mid-chew. She stared. Narrowed her eyes. And then casually pointed her fork at Jake.

“Okay,” she said, “Approved. You can date my daughter.”

You choked on your water.

Jake blinked. “Oh—uh, thanks?”

Kazuha nearly dropped her fork from laughing. Yunjin let out a low whistle. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast, unnie.”

Chaewon shrugged. “He served her before himself. I observe things.”

Jake grinned, finally putting food on his own plate. “I’ve been trying to earn your approval in my head for two years now. So… big win.”

“You’re still on probation,” Chaewon added.

Jake raised his glass. “Fair.”

Eunchae giggled from beside you. “Unnie, he really likes you.”

You turned pink and muttered, “I know…”

The room quieted for a second as everyone chewed on their food, the warm clatter of plates and utensils echoing softly around the dining space—until Chaewon, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly looked up from her plate.

“Wait,” she said, squinting at Jake like she just remembered something. “Don’t you have promotions tomorrow?”

Jake blinked, mouth still full, and slowly nodded.

You rolled your eyes fondly and answered for him, “Yeah. They just released their comeback two days ago, so they’re in full promo mode.”

Chaewon raised a brow, setting her fork down with a soft clink. “So why are you here and not, I don’t know, practicing? Or sleeping? Or doing your twelve-step skincare routine with Sunoo?”

Jake chuckled sheepishly, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “We already have everything prepped for this week. Plus, I’m heading out early tomorrow morning anyway.”

Yunjin tilted her head from the other end of the table. “Still, brave of you to spend the night in a dorm full of girls who could absolutely kick you in the ass for dating our member.”

Jake grinned, glancing at you. “Worth it.”

Chaewon gave him a pointed stare. “And?”

He set his utensils down and looked around the table for a moment before answering, sincere and clear. “Meeting you guys tonight was really important to me. She’s been in my life for two years… and I’ve met her family. It just felt right to meet hers, too.”

You tried to focus on your rice, but your cheeks betrayed you—glowing pink as Jake reached under the table to gently tap your hand with his.

“Well,” Sakura muttered with mock annoyance, “he’s charming. Great.”

“I know,” Kazuha sighed dramatically.

You tried not to smile too much, your heart fluttering like it was hearing him talk about you for the first time again. You picked up a new slice of lasagna and said softly, “Eat more, Jakey.”

Jake beamed at you and immediately obeyed, making everyone at the table burst into knowing laughter.

The clinking of dishes and the gentle hum of ‘TFW’ playing from someone’s speaker filled the quiet kitchen.

You stood at the sink, fingers slightly wrinkled from the warm water and soap bubbles, while Jake stood beside you with a clean towel in hand, drying each plate and placing it carefully into the dishwasher.

Jake let out a small breath, his eyes not leaving the glass in his hands. “You know…”

You hummed in question, not looking up from the last bowl you were rinsing.

“I’m really glad tonight went well,” he said quietly, drying the edge of a plate before setting it down.

You smiled, grabbing the towel and dabbing your wet hands on it before replying. “Well, it had to. I mean, they were always going to accept you, Jake. You’re you.”

He chuckled.

You leaned on the sink, tossing the washcloth onto the rack. “Plus, you’re already famous for being charming. That’s got to be, like, at least 60% of the battle.”

Jake laughed at that—low and breathy—and before you could turn around, you felt his arms snake around your waist. He pressed himself against your back, resting his chin on top of your head.

“I’m really lucky to have you,” he mumbled into your hair.

You smiled to yourself, cheeks warm as you reached up to hold onto his arms. “Even if we fight?”

He leaned back slightly as you turned around in his embrace, your back now against the edge of the sink as he boxed you in, hands still resting loosely around your waist. He tilted his head, a soft grin playing on his lips.

“Especially when we fight,” he teased, gently nudging your nose with his. “You look like a sad bunny when you’re mad. It’s kinda hard to take you seriously.”

You gasped, laughing as you pushed on his chest. “You’re unbelievable!”

“And yet,” Jake said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart, “you continue to love me. Tragic.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a laugh. “Tragic is right.”

But then he smiled—really smiled. That small, sweet curl of his lips that told you he wasn’t just joking anymore.

“I mean it, though,” he said. “Whatever happens with work, or promotions, or… whatever chaos we have to deal with—I’m still really, really glad I get to come home to this. To you.”

You let your hands rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“And I’m glad you’re here,” you whispered back.

Jake dipped his head and kissed you—gentle and unhurried, like there was no rush in the world.

You both lingered for a moment, eyes closed, foreheads still brushing before you slowly pulled away, sharing quiet, knowing smiles. The kind that said I love you without needing the words.

Wordlessly, you both turned back to the sink, finishing the last of the dishes in a rhythm that had become second nature.

Jake dried the last glass and stacked it neatly, while you wiped down the counter, tossing the cloth in the laundry bin tucked under the sink.

Just as you reached for the light switch, the sound of muffled footsteps filled the hallway—and in came your members, bundled in oversized coats, beanies, and masks, looking suspiciously like a group of spies ready for a mission.

You blinked at them. “Uh… Where are you guys going?”

Eunchae grinned beneath her white fleece bucket hat, nodding enthusiastically. “Convenience store! The one a few blocks down!”

Kazuha tugged her mask down slightly, eyes sparkling. “Chaewon-unnie said the new strawberry banana bread flavor just came out.”

Chaewon nodded proudly from the back, crossing her arms with mock authority. “Limited edition. We must investigate.”

You laughed, glancing at Jake beside you, who was already smiling—shoulders shaking in amusement at the chaotic yet endearing dynamic.

“You guys are such a unit,” he said under his breath, fondness written all over his face.

Sakura, who was zipping up her jacket, paused and looked at you. “You two want anything?”

You hummed, thinking for a second. “Yeah! That new sandwich with the cheese melt thing… and strawberry milk, please. I’ll pay later!”

Jake raised a brow, immediately shaking his head. “Double that. I’m paying.”

You gave him a playful glare, and he just winked at you in response.

“Got it!” Eunchae said, doing a little salute.

“We’ll lock the door behind us!” Yunjin added, already pulling it shut as they piled out one by one, Chaewon doing a headcount like a mom with her ducklings.

“Strawberry milk,” Kazuha repeated under her breath.

“And the sandwich!” Eunchae called before disappearing down the hall.

Jake laughed softly beside you as the door clicked shut. “You weren’t kidding when you said they’re your second family.”

You grinned, leaning against his side. “They’re my whole heart, actually.”

He slipped his hand into yours again, gently squeezing. “Yeah… I can see that.”

The apartment quieted again, save for the soft hum of the fridge and the faint echo of your playlist still looping from earlier.

The roar of Engenes filled the venue as the final notes of ‘One in a Billion’ echoed across the stage, the boys of ENHYPEN wrapping up their performance with flawless synchronicity.

You stood just off-stage, heart fluttering—not from nerves, but from the sight of Jake under the stage lights, shining like he was born for it.

“You good?” your stylist asked quickly, tugging your hair gently into place before stepping aside. You nodded, adjusting your mic pack with steady fingers, the anticipation building as your group was next to perform ‘Anti-Fragile.’

“Damn,” you muttered under your breath to Yunjin, eyes still locked on the stage. “They’re good.”

She laughed lightly, swaying to the fading melody. “Let’s not gas them up too much, we have to follow them.”

You both giggled as the cameras nearby continued to roll, capturing behind-the-scenes footage. Eunchae suddenly latched onto your bare waist, making you squeal and stumble slightly.

“Unnie,” she whined dramatically, her voice muffled as she hid behind your back, “I’m nervous for this comeback.”

You turned slightly, fixing her hair gently. “Don’t be. We’ve worked hard, and the fans are ready. We can do this.”

She nodded, eyes a little teary but determined.

Just then, the stage lights dimmed and the VCR began to play, signaling the transition. ENHYPEN began exiting, breathless but smiling, their in-ear pieces being pulled out as they walked your way.

Your members immediately straightened, Chaewon instinctively lining you all up in formation like the leader she was.

She bowed first. “Congratulations,” she said with practiced respect.

One by one, the boys bowed back. Sunghoon smiled and nodded. Sunoo gave Eunchae a small wave.

“Good luck,” Jake whispered to you as he passed, voice low and hidden beneath the noise of the crowd and crew, eyes meeting yours for a second longer than necessary.

Your heart did a full somersault, but you managed to smile through it, fingers adjusting the mic near your cheek to keep busy. “Thanks,” you whispered back, a little breathless.

He grinned—just the tiniest curve of his lips—before disappearing backstage with the others.

You blinked, grounding yourself. Focus. Stage time.

“Let’s go!” Chaewon called, and immediately, your group moved with muscle memory.

The spotlight began to rise.

Just a few doors down from the stage, in one of the private waiting rooms, Jake stood silently next to Ni-ki, both of them staring intently at the monitor on the wall.

The screen lit up with vibrant blues and deep blacks as the performance began—your group emerging with practiced intensity and poise.

Jake didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The moment you stepped into frame, center-left, he was already captivated.

You moved like second nature—confident, poised, every movement sharp and purposeful. And then came your solo line, one that ended with a subtle smirk and a teasing wink thrown directly into the camera.

Jake’s smile stretched, wide and utterly smitten.

Beside him, Ni-ki gave a small nod. “She’s killing it,” he muttered, arms crossed over his chest. “The choreo’s no joke.”

Jake didn’t reply immediately, still watching you with rapt attention. You twirled into center stage, your fitted black spaghetti-strap top catching the lights as your denim skirt fanned out slightly with each spin.

The crowd screamed louder as you took center, mic held up with confidence, voice crisp and full of attitude.

Jungwon stepped into the room then, a protein bar in one hand, casually joining them. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the screen. “I go to ride ’til I die, die,” he half-sang under his breath, nodding with a grin as your line came up.

Jake finally broke his silence with a soft, breathy laugh. “She’s unreal.”

Ni-ki leaned slightly toward him, eyebrow raised. “You’re gonna combust if you keep staring like that.”

Jake scoffed. “You’d combust too if your girlfriend looked that good on national TV.”

Jungwon chuckled. “Isn’t this torture for you? She’s out there serving stage presence while you’re stuck here trying not to look whipped.”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, eyes still glued to the monitor as you transitioned into your ending pose.

The crowd was screaming, the lights flared one last time, and there you were—front and center—forming a heart with your hands, your purple-highlighted hair shimmering beneath the spotlight.

Jungwon’s comment still lingered in the air, and Jake didn’t even try to hide the way he was smiling. He glanced toward the camera filming their waiting room and waved a hand toward it lazily.

“Cut that one out,” he said, half-joking but with a trace of real concern in his voice. “I don’t wanna get fired.”

A burst of laughter erupted from the staff nearby.

One of the camera operators grinned, flashing him a thumbs up. “Don’t worry, hyung. We’ll blur your face,” he teased.

“Too late for that,” Sunghoon quipped from the couch, legs kicked up, his phone in one hand and an unimpressed expression on his face. “You’ve already said too much.”

Heeseung didn’t even glance up as he added, “Honestly? I doubt they’d fire you. Our group’s practically funding the entire building right now.”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon agreed, crossing his arms behind his head. “They need us more than we need them.”

Jake sighed under his breath, lips twitching into a reluctant grin. “Yeah… you have a point.”

The room had gradually filled up—Sunoo now standing beside Ni-ki, arms folded across his chest, nodding along to the beat still playing from the hallway speakers.

“Wow,” Sunoo murmured, eyes fixed on the screen. “Noona looks really good tonight.”

Jake hummed in agreement as the monitor shifted—your ending pose freezing for a second before it cut to the substitute MCs waving to the audience. You were clearly busy with promotions, too tied up to close the show like usual.

“Can’t believe she’s not up there with the mic,” Jungwon said, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You’re slacking, hyung.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Blame her manager. Not me.”

“Blame you for not volunteering to co-MC before Jisung-sunbaenim,” Sunghoon chimed in, smirking.

Jake smiled despite himself, watching the replay of your ending fairy again as it looped quietly on the screen. “Nah. She shines just fine without me.”

Sunoo tilted his head. “That’s kinda romantic.”

Jake shrugged, still watching. “That’s kinda the truth.”

“Hopeless,” Sunghoon muttered, tossing a pillow at him.

Just then, Jungwon plopped onto the couch beside Sunghoon, his posture slouchy as he reached for the half-empty water bottle on the coffee table.

“Alright, break’s over,” he sighed, tone lighter but his words already sounding like business. “We’ve got a few months to plan for our MAMA performance.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Heeseung looked up from his phone. “Oh, right. That—plus the special ones they added.”

Jake finally turned his gaze away from the screen. “Which one are you talking about?”

“The KBS Entertainment Awards,” Heeseung answered, nodding toward their manager, who was already scrolling through the calendar on a tablet.

Jungwon nodded. “Yeah, that one. They confirmed it last night—we’re doing a joint performance with the other HYBE groups.”

Sunoo’s eyes sparkled. “Wait, does that mean we’ll probably do that mashup stage again?”

Ni-ki leaned forward, brows furrowed in curiosity. “Which concept are we pushing? Classic? Or do they want us to go full experimental again?”

Their second manager chimed in from the side, eyes scanning the notes on their device. “Still being finalized. But the producer wants something memorable. Something iconic. You’re one of the ending acts, so they expect impact.”

“Of course they do,” Sunghoon muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples. “When don’t they?”

Jake leaned back, tossing a pillow behind his head. “So what’s left for now?”

Their main manager, standing closest to Jungwon, tapped a few checkboxes on her tablet. “We’ve still got Music Core this weekend, the radio interviews lined up next week, and your YouTube schedule to finish. Then rehearsal season starts full force.”

Jungwon groaned. “Guess that means goodbye to free time.”

Ni-ki flopped over the armrest of the couch. “I didn’t even get to download that new game yet.”

Sunoo gave him a light flick on the forehead. “Focus, Riki.”

Jake just quietly nodded, eyes scanning the calendar before asking, “Will we be rehearsing at HYBE or the KBS studios?”

“Both,” their manager replied. “Alternating schedules depending on which stage needs polishing.”

Heeseung glanced at Jake. “Better tell your girl to stock up on throat lozenges. With how things are looking, she’ll be rehearsing just as much as us.”

Jake chuckled, gaze softening a bit. “She’ll be fine. She's kind of unstoppable like that.”

This was going to be one hell of a comeback season.

The overhead lights buzzed softly as you held tightly onto Chaewon’s hand, the familiar gray-walled hallways of HYBE feeling more like a runway to your doom.

The camera following behind you captured every twitch of your brow, every deep breath, every fidget of your fingers gripping your water bottle.

Kazuha giggled beside you, looping her arm with Eunchae’s as she tilted her head at your nervous expression. “What’s wrong? You look like you're about to walk into a war.”

You shot her a look. “We’re collabing with ENHYPEN and TXT. What about this situation isn’t terrifying?”

Yunjin, who was walking just behind you, mumbled. “You’re literally dating one of them.”

“That’s exactly why I’m terrified,” you mumbled under your breath.

The six of you slowed in front of one of the biggest and most high-tech practice rooms in the building. The door stood tall and ominous in front of you like the gates of heaven… or hell.

Chaewon inhaled deeply beside you, squared her shoulders, and gave your hand a light squeeze before knocking twice.

“Here we go,” Sakura muttered.

The door creaked open.

Immediately, a flood of voices greeted you. “Hi!” “Oh, they’re here!” “Hello, Le Sserafim!”

Your group stepped inside slowly, bowing instinctively as the familiar faces of ENHYPEN and TXT turned toward you from across the polished wooden floor.

Most of them were stretching or adjusting their mics, water bottles scattered around like it was already halfway through practice.

Huening Kai grinned widely and jogged over first. “Finally! We were wondering when you’d show up,” he said, waving enthusiastically at you before offering Eunchae a playful fist bump.

Yeonjun spun around dramatically, throwing his arms in the air. “They’re here! The queens have arrived!” he announced, sending giggles through your members.

Eunchae shyly waved back at Ni-ki, who smiled at her from across the room.

Jay stood next to Sunghoon, fixing his hair in the mirror but paused when you entered. “Took you long enough,” he joked, sending a brief nod toward Chaewon.

You gave a small bow and forced a smile, eyes scanning the room instinctively.

Jake was there, leaning against the wall, hair pulled back in a cap and wearing a sleeveless black tee that clung to him in all the right places. He gave you a small smile from across the room and mouthed a soft, “You’re okay?”

You nodded slightly in return, heart thudding in your chest.

“Alright,” Soobin clapped his hands. “Shall we get started?”

Jungwon clapped his hands with a bright, “Alright, alright—find your spots, window style! Let’s get stretching!”

Everyone moved at once, bodies shuffling into lines, the room buzzing with casual chatter and the squeaks of sneakers on polished hardwood.

The long mirror across the wall reflected the familiar chaos of multi-group collabs: TXT in the far left row, ENHYPEN in the middle, and Le Sserafim forming a line behind them.

You found yourself stretching behind Jake and Sunoo, both already halfway into toe touches. Sunoo turned and beamed at you, waving with both hands like you hadn’t just seen each other two days ago.

“Hi noona! You’re behind us, yay!” he said, cheeks puffed with joy.

You chuckled and nodded, leaning to one side in a hamstring stretch. “Guess I have the best view, huh?”

Jake, still bent over touching his toes, glanced at you through the mirror with a sly smirk. “If you’re lucky, you might see me fall on my face during Growl.”

“You won’t,” you said simply, voice soft but sure.

“Let’s hope,” he muttered back, cheeks tinting pink.

On the other side of the room, Taehyun casually threw an arm over Jungwon’s shoulder. “Look at you, bossing us around like a true leader. So scary.”

Jungwon gave him a withering look, pushing his arm off with an embarrassed smile. “Hyung, I’m literally just trying to make sure no one pulls a muscle.”

“That’s what they all say before they become stage tyrants,” Yeonjun teased from his spot on the floor.

The choreographers moved toward the front, clipboard and iPad in hand as one of them called out, “Alright, eyes up!”

Everyone looked forward.

“So, for this special stage collab, we’re running through the classics. We’ve split each section by groups, but you’ll all dance together during transitions. Here’s the setlist.”

Another choreographer pulled the list up on the screen behind them.

You heard your members behind you murmuring in awe, and Eunchae nudged your side. “Unnie… are we seriously doing 10 Minutes?”

You stifled a laugh. “Good luck with that hair flip.”

“Alright,” the main choreographer spoke again, clapping their hands once to get everyone’s attention. “TXT will start with Candy.”

“ENHYPEN follows with The Way This Guy Lives by SECHSKIES,” another choreographer added, glancing at the boys through the mirror. “Then TXT jumps in for Bad Man.”

The third choreographer, flipping through a clipboard, nodded. “ENHYPEN will cover Come Back To Me next.”

“Le Sserafim, you’re handling 10 Minutes and Tell Me,” the first choreographer said, eyes meeting yours through the mirror. “You’ve got the energy for it.”

“We’ll bring everyone together for Mirotic and BANG BANG BANG,” the second one continued.

“Then split My House and Who’s Your Mama between male and female idols,” the third choreographer added with a quick clap.

“And finally,” the first choreographer finished, “everyone regroups for Growl and FIRE to close the show. Got it?”

Soobin let out a low whistle. “That’s a hell of a setlist.”

“You’re telling me,” Jay muttered.

Heeseung ran a hand down his face like he was mentally preparing to be eighty by the time this rehearsal ended.

Ni-ki, seated on the floor nearby, let out a wheezy laugh at the older’s expression, practically falling backward in amusement.

Across the room, Yunjin groaned dramatically and leaned against Kazuha for support, whining, “Why is this setlist built like a death wish? Who planned this?”

“HYBE,” Kazuha deadpanned.

You sighed, catching the chaos unfold around you as Jake leaned closer from where he was stretching beside you. His voice was low, careful, mindful of the camera panning lazily from idol to idol. “You ready?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Not even close.”

Sunoo, perched crisscross beside Ni-ki with a towel around his neck, raised his hand like he was agreeing with a teacher in class. “Me too,” he said cheerfully. “We’re gonna die beautifully.”

The choreographers clapped their hands twice again, calling for attention. “Okay, places everyone!”

You exhaled slowly, fingers adjusting your crop top, giving it a final tug as you caught Yunjin’s eye through the mirror. She straightened beside you, nodding once. No words were needed—you were both in your element now.

A glint of determination flickered in your gaze as you rolled your shoulders back, eyes zeroing in on your spot. The countdown began.

Oh, you were so ready to kill this stage.

It was the third week of practice, and you were clinging to the last sliver of sanity you had left.

You groaned into your hand, voice muffled as the heavy bass of ‘Who’s Your Mama’ blasted from the speakers. Jake, standing next to you with a wide grin, quickly reached out to grab your water bottle before it could spill from your loosened grip.

“Careful,” he said with a laugh, holding it out of your reach like he didn’t just save your life. “I’d rather not be dancing in sticky strawberry water.”

Beomgyu, who was across from you, absolutely lost it at your expression, clutching his knees as he laughed. “You look like you just saw your GPA after midterms.”

Taehyun was beside him, calmly sipping his iced coffee like he wasn’t also sweating through his shirt. “Honestly though, same.”

“I’m not made for this kind of choreography!” you cried, groaning louder this time as you leaned forward with your hands on your knees. “Who thought this was a good idea?! I feel like a hormonal teenager trying to impress her P.E. crush!”

Yunjin, standing next to Jay, snorted so hard she nearly dropped her mic pack. “You should’ve seen your face during the chorus, oh my god—”

Jake placed a hand on your shoulder, his tone mock-serious. “(Y/N), come back to us. Stay strong. Don’t let your thoughts consume you.”

Heeseung wheezed, half-bent from laughter. “You’re so dramatic for someone who literally looked cool five seconds ago.”

Behind you, Ni-ki and Eunchae fist-bumped like they’d just won a bet. “Told you she’d break by week three,” Ni-ki whispered.

Meanwhile, Sakura, who was standing beside Yeonjun, leaned in and murmured, “At this rate, those two are going to get caught in no time.”

Yeonjun didn’t look away from the mirror, lips twitching. “Jake’s not even hiding it. He’s gone.”

Off to the side, Kazuha and Soobin sat near the wall with their water bottles, the former giggling into her sleeve while Soobin casually stretched. “I give her one more day before she walks out,” Kazuha teased.

“I give Jake one more day before he breaks the no-dating rule,” Soobin added, sipping dramatically.

You flailed slightly as the music started up again, swiping your water bottle back from Jake and muttering, “If I survive this, I’m never letting anyone make me dance to JYP again.”

Jake just grinned, stepping into position as he threw you a wink. “You love it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I love you, not this.”

“That’s fair.”

It was the night of the KBS Entertainment Awards, and to say you were nervous would’ve been the biggest understatement of the year.

You could barely hear your own thoughts over the blaring bass of ‘Come Back to Me’ echoing through the stage monitors. Your group stood off to the side of the massive stage, just behind the heavy curtains—watching as ENHYPEN performed their hearts out under the golden lights.

And there he was.

Jake.

Blonde hair tousled just the right amount, dressed in a crisp white shirt that shimmered under the light, layered beneath a faded denim jacket that framed his shoulders perfectly, as he sang the chorus with that same intensity you fell for years ago.

His movements were sharp, calculated—effortless. But his eyes searched the crowd like he was singing to someone in particular.

And you had a good guess who.

“Hold still,” your stylist murmured beside you, dabbing a final streak of glitter on your cheekbone, brushing over your skin like stardust. “You’re up in five.”

You gave a nervous nod, fingers tightening around the edge of your pink mesh scarf, the soft fabric crinkling in your grip as the countdown began on the stage manager’s fingers.

Behind you, the unmistakable beat of ‘10 Minutes’ began to play.

You breathed in.

And then turned.

The second you pivoted to face the audience, center stage, your nerves evaporated like they were never there.

A smirk tugged at your lips as your eyes met Yunjin’s across the line. She mirrored it instantly. This was your zone. This was your power.

Your pink tube top, paired with a sleek black miniskirt, hugged your figure perfectly. The mesh scarf draped dramatically off your arms, and your pink heels clicked against the glossy stage floor with every step you took. You owned the moment.

The intro rang out, sultry and commanding—and your voice followed, smooth and sure as you sang the opening lines, hips swaying confidently to the beat. Your eyes never left the camera, trained on it with teasing winks and fierce gazes as if daring the nation to look away.

Backstage, just out of the spotlight, Jake watched.

He didn’t blink.

“She’s insane,” he muttered, voice low as he leaned toward Heeseung, eyes transfixed. “Like… unreal.”

Heeseung glanced at him with a knowing smile. “You’ve got it bad.”

Jake didn’t even deny it.

Because there you were, commanding the stage in pink and black like it was your birthright—your confidence radiating through every wink, every strut, every flawless note.

And as you twirled on cue, scarf fluttering like flame behind you, Jake could only exhale, heart caught in his throat.

He was falling in love with you all over again.

Jake’s trance was broken the moment the crowd erupted in cheers, the sound thundering through the venue just as your face flashed across the backstage monitor.

The screen lit up with your wink and smirk from the final beat of 10 Minutes, your figure vanishing into the shadows just as TXT began filing out onto the stage for their turn.

Staff members buzzed past, clapping their clipboards and complimenting you as you jogged toward the back, breath still heavy and skin glittering under the stage lights.

Jake stood just off to the side, waiting near one of the pillars with a massive grin on his face, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim jacket.

You grinned back at him, cheeks warm with adrenaline, and sent him a thumbs-up as your stylist tugged at your arm with a breathless, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s change!”

Jake’s smile lingered until a firm clap landed on his shoulder.

“Let’s move, loverboy,” Jay said, smirking. “You’ll see your girlfriend again in a few minutes. We need to change before the finale.”

Jake rolled his eyes but allowed himself to be dragged, glancing once more over his shoulder in the direction you disappeared. “Yeah, yeah… I’m going.”

The boys ducked into the makeshift changing tents set up behind the curtain, and at the same time, you were already slipping into your next outfit with quick, practiced ease.

Your stylist buttoned the last clasp on your blouse and handed you a mic belt as you stepped into the light, now in a soft pink plaid skirt and matching button-up blouse. A glittery ribbon sparkled at your chest, hair fluffed and curled to perfection again.

You turned to your right and nudged Sakura, who was tugging at her pink tie in front of the mirror with furrowed brows.

“This is giving Produce48, tell me I’m wrong,” you teased with a breathless laugh.

Sakura let out a dramatic sigh, “Don’t remind me,”

Yunjin groaned as she flipped her hair behind her shoulder, still adjusting her in-ear. “I’m getting trauma, actually.”

“Why does it feel like we’re about to do another audition?” Eunchae whispered, pulling her lip balm from her pocket and quickly applying it.

Kazuha giggled from beside you, patting the hem of her skirt. “Because we kinda are—but this time with better lighting and Jake-sunbaenim watching.”

You turned red. “Can we not mention my boyfriend every five minutes?” you grumbled.

“Oh no, we definitely can,” Yunjin smirked, “especially with how he looked like he was gonna pass out during your solo part.”

The girls erupted into soft laughter, the buzz of nerves momentarily replaced by shared joy and chaotic teasing.

Your manager peeked in, “Three minutes, girls.”

Everyone nodded.

The lights shifted, casting soft pink and purple hues across the stage as the intro to ‘Tell Me’ by Wonder Girls began to play. You and the rest of Le Sserafim took center once again, bright smiles plastered on your faces as you mimicked the iconic choreography with your own flair.

The audience screamed as you winked playfully during your solo part, fingers forming a heart before flipping your hair in sync with Yunjin and Sakura.

From the sidelines, TXT and ENHYPEN—already changed into their all-black outfits—cheered wildly, bouncing along to the beat and mimicking the moves half-seriously.

You could hear Beomgyu yell, “Go (Y/N)!” from offstage, making you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing on camera.

Then the beat shifted—‘BANG BANG BANG’ roared through the speakers, the lights cutting harsh and dramatic. ENHYPEN and TXT stormed the stage like they owned it, every move sharp and powerful as they delivered the fierce performance.

You and your members stood at the side, clapping and yelling just like the crowd, some of you even jumping in time with the beat.

You screamed, cupping your hands around your mouth, “Let’s go, Ni-ki!”

Eunchae beside you jumped up and down while cheering, “Yeah, Ni-ki-sunbaenim!”

The moment the final gunshot sound effect rang out and the stage lights dimmed again, a staff member grabbed your arm gently.

“(Y/N), you’re next. Quick change!”

You were pulled toward the styling area, still catching your breath, as stylists worked around you in record time.

Your glittery bow outfit was gone in seconds, swapped for sleek white shorts, a low-cut white blouse with soft bishop sleeves and a delicate silk bow tied in the middle. White boots zipped up your calves while your hair was tugged into a half-updo, a matching white bow clipped securely on top.

“Three minutes,” someone called, just as you were guided back toward the stage entrance.

Jake stood there already waiting, dressed in cream pants and a slightly sheer white button-up with a ribbon detail mirroring yours—subtle, but coordinated. His sleeves were rolled up, veins peeking out, sweat still lingering from their last stage.

He looked at you with a crooked smile. “Look at us. Matching like a couple at prom.”

You snorted softly. “Only one of us gets to wear heels though.”

Jake grinned and leaned in just slightly. “You pull them off better.”

The lights dimmed again, and the opening instrumental of ‘My House’ started to build.

From beside you, Sunoo cupped his hands around his mouth and cheered dramatically, “Let’s do this!”

Ni-ki whistled beside him, while Jungwon and Sunghoon grinned, already in formation a few steps ahead.

You shared a smile with Eunchae as she moved behind Jungwon, her hands fidgeting slightly as she whispered, “You look so cool, unnie…”

You winked at her in return. “Let’s kill this, okay?”

Chaewon, composed and charismatic as always, stood next to Sunoo—her eyes flickering to you briefly. She gave you a short, approving nod like a leader proud of her kid.

You smiled, then turned your focus to center stage.

Jake was already there, hands tucked into the pockets of his cream trousers, head tilted slightly with a sly smile on his face. You took your place beside him, heart beating in rhythm with the intro beat.

The two of you moved in sync, slow sways and confident strides as the choreography began. You didn’t need to overthink it. The sultry tempo carried you both.

Jake’s hand skimmed the air near your waist at one point, but never touched. The tension was part of the performance, and both of you knew how to sell it without giving anything away.

The bridge hit, and the choreography called for a switch—you and Jake trading places smoothly. He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist as he guided you behind him. You caught the glint of his smile under the stage lights as he whispered, “Come here.”

You followed, stepping into place just as the camera panned in for the final pose.

Jake stood behind you, his hand outstretched as you turned, fingertips grazing before striking the last beat with matching smirks—his hand pointed at the imaginary ‘front door’ the lyrics referenced, your head tilted just right with a playful smile.

The crowd screamed louder as the lights cut.

A staff member backstage waved at you to start moving—“Let’s go! Get ready for Growl!”

You grabbed your in-ears, heart still pounding as you rushed with your members to line up with TXT and ENHYPEN once more.

‘Growl’ was a blur of fluid transitions and charged energy—shoulders bumping, eyes catching in mirrors, and a sea of cheers that didn’t seem to quiet down for even a second.

And before you even had time to catch your breath—

“Last change! Who’s Your Mama! Let’s go!” your stylist shouted as she shoved a final hanger into your hands.

Your last outfit: a fitted black long-sleeve crop top that clung like a second skin, glittering subtly under the harsh dressing room lights. Paired with black sequin shorts and heeled boots, it was the most playful and risqué set of the night—and somehow your members were in nearly identical pieces, all tailored to perfection. Unity, but with bite.

Meanwhile, the boys who were performing beside you had also been thrown into their final looks—black blazers, black slacks, silver detailing along their cuffs.

Jake stood out even among them, his sleeves rolled slightly, hair tousled and pushed back in a way that made your stylist mumble, “I’d kill to be twenty again.”

You met eyes with him in the mirror as you applied your gloss. He raised his brows and mouthed, “Ready?”

You nodded once, slowly.

The second the beat of ‘Who’s Your Mama’ hit, the crowd erupted. Screams layered with cheers, fans recognizing that unmistakable bassline and chorus call-out before the first line was even sung.

You strutted onto the stage alongside your members, each of you walking in sync, hips swaying to the rhythm as lights flickered behind you in sultry strobes. Jake took his place beside you, the two of you placed center—too close for idols that were supposedly strangers, too electric not to notice.

You turned, your back facing the audience, and Jake—perfectly timed—stepped up behind you. His hands never touched you, but they hovered. Traced.

Down your arms, around your waist, stopping just shy of contact. Like a shadow or a silhouette.

It was choreography. Just choreography.

But the fans lost their minds.

You could hear a few screams turn feral as your smirk broke through and your eyes caught the camera. You tossed a look over your shoulder, catching Jake’s gaze. He bit back a grin, knowing exactly what he was doing—and what you were both about to get flamed for online.

The moment passed too quickly.

The beat of ‘FIRE’ suddenly blasted from the speakers as the lights cut out—blinding red beams slicing through smoke machines.

Someone shoved a black blazer into your arms mid-transition as staff pulled open the back curtains. You quickly slid it on, leaving the crop top beneath barely buttoned beneath the jacket. Heeseung took center, mic hot, eyes sharp, and voice deep as he delivered the iconic intro—

“It’s burning up.”

He threw his blazer back as fireworks burst across the stage and the floor vibrated beneath your boots.

You were panting—lungs burning, hair clinging to your neck with sweat, the adrenaline still rushing in your veins as you and Jake locked eyes for a brief second.

He grinned wide, chest heaving. You smiled back, still catching your breath, and the moment was fleeting before the wave of chaos returned.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” your stylist called over the music, already tugging at your sleeve to guide you toward the wings. Behind you, managers and stage directors were clapping, voices overlapping in excited praise.

“You all did amazing,” one of the head stylists beamed, handing you a towel. “Get your coats on, we’re heading back to the idol section before they start announcing the next category!”

“(Y/N), drink water, now,” your manager instructed sternly, already unscrewing the bottle cap for you.

Jake appeared beside you, now with his hair pushed back and blazer draped over one shoulder as he ruffled his bangs. “That was insane,” he exhaled, still breathless.

“Dude,” Sunghoon chimed in from behind, clapping Jake’s back. “You looked like you were about to jump into another dimension.”

Jake only laughed in response, shameless. “I was just in character.”

The golden spotlight caught the shimmer of your black gown as the camera briefly panned in your direction—long, flowy and cinched perfectly at the waist, with a slit running high on your thigh that added just the right amount of drama.

Your skin glowed under the soft lights, eyeshadow sparkling with hints of pink and gold, lips glossed to perfection. Your hair cascaded down your back like a curtain of midnight, strands framing your face delicately.

You offered a graceful wave, smile poised and elegant, posture straight as your hand rose in greeting.

Next to you, Chaewon leaned slightly into frame and mirrored your wave, wearing a pale champagne dress that glittered under the lights. “Smile, they’re panning,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

“I am,” you muttered back with a practiced smile still plastered on your face. “But I swear, if they caught me chewing just now…”

She snorted quietly as the camera moved back to the hosts. “They definitely did. Munching on that cheese cube like it was your last meal.”

You turned to her, eyes wide. “It was a good cheese cube, okay?”

“Sure,” she laughed softly, adjusting her shawl as the awards continued. “Oh—wait. Isn’t that the guy from The Moonlight Palace?”

Your eyes snapped to the screen as the male actor took the stage. “Oh my god, yes. I loved him in that. Didn’t he cry in the rain for like fifteen minutes?”

“Yes!” she whispered, clutching your wrist. “That scene made me sob.”

You giggled, still clapping politely as he gave his acceptance speech. “You know I almost auditioned for that drama, right?”

“No way.”

“Yeah, they had us read the scene where the girl chooses her duty over love. But I was in Japan for a show, so I couldn’t follow through.”

Chaewon stared at you in mock offense. “You could’ve been a royal princess?! Wasted potential!”

You shrugged with a smile. “I became a pop princess instead. Not too bad.”

Behind you, you could hear faint murmurs—Heeseung saying something about the last speech being way too long, and Soobin asking if they were going to feed them again before the final segment. Yeonjun made a sarcastic joke that made Sunghoon snort behind his hand.

You reached for your water glass as another award was announced—this time for Best OST. Chaewon whispered, “Ten bucks says it’s from that high school drama with the ghosts.”

You gave her a knowing smirk. “If it’s the one where the ghost falls in love with the student council president, then absolutely.”

The two of you burst into soft giggles when it actually was that drama. TXT applauded loudly behind you as the OST singer climbed the stage.

Just then, the camera panned past your table again for a crowd shot, and this time, you leaned slightly to the side so you could wave and smile—charming but cool, radiating elegance without trying too hard.

The lights dimmed slightly as the hosts returned to center stage, cue cards in hand and smiles wide.

“And now…” one of them said, their voice rising with excitement, “we’re getting into slightly controversial territory.”

You glanced at Chaewon beside you, both of you raising your brows. She leaned in, whispering, “Controversial? Is this the award where people start fighting on Twitter after?”

You stifled a laugh, covering your mouth. “Probably. Why do I feel like we’re about to get dragged into it?”

The hosts continued, chuckling softly to themselves as they exchanged looks. “This next award celebrates chemistry. The kind of chemistry that makes the audience question if it’s really just acting.”

Chaewon blinked at you. “Oh no. It’s the couple award, isn’t it?”

“Please no,” you whispered back, just as the host confirmed it with a grin.

“That’s right! This year’s Best Onscreen Couple goes to…” Dramatic pause. “…(Y/N) of LE SSERAFIM and Park Jisung of NCT Dream, for their run as MCs of Music Bank!”

Your mouth opened slightly in shock. “Wait, what?”

The crowd erupted into cheers, some laughter, and a few surprised gasps.

The second host chuckled, gesturing toward the two of you. “These two have shown incredible chemistry over the past few months—witty banter, effortless teamwork, and an undeniable charm that’s made Music Bank even more fun to watch.”

The first host added with a grin, “They’ve kept fans laughing, swooning, and sometimes questioning if they were really just MCs.”

You stared at the stage, mouth slightly open in disbelief as your members howled around you.

You blinked, slowly rising from your seat, trying not to trip in your heels as the camera panned back to your table.

You gave a polite smile, bowing slightly as you made your way toward the stage, heart hammering as you could feel the eyes of not just the room—but millions—watching.

At the top of the stairs, Jisung was already there, holding out his hand with a nervous smile. You hesitated for a split second—not because of him, but because you could feel every camera zooming in on that exact moment. But manners were manners.

So, you took his hand.

He helped you onto the stage, and together you walked toward the podium amidst thundering applause, lights blinding and the occasional shout of your ship name piercing through the crowd.

Meanwhile, at the table, things weren’t quite as calm.

Sunghoon side-eyed Jake, whose expression was… too composed. Too quiet. He sat straight, arms crossed over his lap, lips pressed into a line as he stared dead ahead at the stage.

“Dude…” Sunghoon muttered. “You okay?”

Jake didn’t answer. His jaw was tight.

Sunoo sighed, reaching for his water. “Not this again.”

Heeseung, from the other end of the table, leaned in and nudged Jake with his elbow. “You’ve got every right to be jealous, man.”

“I’m not jealous,” Jake said, eyes never leaving the screen. “I just think it's funny how I’ve been dating her for two years and now some random award’s pairing her up with someone else.”

Ni-ki winced at the sharpness in his voice, slowly leaning back into his chair. “Hyung… you’re not really fooling anyone.”

Soobin, who had been silently sipping water beside them, nodded in agreement. “It’s literally written all over your face.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a second. Just exhaled slowly, shoulders falling as he kept his gaze on the massive LED screen above the stage—your face glowing under the lights, a soft, practiced smile on your lips as the camera zoomed in.

Next to you, Jisung stepped up to the mic, waving a little before speaking. “Wow, uh… honestly, we didn’t expect this at all. Being Music Bank MCs with (Y/N) has been really fun—she’s smart, quick, and always looks out for me behind the scenes. So… thank you for this. We’ll keep working hard!”

You adjusted the mic and bowed lightly before speaking, your tone warm and graceful. “Thank you so much. Being an MC has been a challenge, but doing it with Jisung made it easier. I’m really grateful to the Music Bank team for trusting us and to all the fans who tuned in each week. This is unexpected but really special, so thank you again.”

The crowd roared with applause, a few whistles mixed in as you both stepped down from the stage.

Jake let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as you reappeared on screen returning to your table, trophy in hand, members already teasing you playfully as you laughed it off.

“She looked happy,” Soobin said gently, glancing over.

“She did,” Jake agreed softly. “She always does when she’s working.”

Ni-ki leaned forward, glancing at him curiously. “You okay?”

Jake let out a short, bitter laugh—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” he said, voice too light, too tight.

But his gaze lingered.

Because just then, you looked back. Only for a second—but long enough.

Long enough to find him in the crowd, sitting there behind your table, behind all the glittering lights and all the faces you’d grown used to scanning.

Your eyes met his, and the easy smile on your lips faltered—just slightly.

And Jake, despite the churning heat in his chest, forced one back. A soft, reassuring curve of his lips. Nothing too loud, nothing too heavy. Just enough to reassure you.

You blinked slowly, then turned back to Chaewon beside you, placing the trophy on the table as you leaned in to say something, smiling again.

Jake exhaled, leaned back in his seat, and ran a hand through his hair.

“Totally fine,” he mumbled under his breath.

The elevator doors closed with a soft ding, the golden glow of the hotel’s mood lighting reflecting off the mirrored walls as a quiet hum of motion filled the space.

You let out a deep breath, leaning tiredly against Jake’s chest. His arm was draped around you, firm but distant.

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him, but his gaze was fixed ahead. Silent. Tense.

The exhaustion of the night pressed heavier against your shoulders. The performances. The awards. The camera flashes. The endless smiles.

And now, this.

“…I didn’t think we’d win that award,” you said quietly, trying to fill the silence, eyes on the glowing numbers climbing slowly with each floor.

Jake didn’t answer. Not at first. He just hummed. Low. Dismissive.

You sighed, pushing off his chest just slightly, putting a bit of distance between your bodies. “Jake, don’t do that.”

His jaw ticked.

And then, finally, he spoke—voice quiet but tight, laced with the kind of restraint that told you he’d been thinking about it all night.

“I’m not jealous,” he muttered, eyes still glued to the changing floor number.

“…But I am mad.”

You blinked, the words hitting harder than they should’ve.

He continued before you could respond.

“I know it’s just a show award. I know it doesn’t mean anything. But watching you hold someone else’s hand and smile like that—knowing it had to be him, knowing you had to act like that while I sat there pretending it didn’t bother me?” His voice cracked slightly at the end before he swallowed it down. “It sucked.”

You stayed silent, watching his reflection in the mirrored wall. The way his brows were slightly furrowed. The way his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked… tired.

Hurt.

“I didn’t want it,” you said softly. “The award, I mean. Not like that. I was just as surprised.”

Jake glanced at you finally. Eyes unreadable. “You still took his hand.”

“I had to. It’s… it’s just media etiquette, Jake.”

“And I get that,” he said. “I do. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t sting.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because what could you say? He was right.

“…I looked for you,” you said after a pause. “When I got up there. I looked back, hoping you’d see I wasn’t comfortable. That it wasn’t real.”

Jake sighed, leaning back against the elevator wall as the numbers neared your floor.

“I saw,” he admitted. “That’s the only reason I didn’t walk out.”

You stepped toward him then, fingers curling around the edge of his jacket.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “But it’s just you. It’s always been just you.”

Jake stilled.

For a second, it was like the world paused with him—air tight, chest frozen, eyes locked on you like you’d just set something in motion he couldn’t take back. Then, slowly, his gaze flickered down to your lips. Once. Twice. And that was all it took.

He surged forward.

Your gasp was swallowed by the way his mouth crashed into yours, one hand finding your waist while the other curled behind your head, fingers sliding into your hair as if he’d been dying to touch you like this.

You clutched the front of his button-up shirt—creased and still faintly warm from stage lights—fingers curling in desperation, steadying yourself against him as your knees weakened at the sheer intensity.

His mouth moved against yours like a man starved.

Then his tongue brushed the seam of your lips, slow, deliberate, asking.

You opened for him—just a little, just enough.

And he groaned, low and quiet in the back of his throat, like the taste of you was everything he’d been trying so hard to forget.

The kiss deepened, rougher now, full of everything unspoken—every secret glance, every rehearsed smile, every time your pinkies brushed under a table during a shared schedule.

His hand splayed over your hip, tugging you closer until there was no space left between you, and all you could do was melt.

You moaned softly into his mouth, and Jake pulled back just an inch, forehead resting against yours as his chest heaved.

“You can’t say things like that and expect me to stay sane,” he whispered, voice wrecked, lips still brushing yours.

“I don’t want you to stay sane,” you whispered back. “I want you.”

The elevator dinged.

Jake didn’t even glance up. He grabbed your waist, careful of the slit in your black gown and the long trail behind you, and muttered a quick “Come on,” before tugging you out into the hallway like a man possessed. His hand never left your body, guiding you through the corridor with tunnel vision, jaw clenched, breaths uneven.

You barely had time to look around before he fished his key card from the inner pocket of his blazer, cursing softly when it caught on the lining.

“Manager-hyung really pulled through,” he mumbled—half in disbelief, half in gratitude—as the light on the suite door blinked green.

Then the door clicked open.

And before you could take a step inside, Jake had you.

He kicked the door shut behind you and immediately pressed you against it, his lips finding yours again with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs.

Your back hit the wood with a soft thud, your fingers already reaching for the buttons of his shirt, heart racing in your chest as his blazer slid off and hit the floor.

“You’re driving me insane,” he muttered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw, down to your neck, where he nipped just below your ear. “You looked like sin walking across that red carpet tonight. Like you knew I wouldn’t be able to hold back.”

“I didn’t,” you breathed, fingers finally popping open the third button as your other hand tangled in his hair. “But I was hoping.”

Jake groaned, the sound had been ripped straight from his chest. His hands were everywhere now: gripping your hips, sliding along the exposed skin of your thigh, curling around your waist like he didn’t know where to touch first.

The kiss turned messier, hotter, as your bodies molded together between silk and heat and tension that had been building for far too long.

“Say it again,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek as his breath fanned over your skin.

You looked up at him, eyes half-lidded, fingers still working at his shirt until it hung open, skin warm and golden beneath the soft hotel lights.

“I want you, Jake,” you said. “I want all of you.”

He kissed you then—hard, deep, possessive—as if the words had undone whatever restraint he had left.

And this time, when he pulled away, his eyes were darker, voice rasped and low as he whispered: “Then let me give you everything.”

His lips were on you before you could reply—pressing soft, heated kisses to your neck, collarbone, and the curve of your shoulder as you stumbled toward the bed together, wrapped in half-buttoned silk and quiet gasps.

You barely made it to the edge before Jake’s hands found your hips, pushing you down with a low, breathless laugh against your skin.

“God, you’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured, brushing a thumb along the side of your jaw as he hovered over you—shirt hanging open, lip gloss smudged across his throat from your earlier kisses.

Your back hit the mattress, and Jake followed, kissing down your body with a growing urgency—hot, slow, intentional—as if he needed to memorize every inch. His hands moved with him, one slipping down your side, the other reaching for the zipper hidden at your waist.

You felt the soft zip of your gown coming undone, your breath catching as the cool air met your flushed skin.

“Lift up for me,” Jake whispered, tapping your hip gently.

He slid the gown off your body in one careful motion, letting it fall with a soft shhhk onto the floor—and then he froze.

His breath hitched, lips parted as his gaze slowly dragged down your body. Black lace hugged your curves perfectly, delicate and soft and dangerous in the way it made his jaw tighten.

You looked up at him with wide, watery eyes—still glassy from the kiss, from the moment, from him.

“You wore this for me?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, biting your bottom lip. “Who else would I wear it for?”

Jake exhaled sharply, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face as he leaned in, kissing you again—slower this time, deeper.

His thumb brushed over your cheek, and when he pulled back, his gaze dropped once more to the black lace stretched across your chest.

“You’re so beautiful it hurts,” he whispered. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

And when he dipped his head, lips brushing the top edge of your bra, you arched into his touch—whimpering softly as his hands slid behind your back, steady and warm.

“Let me take my time with you tonight,” Jake murmured, voice trembling from how hard he was holding himself back. “Let me show you what it feels like to be wanted.”

His lips returned to your skin—featherlight at first, pressing tender kisses across your chest, each one lower than the last, more deliberate. You gasped softly as he reached the curve of your breast, his breath warm and shaky as he paused, just holding you.

You could feel the restraint in him—how badly he wanted to lose control, and how hard he was trying not to.

His fingers found the thin straps of your lace bra, slipping them down slowly—reverently—like he was unwrapping something precious. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, searching, almost asking for permission one more time.

When you gave the slightest nod, Jake exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

“God, you’re…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence, his voice dissolving into a broken sound of awe as he leaned in and pressed his lips over your heart—right there, in the center of your chest.

You whimpered, your hands tangling into his hair as he moved lower, kissing a trail along your skin, slower now, mouth opening against the softness of your body with a kind of devotion that made you dizzy.

His hands were everywhere—one steadying your waist, the other brushing down your side, mapping the shape of you like he was memorizing what it meant to finally have you like this.

His lips moved carefully, hungrily, lingering against every inch he exposed as the lace fell away.

“You drive me crazy,” Jake whispered, voice hoarse. “I think about you all the time. On stage. In the studio. Late at night when I can’t sleep. You don’t even know.”

He kissed lower, his mouth dragging a path down your stomach, every brush of his lips worshipful. Like he was savoring the moment, like he’d waited too long for this.

When he reached the waistband of your lace panties, he paused—just long enough to meet your eyes.

Then, in one swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the sides and pulled them down your thighs, not bothering to slow or look away. His gaze never left yours, not even when you whimpered from the sudden exposure. Jake’s breath hitched.

“Fuck, baby…” he murmured, voice reverent, “you’re so beautiful like this.”

He spread your thighs apart with ease, fingers curling over your knees before he lowered his mouth and dove in—with no hesitation, no teasing, just raw, desperate hunger.

The first swipe of his tongue made your back arch. He groaned like he’d just tasted heaven, his hands locking onto your thighs to hold you still as he ate you out like a man starved.

Long, deep strokes of his tongue mixed with slow circles around your clit, letting your needy whines guide his rhythm.

You reached for his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he moaned against you, the vibration making your legs shake.

“You taste so good,” Jake murmured in between kisses. “Been dying to do this. Thinking about it every night.”

He flattened his tongue against you, dragging it in slow, deliberate laps while he pressed two fingers inside, curling them perfectly. You cried out—loud—but Jake only smirked, eyes glinting up at you with something feral.

“Shh, baby,” he said, lips slick with you. “You gotta be quiet, yeah? You want the whole floor to hear how good I’m making you feel?”

You bit your lip, trying to stay silent, but when he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked hard, all control vanished.

“Jake—!” you gasped, hips stuttering, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

He groaned again, tongue relentless, fingers working you perfectly until you were writhing under him, your orgasm creeping up hard and fast.

“I got you,” he whispered, mouth hot against your skin. “Come for me. Let me taste all of it.”

And with one more flick—one more curl of his fingers—you broke.

Your body tensed, then shattered, waves of pleasure crashing through you as Jake held you through every second of it, mouth still working you gently, savoring every drop of your high like it was the only thing that mattered.

Only when your body went limp, breath ragged and thighs still shaking, did he finally pull away—lips swollen, chin wet, eyes dark with want.

He climbed back up your body, kissed your lips slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“I’m not done,” he whispered against your mouth. “Not even close.”

You whimpered, the taste of yourself still lingering on his lips, and it only made the ache between your legs return sharper, deeper. He groaned softly as you kissed him harder, greedy—your hands already working at the buckle of his belt with trembling urgency.

The clink of metal echoed in the room, followed by the soft rustle of hiis pants hitting the floor. Jake’s white shirt, already half-unbuttoned from earlier, slid down his arms, revealing his flushed chest, the lean cut of his torso, and the soft, defined outline of abs that flexed with every breath.

He leaned back against the headboard, legs spread slightly, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips when he saw the way your eyes dropped to his boxers—the thick outline straining against the fabric, begging for your attention.

“You want to take care of me, baby?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

You nodded quickly, crawling over to him as heat burned down your spine. “Let me… please. I want to taste you.”

His jaw clenched at your eagerness. “Then be a good girl and come get it.”

You leaned in, lips trailing kisses down his chest—slow, open-mouthed—feeling the way his muscles jumped beneath your touch. He hissed softly when your tongue dipped just under the waistband of his boxers, fingers curling into the sheets.

Your hand cupped him through the fabric, palming him gently, and Jake cursed under his breath. He was already so hard for you, twitching against your touch. You looked up at him, waiting—wordlessly asking for permission.

He gave a breathless nod, pupils blown wide. “Go ahead. It’s all yours.”

You peeled his boxers down slowly, and his cock sprang free—flushed, thick, tip already leaking for you. The sight alone made your mouth water.

You wrapped your hand around the base and gave a tentative stroke, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to the head, your tongue flicking out to taste the bead of precum. Jake groaned, hips twitching.

“Fuck, baby—just like that,” he rasped, voice shaky. “You’re so perfect.”

You took him into your mouth, slow and deliberate, letting your tongue swirl around him as you sucked gently, working your way down inch by inch.

He was big—too big to take all at once—but you didn’t rush. Your hands kept a steady rhythm where your mouth couldn’t reach, spit slicking him up as you bobbed your head and moaned around him.

Jake let out a strangled noise, head falling back against the headboard. One hand threaded into your hair, guiding you with soft but firm pressure.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he groaned. “Pretty little mouth stretched around my cock. Shit—keep going, baby, you’re doing so well.”

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, faster, loving the way his thighs tensed beneath your hands, the way his abs flexed every time you moaned. His voice was breathless, cracking around curses and praise.

“Gonna lose it if you keep this up,” he warned, biting his lip as he watched you. “Wanna come inside you instead, baby. Want to feel you. Let me—fuck, let me fuck you.”

You pulled off with a pop, lips swollen, eyes hazy with lust.

“Then take me,” you whispered, climbing onto his lap. “I’m yours.”

Jake’s hands were on your hips in an instant, gripping tight, like he was grounding himself—like if he didn’t hold onto you, he’d lose control completely. His cock throbbed against your inner thigh as you straddled him, your core slick and aching, already throbbing to be filled.

“You’re so wet already,” he groaned, running the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it over your clit just to hear your breath hitch. “All this for me?”

You nodded desperately, nails digging into his shoulders. “Jake, please…”

That was all he needed.

He lined himself up and pushed in—slow at first, but you were so ready for him, he slid in with ease, stretching you perfectly. Both of you moaned in unison, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the dim room as he bottomed out, deep and thick inside you.

“Fuck,” Jake rasped, head falling back. “You feel like heaven. So tight around me. Shit, baby…”

You began to move, rolling your hips against his, setting a rhythm that made both of you dizzy.

Jake’s hands guided your pace—one wrapped firmly around your waist, the other slipping up to your chest, palming your breast as you rode him like you were meant to be there, like this was the only place you belonged.

“Look at you,” he panted, voice low and wrecked. “Bouncing on my cock like that… you’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his as you moved faster, whimpering with every drag and push. The way he filled you—how deep he was, how good he felt—was too much.

The way he kissed you between moans, how his teeth dragged against your bottom lip, how he whispered your name like a prayer.

“Jake,” you gasped, “I’m close—please—”

“Come for me,” he growled, slamming his hips up to meet yours, driving even deeper. “I want to feel you fall apart on me, baby. Right here, on my cock.”

But he wasn’t done.

Still hard inside you, he flipped you over in one smooth motion—pressing you down into the mattress, your legs wrapping around his waist. His pace was rougher now, more desperate. He pounded into you like he couldn’t get deep enough, like he needed to mark you from the inside out.

“Fuck, baby—gonna fill you up,” he gasped, his thrusts erratic now. “Wanna come inside you—wanna make a mess of you.”

You nodded, dazed and breathless. “Do it, Jake. Please. I want it.”

And with one last groan—low, guttural, broken—he buried himself deep and spilled inside you, warmth flooding your core as he held you tight, trembling with the force of it.

Your back arched at the sensation, a whimper spilling from your lips as his cum filled you, hot and thick, the sheer volume of it making you shudder.

“Jake—ah, f-fuck,” you gasped, overwhelmed by the heat, the pressure, the stretch of him still buried inside.

But instead of pulling out, Jake only growled low in his throat and shifted—grabbing your thighs and folding you in half with a firm, possessive grip.

He pressed your knees to your chest, his hips grinding deeper, impossibly so, until you were pinned beneath him, utterly open and helpless.

“Mmm—Jake, I can feel it… it’s too much—” you whimpered, hands clutching at his forearms as he began to move again, slow but deliberate, fucking his cum deeper into you.

“That’s the point,” he hissed, sweat dripping down his temple as he hovered above you. “Gotta make sure it stays, baby. Gotta fuck it in real deep.”

His tone was different now—filthier, rougher, all control gone. His hips snapped forward in short, hard thrusts, balls slapping against you with every stroke as your slick mixed with his release, messy and obscene.

You moaned louder, unable to hold back as your body trembled from overstimulation.

“You’re still so fucking tight,” Jake groaned, breath ragged, “clenching around me like you don’t wanna let me go. You want more, huh? Want me to fill you up again?”

You cried out at the thought, overstimulated and aching, but the way he kept pounding into you—deep, unrelenting—had your body responding without thought.

“Y-Yes,” you sobbed. “Want it. Want all of it.”

He kissed your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, everything he could reach while pressing down harder—completely folding you in a mating press, his cock hitting every sensitive spot inside you over and over again. He was so deep you could barely breathe, could barely think.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice cracking from how feral he sounded. “Say it. Say you’re mine while I’m fucking my cum into you.”

“I’m yours—fuck, Jake—I’m yours,” you cried, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as another orgasm coiled tight in your belly.

“That’s it,” he groaned, losing himself in you all over again. “Gonna give you more. Gonna stuff you full until it’s dripping out of you—until you can’t take anymore.”

His hand found your clit, rubbing harsh, tight circles that pushed you right over the edge. You came again—harder this time, body shaking under him as he kept thrusting, chasing his second high, lost in the feel of your pulsing walls gripping him tight.

And then he cursed sharply—a broken, breathless sound—before slamming deep one last time, holding you down as he spilled into you again.

The sensation made you cry out, so full, too full, warm and wet and overflowing.

You were barely catching your breath when Jake slowly pulled out, his cum dripping from your swollen folds, messy and obscene. Your body trembled, overstimulated and dazed. But Jake wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Fuck—look at that,” he groaned, watching it spill out of you with hunger still burning in his eyes. “It’s leaking out already… guess I’ll just have to fuck it back in.”

You whined helplessly as he gripped your hips, dragging you down the bed until your legs dangled over the edge.

Then—before you could even plead or prepare—he flipped you onto your stomach, ass in the air, spine arching as he pulled your hips up and apart.

“Jake—wait—” you gasped, voice weak, face pressed against the sheets.

“No,” he growled. “I want to see you fall apart again.”

He slammed back in with one brutal thrust.

You screamed.

Your hands clawed at the sheets as he buried himself to the hilt from behind, hitting deeper than before, the new angle merciless.

His grip on your waist was bruising, relentless, as he fucked into you hard, fast, obscene. Skin slapping, wetness gushing—the sound of it echoed shamelessly in the room.

“Shit,” Jake cursed under his breath, watching the way your slick coated him. “You’re so fucking wet, baby. So messy. You feel that?”

You whimpered out a shaky yes, barely able to think.

He leaned down, chest pressed to your back, voice like a growl in your ear. “Bet you’re gonna squirt for me, huh? You’re close, aren’t you? So fucking sensitive after I filled you up twice.”

He reached around, fingers finding your clit as he pounded into you from behind, hard and sharp. The stimulation had your legs shaking, body jerking beneath him, cries turning incoherent as pressure built fast—too fast.

“Jake—Jake, I’m gonna—”

“That’s right,” he rasped, thrusts brutal and deep. “Fucking let go. I want to see it. Want to make this pretty little pussy squirt all over me.”

And then he angled his hips just right—his cock hitting that perfect spot deep inside—and his fingers never stopped circling your clit. You screamed his name as your body seized up and—you broke.

A gush of wetness sprayed from you, soaking the sheets, your thighs, Jake’s stomach. You screamed again, face buried in the mattress, thighs trembling violently as Jake fucked you through it, moaning in awe at the mess you made.

“Goddamn—look at you,” he groaned, breathless, watching the way you squirted for him. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re fucking perfect.”

He slowed down only slightly, thrusts still deep and deliberate as your walls fluttered and pulsed around him.

You were shaking under him—overstimulated, wrecked, dripping.

And Jake kissed down your spine, gently this time, whispering praises as he finally pulled out, cum and slick spilling down your thighs, a mess neither of you cared to clean up just yet.

“Can’t believe you just did that,” he murmured against your skin, wrapping an arm around your waist as he pulled you back into his lap. “You made such a mess for me, baby. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

You lay against his chest, still trembling, face flushed and skin sticky with sweat and slick. But it was the feeling of his cock—still half-hard, slick between your folds—pressing right against your clit that made you let out a soft, broken whimper.

Jake groaned low in his throat, his hips twitching up instinctively at the sound. “Shit… baby, don’t make that noise. You’re gonna make me hard again.”

You rubbed against him, just slightly, your sensitive core gliding over his length. It was too much, too soon—the overstimulation making your body jolt with every twitch, but the friction was too addictive to stop.

“Jakey…” you whimpered again, your voice thin, tears still clinging to your lashes. “It’s too much…”

“I know,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple, hand rubbing slow circles on your back. “I know, baby. I’ve got you. You did so well for me. Let me take care of you now, yeah?”

Slowly, gently, he helped you lift off him, your legs wobbling as you winced at the feeling of him sliding out, the mixture of both your releases dripping down your thighs.

“Easy,” Jake murmured, catching you before you could slump forward. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you.”

He picked you up effortlessly and carried you to the bathroom, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder as he sat you down on the edge of the tub.

He ran warm water with one hand, the other never leaving your body. He was so gentle—so careful—like you were something fragile and precious.

Once the tub was filled, he eased you into it, sliding in behind you so your back rested against his chest. His hands moved over you slowly, washing you with the softest touch—rinsing between your legs, wiping away the mess he made, murmuring apologies and praises all at once.

“You were so good for me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “So fucking beautiful. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

You leaned back against him with a soft sigh, letting the warmth and his touch lull you into comfort.

“I love you,” you whispered, fingers curling around his.

He blinked, stunned for a beat—then smiled, bright and warm, the kind of smile that reached his eyes.

“I love you more,” he whispered, kissing you again. “And after this bath, I’m tucking you into bed, making sure you drink water, and cuddling you until you fall asleep.”

You let out a soft laugh, nose scrunching as you leaned into his kiss. “Sounds perfect.”

“Only the best for my baby,” he said, grinning. “Now c’mon, let me wash your hair.”

The soft warmth of sunlight peeked through the half-closed curtains, streaks of gold dancing lazily across the room. You winced a little, blinking against the light as you stirred under the tangled sheets.

Everything ached—your thighs, your hips, your back—but it was the good kind of ache. The kind that left a smile tugging at your lips the moment the memories of last night came rushing back.

You moved gently, and the first thing you saw was a mess of tousled blonde hair on the pillow beside you—Jake, face half-buried against your shoulder, one arm draped lazily around your waist. His breathing was slow, peaceful, lips slightly parted and lashes fanned out against his cheeks.

Your heart swelled.

He looked so soft like this. So warm. So real.

You reached for your phone on the nightstand, careful not to wake him. But the motion must’ve stirred him anyway, because his brows knit slightly, voice thick and raspy from sleep.

“Baby,” he mumbled, eyes barely cracking open. “Why are you awake? It’s so early…”

You smiled, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Go back to sleep,” you whispered, brushing his messy hair back. “I just wanted to take something real quick.”

Jake groaned sleepily, but he didn’t let go of you. Instead, he shifted closer, nuzzling into your skin, his arm tightening protectively around your waist. “Mmm… 'kay. Just come back.”

Your eyes softened as you glanced down at your intertwined hands—his much bigger one wrapped loosely around yours, both of your fingers still wearing the simple silver promise rings you exchanged months ago. They gleamed faintly in the morning light, sitting snugly on your fourth fingers.

Smiling, you lifted your phone with your free hand and gently positioned it just above the bed. You lined up the frame—your hand next to his, rings in perfect focus, the sleepy blur of blonde hair and sunlit sheets behind them.

You stared at the photo for a moment after capturing it—heart warm, cheeks full of love—and you typed slowly, carefully, on your account on Weverse, the same one Jake secretly followed even though he’d never admit it

Jake shifted behind you, eyes still closed. “You better not be posting my bedhead,” he muttered sleepily, his voice muffled against your skin.

You laughed softly, turning to kiss him again. “Too late. But don’t worry, you look like the love of my life.”

Jake cracked one eye open, lips twitching into the laziest, fondest smirk. “Management’s gonna kill you,” he mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

You shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Well, everything else that happened?” You leaned in close, your nose brushing his, your voice a playful whisper against his lips. “That’s off the record.”

Jake chuckled, pulling you back into his chest with a quiet, satisfied groan. “Damn right it is.”

You nuzzled into him, your ring glinting in the sunlight, his arm wrapped tight around your waist like he’d never let go. The sheets still smelled like heat and sweat and the lingering sweetness of the night before, but the room was calm now—quiet and golden.

A moment frozen in time. Yours and his. Just the two of you.

⤷ read part 1 here !

⤷ piece taglist — @m1kkso ⤷ permanent tagllist —

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[fancypeacepersona]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ off the record ( sjy ! ) — part 1

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — jake x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 ⤷ word count — 18.3k ⤷ based on this request by an anon ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — hi loves ! i’m so sorry for disappearing for a whole week, i was super sick and needed the rest, but i’m finally back and bringing you a jake fic to (hopefully) make up for it. i hope you enjoy this one, and yes there will be a part two 🤍

⤷ warnings — mild!smut (minors dni), fingering, thigh-grabbing, praise kink, lots of kissing, idol au, secret relationship, established relationship trope, idol!jake, idol!reader, possessive!jake, clingy!jake, overprotective!jake, a little toxic communication, hurt/comfort, couple fights (mild), skinship, fluff, angst

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — as idols under the same label, dating was never in the plans. but somehow, you and jake made it work—quiet glances behind cameras, shared vans after stage lights dim, promises whispered like secrets, and a love soft enough to survive even the harshest arguments. you’ve been his for two years. jake, yours even longer. and maybe he’s patient, maybe he’s understanding—but jealousy doesn’t care about contracts. not when you’re on screen with someone else. not when he can’t even hold your hand in public. or, where jake sim loves you in the dark but dreams of the day he won’t have to.

The dressing room smelled like setting spray and strawberry hair mist, the air thick with the sounds of curling irons hissing, bracelets clinking, and music softly playing from someone’s phone in the background.

You sat in front of the vanity, elbows resting on the edge of the table, posture straight but nerves bubbling quietly under your skin.

Your bangs were clipped to the sides, little butterfly pins holding them back as your makeup artist leaned in, adding the final touch to your eye look—a fine dusting of silvery glitter that made your eyes shimmer every time you blinked.

“Close for me, love,” the makeup artist murmured gently, her voice warm as she brushed the glitter across your lid. You did as told, letting her work as your hairstylist continued curling the last few strands of your hair behind you, humming along to the instrumental playing in the background.

Your phone buzzed faintly in your lap, and you glanced down at it, thumbing through the short monologue you were supposed to say before the group’s special stage started.

“We’re so honored to welcome you back to Music Bank…” you mouthed quietly, blinking at the words, barely noticing the way your white dress fluttered every time you moved—a doll-like piece with puffed sleeves, cinched waist, and a subtle shimmer that caught the light.

It looked like something from a fairytale. It felt like something out of a dream.

Chaewon appeared in the mirror’s reflection behind you, arms crossed with a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Our (Y/N) is so pretty,” she said proudly, voice filled with genuine affection.

You turned your head slightly, blinking in surprise. “What? Unnie, no—don’t start—”

“I’m serious!” she cut you off, stepping closer to pat your shoulder. “You look like a human perfume ad.”

From the couch, Eunchae gasped through a mouthful of sushi, turning to Yunjin beside her. “Visual unnie behavior,” she declared dramatically. “She’s not even trying!”

Yunjin snorted. “I’ve been saying it! Give her a crown already.”

You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks as the makeup artist chuckled, grabbing a tube of gloss.

“I agree with them,” she said, holding your chin gently. “Now don’t talk for a second, pretty girl.”

She applied the gloss with delicate precision, layering it over your lips until they looked like they were dipped in honey. The soft, glossy sheen caught the light perfectly.

“There,” she said, stepping back with a satisfied smile. “Stage-ready and stunning.”

You smiled shyly, eyes flicking between your reflection and your members behind you, who were all now staring at you like proud older sisters.

“I haven’t even said my lines yet,” you mumbled.

“You don’t need to,” Yunjin grinned. “They’re already gonna fall for you the second the camera pans.”

“I second that,” Eunchae chimed, holding up her chopsticks like a mic. “On god.”

Just then, Sakura stepped into frame beside Chaewon, eyes widening as she looked at you through the mirror.

“Wah,” she gasped, clasping her hands together like she was seeing a fairy come to life. “Our (Y/N) is glowing!”

The door creaked open again—and in walked Kazuha, still pulling off her practice hoodie, a water bottle in hand. Her eyes flicked across the room and landed on you, then widened with a teasing smirk as she pointed your way.

“Oh wow,” she said, dramatically fanning herself. “This is so far from your usual bed hair and oversized hoodie combo at the dorms.”

“Leave me alone,” you laughed, leaning forward on the vanity as the hairstylist curled another piece of hair. “I’m delicate today.”

“I’m just saying,” Kazuha chuckled as she sat on the armrest beside Yunjin. “This right here is idol (Y/N). Dorm (Y/N) wears mismatched socks and drinks banana milk at 2 a.m.”

“Cut the cameras,” you said immediately, turning to the filming staff quietly documenting everything behind you. You pointed at the camcorder and pleaded, “Cut this part out, please. I have a reputation to uphold.”

The PD behind the camera just laughed, offering a thumbs-up but clearly still recording.

You gave them a sheepish look as you turned back to the mirror, just in time for your hairstylist to unclip the last butterfly pin from your bangs.

She gently combed them into place, letting the strands fall to frame your face perfectly—soft and effortless, the kind of look that took three people and an hour to make look ‘natural.’

“There,” she smiled, stepping back and admiring her work. “Gorgeous.”

The makeup artist returned for one last touch, gently brushing the final sweep of highlighter across the high point of your cheekbone. “Okay, (Y/N),” she said with a wink. “You’re good to go.”

You gave them both a grateful nod, voice soft. “Thank you, unnie.”

They smiled and moved on to the next member as the glam team cleared out around you, leaving you alone at the vanity.

The lights lining the mirror still glowed warmly, casting a soft halo around your figure. Your fingers found your script again, thumbing the screen as you read through the line for what felt like the hundredth time.

You exhaled, finger hovering over the power button to finally shut it off.

But before you could press it—Buzz.

A new notification blinked at the top of your screen.

jakey jakey 🐶🤎 [2:05 P.M.]: done getting ready yet, baby? they’re calling us to line up soon for the next round

Your heart stuttered.

The corner of your lips lifted automatically, even as you glanced around to make sure no one was looking over your shoulder. You dimmed your screen brightness a little, thumbs quickly moving over the keyboard.

you [2:05 P.M.]: yeah… just finished 😵‍💫 how’d u know?

The reply came almost immediately, like he’d been waiting for it.

jakey jakey 🐶🤎 [2:06 P.M.]: i just know, that’s how good of a boyfriend i am 😌

You bit down on your smile, feeling it creep up faster than you could stop it.

Even now—after months of hidden calls, late-night snack runs, and quietly stolen glances across music show hallways—it still didn’t feel real. That he was real.

That Jake—Sim Jaeyun, your Jaeyun—was texting you like this. Calling you baby. Checking in like you were the only person that mattered in the world.

How you’d managed to pull one of the top rising boy group members in the industry was still beyond you.

It made no sense.

You weren’t the ‘it girl.’ Or at least, you never felt like one.

People had started calling you that lately—“the next It Girl,” some even comparing you to IVE’s Wonyoung in fan posts and industry articles.

And every time you saw it, your face would flush red as you waved it off, denying it before the words could even sink in.

You were just… you.

Just someone who happened to get picked. Who stumbled through monthly evaluations and somehow got slotted into the final debut lineup, something you still chalked up to pure luck.

Your thoughts were swirling, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your skirt when your phone buzzed again—snapping you back to the present.

jakey jakey 🐶🤎 [2:07 P.M.]: come see me for a bit?

You stared at the screen, your thumb hesitating just above the keyboard.

You had to line up soon. Cameras were already rolling. Stylists were scrambling for last-minute touch-ups. You shouldn’t.

You were just about to type out a soft “maybe after filming” when another message popped up.

jakey jakey 🐶🤎 [2:07 P.M.]: just a few minutes pls 😭 promise i won’t get you in trouble

God, he could be so cute when he wanted to be.

Impossible to say no to.

Infuriatingly charming.

You chewed on your bottom lip before quickly typing back.

you [2:07 P.M.]: fine… where?

jakey jakey 🐶🤎 [2:07 P.M.]: 2nd floor, hallway near the stairs. no one ever comes there

You shut off your screen with a sigh, heart already starting to race as you glanced around the room. Sakura and Chaewon were distracted talking to the coordi-noonas about the next filming sequence, and Eunchae had her head tilted back on the couch, humming along to the music playing softly overhead.

Perfect.

You slipped your phone into your dress pocket and stood, smoothing your skirt and turning to your manager.

“Unnie, I’ll just use the bathroom real quick,” you said casually, flashing a quick smile.

She barely glanced up from her clipboard. “Make it fast, okay?”

“Yup!” You slipped out the door before anyone else could say anything, the soft clack of your heels echoing against the studio hallway floor as the door clicked shut behind you.

Your steps quickened slightly the closer you got to the stairs. You passed a few staff members on the way—some holding clipboards, others pushing racks of outfits for later stages—but no one paid you much attention. Just another idol going about their schedule.

When you reached the second floor, the hallway stretched out quiet and empty, dimmer than the main corridors, the buzz of activity replaced by a soft hum of overhead lights.

You turned the corner near the stairwell, and there—leaning casually against the wall in his white button-up shirt, a soft gray vest layered neatly over it, paired with crisp white pants—stood Jake.

His silver-dyed hair was styled to perfection, not a strand out of place, catching the hallway light just right like he walked straight off a photoshoot.

He looked up the second he heard your footsteps.

And smiled.

“Baby!”

He didn’t wait for you to reach him.

The second your eyes met, Jake pushed off the wall and closed the distance between you in just a few long strides, slipping his arms around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He pulled you into him without hesitation, swaying you just a little as he buried his face into your hair.

His hand splayed softly across the small of your back, the other curling gently near your ribs as he held you closer—closer than anyone was ever allowed to see.

You felt his chest rise and fall against yours as he let out a quiet breath, the kind that always made your heart flutter.

His nose nudged your temple as he murmured, “God, you smell like strawberries. I missed you.”

You let out a breathy laugh, arms finding their way around his shoulders as you melted into him. “You saw me literally five hours ago.”

“Five too long,” he mumbled, voice low and warm as it vibrated against your cheek.

You pulled back slightly to look at him, but he didn’t let you go far—his hands still snug around your waist, keeping you close like he was scared you’d vanish.

When your eyes finally met, Jake was already looking at you.

He was staring—like you’d hung the stars yourself and forgot to mention it. That boyish, smile spread across his face, eyes sparkling in the soft hallway light.

“Wow,” he whispered, blinking like he couldn’t believe you were real. “You look…”

You raised a brow, playfully. “What?”

“Unreal.” He shook his head slowly, grin widening. “I’m serious, (Y/N). You look like a dream. Like…” He paused, then laughed softly. “I don’t know, like if a doll and a goddess had a baby and it became a K-pop idol.”

You burst out laughing, lightly smacking his arm. “That is such a weird compliment.”

Jake leaned in, the grin on his face softening just a little as he let his forehead gently rest against yours.

The hallway was quiet, the faint hum of distant chatter fading behind closed doors. It was just the two of you—breathing the same space.

You were suddenly so grateful your stylist had given you heels today. For once, you weren’t craning your neck to meet him.

“I mean it,” he whispered, his breath fanning over your lips. “You look breathtaking.”

You flushed, lips twitching. “Stop teasing, Jaeyun.”

That made him smirk. “Oh? I’m Jaeyun now?” he teased, cocking his head slightly. “What happened to Jakey?”

You rolled your eyes, giggling as you playfully tried to shove him back. “Don’t make me block you in front of the cameras.”

He only laughed, catching your wrist gently and leaning in—pressing a soft, quick kiss to your lips. Barely there, but enough to make your stomach twist and your eyes flutter shut for half a second too long.

When you opened them again, he was already watching you with that look again.

The one that made you feel like nothing else in the world existed.

“Want me to show you just how breathtaking you are?” he murmured, voice lower now. Rougher. Dangerous in the way it made your knees feel a little weak.

You blinked, lips parting slightly. “Huh?”

Jake’s smile turned slow, boyish with a flicker of something not-so-innocent underneath. “Come here.”

Before you could react, he gently tugged you by the hand, leading you just a few steps farther down the hallway—toward a small, staff-only restroom tucked near the stairwell.

“Wait, what are you—”

Jake pushed open the door, glanced around once to make sure it was empty, then pulled you in with him, shutting it behind you.

The click of the lock sounded way louder than it should’ve.

You turned to him, breath caught in your throat, eyes wide. “Jake—”

He was already stepping toward you, slow and sure.

“I told you,” he murmured, eyes dragging over every inch of you, that gray vest still perfectly in place as he backed you gently against the cool tile wall. “You’re too pretty for your own good.”

Without warning, Jake crashed his lips to yours.

You barely had time to breathe before he was kissing you like he needed it—like he’d been holding back for too long, and now that he had you alone, there was no reason to pretend.

Your back met the cold wall with a soft thud as he pressed you against it, one arm snaking tightly around your waist, the other sliding up behind your head, fingers curling into your hair to keep you close.

Your lip gloss smeared instantly, not that he cared—if anything, he groaned softly at the taste of it.

You melted into him, your hands finding his neck, then sliding up into his silver-styled hair. Your fingertips brushed against the back of his nape, playing with the soft strands—and Jake smirked into the kiss like it drove him insane.

“Mmhm, baby…” he whispered between kisses, mouth barely parting from yours, “you always do that when you want me to lose it.”

You giggled, but it died in your throat the moment he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, nipping gently at your bottom lip.

He pulled away just enough to breathe, only to drag you in again—lips moving slower this time, more deliberate, more hungry.

Then his tongue traced your lower lip, slick and teasing.

You gasped softly.

Jake murmured low, voice dipped in heat, “Can I…?”

You barely nodded before parting your lips slightly, just enough—giving him access.

And the moment he had it, he kissed you deeper.

Tongue sliding against yours, slow and hot, your body flush against his as his hand traveled from your waist to your lower back, guiding you closer, keeping you there like he couldn’t get enough.

You whimpered into his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair as your knees weakened beneath you.

Jake broke away just slightly, panting softly against your lips, forehead resting against yours. “God, I missed this,” he whispered, his breath shaky. “Missed you.”

Your eyes fluttered open—barely.

“Jake…” you breathed, not knowing what you were asking for, but knowing you wanted.

But your voice broke slightly as you tried to pull yourself back to reality. “Jake—we can’t. We need to be on stage in a few minutes.”

He stilled for a beat, then leaned his forehead against yours again, eyes fluttering shut with a sigh. “I know,” he muttered, lips brushing yours, disappointed. “I know, baby.”

But then—he tilted his head and pressed a kiss to the curve of your jaw.

Then another. Just below your ear.

And another—down the slope of your neck, slow and hot.

You whimpered, your back arching slightly against the wall. “J-Jake…”

“Shh,” he whispered, mouth against your throat, his breath making your skin feel too hot, “Just a few more. Let me be annoying.”

“Don’t leave marks,” you warned between shaky breaths, already knowing how easily his lips could turn soft pinks into deep purples.

Jake chuckled against your skin, a deep, knowing sound. “You’re no fun, baby.”

Still, he listened.

His kisses stayed soft. Gentle. Featherlight brushes of affection along your pulse point, down to the dip of your collarbone, like he was memorizing every inch of you all over again—even with so little time.

One of his hands stayed planted firmly around your waist as the other wandered.

His fingers slid slowly down your side, finding the ruffled hem of your short white dress—the one that made him look at you like you were something from another world.

He played with the edge of it, toying at the frilly fabric. Then, dangerously slow, his hand traced along the hem of your safety shorts, knuckles brushing the soft skin of your thigh.

You gasped quietly, your hand flying up to grip his wrist.

“Jake—”

He looked up, his eyes hooded, lips swollen and glistening from your gloss, voice low and wrecked. “Tell me to stop.”

You couldn’t.

Instead, you pressed your forehead to his again, eyes closed, breath shaky.

“I hate you,” you mumbled breathlessly.

Jake smiled against your lips. “No you don’t.”

You barely had time to breathe before his hand drifted again—fingers grazing the hem of your safety shorts, teasing the edge with that same maddening slowness. You sucked in a breath, your hand gripping his arm.

“Jake,” you warned, voice barely a whisper, “you can’t start this if you’re not going to finish it.”

His lips ghosted over your cheek, nose brushing your jaw as he murmured, “Yeah? Try me.”

And then—with that cocky, devastating smile on his lips—his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts.

You gasped softly as he tugged them down just enough, letting them settle mid-thigh, leaving you exposed in the soft light. His touch was featherlight, dragging along the top of your thighs, then up—

Until his fingers traced the delicate band of your lacy underwear.

Jake paused and smirked.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, half-lidded and dark with amusement. “Who are you wearing this for, huh?”

Your breath hitched.

You tried to play it off, but your cheeks were already warm. “We… we do have a date after this, don’t we?”

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, dipping his head closer. “Oh,” he said, voice low and teasing, “so you were expecting something.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, hiding the way your body jolted at the heat in his tone. “Jake,” you gasped when his palm pressed gently against your core, “stop teasing…”

His hand stilled—just enough pressure to make your knees threaten to buckle. He exhaled through his nose, lips brushing your temple.

“I’m not teasing, baby,” he whispered, fingers curling slightly against you. “I’m getting you ready.”

You gasped, head falling back lightly against the tile wall, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his vest as his hand moved lower—confident, deliberate.

His touch slipped past the delicate lace, and when his fingers found your clit, he paused, humming low in his throat.

“So wet already?” he murmured, pressing a kiss just below your ear, his voice full of pride and want. “You’re really not gonna survive our date tonight, huh?”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the whimper that bubbled in your throat as he began to move—his touch gliding slowly, maddeningly, up and down, with the kind of rhythm that made your legs tremble.

“J-Jake,” you breathed, clutching his shirt tighter, burying your face into his shoulder as your knees buckled just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, hand on your waist steadying you, lips brushing along your cheekbone between each breath. “Always got you.”

His fingers kept working, unrelenting, and just as your breathing hitched again, his other hand tilted your chin so he could see your face—so he could watch the way your lashes fluttered and your lips parted, soundless but pleading.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “I wanna see what I do to you.”

Your lashes fluttered open, eyes glazed with need, lips parted in a shaky breath as your gaze met his—and Jake swore, soft and low, like the sight of you completely undone was too much and not enough all at once.

His touch deepened, hand still steady at your waist as he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours, trying to keep you grounded while your body trembled beneath his.

“You feel that?” he murmured, breath hitching as his fingers moved with devastating slowness. “That’s all you, baby. Just you falling apart for me.”

You let out a soft whimper, your hands tightening in his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric near his chest as your knees nearly gave out.

Jake’s free hand held you closer, thumb brushing tenderly along your cheek. “You’re perfect,” he whispered. “So good for me. Always so good.”

You gasped his name again—barely a whisper on your lips.

He shushed you gently, kissing the corner of your mouth, his voice now low and urgent. “I know. I know. But you’ve got to keep quiet for me, yeah?”

You nodded desperately, lip caught between your teeth as your whole body burned in his arms.

Jake leaned in closer, lips brushing against your ear as he breathed, “I can’t wait to get you alone tonight. Really show you how much I missed you.”

And then—his hand moved again.

You sucked in a sharp breath, body jolting as his fingers found that spot deep inside you that made your thighs tremble. That made your breath catch and your vision blur. He knew it was there. Knew how to find it like second nature.

“Right there,” he whispered, voice thick with heat as he watched you unravel. “There it is, baby.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t think.

All you could do was cling to him—hands gripping the front of his vest, forehead pressed to his shoulder, trying so hard to stay quiet even though your body screamed.

Jake pressed his lips to your temple, curling his fingers again—slow, precise, relentless.

Your knees buckled.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered, kissing just below your ear. “That’s it. Let go.”

You melted against him, gasping softly into the crook of his neck, your whole body trembling in his arms as he held you close, steady, protected.

For a moment, the world stopped. Just you, clinging to him, heart pounding, skin flushed, lungs searching for air.

Jake didn’t move right away.

He pressed soft kisses to your cheek, to your jaw, to your temple—fingers slipping away gently, carefully, as he helped you stand, your legs still weak.

He brought those same fingers to his mouth, lips parting as he slowly dragged his tongue across the tips, eyes never leaving yours.

“Sweet,” he murmured, voice all smoke and mischief. “Just like I remembered.”

You stared at him, still dazed, still catching your breath.

“Jake,” you whispered, eyes wide. “You’re insane.”

He grinned, fixing your dress back in place like nothing had happened. “Only for you.”

Before you could even fully recover, he leaned in and pressed one last kiss to your lips—slow and indulgent, like a reward. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second, but they flew open again the moment you tasted yourself on his mouth.

Your face flushed all over again.

“Jake—” you breathed, voice half-scandalized, half-melting.

He pulled away with that same infuriating smile, licking the corner of his lips just to mess with you. “What?” he teased, fixing the strand of your hair he’d messed up earlier. “Just making sure you remember how good you taste.”

You stared at him, mouth open, half-ready to fight him and kiss him again.

But he was already glancing toward the door, stepping back with a lazy stretch. “Come on, baby,” he said, voice low and playful.

“We need to go. You still have to interview our group in a few minutes, yeah?”

You groaned, letting your head fall dramatically against his chest. “I hate you.”

He laughed, arms wrapping around you for a second, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. “No, you don’t.”

You pouted, pulling away just enough to give him a playful punch to the chest. “I can’t look at you on camera after this.”

“You’re gonna have to,” Jake grinned. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Maybe.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t test me.”

He winked as he unlocked the door. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But as he stepped out into the hallway first, head down, hand casually brushing against yours for a split second, you knew one thing for sure:

This boy was going to drive you insane today.

There were only a few seconds left before the red light on the camera blinked to life.

You stood beside Jungwon, fidgeting slightly with the cue card in your hand, your mind half-focused on the line you were supposed to read, and half still floating somewhere in that hallway where Jake had—

“(Y/N)-noona,” Jungwon said softly, nudging your elbow, “don’t be so nervous.”

You blinked, snapped back to the present, looking down at the young leader beside you.

He smiled up at you earnestly, shifting a little in his crisp white outfit. “Can I call you noona?” he asked, wide-eyed and sweet.

You laughed—grateful for the distraction. “Of course you can, Jungwon. You’re too cute not to.”

His grin widened as he straightened up beside you, clearly pleased.

Across the small, softly lit interview space, you heard someone burst into laughter. Your head turned just in time to see Jisung from NCT—your co-MC for today—pointing at a wild strand of Heeseung’s hair that stuck up despite all the hairspray in the world.

“Bro, how are you one of the the visuals and still end up looking like a coconut?” Jisung teased.

Heeseung swatted at him with a smile, adjusting his mic pack as the crew giggled behind the cameras.

Your eyes drifted slightly to the left.

Jake was leaning casually against the wall with his hands in his pockets, face glowing under the soft studio lights—his silver hair still styled to perfection, though his lips twitched upward the second your gazes met.

You gave him the smallest smile back, heart doing somersaults inside your chest, cheeks still slightly warm from earlier.

Beside you, Jungwon glanced between the two of you, raising a brow. “Is it just me,” he said under his breath, “or does hyung look like he knows something I don’t?”

You gave him the smallest smile back, heart doing somersaults inside your chest, cheeks still slightly warm from earlier.

The red light on the camera blinked on.

“Three,” the PD whispered from behind the lens, “two… one…”

The red light blinked on.

You and Jungwon straightened at once, microphones lifted, smiles flashing effortlessly into place.

“This is Live Broadcasting Music Bank,” you both said in sync, your voices clear and bright.

You turned slightly toward the boys in front of you, your cue card still trembling just a little in your hands.

“With Jisung and me, (Y/N),” you continued smoothly, “yes! Congratulations on your comeback, ENHYPEN!”

Behind the camera, staff clapped along as the seven boys bowed slightly, clapping and smiling as cheers erupted from them.

“Thank you!” they chimed in together.

Jisung, beside you, laughed. “Look at them—they’re glowing. Seriously. Like, did you all eat fairy dust before coming here?”

That earned a few chuckles, especially from Sunghoon and Ni-ki who immediately started whispering something to each other off-mic.

Jungwon stepped up confidently, smile wide as he lifted his mic again. “Allow us to say hi,” he said with the poise of someone born for it. “One, two—”

The members immediately followed his lead.

“Connect! Annyeonghaseyo, ENHYPEN-imnida!” they chorused, bowing in unison with practiced energy.

You nodded with a grin, trying very hard not to let your eyes drift back to Jake—who, for the record, still had that soft smile on his lips. The one that made your stomach twist far too warmly for a live broadcast.

Before the moment could linger any longer, Jisung cleared his throat loudly and stepped into frame, dramatically walking over to where you and Jungwon were standing.

“Knock knock,” he said, knocking his knuckles on the air beside your shoulder. “Excuse me, but it looks like you guys are having fun without me.”

The crew laughed behind the cameras, and a few of the ENHYPEN members chuckled too—Sunoo even letting out a dramatic gasp like Jisung had just uncovered a betrayal.

You turned with an apologetic smile, falling easily into the teasing banter. “Ah, I’m sorry, Jisung-ssi,” you said sweetly, bowing slightly. “It seems I forgot about my very handsome partner.”

The crowd oohed playfully.

Jisung tilted his head, feigning deep consideration before letting out a theatrical sigh. “It’s okay, (Y/N)-ssi. I’ll let you off the hook for your behavior—just this once. I mean, everyone is excited about ENHYPEN’s comeback.”

Then he grinned, cheeky and playful as ever. “Plus, it’s a good thing you’re cute.”

The room burst into another wave of laughter—crew members chuckling behind the camera, Sunoo letting out a soft “Yah,” while Ni-ki whistled dramatically.

Jisung gave you a playful nudge to the ribs with his elbow, causing you to giggle into the mic, momentarily hiding your face with the cue card.

“Jisung-ssi, you’re so unserious,” you laughed, voice light but a little breathless.

Somewhere behind the bright lights and staged smiles, Jake’s jaw flexed.

He kept the curve on his lips, nodding along to the banter like the good-natured idol he was supposed to be—but his eyes? His eyes flicked toward the script in your hands a little too sharply. He raised a brow, glancing at the cue card as if it had personally offended him.

Was it hot in here? Or was it just the slow boil of jealousy he was trying so hard to choke down?

‘She’s yours’, he told himself.

But logic was a lot less convincing when you were laughing like that because of someone else—even if it was innocent. Even if it was scripted.

You cleared your throat softly and turned back to the group, shifting your cue card into view. “Well then!” you said brightly, eyes sweeping toward ENHYPEN’s line.

“Let’s talk about your latest release. Could you tell us a little bit about your album?”

There was a half-beat of silence before Jake stepped forward, the mic already in hand, perfectly timed and poised.

“Our new album, ‘MANIFESTO: DAY 1’,” he began smoothly, “is kind of our declaration. It expresses our thoughts and how we want to move forward, break free from expectations, and really tell the world who we are.”

His voice was steady. His eyes were locked onto the camera.

But you knew Jake.

You knew every version of him—the way his dimples were deeper when the smile was real, the way his tone got a little softer when he was truly proud of something. The way he’d glance at you mid-sentence when he was feeling playful or confident.

But he wasn’t doing any of those things.

You stared a second too long. Long enough to wonder if maybe he was upset. Maybe because of Jisung? No—Jake wasn’t the petty type.

But you had seen that look before. Reserved. Slightly colder than usual. The type he gave when he was trying to bury something that was bubbling too close to the surface.

You were so caught in your thoughts you didn’t notice the shift until Sunoo, ever cheerful and poised, stepped slightly forward with his mic raised and a dazzling smile on his face.

“Among many tracks in the album,” he began, his voice light and confident, “there is our title song called ‘Future-Perfect (Pass the MIC).’”

The other members straightened slightly, nodding as Sunoo continued. “This song has a story that’s really meaningful to us. It’s about choosing our own path—keeping to our way and finding happiness in this chaotic world.”

He turned to the camera as he spoke, his smile full and genuine, expression bright. “We hope it gives strength to everyone listening. That it reminds you to take back your voice.”

A soft wave of cheers and approving nods followed from both the staff and the crew. Sunghoon even clapped once behind the mic, proud of how well Sunoo delivered it.

You smiled gently, eyes flicking to Sunoo with warmth—he always had such a natural way with words.

“Beautifully said, Sunoo-ssi,” you replied, voice as steady as you could manage, though your mind was still tugging at Jake’s unusual stillness. “It’s definitely a song that hits hard. I think a lot of people will find comfort in it.”

Jisung chimed in with a thumbs up, “No, seriously. I listened to it this morning and almost cried.”

That earned more laughter.

Sunghoon smiled as the laughter faded, stepping forward with that calm, composed tone of his. “Well said, Sunoo,” he nodded.

“Additionally, our powerful performance of this song is the main point to pay attention to,” he added, gaze steady on the camera. “We worked really hard on it. Please look forward to it.”

Then he turned to his left with a teasing smile. “Isn’t that right, Ni-ki?”

Ni-ki blinked, caught slightly off-guard. “Huh—oh!” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes, yes! Definitely. Please don’t miss out on our visuals,” he added with a cheeky grin, “which, I believe, have only become better and nicer.”

“Ah yes!” Jisung cut in dramatically, stepping a little closer to you. “Just like my partner here—who looks as radiant as a fairy today!”

You nearly choked on your laugh, quickly covering your mouth with the cue card as the staff giggled and someone behind the camera shouted, “Facts!”

You turned to Jisung with playful eyes, raising a brow. “What about you?” you teased. “You look like an absolute prince today.”

The boys from both groups chuckled, Ni-ki and Sunghoon even letting out exaggerated sighs.

“Please stop flirting on camera,” Sunoo joked, fanning himself with his hand. “Some of us are still single.”

The room erupted again, a wave of laughter bouncing off the walls as even the PD behind the camera chuckled.

Jake only smiled as he tilted his head ever so slightly, eyes flickering to Jisung, then to you, then back to the camera—as if he wasn’t very much thinking about the way Jisung leaned a little too close or how your laugh was a little too flustered.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool, eyes flicking briefly toward the cue card you could barely focus on.

“Alright,” you said with a soft laugh, eyes back on the camera, “I’ll try not to forget you guys’ visuals on stage.”

Another round of light chuckles.

You lifted your mic again, flashing a bright smile. “Now, tell us about the next stage!”

Heeseung stepped forward, mic already in hand, posture easy and confident. “Enhypen’s stage, composed of a refreshing summer season song—‘TFW (That Feeling When)’—will be coming up soon.”

Then Jay followed up without missing a beat. “But before that,” he added smoothly, “let’s check out a fresh and cool comeback stage by Park Hyunseo.”

You and Jisung took two synchronized steps forward, standing center once again under the bright studio lights.

“This has been your pretty fairy, (Y/N),” you chirped sweetly, giving a small curtsy toward the camera.

“And your handsome fairy prince, Jisung,” he added with a playful bow, making the crew giggle again.

You both pointed to the camera and said in sync, “Music—cue!”

The studio lights dipped, and the camera panned smoothly away as the stage direction changed.

The second the red ‘LIVE’ light on the camera blinked off, signaling a cut—you could feel Jake’s stare land on you like a heatwave.

Almost immediately, the room shifted. The pressure of live broadcasting lifted, replaced with soft sighs of relief and congratulatory pats on the back.

Behind you, the boys cheered among themselves, voices overlapping.

“We survived!” Sunghoon grinned.

“Hyunseo’s up next, right?” Jay asked, already walking toward the back exit with a stylist trailing him.

You turned slightly, cue cards still in hand, just in time to catch Sunoo flashing you a bright thumbs up. “Good job, noona!” he beamed. “You looked really nice today!”

Your heart softened at his energy. You smiled back, bowing your head a little. “Thanks, Sunoo. You were amazing up there.”

Then came another voice—quieter, lower.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Good job.”

You turned.

His voice was calm. But not warm.

He wasn’t looking at you like the others were—he wasn’t smiling with his eyes like he usually did. Instead, he was adjusting the mic pack clipped to the back of his vest, jaw tight as he looked at you just a moment too long.

Your smile faltered the tiniest bit.

“…Thanks,” you said slowly, eyes searching his face.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just turned to follow the others, giving a quiet nod to one of the stylists as they waved him toward the backstage hallway.

The other members began to trail behind, Ni-ki throwing his arm around Jungwon while Sunghoon laughed at something Jay said. It was noisy and light—except for Jake.

He walked slower.

Back straighter.

Like something was still buzzing under his skin.

You bit the inside of your cheek, cue cards still in your hand, heart thumping a little harder than before.

The night air hit different after hours under studio lights.

You sat on the edge of one of the cold metal benches near the building’s back exit, the area dimly lit by a single flickering lamp overhead.

Your legs, still bare from the knee down, pressed tightly together as you tried to conserve warmth. The white fluttery dress you wore for the broadcast looked like a dream under stage lighting—but out here, it clung to your skin like ice.

You curled in on yourself, rubbing your arms as you muttered under your breath, “God, why didn’t I bring a coat…”

Just minutes ago, your group’s manager and a few members had asked you, “Are you sure you’re not riding back with us?”

You shook your head with a smile, keeping your voice even. “It’s okay—I have someone from high school picking me up. Just a friend.”

Chaewon had raised a brow. “From high school?”

Eunchae tilted her head like a confused puppy. “Like… someone we know?”

You shook your head again, trying to sound breezy. “Nah, you guys wouldn’t know him. Just—he offered to drop me home, that’s all.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Yunjin squinted at you suspiciously. “You sure it’s not, like… your boy plus friend?”

You laughed, a little too quickly. “If it was, I’d be bragging. Swear.”

That made them laugh, eventually letting it go after your manager double-checked your drop-off point. “Text us when you get home,” she said firmly. “And take care. Seriously.”

“I will,” you promised. “Thanks, unnie.”

Now here you were—just waiting.

You let out a breath, watching it fog briefly in the cold air. The bench beneath you creaked softly as you moved, tugging your dress down even though it barely helped. You sat there, hugging your arms, debating whether to finally pull out your phone and text him when—

A sudden weight landed across your shoulders.

You turned, startled.

Jake stood right behind you, both hands gently adjusting the coat now draped over you—his coat. It smelled like him. Faint cologne, traces of mint, and the soft warmth of his skin embedded in the fabric.

His expression was unreadable. Not cold, but not his usual sunshine either. Tight-lipped, composed. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by the softness in his touch and the tension in his voice, but nodded anyway.

He didn’t say anything more. Just slipped one hand to the small of your back and gently guided you across the parking lot, toward one of the many identical black HYBE vans waiting along the curb.

His hand didn’t leave your back—not even once. Even when a few lingering staff passed by with cameras around their necks, he kept walking with you calmly, his pace steady and protective.

When you reached the van, Jake opened the door for you himself, greeting his manager with a simple, “Hyung.”

The older man looked up from his phone and gave you both a small smile. “Good job today, you two.”

You bowed your head politely as you climbed inside, brushing the hem of your dress down as best as you could before settling into the plush leather seats.

“Where to?” his manager asked, glancing at Jake.

Jake climbed in beside you, hand resting briefly on the door handle. “To our dorms,” he said shortly—his voice calm, but cold, leaving no room for negotiation.

Then, he pulled the door shut immediately, instinctively—like muscle memory after years of avoiding scandals and blurred camera flashes.

Just like that, the world outside disappeared.

The street noise, the freezing wind, the weight of being someone else’s image—all gone the moment the door sealed.

You leaned back into the seat with a quiet sigh, pulling Jake’s coat tighter around yourself as the heater hummed to life.

The leather seats were warm beneath your bare thighs, finally giving you a moment of comfort after hours under stage lights and cold air.

Jake sat beside you silently, one hand braced against the side panel as he looked out the darkened window. His jaw was clenched just slightly. You didn’t have to look to know.

You could feel it.

Still, despite the stiffness in the air, his other hand reached across your lap—not saying a word—and adjusted the seatbelt over your body gently before clicking it in place.

Then he sat back, both hands resting on his thighs. Silent.

You looked down at your lap, then back at him. “Jaeyun…”

He didn’t look at you.

Just knocked twice on the partition glass between you and the driver. “Hyung, can you raise it?”

His manager hummed in acknowledgment. “Mhm.”

The soft mechanical whir began, the glass slowly sliding up and sealing you both in the quietest, most private part of the van.

Once it clicked shut, you turned to face him again.

His expression was calm—but you knew him too well.

“…You’re upset,” you whispered.

Jake finally turned to you, his silver hair slightly tousled, that same tight-lipped smile still in place.

“Define upset,” he muttered.

Your brows furrowed at the coolness in his tone, your heart tugging just a little. But you didn’t push. Not now. Not when everything still felt this fragile.

You leaned back into the seat quietly, tucking yourself deeper into his coat, eyes focused on the dark blur of buildings passing through the tinted windows.

The silence was heavy. Louder than any words either of you could say.

Until Jake sighed—deep, long, from the chest.

His hand found your thigh, warm and grounding even through the layers of fabric, fingers splayed across your skin like he didn’t even realize he needed to touch you to breathe right.

His other hand dragged back through his hair, pushing it out of his face as he turned toward you fully.

“Look,” he started, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “I’m not mad at you, okay?”

You turned your head just slightly, eyes flickering to him without fully meeting his gaze.

“I’m upset at myself.” His jaw clenched as he looked away again. “And probably Jisung. And maybe the damn scriptwriters.”

That pulled the corner of your lip up—just barely.

He laughed under his breath, tired and half-defeated. “God, I sound stupid.”

You shook your head, whispering, “No, you don’t.”

Jake looked at you again, and this time, his eyes softened. The frustration behind them melted into something quieter—regret, maybe. Longing. Love.

“I watched you laugh with him,” he admitted, fingers tightening slightly against your thigh. “And I know it’s a job. I know. But I couldn’t stop thinking—why wasn’t it me standing next to you?”

You blinked, stunned by how small his voice had gotten.

He smiled again, softer this time. “You’re wearing my coat, but I still feel like I don’t have enough of you.”

That’s when your heart cracked wide open.

You shifted in your seat, reaching up to brush your fingers lightly across his jaw. “Jaeyun, you already have all of me.”

Jake didn’t say anything right away, just leaned into your palm like it was the only thing keeping him sane in that moment. His hand came up, gently wrapping around yours as he held it between both of his.

“Sometimes…” he murmured, eyes locked on your fingers, “I wish other people knew.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even bitter. Just quietly aching.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Wish I could hold your hand after a show. Pull you in after interviews. Take dumb pictures with you at the beach and not have to hide your face with a damn emoji.”

Your heart clenched.

Then—softly, sweetly—he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Then another. And another.

You didn’t speak, just leaned into his warmth as he scooted closer to you on the leather seat, closing what little space had remained between you.

He rested a hand on your thigh again, familiar and gentle, then leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead.

You sighed, eyes fluttering shut. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Quiet. Safe.

His chin rested against the top of your head, the rhythm of his breathing slowly syncing with yours. One of your hands played with his fingers, tracing the lines in his palm, the subtle scar near his knuckle, the calluses he always pretended weren’t from dancing.

Then—your voice broke the stillness.

“So…” you said, lips quirking up just slightly. “How much did you pay your manager to not say anything about us?”

Jake laughed, the sound vibrating against your back as he pulled you even closer into his side. “What makes you think I had to pay him?”

You tilted your head up. “You didn’t?”

“Nah.” He grinned. “He trusts me not to mess up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Big risk, honestly.”

Jake gasped dramatically. “Wow. Is that how low you think of me?”

You snorted, leaning into his chest. “Just honesty, baby.”

He chuckled, then went quiet for a moment. His hand moved again—this time to your waist, fingers curling just enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Then, with his cheek resting against your temple, he whispered,

“Stay for the night.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeated, quieter, “stay tonight. At the dorms.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Jake—”

He reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, voice soft but sure.

“They won’t be home until eleven,” he said. “They’re celebrating our win tonight—probably stuffing themselves with fried chicken and tteokbokki somewhere downtown.”

You blinked, brows raising. “And you’re not with them… why, exactly, Sim Jaeyun?”

Jake grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Because,” he said, scooting even closer, “I have to make it up to my girlfriend. Who I know misses me.”

You tried to stay annoyed—tried—but the smile broke through before you could stop it.

“Misses you?” you teased. “You’re that confident, huh?”

Jake leaned forward until your noses almost touched, his hand curling around your waist again.

“Baby,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “You always miss me.”

You laughed, hand coming up to shove lightly at his chest. “Shut up.”

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles. “So is that a yes?”

You gave him a mock-suspicious look. “You better not make me climb in through the window.”

Jake gasped. “What do you take me for? A criminal?”

“A very determined one,” you muttered under your breath, earning a snort from him.

You paused for a second, then nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll stay.”

Jake lit up like someone had just handed him a win bigger than any trophy. “Really?”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his silver hair.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just promise you won’t let me get caught. Or killed.”

“No promises on the second part,” he joked, helping you buckle your seatbelt again. “But the first? Swear on my next win.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder as the van started moving again, whispering into the warm fabric of his shirt,

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned down at you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Fortunately,” he corrected.

Jake was the first to unbuckle his seatbelt, already moving to slide the van door open before the car had even fully stopped.

“Come on, baby,” he said, holding a hand out for you.

You took it with a smile, hopping down carefully onto the pavement. “Thank you.”

He grinned, helping you steady yourself as you adjusted your short white dress and heels, his hand firm but warm in yours. You turned to bow slightly toward the driver’s seat.

“Thanks for today, manager-nim!”

Jake added, “Drive safe, hyung!”

The van rolled off the driveway and disappeared around the bend just as the two of you made your way up the steps of the dorm building.

The moment the door clicked open, you both instinctively slipped off your shoes, trying to make as little noise as possible.

You cradled your heels in one hand, Jake’s fingers still loosely linked with yours as he nudged the door closed behind him with his foot.

“Ugh,” you sighed in relief, flexing your toes once your feet touched the cool wooden floor. “I swear those heels are from the devil.”

Jake laughed quietly, reaching out to take them from you.

“Give me those, princess. You’ll twist an ankle just walking to my room.”

“Wow,” you blinked, lips twitching. “I didn’t know I was dating someone who cared so deeply about foot health.”

“You’re dating someone who wants you in one piece,” he quipped, and carefully set your heels near the door before shrugging off his coat and yours—hanging it neatly on the rack.

“Also,” he turned back to you with a cheeky glint in his eye, “who wants you to last long enough to go for round two later.”

“Jaeyun!” you hissed, smacking his arm playfully.

He laughed, that dimpled grin so blinding it made your heart lurch.

“What?” he said innocently, following you into the hallway. “Just saying.”

You didn’t reply—just threw him a look over your shoulder as you both passed the dimly lit living room, quiet except for the hum of the fridge.

“So?” Jake asked, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “What do you want for dinner, my lady?”

“I want,” you replied, pushing his arm playfully, “us to change first before we even think about dinner.”

Jake clicked his tongue but nodded. “Fair.”

He reached for the doorknob of his room, opening it for you like always, and you were immediately greeted by the faint hum of the air conditioner and a familiar, calming scent that drifted out with it—fresh linen, hints of vanilla, and something uniquely Jake.

You stepped in, letting your shoulders sag a little in relief, smiling when the cold air hit your skin. Jake walked over to the remote and clicked the aircon a notch higher.

“Better?” he asked, glancing back at you.

“Much.” You flopped down onto the edge of his bed, dress fanning out around your thighs. The mattress dipped beneath you as you leaned back on your hands, watching as he walked over to his closet.

“Have you been using those candles I gave you?” you asked casually, nose crinkling as you inhaled. “Smells like the linen one.”

Jake grinned. “Of course I’ve been using them.”

He pulled out a pair of white sweatpants and a black oversized shirt from the shelf—familiar pieces that smelled like home, and walked over, placing them gently on your lap. The shirt was soft and worn, the kind you always stole after practice or filming.

“Here. These should fit my fairy,” he teased, before holding up a separate set in his other hand for himself.

You looked down at the clothes with a soft smile. “Still using the lavender vanilla one too?”

Jake rolled his eyes affectionately as he turned toward his dresser. “Yeah. And Sunghoon keeps asking where I got them.”

You laughed. “Let me guess—you’re gatekeeping it?”

“Absolutely.” He pulled off his vest and tossed it into the laundry bin. “Told him I bought it at some random underground boutique in France.”

You snorted. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best,” he corrected smugly, tugging his shirt off and tossing it over the desk chair. “At keeping you to myself.”

Your heart stuttered at that—but the way he said it was so casual, so sure, like it wasn’t a confession but a truth carved in stone.

You bit your lip, clutching the soft shirt he gave you a little tighter.

“…Then I guess I’ll let you keep being the best,” you whispered.

Jake turned to look at you then—bare-chested, smile crooked, silver hair messy from undressing—and his gaze softened even more.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You nodded.

He crossed the room to press a kiss to your temple, eyes closing for a second longer than usual.

“Then let me keep you for a long, long time,” he whispered.

You hummed lazily, lips brushing against the slope of his shoulder. “Mmm, you’re so cheesy.”

Jake laughed—soft and low—and pulled away just enough to finish changing, shrugging off his dress pants and swapping them out for a familiar pair of gray sweatpants that hung loose on his hips.

You watched him for a second, dazed and full of quiet admiration, before unzipping your own dress and letting the fabric slide down your frame.

You pulled his oversized black shirt over your head, its scent already calming you, and stepped into the white sweatpants he gave earlier—cool, soft, and warm all at once.

You sighed contentedly, fingers tugging the waistband up as you padded across the floor toward where Jake was now placing his rings gently back into a clear Tiffany & Co. display case near his dresser.

Without saying anything, you wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, cheek resting against the bare skin of his back.

Jake paused, a small smile forming on his lips.

“Stealing my warmth already?” he teased.

“Mhm,” you mumbled. “And your rings.”

Jake let out a quiet chuckle, reaching for your hand as he gently slid the rings off your fingers one by one.

“These belong to me,” he said playfully, placing them into a small black velvet pouch and tying it shut with care.

“You do know I was just borrowing them,” you joked, watching as he turned around slowly, fingers reaching up to the heavy silver chain still clasped around your neck.

“Too heavy,” he murmured, his voice gentle, as he unhooked it and let it drop into his palm. “You’ll get a line.”

He reached next for your earrings, carefully removing each one before placing them on the tray near his nightstand.

“All done,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him and leaned in to press a soft, thankful kiss to his cheek.

Jake smiled. His eyes softened.

Then he grabbed your hand and gave it a gentle tug. “C’mon, pretty. Let’s wash up first before we even think about eating.”

He peeked out of the room like a spy in a movie, checking both sides of the hallway with unnecessary caution. You couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“Jaeyun,” you giggled, tugging at his arm, “we literally have the place to ourselves. Calm down, Jakey.”

He snorted. “You never know. Heeseung-hyung has this weird habit of forgetting his wallet and coming back at the worst times.”

You rolled your eyes fondly as he led you to the bathroom, flicking the light on with one hand while still keeping the other loosely laced with yours.

The familiar space was already warm and a little foggy from earlier showers—soft light bouncing off the white tiles and mirror.

You opened one of the lower drawers to grab your wipes, while Jake reached for the cleanser and the matching bottle of serum you both liked to share—one he originally gatekept until you caught him using it behind your back.

“I still can’t believe you let me use this now,” you teased, tugging out a wipe and gently starting on your eye makeup.

Jake raised a brow. “Let you? I only let you because you caught me and guilted me into it with that cute pout.”

You grinned. “You love the pout.”

“…Unfortunately,” he muttered with a fake grumble, though the curve of his lips betrayed him.

After both of you finished wiping your makeup off, you leaned over the sink, pumping the cleanser into your hands and working it into a soft foam.

The cold water hit your skin as you washed in slow circles, only for you to suddenly pull back with a sharp, annoyed sigh.

Jake turned mid-serum application, worry flickering across his face. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to bring a hair tie,” you grumbled, blinking as a bit of foam ran dangerously close to your eyes.

Without missing a beat, Jake gently stepped behind you, lifting your hair and holding it back with one hand while his other rested lightly on your shoulder.

“There,” he murmured. “Pretty face, clear and safe.”

You peeked at him through the mirror, cheeks flushing. “Thanks, Jakey.”

“I accept tips,” he whispered cheekily, leaning down to press a kiss just behind your ear.

When you were both done—skin fresh, damp, and glowing—you padded out of the bathroom with matching oversized shirts and sweats, your hair in a lazy towel wrap and Jake’s slightly damp from rinsing.

You flopped down onto the plush couch in the living room, letting your limbs melt into the cushions as he turned on the TV.

Jake joined you a second later, slumping beside you with a soft groan.

“You act like we ran a marathon,” you said, giggling.

“We basically did,” he mumbled. “Hours of performing, pretending not to be jealous on live television, and acting like I’m not obsessed with my girlfriend? That’s a full-time job.”

You laughed, curling into his side as he grabbed the remote and scrolled through Netflix. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you love it,” he replied, draping an arm over your shoulder and pulling you closer.

You rested your head on his chest, smiling softly as the sound of your favorite show’s intro filled the room. Your legs tangled together without a second thought, his fingers lazily tracing shapes on your arm.

Then Jake shifted a little and pulled his phone from the pocket of his gray sweats, wordlessly offering it to you.

His eyes never left the TV screen as he scrolled through Netflix with the remote, looking for something the both of you could watch—something with minimal heartbreak and lots of food scenes, per your usual shared preference.

You took his phone with a tiny smile, unlocking it easily with your birthday—something he never changed, even when you teased him about how predictable it was.

Your smile widened at the homescreen.

It was a candid photo of you, holding Layla in your lap at his parents’ house back in Korea. Your hair was tied messily, and you were mid-laugh, Layla’s head tilted up as if smiling with you.

“You and Layla are tied for the love of my life,” and you’d almost dropped her from laughing too hard.

Your chest warmed as you opened the food delivery app and tapped in your usual go-tos: tteokbokki, kimchi jeon, kimbap, and some japchae. All comfort food, all your favorites. You placed the order with practiced ease before glancing over at him.

“Do you want me to cook some ramyeon, too?” you asked, thumb hovering over the app to cancel the last item if needed.

Jake looked over at you with a lazy, tired smile, still slouched on the couch. “If it’s not too much, yeah. Your ramen always tastes better than mine.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and leaned in to press a quick kiss to his jaw. “It’s never too much for you.”

He exhaled softly, watching you with a look in his eyes that felt like warm sunbeams filtering through sheer curtains.

His gaze followed you as you stood up and padded toward the kitchen in his oversized shirt and sweats, the towel from your hair now resting on your shoulders.

Jake shook his head slightly, that soft, smitten smile creeping up on his lips again as he muttered to himself, “I’m really lucky.”

He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud.

From the kitchen, your voice floated back playfully, “I heard that, Jakey.”

He grinned, sinking deeper into the couch with a chuckle. “Yeah? Good.”

Heeseung sighed as he slipped his key into the dorm door, brows furrowing at the already unlocked knob.

“Seriously, Jaeyun…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “One day you’re gonna get us all robbed.”

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, the soft hum of the TV greeting him like background noise. A low-volume English movie was playing, the kind you’d only keep on if you weren’t really paying attention—comfort noise, more than anything. The apartment was dim, bathed in the glow of the television.

Behind him, the rest of the members began piling out of the black van, voices low and tired but still carrying the hum of post-performance energy.

“Thanks, hyung!” Sunoo chirped to their manager.

“We’ll wash up and crash soon,” Jungwon added with a nod, stretching his arms over his head.

“Finally,” Ni-ki groaned. “My feet are legally dead.”

Heeseung waved them in without looking. “Door’s already open. Guess someone forgot again.”

“Jake,” Jay muttered immediately. “Definitely Jake.”

The boys shuffled down the short hallway one by one as Heeseung veered off into the living room. His steps were slow, calm—until he caught sight of something that made him stop in his tracks.

The first thing he noticed were the empty plates. Neatly stacked and pushed aside on the coffee table. Two bowls—two—with traces of spicy ramen clinging to the sides. A small dipping tray with leftover tteokbokki sauce. And a blanket crumpled up near the floor.

That in itself wasn’t suspicious. Until—Heeseung did a double take.

There, curled up on the couch, was Jake. Nothing unusual, except the unmistakable figure curled up against him. Long hair splayed against his chest, smaller frame tucked into his side, legs tangled under the blanket.

Your figure.

Heeseung’s jaw dropped open. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Sunghoon yawned, stepping in behind him. “Hyung, why are you—”

“Shhh!” Heeseung threw an arm out to block him, still staring like he was witnessing a crime scene.

“What the hell?” Jay whispered, peering over his shoulder. “No way.”

Footsteps shuffled behind them as Jungwon finally caught up, Ni-ki at his side. The leader leaned in to see and froze.

“…I don’t know if I should be happy,” Jungwon whispered slowly, “or angry.”

Ni-ki blinked once, then twice. “What the f—”

“Language,” Jay muttered automatically, slapping a hand across Ni-ki’s chest.

Ni-ki raised both hands in surrender, lips pressed in a thin line. “Sorry. But seriously. What the hell.”

“Jesus,” Jungwon mumbled, clearly rethinking every single interaction he’d seen between the two of you over the past few months.

Sunoo peeked from behind the cluster of members, voice hushed and scandalized. “Is that really (Y/N)-noona?”

Sungoon rolled his eyes. “Do you know any other (Y/N)’s?”

“…Point made,” Sunoo muttered.

Heeseung, still standing stiffly near the couch, finally exhaled and bent down, motioning for Jay to help. “Come on. Let’s at least clean this mess before one of them wakes up and dies from embarrassment.”

Jay stepped forward wordlessly, carefully stacking the empty bowls while glancing nervously at Jake—who, despite the movement, didn’t budge.

Sunghoon led the others toward the kitchen, everyone walking on the balls of their feet like they were performing.

Jungwon clutched the fridge door like a lifeline, staring back toward the couch every few seconds with wide eyes.

He let out a long, almost silent sigh. “Well… there goes the no dating policy.”

Jay and Heeseung—now quietly rinsing the dishes in the sink, shared a glance.

Heeseung scoffed under his breath and mumbled, “Can’t believe Jake got a girlfriend before me.”

Jay snorted softly. “You? I’m more shocked he didn’t fumble it.”

Heeseung gave him a look.

Sungoon, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter beside Sunoo, chuckled into the back of his hand. “So,” he whispered to Jungwon, “what are we gonna do about this?”

Ni-ki popped his head over from where he was crouched behind the kitchen island. “Pray,” he deadpanned, “that Jungwon-hyung doesn’t kill Jake-hyung in the morning.”

Jungwon finally opened the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water just for something to hold. “In addition to that,” he muttered, eyes narrowed, “interrogate the two of them. Thoroughly.”

Heeseung let out a quiet breath, drying his hands on a nearby towel as he leaned against the counter. “Well… whatever happens tomorrow, they’re both adults,” he said simply, his voice calm but firm.

“And whatever happens, happens. We’re still one group either way.”

The room fell silent for a beat—quiet acceptance settling like dust in the air—as the others nodded.

Jay, now finished rinsing the last bowl, placed it gently into the drying rack and closed the dishwasher with a soft click. “He’s right,” he muttered. “We’d be idiots to make this a bigger deal than it is.”

Sunoo, standing beside him, hummed in agreement. “Still… I can’t believe it.” He rested his elbows on the counter, chin in his hand. “(Y/N)-noona’s so nice and pretty and cool—how the hell did Jake-hyung pull her?”

Sunghoon snorted from where he sat swinging his feet from the counter. “He probably whined his way into her heart.”

Jay laughed under his breath. “No, seriously, he must’ve begged.”

Ni-ki raised a brow. “Didn’t he used to say he wasn’t gonna date till his thirties?”

“Exactly,” Sunoo added, incredulous. “Now look at him. Cuddled up like a human-sized golden retriever.”

Jungwon, still holding his water bottle, glanced over his shoulder toward the living room again. His lips pressed together before he sighed for what felt like the tenth time that night.

“Alright,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Come on. Let’s clean ourselves up too.”

He made one last glance toward the couch—his leader instincts kicking in even now—watching Jake’s chest rise and fall in sync with yours.

The blanket had slipped a little, and your cheek was pressed against his collarbone, his arm protectively wrapped around you like he’d never learned how to let go.

Jungwon blinked, then turned away without a word and disappeared into the hallway toward the shared bathroom.

Jake stirred under the blanket with a low groan, his arms instinctively wrapping tighter around your waist as if to keep you glued to him. “Mmm… five more minutes,” he murmured sleepily, face nuzzling into your neck.

You blinked once—twice.

Sunlight was already pouring into the room from the slightly parted curtains, casting golden streaks over the wooden floors and across Jake’s bare arm.

The soft sizzle of something on a pan echoed in the quiet, paired with the sound of light humming and—

“—I’m just saying! I saw this clip last night of (Y/N)-noona saying she loves strawberries on pancakes, so I brought these!” Sunoo’s voice, cheerful and light, rang through the dorm as he held up a bowl full of washed strawberries.

You froze.

You lifted your head just slightly and—right there in the kitchen, plain as day, stood Jay flipping pancakes like a pro, while Sunoo babbled beside him like a happy fox with a mission.

You panicked internally, turning to Jake and whispering urgently, “Jake. Jake, wake up.”

“Mmf,” came the lazy reply.

You poked his side. “Jake, wake up. Now.”

He groaned again, brows furrowing in protest as he slowly opened his eyes. “Huh…? Wha—”

And then it hit him.

He blinked once—twice.

His eyes widened. “Wait. Morning?”

You nodded grimly.

He sat up so fast the blanket slipped from his shoulders, revealing his messy bed hair and oversized shirt. “Holy shit—”

“Language!” Jay called out from the kitchen, not even looking.

Jake whipped his head around. “They’re here?!”

“Have been,” you muttered, quickly fixing your hair and glancing down at your slightly wrinkled sweatpants. “We’re dead.”

Jay finally turned around from the stove, flipping another perfect pancake onto a plate, a smirk curling on his lips. “Nice of you two to finally wake up.”

Sunoo beamed as he placed the strawberries on the counter. “Good morning, lovebirds!”

Jake groaned and covered his face. “Kill me now.”

You elbowed him gently, cheeks red. “You promised to avoid scandals. This is not how you do it.”

Ni-ki popped out of his room at the exact worst time, a controller in each hand and bed hair still flattened on one side. “Yo, hyung, rematch now or you’re—”

He trailed off the second he saw you and Jake on the couch, eyes slowly widening in comedic horror. “Oh, hey.”

Behind him, Heeseung strolled out casually with a yawn, only to stop dead in his tracks, blinking at the sight in front of him. “…So it wasn’t a dream.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Sunghoon muttered, stepping out of the bathroom with a towel slung over his shoulder. He gave the two a deadpan glare. “Put the controllers down. We have a guest. Have some shame.”

Your face burned hotter than ever as you buried half your face into the couch pillow, praying for the leather cushions to open up and swallow you whole. The embarrassment was suffocating.

Jake sighed beside you, wiping a hand over his face and trying to contain his own grin. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” the rest of the guys chorused back—way too casual, way too smug.

Heeseung leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, sending Jake a pointed, knowing look like the older brother who knew exactly what went down. “Hope the ramen was worth it.”

Jake clicked his tongue. “Hyung,” he muttered under his breath, but he was already standing, fingers slipping around yours as he gently tugged you up from the couch. “C’mon. Let’s get you freshened up.”

You followed reluctantly, clutching the sleeves of your borrowed black shirt, whispering, “They all saw me. Oh my god, I’m never going to live this down.”

Jake let out a soft laugh, spinning to face you halfway down the hall, his hand still around yours. “Hey,” he said gently, “you look really cute in my clothes, for the record.”

You pouted, eyes still wide from humiliation. “Sim Jaeyun. I am suffering.”

He only grinned wider before tugging you into his arms, his chin resting atop your head. “You’ll survive, baby. Promise.”

“Are you sure?” you mumbled into his chest.

“Positive.” He kissed the crown of your head. “And if not… I’ll bribe Sunoo with skincare to never mention it again.”

You giggled despite yourself as he finally pulled you down the hall again, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “Now hurry,” he teased. “Before they start asking graphic questions.”

You gasped. “They wouldn’t.”

Jake snorted. “Oh, they would.”

And unfortunately, you knew he was absolutely right.

After a quick but cozy skincare session—him washing the foam off your cheeks with a towel while mumbling, “you missed a spot, baby,” and you dabbing toner on his face while he scrunched his nose—you finally took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door, bracing yourself.

As you stepped into the hallway together, Jake right at your side, the sound of chatter and the smell of pancakes still filled the dorm.

You barely made it three steps into the kitchen when you were immediately ambushed.

“Noona!”

Sunoo popped right in front of you, face lit up like a puppy that just saw a treat. “Good morning! I made extra strawberries because I heard you like them,” he beamed, holding up a plate already sliced perfectly into little hearts.

“Also—does that mud mask Jake hyung uses actually work? Because your skin is glowing right now and I need answers.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, heart melting at his sweet energy. “Sunoo, you’re seriously the cutest,” you giggled, letting him gently tug you toward the dining table like a proud little brother showing off. “And yes, it does work. I’ll make you a list later, okay?”

“Yes!” he cheered, pulling out a chair for you right beside him like a gentleman. “I’m gonna be flawless by next comeback.”

Jake watched from across the table, resting his chin on his palm, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

His eyes never left you—especially not as you teased Sunoo about the heart-shaped strawberries or pointed out a bit of whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

“Someone’s soft,” Jay muttered from beside him, but Jake didn’t even deny it.

You glanced up for a second and met Jake’s gaze. He gave you a tiny wink.

“Alright,” Jungwon finally spoke, sitting at the table with his arms crossed and a suspicious smile tugging at his lips. “So… (Y/N)-noona, huh?”

Jake paused mid-chew.

The table went quiet, everyone turning to look at him like they were waiting for a big reveal on a drama show.

You felt your palms begin to sweat under the table as your gaze flickered toward Jungwon—the second youngest but also the most responsible. He sighed, running a hand through his slightly messy red hair, the weight of the silence pressing down on his shoulders.

“…Since when?” he finally asked, tone calm but serious.

You bit your lip, glancing at Jake who only gave you a small nod of reassurance before you turned back to Jungwon and quietly said,

“Almost seven months.”

The collective reaction was immediate.

“Seven months?!” Sunoo turned to you with wide eyes, nearly dropping his chopsticks. “That long?!”

“Wow,” Heeseung muttered from the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as a teasing grin tugged at his lips. “It’s that serious, huh?”

Jake didn’t hesitate.

“Well… yeah,” he said, setting down his fork as he leaned forward a bit, voice more sincere than ever. “She’s my first girlfriend and everything.”

You blinked at the weight of those words.

“Actually,” Jake added with a small, shy smile, “she’s already met my family.”

Ni-ki, who had been stuffing a strawberry into his mouth, paused mid-bite and turned. “Even Layla?”

You grinned, placing your chin in your palm. “Yeah. Even Layla.”

Jake beamed at the memory, clearly fond. “Layla liked her more than she likes me now. Traitor.”

The table laughed again, lighter this time, the tension slowly lifting.

“Well,” you added with a soft shrug, “he also met mine. So… fair game.”

Jay raised a brow. “Met the parents on both sides? Damn.”

Jake shrugged, a sheepish but genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Well… it was getting serious after the promos for the Dimension album,” he said, fiddling with the fork on his plate, eyes flicking up to yours for a second. “And I guess we just… decided to really commit from there.”

You looked at him, heart tugging a little at how sincere he still managed to sound—even surrounded by teasing members and leftover pancake crumbs. You gave him a small, knowing smile before turning your gaze back to the boys.

“And now I’m here,” you said lightly, gesturing to the dorm with an exaggerated flair. “In my sunbaenim’s dorm. How romantic.”

That made Jungwon actually laugh—like, full-on, head-thrown-back laugh that caught even him off guard. He set his drink down and wiped at his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” he chuckled, voice a little higher from amusement. “We bump into each other at HYBE all the time.”

You raised a brow, smirking. “That’s different than seeing me asleep next to your member in pajama pants, leader-nim.”

The table burst into laughter again.

“She got you there,” Sunghoon muttered, smirking behind his cup.

“Yeah,” Ni-ki added with a cackle, pointing between you and Jake. “Waking up to your hyung spooning a girl is wild.”

Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, okay—can everyone stop visualizing it now?”

Sunoo burst out laughing, his eyes crinkling into crescents as he placed a gentle hand on your arm. “Well, no more secrets from you, hyung. You need to share Noona now.”

Before you could even respond, the sunshine boy flung his arms around you in a warm hug.

You laughed, surprised but happy, returning the hug just as tightly. “Sunoo-yah, you’re such a baby,” you giggled.

Jake rolled his eyes with a groan, pointing his fork toward the two of you. “That—that right there—is exactly what I was afraid of.”

Ni-ki snorted mid-chew. “Better get used to it, hyung.”

“You all are so dramatic,” you laughed, ruffling Sunoo’s hair before he settled back down, still beaming. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Heeseung raised a mug toward you, smirking over the rim. “Well, welcome to the family, (Y/N). Officially.”

Jake muttered under his breath, “This was not how I planned the soft launch.”

Jay raised a brow. “Soft launch? Bro, we caught you two asleep on the couch like a married couple.”

Jungwon, now finally relaxed, let out a real laugh. “Well, at least you both look happy.”

You glanced at Jake, who was still playing with his fork but met your eyes with a soft, genuine smile—the kind that said you were worth the risk.

You smiled right back, heart full. “We are.”

The waiting room was buzzing with staff, idols, and camera crews, but you were barely focused on any of it.

Your stylist clipped a small mic to the neckline of your basketball jersey—matching Eunchae’s, except instead of shorts, you had a pleated tennis skirt hugging your hips. Your hair was pulled back with soft clips, giving you that preppy-athletic vibe.

You fiddled with the hem of your skirt and turned to Eunchae. “Is it really okay for me to be here? Like… co-hosting?”

“Yes, unnie!” Eunchae beamed, tugging lightly at your hand like an excited puppy. “You’re my member and my unofficial emotional support girlie. Now make it official!”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess that makes me your co-host for the day?”

“Exactly.” Eunchae turned the handheld camera toward the two of you. “Hello everyone! Welcome to Eunchae’s Star Diary!” she said brightly, waving into the lens.

“Today is super special because—” she paused dramatically and pointed to you, “I’m with one of my unnies from Le Sserafim! A co-host, perhaps.”

You smiled and waved, voice light. “Hi everyone! I was dragged into this but I’m actually really excited. I’ve never done something like this before.”

“You’re going to be amazing,” Eunchae encouraged, slinging an arm around your shoulder as the two of you began walking through the Music Bank hallway.

“And for the first time, we’re going to be interviewing seniors from our very own company.”

“Oh no,” you laughed, already sensing where this was going. “I already have a feeling I know who…”

You didn’t even finish the thought when a blur of white streaked past the corner of your vision.

All brown hair, soft puppy eyes, and that unmistakable white stage outfit with silver trimming—Jake.

He zoomed right past you and Eunchae like a cartoon character, nearly colliding with a passing staff member before yanking open a door just a few feet ahead.

‘ENHYPEN’s Waiting Room,’ the label on the placard read clearly.

The door slammed shut behind him with a thud.

You and Eunchae both stood there blinking for a second, eyes wide. Then slowly—almost in sync—you turned to look at each other and burst out laughing.

“Did… did he just—” Eunchae started, breathless from laughing.

“Run for his life?” you finished, still wheezing. “Yes. Yes, he did.”

Eunchae reached out and gently placed her palm under the little hanging nameplate stuck to the dressing room door.

“Yes, our esteemed guests for today… are none other than ENHYPEN-sunbaenim,” she declared in her best announcer voice, even pointing toward their printed group photo that was taped just under the sign.

You stepped beside her, brushing invisible lint off your skirt like a proper MC. “They seem a little… unprepared.”

“That’s our cue!” Eunchae laughed, raising her fist and knocking twice.

A loud, scrambling noise came from inside the room—chairs scooting, someone knocking over what sounded like a bag of chips, someone else hissing “Get your jacket on, now—”

And then, a voice rang out—loud and unmistakably dramatic.

“WAIT—WAIT—WAIT!”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing. Eunchae doubled over beside you.

“That was Sunghoon, right?” she whispered.

“Definitely Sunghoon,” you replied, biting back a grin.

Another voice chimed in from inside, this one suspiciously Jake-sounding: “Hyung, it’s just them!”

“No, no—give me like ten more seconds, I swear I can fix my hair!”

You and Eunchae looked at the camera, fully breaking the fourth wall.

“Yeah… they’re our stars for today,” you announced with a playful sigh, gesturing grandly to the now panic-filled room behind the door.

You knocked again, this time more gently. “Can we come in now…?” you called through the door.

A beat of silence. Then Jungwon’s voice came through, a bit too composed.

“Yes! You can come in now.”

You opened the door.

And immediately closed it again.

They were all staring at you—you turned to Eunchae, wide-eyed. “Wait. I’m nervous.”

Eunchae gave you a shove toward the door. “You literally know all of them!”

You hissed, “Yeah, that’s the problem!”

Still, you opened it again with a sheepish smile as the cameras followed you two in. “Hello!” you both chorused, bowing politely. “We’re from Le Sserafim—thank you for having us today.”

The boys all bowed back, slightly out of sync, still recovering from the earlier chaos.

Eunchae brightened up, turning to them. “What were you guys doing before we barged in?”

Heeseung scratched the back of his neck and smiled. “We were about to eat, actually.”

You gasped softly. “Ah, we’re so sorry—did we come too early?”

Sunoo waved a hand. “It’s okay! We weren’t really eating yet.”

“Only planning to,” Jay added with a soft chuckle.

Sunghoon, Heeseung, and Jake stood up from the couch then, brushing themselves off as you and Eunchae gently motioned for them to follow toward the set for the interview.

The walk to the next room was filled with a strange tension—one part professional courtesy, one part trying to ignore the very real fact that you had three ENHYPEN members you’d been close with for two years, walking beside you like you were strangers on camera. You fiddled with your mic pack to distract yourself.

It was Sunghoon who finally broke the silence. “We’re usually not this quiet,” he said, glancing at you and Eunchae with a crooked smile.

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Jake gave a breathy laugh beside him and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry for the awkward vibes… We’re just not used to being interviewed by someone we—uh, we’re familiar with.”

You all chuckled at that as you entered the interview room. It was cozy, almost sleepover-like—blankets, pillows, fairy lights on the walls, and small cushions set up on the floor around a low table.

“Oooh, this is cute,” Eunchae said, making her way to one of the cushions.

You took your place beside her, the designated MCs for today, as the members began settling down on the opposite side—Jake sitting directly across from you with the smallest smile, like he was trying not to break into a full grin.

Eunchae, ever the bubbly host, clapped her hands once. “Okay! Let’s start with introductions! We have three very handsome guests today, so… one by one, please?”

Heeseung leaned forward, voice smooth. “Hello everyone, I’m Heeseung from ENHYPEN.”

Sunghoon followed right after. “Hi, I’m Sunghoon. It’s nice to be here!”

Jake smiled with his eyes. “And I’m Jake. Thanks for having us today.”

You nodded along, doing your best to stay composed despite the fact that your boyfriend was sitting across from you looking far too boyfriend-coded.

“It’s honestly fun having guests on the show,” Eunchae chimed. “Especially today—because I’m not alone in the waiting room for once. Usually I just film solo with a tripod and a camera.”

You giggled, nodding. “Yeah, I’ve seen those. You really hold it down on your own.”

Sunghoon grinned. “I get it, though. I used to be an MC here before you, (Y/N). There were days I’d just sit alone waiting for filming to start. Felt like I was talking to myself half the time.”

“Exactly!” you said, laughing. “There are days I miss my members a lot—when it’s just you and your thoughts before cameras roll.”

Eunchae let out a dramatic sigh and scooted closer to your side, plopping her head gently on your shoulder. “That’s why I’m so happy you’re here today, unnie.”

“Aww,” you whispered with a soft smile, nudging her affectionately.

But before you could say more, a voice from behind the camera called out—one of the PDs, teasing and half-laughing.

“But (Y/N)’s not alone anymore, right?”

You blinked, confused. “Huh?”

Another staff member added, “Don’t you share a waiting room with Jisung from NCT now?”

The entire room changed in atmosphere.

You let out a nervous laugh, scratching the back of your neck as you glanced toward the camera. “Ah… well, technically, yes. I mean—we’re just co-MCs.”

Heeseung tried to chuckle along with you, but it came out more awkward than anything. “Yeah, yeah… they’re, uh, a funny duo.”

Sunghoon raised a brow and tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering between you and Jake.

Jake didn’t laugh.

He didn’t speak either—his expression unreadable for a split second before he dipped his head down, pretending to fiddle with the mic clipped to his shirt.

Eunchae, ever the angel, picked up on the shift and quickly added, “Well, either way—it’s more fun having all of you here now! Especially since we get to interview sunbaes from the same company!”

Jake cleared his throat, voice low as he shifted in his seat. “So… what are we doing today?” he asked, looking straight at you, eyes unreadable despite the slight upward tug of his lips.

You matched his expression with a tight smile of your own, schooling your features before glancing at the cue card in your hand.

“Well,” you began, keeping your tone light, “it’s finally here. You had your comeback after what—ten months, right?”

All three boys nodded, and Sunghoon added with a laugh, “Yeah, it feels like it’s been forever.”

“It really has,” Heeseung said. “We’ve been preparing for months. We’re so happy to finally show everyone what we’ve worked on.”

You nodded, stealing a side glance at Jake. He was quiet, fingers laced together in his lap, gaze trained on you but not quite meeting your eyes.

“So tell us about the album,” you continued, tapping the cue card with your finger. “Dark Blood—sounds intense.”

“It is,” Jake finally answered, voice more even now. “It’s our third mini album, and probably one of our most emotionally driven ones. It dives into sacrifice, longing, and… a bit of darkness.”

He gave the camera a practiced smile. “The concept really pushed us, and we’re proud of it.”

Eunchae clapped lightly. “Ooooh! What are your favorite tracks from it?”

“I really love ‘Bills,’” Heeseung answered immediately. “It was the first track we recorded for this album, and I think it set the tone.”

Sunghoon followed right after. “Same here. ‘Bills’ just… hits. The melody’s addictive and it’s fun to perform on stage.”

Eunchae beamed. “Ooh, I like that one too!”

Jake, seated between them, shifted slightly, then leaned forward just enough for his voice to carry with a smoother tone. “I’d say my favorite is ‘Sacrifice (Eat Me Up).’”

He didn’t look at the camera.

He looked at you.

And he kept looking at you as he added, “It’s about giving every part of yourself—body, soul, emotions—until there’s nothing left. It’s intense, a little dangerous.”

He smiled, almost too casually, fingers clasped together in his lap. “It shows what devotion really means.”

The air shifted.

Your hand twitched over your cue card.

Eunchae nodded enthusiastically, completely missing the way your back stiffened. “That one’s my favorite too! Especially the chorus—so catchy!”

You cleared your throat, gripping your cue cards tighter. “Well,” you began, casting a brief glance Jake’s way before quickly looking down again, “I have to agree with Jake. ‘Sacrifice’ really stood out to me too.”

Eunchae turned to you and clapped her hands excitedly. “See? Great minds think alike!”

Your lips curved into a smile, even as your heart stuttered in your chest. Jake’s expression didn’t change—still calm, still composed—but his eyes held something deeper. Something territorial.

Was he still hung up on Jisung? Or was he just reminding everyone who knew you were his?

You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered or worried.

You stood near the side of the waiting room, arms crossed as you watched Jake quietly sling his bag over his shoulder.

Not a word was said, but you could feel it—the subtle shift in his energy. Polite, detached, not cold exactly, just a little too quiet for Jake.

“Hyung, see you later!” Ni-ki called while tying the laces of his sneakers.

“Bye, Jake-hyung! Bye, (Y/N)-noona!” Sunoo added, waving at you with both hands from the makeup chair, eyes crinkling as the stylist gently wiped off the remainder of his eyeliner.

You smiled and waved back, offering a soft, “Bye, Sunoo.”

Heeseung gave you a small nod and a knowing look—like he already sensed the storm brewing.

Jake only muttered, “Bye, guys,” under his breath before reaching for your hand and leading you out the door.

His grip was firm. Not rough, not rushed. But definitely, deliberate.

You said nothing as the two of you walked through the quieter halls of the building, only the soft thuds of your footsteps filling the space.

When you reached the back exit, your van was already waiting—your manager at the wheel, scrolling through her phone with one hand on the steering wheel.

She gave Jake a polite smile. “Evening, Jake.”

“Evening, noona,” he replied, opening the heavy side door for you.

You climbed in without a word, the plush leather seats greeting you with too much silence. Jake followed right after and closed the door behind him—shutting out the world with one solid thud.

The partition was already up.

And still, neither of you spoke.

Jake slid into the seat next to you, his thigh brushing against yours for a second too long before he leaned back and finally said, “So… we’re doing this again, huh?”

You turned to him slowly. “Doing what again?”

He looked at you now, properly, his expression unreadable. “Pretending everything’s fine until we’re alone.”

You blinked. “I wasn’t pretending.”

He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. “Right. So the tight smile wasn’t pretending. Or dodging every glance I threw at you.”

“Jake—” you started, your voice sharper than you intended.

He snapped.

“I know, okay?” he said, a little louder than before. “I know! How long do I have to pretend like everything’s fine? Like I’m just… okay with it?”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling. “You think I like this too?” you fired back, the words slipping out in English before you could stop yourself.

Jake blinked. His jaw tightened as the shift in language pulled a cord in him, like you had just lit the match.

“Oh, we’re doing this in English now?” he said with a breathy laugh—cold, incredulous. “Fine.”

He turned fully to face you, fire sparking in his eyes. “At least I act like some concerned jealous boyfriend and not like—like some co-worker trying to keep it professional with their own girlfriend.”

“That’s the problem, Jake!” you hissed, fingers clenched into fists in your lap.

“You are my boyfriend. And I can’t have you risk your entire career just because you’re jealous!”

He scoffed. “This isn’t about my career—this is about you! You don’t even look at me when the cameras are on. Like I’m… some stranger you just happen to be standing next to.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, what’s not fair is me having to sit across from you pretending like I’m not completely in love with someone who’s acting like I don’t even exist!”

Your breath caught.

The van was too quiet now—your hearts beating louder than the hum of the tires on the road.

“I want to show people,” Jake said, his voice cracking just slightly at the edges. “But I want you to want that too. Not because I’m insecure, or jealous, or whatever—but because this?” He pointed between you two. “This matters to me. You matter to me.”

You swallowed hard, voice trembling. “Do you think I don’t want that? That I don’t want to scream that you’re mine?”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because I’m scared!” you blurted. “I’m scared, Jake! Of the backlash. Of the fans. Of you losing everything because of me.”

He stared at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

And then, softer, “I’d rather lose everything than keep pretending I don’t love you.”

His words hung in the air like a loaded confession, too heavy to move past.

Jake let out a cold, bitter laugh, dragging his hands through his dark locks, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward, the tension crackling between you both like static.

“It’s been two years, (Y/N),” he muttered, voice laced with exhaustion and disbelief. “Two years of sneaking around, pretending like we’re strangers just because we’re bound by a contract.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning your head back against the leather headrest as your gaze drifted to the tinted window. The soft thrum of the tires against asphalt was the only thing grounding you in that moment.

You glanced at him from your peripheral, voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… two years.”

Two years of midnight meetups. Of erased call logs. Of longing glances across crowded hallways. Of holding back every instinct to reach for him in public.

Jake turned to you, eyes rimmed with something more vulnerable now—less anger, more ache. “I know why we did it. I know why you’re still scared. But at some point, I just—I need to live, (Y/N). I need us to breathe.”

Your lips parted like you wanted to say something—anything—but you swallowed the words, throat too tight.

“Don’t you want that too?” he asked, softer now, like he was begging you. “To stop pretending every second we’re out in the world?”

You looked at him fully now, finally, eyes glassy but steady.

“I do,” you whispered. “More than anything.”

He nodded slowly, lips pressing into a line. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one willing to fight for it?”

You blinked, stung by the quiet truth in his tone.

“I’m not asking you to shout it from rooftops,” he said. “I’m just asking you to stand with me.”

Silence again—thick, trembling.

“…And if I do?” you finally said. “If I stand with you?”

Jake’s eyes softened completely, a flicker of hope cutting through his frustration.

“Then we figure it out together,” he murmured, fingers brushing over yours like a silent plea, and then—finally—grasping your hand tightly, like he couldn’t bear to let go again.

But for a second, he did.

Just long enough to reach into his bag, pulling out something wrapped in velvet blue, that signature Tiffany & Co. teal peeking from beneath his palm.

You blinked. “Jake…?”

He didn’t look at you at first. He was too busy fiddling with the box, thumb brushing the edges, jaw tight like he wasn’t sure if he should be doing this. But then he looked up—really looked up—and your heart stuttered at the storm in his eyes.

When he opened the lid, your breath caught in your throat.

Two silver bands.

One was simple, sleek, polished to a soft gleam. The other had a small diamond in the center—nothing flashy, but delicate, elegant. Like it was made for you.

“…Is this you proposing?” you asked, trying to break the moment with a shaky laugh. “You know I prefer gold.”

Jake let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “I know. But I also know you’ll love it either way.” He plucked the smaller ring from the box carefully and reached for your hand again.

“This isn’t a proposal, not yet,” he whispered. “It’s a promise. That I’m yours, no matter what. That when the timing is right—when the world stops getting in the way—I’ll ask for forever the right way. The real way.”

You blinked furiously, tears threatening to spill. Jake just smiled—soft, shaky—and slid the ring onto your finger like he’d rehearsed this a hundred times in his head.

“I don’t care if fans notice. If people connect the dots,” he murmured. “Let them. I just need you to know—I need to know—that we’re still choosing each other.”

You stared down at the silver band, the tiny diamond catching the dim van light. Your lip quivered as you reached for the other ring and slipped it onto his finger without a word.

Jake exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. Then he brought your hand to his lips, kissing the promise he’d just made permanent.

“I don’t need the world to understand,” he said against your knuckles. “I just need you to believe me.”

“I do,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as tears finally slid down your cheeks. “I always have.”

He didn’t speak after that. Just leaned forward, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed a soft, slow kiss to your lips—one that wasn’t rushed, one that said everything he couldn’t anymore.

When he pulled away, your eyes were still closed, your fingers still gently curled around his. You opened them slowly, just in time for the soft mechanical whir of the partition being lowered.

“We’re here,” your manager said from the driver’s seat, not turning around. “You two better fix whatever was going on before, hmm?”

You blinked, surprised.

“Thank you, unnie,” you said sheepishly, cheeks burning as you fiddled with your fingers, trying to hide the glint of the new ring.

She sighed, and you could practically hear the smirk in her voice. “It’s not any of my business… but you two look cute together. Fix it. Or I’ll have to deal with moping Jaeyun again.”

Jake burst into quiet laughter beside you, rubbing the back of his neck as he reached for the door handle. “No promises,” he teased. “But thanks, hyung-nim.”

“Noona,” your manager corrected, deadpan.

Jake gave her a small salute. “Thanks, noona.”

You both stepped out into the private parking garage, the crisp air biting at your skin as Jake immediately held out your coat from earlier. You slipped into it gratefully, your cheeks still warm from the kiss and the conversation.

“I’ll grab both our bags,” Jake said before you could protest, already slinging yours over his shoulder with his own. “Don’t fight me on this. Promise ring perks, remember?”

You laughed quietly. “What, like a built-in porter?”

“Exactly,” he grinned, nudging you playfully as you walked side by side.

The click of your boots echoed through the quiet hall as you both made your way toward the private elevator.

The metal doors slid open with a soft ding, and Jake waited until you were inside before stepping in and pressing the button to your floor.

The elevator ride was quiet—but not tense this time. Just calm. Like everything unsaid had finally found its voice.

The soft hum of the lift filled the silence as you leaned slightly into Jake’s shoulder, fingers brushing against his as the floor count ticked up.

Ding.

Jake reached out to stop the doors from closing again and gestured like a gentleman. “After you, milady.”

You smiled, pulling out your card key from your bag as you led the way to your unit. The hallway was dimly lit with soft yellow lighting, familiar and comforting. You slid the card into the slot, the beep echoing softly as the green light blinked.

Jake held out his arm, and you instinctively held onto it for balance as you leaned down to take off your shoes, laughing softly as your heel got stuck on the rug. “Ugh. Why do I always struggle with this?”

“Because you’re stubborn,” Jake chuckled, easily slipping out of his sneakers without using his hands, smug. “No hands, see?”

“You’re so annoying,” you muttered playfully, finally stepping out of your heels and standing upright, twisting the knob to open the door fully—

Only to be met with two pairs of unimpressed eyes.

Standing just inside the entryway, arms crossed and glasses perched threateningly on their noses like two strict moms, were Yunjin and Sakura.

They didn’t say a word.

Not at first.

Just stared. Especially at Jake.

You blinked. Froze.

Jake straightened up immediately beside you, like a student caught sneaking into class late.

“…Hi,” you said nervously, offering a sheepish wave. “How are you two doing tonight…?”

Sakura didn’t even blink. She raised a perfectly shaped brow, arms still crossed, expression cool. “Just fine. Until we realized you said you’d be back in an hour, little missy.”

You gulped. Oh no.

Yunjin sighed dramatically. “I told you she was acting weird this morning. Didn’t I say she took extra long getting ready? That’s always the sign.”

“I thought she was just going through one of her Pinterest-girl phases again,” Sakura muttered. “But no. It’s boyfriend time.”

Jake coughed awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “…Hi. I’m, uh, Jake.”

“We know,” both girls deadpanned in unison.

You looked between them, then at Jake, then back at them. “Okay. Okay. Let’s all breathe.”

Yunjin took a deep breath.

Sakura didn’t.

“…Is this the part where you interrogate us?” Jake asked hesitantly.

“No,” Yunjin said. “This is the part where we ask if you’re staying for dinner.”

Jake blinked. “Wait—what?”

You gawked. “Wait what?!”

Sakura shrugged, walking past you both toward the kitchen. “He’s here. You clearly love him. The least he can do is help us chop garlic.”

Yunjin was already pulling her hair back into a ponytail, heading toward the fridge. “We were going to cook anyway. Might as well feed the mystery boyfriend who’s apparently been around for two years.”

Jake looked at you, eyes wide with disbelief—and relief.

You just laughed. A little too high-pitched. A little too stunned.

“Welcome to my life,” you whispered to him.

Jake leaned down, grinning as he brushed a kiss to your temple. “I like it here already.”

“Hey!” Yunjin’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Stop kissing my daughter, Sim! Get changed and help us here.”

You snorted, hand slapping over your mouth to stifle the laugh. “I’m her daughter now?”

Jake laughed too, already being dragged by the wrist down the hallway toward your room. “Should I be honored or terrified?”

The both of you had barely made it to your bedroom door when Kazuha poked her head out from the kitchen, a mixing bowl in her hands and her hair in a messy bun. “Wait… is that Jake-sunbaenim?!”

You gave her a sheepish grin, not even trying to defend yourself anymore. “He’s real, Zuha. In the flesh.”

“Oh my god,” she muttered, eyes widening, disappearing back into the kitchen like she’d just seen a ghost.

You both burst into laughter as you finally made it into your room, the familiar scent of your linen spray and vanilla candles comforting as ever.

Jake shut the door behind him and immediately made a beeline for your dresser. “Let me guess,” he said as he tugged open the second drawer, “this is your ‘stolen boyfriend item’ storage?”

You said nothing. Just watched as he pulled out a very familiar gray hoodie.

His eyes narrowed playfully. “So this is where my sweatshirt’s been hiding.”

You shrugged with faux innocence, perching on the edge of your bed. “Finders, keepers.”

He huffed out a laugh, already tugging his shirt off over his head—his toned chest flashing for a brief moment before he slipped the hoodie over his head. It was baggy and worn, the fabric clearly well-loved. “I was wondering why my laundry pile’s been suspiciously light.”

You giggled. “You gave me that one to sleep in when I got sick after your birthday, remember?”

Jake paused. “Yeah, you were shivering even under three blankets.”

His voice was fond. Soft. Almost too much to handle.

He reached into your bottom drawer next, pulling out the navy sweatpants he’d once told you to “just keep.” He held them up and raised a brow. “These too?”

You grinned. “Never know when I might need it.”

He chuckled under his breath, slipping into them quickly and ruffling his damp bangs out of his eyes. “Well, I guess I should’ve known you’d turn into a serial hoodie thief.”

You stood up and walked over, resting your hands on his shoulders as you looked him up and down. “To be fair… you wear oversized really well.”

Jake leaned in, hands brushing your waist. “And you wear stolen boyfriend clothes even better.”

Before he could kiss you again, Yunjin’s voice rang from down the hall: “Sim Jaeyun, if you don’t get in here and start slicing strawberries, I’m feeding your girl dinner myself!”

Jake groaned, dropping his head against your shoulder. “God, she’s scary.”

You giggled. “She’s just being protective.”

“She’s doing a great job,” he muttered.

You snorted and tugged him gently by the wrist. “C’mon,” you said, pulling him back out into the hallway. “Time to earn your dinner.”

As you both entered the kitchen, Eunchae perked up immediately, grabbing a plastic container from the counter and placing it in Jake’s hands, along with a cutting board and a knife.

“I literally just interviewed you like two hours ago,” she said dramatically, staring at him in disbelief. “And now you’re cutting strawberries in our dorm kitchen? This is wild.”

Jake gave her a sheepish grin. “Surreal for me too.”

Kazuha, who was already perched on one of the stools by the counter, let out a loud laugh, nearly dropping her phone in the process. “This is insane. Do you just teleport from music shows to our house now?”

You giggled and plopped onto the stool beside her, reaching for a slice of mango from the tray in the center. “He’s an all-rounder, what can I say?”

Jake rolled his eyes fondly as he started slicing the strawberries with surprising focus, the sleeves of his hoodie tugged up to his elbows. “Your kitchen… is very pink,” he muttered, glancing around.

“We like our color coordination,” Sakura replied dryly from the other side of the kitchen island, sipping water from her glass.

She turned to Yunjin, who was standing at the stove whisking something. “So, what’s the plan? Crepes later?”

“Yeah,” Yunjin said without looking away from the pan. “I’ve got a few more strawberries in the fridge. Might as well make it a treat—Chaewon-unnie and (Y/N) would love it. Though, Chaewon-unnie’s knocked out cold right now.”.”

Jake, still cutting with a level of concentration that made everyone a little amused, added casually, “(Y/N) likes snacking on strawberries before dinner. Like… religiously.”

You blinked and turned to him slowly. “You make me sound like I survive solely off berries.”

Sakura didn’t miss a beat. “And she wonders why her appetite’s always ruined.”

Kazuha let out a very loud, “Exactly,” while pointing her spoon at you accusingly.

You gasped with mock offense. “Why is everyone attacking me?!”

Jake chuckled softly, looking over his shoulder at you as he placed another neatly sliced strawberry on the growing pile. “They’re not wrong, babe. You eat them like popcorn.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who steals all the dried mangoes and thinks I don’t notice,” you fired back, arms crossed.

Jake only smirked as he grabbed one of the small ceramic bowls from the rack, neatly dividing the freshly sliced strawberries. He slid one half over to you across the counter with practiced ease. “For my berry thief,” he teased.

“Thanks,” you murmured with a small smile, taking a bite just as Yunjin set down a steaming dish on the dining table behind you.

She wiped her hands on a towel tucked into her waistband, eyeing the two of you with an unreadable expression before heading back to the stove and grabbing a ladle. She poured broth into a pan with calculated calm, then turned slightly over her shoulder.

“Jake,” she called, tone almost too light. “What do you want with (Y/N)?”

You nearly choked on your strawberry.

“Unnie,” you protested, voice cracking as your eyes darted between your members. “Really?”

Jake, unbothered, leaned his elbows on the counter and met Yunjin’s gaze head-on. “What do I want with her?” he repeated, almost playfully. “Let’s see…”

He turned to you with a quick wink before looking back at Yunjin. “I’ve known her for three years,” he said smoothly. “Dated her for two.”

Jake chuckled nervously. “Yeah… we started seeing each other around the Dimension era. Kept it under wraps, obviously.”

You stared at your hands, cheeks flushing as the kitchen filled with stunned silence.

⤷ read part 2 here !

⤷ piece taglist — @m1kkso⤷ permanent tagllist —

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[fancypeacepersona]

TAKE IT BACK; I DON’T NEED IT

Fiiiiiiinally done!! This was a labor of love and pain. I’m clocking in at ~25 hours and it’s BY FAR the most detailed piece I’ve ever done. The things I do for my Beloved… 💜💜💜

[fancypeacepersona]

ONEUS 'X' MV Teaser #1

[fancypeacepersona]

go as a dream ft. ex-husband satoru gojo ✧

୨୧ - ten years together, five years married -- it's a long time. too long to be running on borrowed time glued together by the past. leaving is easy, but staying away turns out to be impossible. → afab!reader, modern/no curses!au, slow-burn, long-established relationship, mutual pining, heavy angst, toxic relationship dynamics, mention of pregnancy/failure to conceive, relationship insecurity, emotional sex, oral f!receiving, spanking/slapping, cum eating, mentions of readers relative hair length, mentions of readers family, nsfw → w.c. - 15.3k {1 hour reading time}

a/n: when an idea sticks for me, i head to my graveyard of wips to expand on it. most end up dying, but for some reason the love you guys held for this version of satoru made it stick. make him meaner... then more loving... then spin the narrative - pin it back on him -- all of those thoughts ran my psyche during the month (?) it took me to flush this idea out. happy 3k, my angels <3 i crafted this for you with so much love, sweat and tears. sit with this one for while. let it sink in. part two may come if you guys will it to. with so much of my love, - elly

listen to the soundtrack <3

Your heart is racing, gloss dripping sensually from your lips. Satoru is under you, his familiar face laced with overwhelming stoicism. He’s biting over soft, pink lips, his eyes wide open as he watches you ride him like you never have before. 

You’re sad – on the verge of tears, but he doesn’t notice. He just parts his lips, content with the headiness of the pleasure you’re working yourself up to give him. Usually, he’d be telling you how beautiful you looked, how well you’re taking him, but he’s silent. It’s a deadly combination – you sad, Toru silent. 

You just want to disappear. 

“That’s it, babe. So close… keep going.” It’s like the one sentence of praise needs to be sucked from his very lifeform, because he’s chewing on his words, throwing them at you all mangled and sloppy. There’s no care anymore; gentleness is lost as he grabs your hips and slams them back down on his length. 

You’re reeling, so close, yet so far from any kind of release your body’s begging for. You need Satoru to give you something – to touch and tell you he loves you so gently, but there’s nothing. Fucking nothing. Just grinding bodies lost in the tangle of bedsheets. 

His eyes snap closed, head tilted back as he bares his neck for you. Two years prior, you would’ve gone in, marking every inch of that luminescent skin with love bites. Now, you watch your nimble fingers spread across the soft, veined expanse, fingers concentrating at his Adam’s apple. You squeeze, he breathes out a moan. 

“Ahh – come on, comeoncomeon.” 

“Cum for me… please.” You’re trying your best to come off genuine, to dip your tone into a needier drawl he doesn’t see much anymore, just for it all to be over sooner. Right now, you’re just fulfilling your bodily duties as Satoru Gojo’s wife. He did just buy you a Cartier bracelet, giving you apologies with wide, blue puppy eyes. As fucked up as it sounds, the least you can do is get him off before he goes to sleep. 

“Mm, say my name, baby. Gonna fill you up, give you so many babies.” 

You’re nodding, letting him spill his orgasm thoughts into your lap. You know him far too well, can read his breeding kink inside out. What Satoru doesn’t know is that you went on birth control the second you started drifting apart. There would be no loose ends; you’ve been planning your escape for months. 

So you let him come inside of you, calling him baby and telling him lies about how turned on you are. Satoru knows you too well that he’d notice a fake orgasm, so you don’t even try. You just let him have his moment, kissing up your arm with ruffled, white hair, pumping shot after shot deep inside of you like he’s on a mission. 

And when he’s drained and limp, you’re climbing off of him, not even offering a word as you head straight to the bathroom. 

You and Satoru thought you had it all figured out pretty early. He graduated from university prematurely and got an immediate position doing what he loved – teaching psychophysics as a Professor's Aide. It’s where he met you, not his student, but definitely a co-worker he shouldn’t have approached, because you fell hard. Head over heels, mind over body – you made him your life. 

That lifeline only had about five good years once you got married, and now you two are overworked strangers bumping shoulder to shoulder on a shared lease. Though you’ve mourned the relationship that shaped you into the woman you are now, you don’t have any regrets. There’s no hatred for Toru in your heart – quite the opposite. You love him to pieces, but can’t give him what he needs at the cost of you. It’s just not worth it anymore. You feel like an object manufactured to please. 

So you chase your solace against the hot spray of the shower, letting it drown out your thoughts as water-mixed come seeps down your thighs. 

Now that you’re alone, you can cry. So, you do – for the unborn children you promised you’d give him, for the life and love you manufactured with your bare hands. He didn’t know that you’d be packing your bags and escaping tomorrow. It’s hard for you even to swallow, though you’ve been planning this day for months. Sweet freedom… only hours away. 

Why is it, though you’ve wished so hard and lived in daydreams, that you’re afraid? You don’t want to be alone in any form of the word, but you couldn’t stay here. It’d kill you long before you hit your grey years. 

Your sweet, smiling Toru with that permanent sparkle in his eye would kill you. 

“Suguru and Shoko want to grab dinner tonight after work.” 

Toru’s voice is slow and controlled as he steps into the bathroom, naked as the day he was born. His silhouette moves intently in front of the glass shower door, stopping at your soaking wet shadow. He hears it, the sniffle amongst the spray – the way you’re hunched in on yourself, curled in the corner of the spacious area. “Are you crying?” 

You scoff, shaking your head as you wipe water from your eyes. “Fucking ignore it.” 

“Hey.” He steps forward, pulling the shower door open. Just like he thought, you’re posed like a wet puppy, legs crossed to keep your decency, and arms over your chest in the farthest corner. “Crying after sex is not your style.” 

“Just… weird post-nut hormones.” You’re shrugging him off with a distant look in your eyes. More recently, everything turns into pointless bickering, so you feed him lies to keep him agreeable. 

But, Satoru’s looking at you like he knows you’re a liar, light eyebrows all screwed up. “But, you didn’t even cum-

“Close the door, Satoru.” You’re grimacing, stepping forward to yank the door closed in his face. “What do you want? What about Suguru?” 

“Suguru and Shoko invited us to dinner tonight…” He’s speaking slowly, like he’s trying to gain his bearings. It’s not really an argument, but Toru feels the rush of one in the steamy air. It wouldn’t be the first time this post-sex daze made you two hot-headed. “I was going to say, it’d be good to all be together again, but you’re acting weird… They don’t need to be around that right now.” 

You scoff, forehead falling into your open palm. The water burns you from within, but you stand under it like you want to be scalded. “Did you follow me in here just to fuck with me? Huh!? You see me trying to get away from yo-

Then, when the seal breaks and you’re yelling, that’s when Toru starts – deep voice banging off the tile walls. “You’re a livewire! You sat there and let me fuck you, now you’re acting like I’m the biggest inconvenience to ever cross your path!” 

“Get out! For once in your life, just leave me alone!” 

He really should listen to you – let you have the upper hand because he knows you’re sensitive, but Toru just shakes his head. “A man can’t even take a piss in the bathroom he pays for.” He adds, stepping away from your vengeful, blurred reflection. The toilet is just over from you – he can’t see the shower, you can’t see him. 

For those few moments, you’re holding your breath. The shower drowns out the sound of him relieving himself, but you can guess well enough what he’s doing. When you’re married, intimate moments like this go unsaid – even on the brink of divorce. And when he’s done, he’s lumbering back over to the shower, long arms limp as they reach to pull it open again. You roll your eyes. 

This time, your back is turned to him, water beading at your shoulder and trailing down the curves in your back sensually. His crystalline eyes catch it, and he parts his lips. “Mind if I join you?” 

You don’t answer him, deciding it’s enough just to regard him briefly with a downcast look over the shoulder. You’re still covering your chest with crossed arms, mainly because you’re cold. Toru keeps opening and closing the door like a nuisance. Now, he’s climbing under the spray with you, big hands holding your familiar shoulders. He leans down to kiss your left. 

“Maybe if we had a baby…” He mumbles that same tired argument into your wet skin, hoping for a different response. “It would bring you back to me.” 

“I don’t want babies with you, Satoru.” The realization is heavy, but you know he can take it. All Toru wants besides you and money is a child – a mini little version of him that you adore to the ends of the Earth. When you became a Gojo, you promised you’d give him what he wanted – every breathless reminder in the heat of the moment was fuel. You two were trying… until you weren’t. Until you were shrugging off to appointments without telling him, taking prescription pills once he tucks in for bed. You just haven’t told him yet. 

Now, he’s standing with it, breathing into your skin as he works up a response in his head that covers the devastation. “You know how my family is–

“I don’t care.” It’s a force of habit, you’re leaning back into his cradle. “Bringing a child into this mess is just inhumane.” 

Then, Satoru says it – what he’s been wanting to tell you for weeks. Months, almost. He whispers, “Then why do you stay?” 

All you can do is shake your head. You don’t have it in you to lie, and you surely wouldn’t tell him that you were leaving tonight. So, you reply, “I love you.” 

“Love isn’t enough to keep a marriage going.” 

You know that. You know Satoru loves you more than anything, but you didn’t feel like it was right for him to say it. In your mind, he’s clueless to the cool air you’re exerting every time he draws near. You’re not buzzing in his company anymore, going out of your way to be seen by his blinding eyes. 

So, you don’t answer him. You nod, easing your shoulders from his grip as you collect the rest of your sanity and move to leave the shower. He watches you go, fine white hair nearly translucent on his pale scalp as he stands soaked.

Toru’s long eyelashes are sticking together, clumped and prominent as he watches you move and dry off through the fogged door. The lingering, soft scent of your signature bodywash sits sensually in the air, wafting from your skin every time you bend or bow. He studies that fuzzy reflection as if it's the last time he’ll see it, and thinks he feels sad. Devastatingly sad, it rises in his throat like bile he must swallow. 

You’re slipping into a soft, ivory robe that Satoru’s mother gifted after the marriage; he has a matching one – it’s your favorite robe with his embroidered initials sewn across your heart. He notices your choice to wear it as you walk out of the bathroom, not even offering him a look over your shoulder, and thinks it’s a sign. You’re still sporting him around, telling him you love him even though you don’t want to bear his children. 

But Satoru isn’t stupid. He’s far too smart to feed himself lies in hopes of lengthening this relationship that has always had a timer on it. But he is reeling. There’s nothing he falls short on, in his opinion. He treasures and calls you beautiful, any chance he gets. Vacations, expensive gifts, words of affirmation, and mindblowing touches are just scratching the surface of what he offers you. 

Alone, he sits with these thoughts, thin eyebrows knitting together as his dripping head hangs between his shoulders. Standing statuesque in the shower, palms pressed to the damp wall, keeping him upright because you’re not here to do it. Mentally, you’re not here at all. 

He can hear you in the bedroom stewing about – opening and closing doors, the shuffle of fabric, and the barely-there sound of your breathing. Toru has you all down to a science, now. He knows you’re slipping into bed, likely naked or covered loosely in some silk slip he loves to bury his head in.

That’s where he wants to be now – three years younger, your hair tangled in his long fingers, words of devotion damp in the air. Instead, he’s breathing in shower steam, a cruel metaphor to the heat the relationship used to hold. 

Everything is a metaphor, now. Toru sees that when he’s walking out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, wide, adoring eyes glossed over with humidity and exhaustion. Still, they never lose their supernatural sparkle when they fall on you, eyes closed peacefully as you feign sleep. 

He was right; you’re in silk, your eyelids twitching as the bathroom light spills a sliver of golden light across your face. Blankets are bunched loosely at your hips. Satoru can’t help but feel the beauty you emit, it’s why he married you – it’s something in your mere presence that makes you so addictive. 

Crawling into bed with you, naked and damp-haired, is so familiar it’s almost sickening. He’s leaning over your shoulders, so gentle as he settles over you, and kisses your cheek. In your daze, you shift. 

“What?” 

Satoru slides up close to you, chest pressed to your back as he winds an arm around your waist. “Good night. I love you so much, beautiful.” He’s whispering in your ear, kissing over the shell with bitten lips. You can feel the cool wetness of his hair brush your bare neck, beads of water falling onto your skin. 

He continues, arm sliding right between the canyon of your breasts, pulling you deeper into his body. You’re lifting your head, eyes shut, because you can’t bear the light right now. 

“Shh, just lie with me.” 

For some reason, you’re taking it. You’re listening to him, pressing your head back into the pillow, sighing softly. Nowadays, you’re impartial to bedtime cuddling, but Satoru insists. It’s become a nasty habit because now he has trouble nodding off if he’s not pressed skin-to-skin. 

It’s the only reason you’re not pushing away. Or, maybe it’s the fact that you’re too far gone to be annoyed or unsettled. His touch feels good, just too warm, too close, like he’s slowly trying to ingest you into his bloodstream. 

You two stay like that for hours. Satoru falls asleep right on the cusp of Midnight – his breath steadies over, and you’re still awake, gazing longingly at the bedside clock. Hands tucked under your pillow, you’re fiddling with them, doing anything to dull those uncertain thoughts away. In seven hours, you’d be standing in a train station, life passing you by as you leave the city, leave your husband. 

You wonder how he’ll act, you wonder if he’ll cry for you. 

No, Satoru never cries. 

You bite your lip, gathering strength in your bones to shift and turn around in his arms. When you do, he’s mushing his face deeper into the bed, arms constricting back around you once you’re settled face-to-face. You can feel the softness of his breath over your skin, can hear the soft hums behind each of them like he’s dreaming uncomfortably. 

Still, he looks so peaceful. Beautifully asleep, like his life wasn’t crumbling and burning all around him. 

In that soft, settled face, you’re staring at the boy you fell in love with – bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, flushing and looking away when you’d counter his initial advances. Your friends were always around that early on, egging it all with a jump in their voice. Everyone felt so accomplished when you and Toru got married, as if they pieced together a match made in Heaven. 

You just can’t fathom what went wrong… You don’t want to see it. 

You don’t want to see him, anymore. So, you close your eyes and rid your consciousness of struggle – if only for a few hours. 

Day comes with a vengeance – a gross, salty taste in your mouth as your brain slams awake. Your body is slow to react, cocooned comfortably in Toru’s thick chest. You’re too warm, alarms are blaring, and you realize you forgot to close the curtains last night. The morning sun is deviant. 

You slip out of bed easily, undoing his arms' knot around your body. The silk of your slip is darkened with sweat, most likely Toru’s, but definitely mixed with hints of you. It takes you a while to come to from the cruel awakening, and you’re half alive as you shift to the edge of the bed, feet planted on cool ground. Toru shifts, and you hold your breath. 

Your last hour together, and Satoru refuses to wake up. 

You’re letting him drag the morning out, not bothering to wake him as you head for the bathroom. Time moves languidly with a solemn undertone, hovering over you like bad memories as you scrub your face and teeth raw. There’s so much tension in your body this morning, and you’re taking it out on yourself – swishing mouthwash, swallowing pills, securing jewels and ornaments. 

You’re sure this is the fastest you’ve gotten ready without plans to work. You just think you’d rather be put-together when you disappear from Satoru’s life forever. You want him to have this reflection to remember you by – exposed shoulders, soft skin, dripping with his money in gold. 

When he wakes up, stumbling into the bathroom sleepdrunk, he smiles when he sees you in the mirror's reflection. “Why didn’t you wake me, beautiful?” 

“Figured you’d want more sleep.” You reply, not even meeting his frosty gaze. You’re fixated on securing a bracelet to your wrist – one, of course, from Satoru. It’s a gold-plated Gojo Clan crest that was passed down through matriarchs, eventually given to the prospective head. 

His family is so traditional, overbearing in the worst ways. Since you two started dating, they’ve had a magnifying glass on the relationship, stating it’s just out of care. Sure, the money is endless and overflowing, but it’s not enough to overshadow the abusive balance of power. Toru doesn’t want to lead either – you don’t want to be next to him if he does. He promised you that he’d completely shut down the proceedings if you married him, but keeping his promise isn’t enough.  

Nothing he seemed to do was enough. It’s all just a lost cause. 

“Now I have twenty good minutes to leave the house.” Once your bracelet is secured, he’s crowding you against the sink, his shirtless body pressing hard into your back. You’re humming, leaning back into his frame. 

“At least you showered last night.” 

“You got me on that schedule.” He whispers into your neck, big hands squeezing your hips as he kisses you there. “I feel terrible about last night… Followed me in my sleep.” 

You knew it, you could sense the stress in his breath even when he looked so peaceful. “We both said some things.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make you finish.” Another kiss to the neck, Satoru nuzzles himself deep in your skin, white hair fluffy and strewn about. You look up at him in the reflection and shake your head. 

“Just cause I was on top. I was trying too hard – It’s not your fault.” 

He doesn’t take that well; he sighs into your skin. “You know I don’t believe that.” 

Of course, he doesn’t. One of the most significant parts of your relationship is your uncanny sexual chemistry. There’s never been a time when you two stopped at one round – you both finished multiple times, every time. 

“Then, you know I won’t tell you the truth, you should just stop trying.” Both hands are pressed to the countertop, and you’re still covered in your sleep dress. Toru’s hands start to wander. “No, get off of me.” 

It stings, but you don’t have to tell him twice. Satoru steps back with an odd look in his eyes, moving to your side. Though you’re rejecting sexual advances, you let him pull your chin forward for a sensual kiss to the lips. It lasts for a few seconds, his hand wanders across your jawline, slotting perfectly in your hair. 

“You’re not on campus today, right?”

You shake your head, lips rolling together as you evaluate his lingering taste. “No, you should really brush your teeth.” 

“Yeah…” He starts, reaching over you for his blue and white brush. “Haven’t been on the grounds in a while, everyone’s asking about you, saying we should go to dinner to catch up.” 

“You’re sure I’m acting normal enough to see them now? Isn’t that what you said last night? That I was acting ‘weird’?” 

“You were acting weird last night. Moody.” 

You scoff as he begins to brush his teeth. You two are stealing glances in the mirror, too distant to hold contact for too long. “Why do you say things like this if you’re not trying to make me mad?” 

“I’m just making an observation.” He shrugs like he’s not being a tool, brushing his teeth slowly as he looks at you. You’re staring down at your hands, shaking your head silently. “I’m sure it's news to you, but I never try to make you mad. I just say what I feel, and you jump down my throat.” 

“Just brush your teeth.” You bite out in resolve, standing up straight as you go to walk away. 

You're breathless, clutching a fist to your chest as his words wash over you with time. They fall like dominoes, slow and calculated, as you dress for the day. Satoru thinks you’re working from home once he leaves, so you lean into it, picking something easy to wear, yet professional enough to be on camera. It’s the perfect outfit to run away in – something he sees all the time. 

But even as you dote over your reflection in the bedroom mirror, adjusting necklines, pulling jewelry, smudging lipgloss, you’re thinking about it – him. 

You don’t know why it’s so hard to sit with the fact that Satoru has always been like this. You two are polar opposites in social settings – he’s the life, you’re the longing. In crowded city bars, you’d be the girl tucked under his heavy arm, bearing the weight of his light. Satoru stopped drinking years ago, but when he did, he’d tower over you on the dancefloor, long arms slung over your shoulders as he shouts just how much he adores you – it’s a lot. Everyone’s around. 

Reading your hunched demeanor, he doubles down. Yes, all these people are around… these undulating, nameless faces lost among the neon glare, but none of them held a flame to you. He chose you. 

And when you’re alone with him, sober to the bone and drained after a work week, all of those sweet memories seem to fade away. 

He’s always too loud, too close, overbearing, but never at arm's length. This monstrous, silent loathing is a hard feeling to live with. It eats you alive, until he touches you and takes it all away again. 

It’s all you want, right now. Satoru’s touch. 

“Staring introspectively into my bedroom mirror whilst my shitty husband calls for me repeatedly. That should be the prompt on your next scholarly paper.” 

You turn around, brows furrowed as reality hits again. “What are you talking about? I didn’t hear you.” 

“Let’s sync our breaks – meet up somewhere to eat.” Right as you open your mouth to blow him off, he’s rushing back. “It can just be ramen, nothing serious. Come on, just give me ten minutes.” 

His begging for a sliver of emotional affection isn’t new, but it usually isn’t so blatant. Then, your eyes wander, wondering if those ten minutes would be worth your time. 

No, you have a train to catch. A one-way ticket out of here. 

“I’ll let you know how I’m feeling later.” You nod, smiling softly as you dodge that falling stare settled on you. “I-I’m just… I’m tired.” 

“It’s okay.” He replies, whisper-soft. He’s trying to hide it, but the shine in his eyes falters for just a second, the only hint you get to his disappointment. 

When you see him off that morning, your stomach hurts. 

There’s an ink-black, bitter pit there as you watch him jog down the pavement in his endearing little Professor's Aide sweater vest uniform. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder, packed with a Bento you made for him in case you couldn’t see him for his break. 

“Bye, love! I will text you!” 

You’re silent, passing him a kiss you press to your fingers. Your stomach hurts, and now your heart aches – it burns, you’re on fire, soles of your feet scalding on coals fueled by guilt. That blue glimmer in his eyes is so oblivious to the obvious that it hurts. 

If you could help it, this was the last time Satoru would ever see you, and he waved you goodbye with the sweetest smile on his face. 

“I love you,” You call back weakly once he’s comfortably out of earshot. Then he turns the corner, and he’s gone – just a lingering presence in the air that only affects you. If you could cry right now, you would. But, you’ve cried enough this last week – more than you ever have with him. Everything was just so terribly bittersweet. 

When you made your decision, it didn’t feel real. Somehow, it does now. You wonder how your friends will take it and if you’ll see them again. Sure, they’re your friends, but they’re Satoru’s too. You wonder if you’ll see his family, his mother took you in and doted on you when her son pushed her away. His father gave you advice and priceless memories. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Kin – all of them. You knew all of them. 

Being a Gojo was so deeply rooted in your life that you’re not sure it’s possible to change your name. They’ve truly made you feel like one of theirs, as deafening as that sounds. 

A minute in the doorway, and you’re turning around to finish out the rest of your morning. All of your bags were packed and stowed away with the laundry, where Toru never treks. It’s just one suitcase – half of your wardrobe. You’re sure you’ll be back to collect everything else. 

In any case, you wouldn’t miss anything with his lingering scent on it, so you stare longingly at your art on the walls – the blankets on the couch and the crystal sitting on display in the cabinets. 

And just before you’re about to leave, you stop at the counter and rip off a piece of a napkin on display. You brought out a pen from the study, hands shaking as you pull the cap. 

Satoru,  Keep whatever, or you can sell it. Just don't reach out, i’m leaving you I’m sorry and i really really do love you

A small, wet teardrop lands on the dingy napkin, and it’s the first sign of crying. You’re surprised you still have it in you after so many rivers you’ve wept. Writing his name carried a terrible feeling, scripting out the letters to tell him you were leaving was like bricks falling from your pen. 

Shaking hands, you let it drop on the counter beside your note. If this is the last thing you give him, you want it to be candid. Just like your relationship – winging it all until the silence grew inescapable. 

You call a cab, heading downstairs with your bags in hand. It’s a conscious decision to leave the door unlocked, but you have the keys stuffed in your pocket. You’re not really thinking about it or anything at all. You’re focused on not falling on your face as you jog down the steps, breathless without a cause. It feels like fire is burning hot in your tracks. 

Your suitcase slides into the back, the city breeze rolls your hair back, and a chill envelopes your face. The entire time, you’re silent, bowing for your driver and showing manners, but silent and dreary nonetheless. 

The ride is shaky, music drowns out the noise, and emptiness fills the void. 

It’s all you can muster up the courage to feel right now, as the city passes you by. It’s an odd kind of comforting melancholy, like when you know the storms have faded and all that’s left is the rebuild. 

You have your family waiting at home. A room with a view of nothing but countryside and rolling rivers. You’re giving yourself four weeks to get back to yourself, two to file the divorce properly, and one without any work before returning to just virtual meetings in your childhood bedroom. 

Morning jogs, bike rides down the riverside, fresh delicacies to buy – yes, your life would be too rich to worry about Satoru. You feel like a caterpillar slowly slinking towards its cocoon with the joyful unease of what's to come. But you’re still so sad. 

It’s hard to believe that anything can feel as good as the way Satoru made you feel, even when his tendencies made you want to pull your hair out. In the end, you made your decision. You slept on it, stewed over it, cried about it, and now you’re living through it. 

Reality hits when you’re stepping out at the station. Bodies are everywhere, making it easy to pay your fee and slip into the chaos. You lose your sense of self walking against the foot traffic of the busy morning commuters, sucking back even more tears as you crawl the descending stairs. 

Once you reach the bottom, you’re alone enough to breathe, luggage firm at your side as you dig for your phone. You’ve been meaning to do this forever — actually tell your closest friends about your decision. All they know is what you let them see. The second you and Toru start arguing in front of them, you’re walking away. It’s all smiles and love when they bring him up, even after that day you kicked him out of the apartment and made him get a hotel. Lying about your relationship is your forte, but you couldn’t lie anymore. 

Shoko picks up two rings deep, bored but aware. ‘What’s up?’

“Hey, I know you’re at work… Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be out for about a month.” 

There’s shuffling on the other line – the echo of familiar voices. You can guess she’s walking down the lecture hall during the transition; it was around that time. ‘You’re such a slack. And guess whose gonna be stuck doing all your work? Me.’ 

“I mean, I’ll be out, but I’ll still be working.” Intercom, robotic voices control the flow as a train departs before you, sending a noisy rush of air into your face. 

‘Are you going on vacation or what?’ 

“Visiting family.” You reply, no emotion. 

Shoko silences for a moment, humming under her breath. ‘Without Jo?’ 

“Yeah… I’m leaving him.” 

More silence. You expected nothing less. 

“Shoko?” 

‘Dude, what? Why?’ 

“He didn’t… cheat or anything, we just haven’t been happy for most of our marriage. It’s like people want to see us together more than we want to be together.” 

‘Okay, coming from the outside — No, you guys are so obviously in love, I mean… All he does is talk about you, it’s genuinely the most annoying thing ever.’ You can see her now in your mind's eye, jaw working a piece of fruit gum between her teeth, talking with her hands. 

“Yeah… well… you’re not trapped inside four walls with him once the sun goes down.” 

‘That’s so fucking sad, I- wow.’

“I’ve made peace.” 

‘-And I don’t even blame you, because I wouldn’t touch him with a long, long stick. He’s too annoying, and that’s just the least of it. So arrogant, too. He’s not as sexy as he thinks he is.’ It’s like once you pull the bandage off, it gave Shoko ample room to talk shit. Yes, she loves Toru – she loves you more. It’s always going to be you that she defends. 

“Yeah, but it’s more just, like – he knows what buttons to push and makes pushing them a game. The only time we talk… like, actually talk,  is when he thinks I’m mad at him and rushes in for damage control… then, it’s all like, ‘well, baby, if you would talk to me and tell me how you’re feeling, I’d understand.’ – But, whenever I tell him how I’m feeling, he fucking invalidates it like I’m the crazy one! Why am I still begging to pay some bills five years into the marriage?! He doesn’t listen to me.” 

‘Let that man pay the bills.’ 

“It’s the principal-

‘I know, I know.’ She sighs, chuckling softly before she continues. ‘I’m not going to hear the end of this – does he know you’re gone?’ 

“No… and don’t tell him. I want him to find out for himself.” 

‘Harsh.’

“It’d be harsher coming from you.” 

The announcement comes from your train, the rush of wheels skidding against tracks inches closer, you’re stepping back from the platform. 

“Okay, I’m gonna go. Don’t really want to be on my phone this week, so I’ll probably turn it off. Call my sister if you need anything.” 

‘I’ll be thinking about you – stay busy.’ 

“I will.” You reply, voice bittersweet in your chest. Shoko goes away, and you’re alone again – thoughts rush to the front of your mind. You’re staring at the lockscreen of you and Satoru in Kyoto when things were still good; a friendly stranger took it. Your arms are slung over his neck, and you’re smiling in his face. You remember that day so well – he was all over you and made the sweetest love to you that night. It was all so good back then. You never wanted for anything. Not space, touch, emotion, or love. Satoru gave you everything you needed, including some. 

Then, the feeling finally, truly settles. 

You miss him. 

From: Satoru No news on lunch?  Don’t worry about it, baby. Thank you for my bento, I’ll make sure to return it empty.  From: Satoru On my way home! Running real fast to you Had the shittiest day, gotta rant when I get back From: Satoru Hey, what’s with the cryptic note?  Did someone snatch you up for ransom?  Babe?  [incoming call]

You glance down at your phone, grunting as you swing your suitcase over your small childhood bed. 

You made it back home a little less than three hours ago – just as your sister left for class and your father for work.  Stepping out of the cab, your mother was the one waiting for you with a solemn look in her eyes. 

Breakfast was waiting, traditional, just like always. Natto, fish, rice, soup – she stuffed you full. Now, you’re finally getting a chance to settle in and unpack, staring down the room that faced the worst of your teenage angst. 

When Satoru’s name flashes over your screen, bile rises in your throat. Immediately, you turn it back over, your finger finding the power button, and rid yourself of the stress. You’ve just glanced at the string of messages – he’d been sending them all day, which isn’t unlike him, but it felt wrong. 

You two would hide phones under desks and banter on and off all day. In the same room, you two would exchange playful glances like he wasn’t describing every lewd thing he wanted to do to you that night. It’s just a habit; he doesn’t mind when you don’t text him back, but hates when you ignore his calls. 

You’re sure it’s how he realizes you’re actually gone – that one missed call. 

Then you’re trying to distract yourself from crying by unzipping your case, pulling out shirts, tears flooding in your eyes. But it’s too much to handle. 

You collapse next to the suitcase, pulling your knees to your chest, and sob. 

It burns so hot in your body, your cries sound like they’re breaking through the barrier, eating you alive. Your open-mouthed sobs are akin to the sound of prey being gutted alive – it’s piercing and raw, cutting your vocal cords. 

It’s like you can’t stop. You let it all out, here – fingers bunched in the sheets, drawing blood in your palm from the strength of your nailed grip. The pain goes unnoticed because the aching in your chest is so cruel. Your mind is screaming at you, damning you to fiery hells and telling you to go back. 

Go back and deal with it, it’s what you deserve. 

You know you’re too weak to be alone. 

Suck it up. Just like you always have. 

Numbness sets in with time. You watch the neighborhood kids run down the cracked road through your small window, never shifting from the position you cried in. The sun travels through the sky, and late morning morphs into afternoon, afternoon to evening. 

Downstairs, the home lights back up from everyone’s departure this morning, but you want nothing to do with it. You’re sure your mom has been home this entire time – most likely heard you crying and decided not to intervene. You’re glad. You didn’t want comfort. 

Now you’re staring at the sky as it morphs into grey, and rain begins. You feel lonely. 

Grey turns to black, you’re tired. 

As blackness settles in, so does sleep. Right in that same position. Nobody bothers you. 

Until you’re cracking open your eyes, it’s daytime. 

You sit up immediately, regretting your choice as a mean wave of dizziness falls over you. Your stomach aches with hunger, breath ripe, and skin swollen from the tears. You’re still in your clothes from yesterday, the button of your pants digging into your soft skin painfully. 

You breathe out a yawn, grimacing at the feeling before looking around for your phone. 

It’s precisely where you left it, face down and completely off. You didn’t want to see Satoru’s messages right now. You just wanted to check the time. The house is quiet. 

From: Satoru I wish I could kneel at your feet and emphasize just how sorry I am. I can’t believe how stupid and selfish I was when I had you, but I see it now.  I could see that you were hurting for a while, but I assumed it would just pass in time.. I don’t know why I assumed, but I regret it so much.  Take your time, my love, but don’t forget about me. Please, let’s talk this through before you make any hasty decisions. 

You can feel the tears – they’re there before you even skim over the message. 

With Godly timing, the softest of knocks fall to your door. It’s the only thing keeping you from breaking down again. There’s no real privacy here; you’re lucky your mom even knocked before slowly pushing it open. 

“I figured you would be awake by now.” She smiles at your ruffled reflection – bed head everywhere, sleep lines on your face, drool on your lips. “Would you like some food?” 

“Please.” You nod her in, dragging your arm across your face to wake yourself up. “Thank you, Mama.” 

She has a tray of the same spread she served you yesterday in her familiar, comforting hands. Green tea steams wantonly at the corner, flailing in its porcelain confines when she lowers it before you. “Didn’t want to bother you much yesterday…” 

“Thank you for that.” 

“Your father peeked his head in last night.” She continues, reaching out to stroke your hair as you reach for the tea you’d been eyeing. There’s just something about crying that dehydrates you to the bone. “Said you were sleeping so hard that you were snoring.” 

“Probably. Hadn’t had a good night's sleep in a while.” 

“You can do better than sleeping on top of your bed in all your clothes.” 

“Wasn’t really worried about that.” You can tell she wants to bring up Satoru – ask how he is, just out of force of habit. Maybe she wants to ask you about your divorce plans, but she stays silent, nodding slowly. “Thank you for the food.” 

“Bring it back down when you’re ready. Take your time.” Her gentle tone is welcomed, but so is her departure. The door clicks shut, and you’re taking a slow, deep breath, suddenly overcome by the burning of oncoming tears. You thought you had expelled them all last night, but Satoru’s message hung over your head like a dark precipitating cloud. It’s all flowing over you like hot rain, downpouring over your mental clarity. 

You’re drawn to deep, soulless staring at the poster-covered wall before you as your tea warms. Hunger is lost on you, you reach for the short ceramic cup and bring it to your lips with shaking hands.

You just can’t understand how you can miss someone so much after envisioning life without them – welcoming it, yearning for it. Your heart and mind are tugging you across two playing fields, never letting you get an ounce of rest or peace. 

~

Satoru has been staring into space for far too long, blinking at the wall like it’d somehow make you appear before him again. The note you penned is sitting on the counter, cursing him silently, pulling him to its angsty whims. He can see the small tear stain – can read the shake of your penmanship in the sloping letters. For once in his life, Satoru doesn’t know what to feel. 

This has to be a joke. 

He steps away for a second, staring unblinkingly at the floor as he reaches for his phone. It’s in his back pocket – he has to shuffle blindly. 

Now he understands why you haven’t been responding. 

To: gojo 💍 Hey, what’s with the cryptic note?  Did someone snatch you up for ransom?  Babe? 

He gives it a second – that’s all he knows he needs. If you don’t answer in a second, you’re really gone. 

His heart burns when you don’t answer at all. He’s paralyzed as the thought of being alone rushes over him. Just like you, he doesn’t understand what went wrong. Yes, you two fought often, but doesn’t every couple? The fighting always led to something better – deep discussions or love-making. He made sure to cover his bases every single time. He even found himself cooking and cleaning for you with a guilty conscience. So much of himself is rooted in you and how you loved him; he’s not sure he knows how to be without you by his side. Of course, it’s more than the money, sex, or power. It’s the fact that your lives are completely intertwined. There is no Satoru without you – there’s no you without Satoru. 

That’s what eats him alive. 

It’s what makes him stumble to the couch you picked out, head in his hands as he collapses into the downiness. He wants the cushions to swallow him whole – maybe then he can get lost in the wealth of your scent and sincerity. So many times you two have found yourself here, kissing the night away, hands under clothes. Movie marathons that led to falling asleep on shoulders, deep conversations that made him actually crack a tear. It’s all embedded in the upholstery, and he can’t even move. Satoru just feels so pathetic – it’s a new feeling for him, a disgusting one. 

“Oh, fuck.” He states as if reality just washed over him. Now, all Satoru can do is sit with everything. He keeps rereading the note he memorized in his head, like there were hints as to where you were hidden behind the script. You told him that you loved him, and as good of a sign as it looks like, it feels counterfeit. 

He loved you more than he loved anything – including himself, and he’d never leave you. He has to know why you felt the need to leave him so easily, and it’s not like five years is a long marriage in any form of the term. Satoru wanted a family with you. He wanted to see you swollen with his baby, ripe with hormones, and caring with a blue-eyed infant. It’s all he yearned for – stability, endless, overflowing love, and mutual support. 

He’s almost… mad that you gave up. 

No, not almost. He’s mad. 

Not even thinking, knowing his efforts are for naught, he snatches up his phone and dials you with scary precision. A piece of him knows that you won’t answer, but his hands are shaking. He just needs to try. 

He counts – the line rings six times. 

Then, it clicks, a stupid robotic voice telling him you’re unavailable. Yes, he fucking knows you’re not available. Or, maybe you are. Perhaps you’re just watching your screen as his name brushes against it. Satoru hates when you let your cowardice take over, and he knows that’s what you’re doing. 

In a sudden fit of rage, he takes his ringing phone and throws it across the room, hearing it shatter on impact as it hits a window. As satisfying as it feels, he feels more like a dunce. If he waited a second longer, maybe your sweet voice would brush the rusty, waiting dial tone. He wants you in his arms, but this feeling is so unfamiliar and nasty that he doesn’t know what to do or what to think. He knows he wants you back, he just can’t fathom what he did wrong.

At work the next day, Satoru doesn’t feel any better. In fact, he feels worse. He didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, scared and cold as he tried to hug himself to rest. He hasn’t been in a bed without you since he was a teenager, and he doesn’t think he could exist without your body heat safe in his arms. 

The lack of sleep is making him irritable, it’s wafting off of his body as he walks down the hallway to his lecture hall. Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to teach anything, but he’d have to sit and annotate – he’s not sure he can keep his mind straight long enough to pen an entire two-hour Sociology lecture, let alone stay awake. That scares him – he’s letting his personal life seep into the fabric of his work, but it’s impossible not to when this is where he met you. 

Sweet and young, shy as all hell, too. Satoru would make excuses and drag his friends to the admin office on bullshit bases, all to see your little smile when he complimented your outfit. You were always right there next to Shoko, using her long hair as a security blanket. Everything was good back then… everything was sweet. 

Satoru can’t believe he’s fighting back tears as he steps into the vast, vacant hall, bag slung over his shoulder. He must be a walking ball of bad vibes, because his professor is noticing immediately, commenting on it, too, which is supremely unlike him. 

No, Kento Nanami was much more of a don’t ask, don’t tell, zero-bullshit type of instructor. Him and Satoru often butted heads, but butting heads was more like purposefully ignoring the other – their relationship is far too compliated for him to dwell on for too long. 

“You look like Hell.” 

“My wife left me last night.” Satoru finds no need to lie. Yes, he’s struggling. He needs grace; the only way he’d get it is to let Kento know he’s distracted. 

Kento turns slowly, watching Satoru move in front of his desk to settle in the front row of chairs. When he’s still, Kento can see the darkness around his usually perky eyes, but he doesn’t know how to feel. “Well… I am sorry to hear that. If you need to take the day off, I unders-

“-just need to distract myself.” Satoru cuts him off like he doesn’t want to talk, sucking his cheek as he pulls out his work laptop. “I forwarded those papers you sent me the other night. Everything’s looking good. From my initial glance at the collection of scores, it looks like this period is sitting at 83% accuracy. Pretty good.” 

“I didn’t need those scores until the end of the week.” Kento turns back around to his board, propping himself against the desk he’s occupying. He’s been sketching out the lesson plan against the chalked surface for most of his morning. Traditional for the introduction to a new unit. “But, I’ll start putting them in. Thanks, Gojo.” 

“Sure.” Satoru swallows as he types out his password to get into the device. It’s your birthday. His heart hurts. His wallpaper is you at the zoo, holding a little lion cub, totally fearless with the biggest smile on your face. The way the sun touches your features – God, it just makes him weak in the knees. That era of your relationship is so well documented because you two were on cloud nine. He wants it back – he wants you back. 

“Satoru,” that familiar, whiny voice is just what he needs right now. It’s the only thing that can pull him from the depths your pretty face dragged him to. “I’ve called you like ten times, they won’t even go thro- hi, Kento.” 

“Geto… hello…” Nanami mumbles, not even looking at the visitor, because he knows who it is. The five of you are like a clique, and he hates it. Not because he’s not in it, but because they’ve definitely tried to rope him into the madness, but he’s just in a different league. All he thinks about is work, not friends. 

“Sator-

“Gojo left me last night. I broke my phone.” Satoru spits out like it's the easiest thing ever. He’s hiding his emotions like he always does, and he knows Suguru is due to find out at any moment. “Reckless, I know.” 

“What?” Suguru walks up to him, long hair pulled back in a low-hanging bun. They’ve known each other damn near since childhood – completely inseperable, face-deep in platonic love. Right now, Satoru knows that Suguru would be the only human capable of picking up the pieces you shattered. 

“Packed some clothes, left me a note, and skipped town.” 

“That’s crazy – it doesn’t make any sense.” Suguru plops down right next to him, entire body turned at attention, only for Satoru to pour every vapid thought into. He’s not supposed to be in this hall, but he’s friendly enough with Kento to skate by during the last half hour before lectures start. “I just saw her the other day with Shoko and Utahime. They… didn’t invite me to lunch, but I understand the whole girls’ day aspect of it all. She just… I’m sorry, she seemed so at ease.” 

“Because she was with Shoko.” 

“Does Shoko know where she is?” 

“If I asked, she’d just lie for her.” 

“Where could she have even gone?” 

“Probably back home.” Satoru’s sucked into something on his laptop, opening a new document and labeling it under todays date and the topic Kento wants to cover. If he wasn’t going through a breakup, he’d be excited for this new unit, though he’s experienced it year after year. “Been saying she misses her family a lot.” Then he thinks about it, sitting forward with his chin pressed into a closed fist. Satoru has never barred you from doing what you want – staying out all night with your friends? Of course, he didn’t care. He welcomed it. Solo trips back home? Oh, Satoru encouraged it. 

He was the perfect husband – what happened?

At his side, Suguru watches him stew over the matter, thin brows knitted in pity. He reaches out, hand smoothing over Satoru’s shoulder. He shakes him softly. “If you don’t want to be alone, my guest bedroom is empty. There’s probably still traces of you in there – not like anyone else uses it.” 

Satoru hesitates, knowing that a night with Suguru would lead to little sleep just because they have everything in the world to talk about. They have the same favorite shows, movies, foods, and conversations – it’d be a perfect distraction, but Satoru just wants to get you back. 

“Or, we can go to a bar. I know you don’t usually drink, but it is Friday, I’m sure if we bribe Shoko with free drinks, she’d help you find her.” 

“I really shouldn’t…” The sane part of his mind is telling Satoru not to seek out one who doesn’t wish to be sought, but he wants to. He knows Shoko knows where you are – Hell, Utahime probably knew, too. You’re surprised Suguru’s seemingly the only one in the dark. “But, I don’t think I want to be alone.” 

Suguru nods slowly, not pushing Satoru for eye contact when he knows he’s sensitive to the touch. “We don’t have to get drunk and emotional if you don’t want to.” He continues dropping his hand to cross them in his lap. All Satoru looks like to him is a shell. He’s staring at his screen like it’d tell him what he needs to know, and Suguru finds himself, for the first time ever, genuinely worried for him. 

“I’ll… uh— I’ll text you about it later.” 

“Sure.” 

“Are you going to sit this one in, Geto?” Kento turns around, snatching up a beige rag from his desk to dust his hands. “Bells about to hit.” 

Satoru feels both of their stares zero in on him, and he knows he’s not hiding anything. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair disheveled, and flat over his head. Feeling some kind of insecure, he reaches into his bag and slides on a dark pair of square glasses. 

Suguru sighs. “Nobody would blame you if you went home.” 

“She’ll come around.” He whispers, pursing his lips as he leans back in his chair. His hands are shaking, so he tucks them close to his chest. “She always does, doesn’t she?” 

-

Doesn’t she?

Two weeks down the drain, completely wiped from your memory. Sober days and sleepless nights – that moody in-between when you’re gasping for air. Still, you battled it through in your childhood bed.

You got over it, just like you knew you would. 

Work started again last week. You’ve been slowly scouring through emails, working your way forward by combing through backlogs. Most of the time, your job falls to scheduling Dean meetings, prospective professor interviews, and prestigious tours, but it varies. Without you, all of this work would have fallen onto Shoko, but you can’t feel bad. She’s been doing this way longer than you and is ten times more efficient. However, she liked to complain. You let her have it this time. 

Now, you’re planning your trip back to the City. The apartment you’d been keeping an eye on since the marriage had just closed with the money you saved, and you’re finally confident. 

Rather, confident enough. 

You will definitely have to see Satoru when you go back to work, but it’s just something you knew you’d have to deal with. It’s the unfortunate downside to working with your partner, and you think that’s what did it in. 

You’re sitting at your family’s dinner table, bags packed all around you as you wait for your ride to the station. You’re sawing your lip in concentration, pen scribbling messily in your lax grip. 

It was an exercise you’ve been putting off since you left the city – writing Satoru a note letting it all out, and then freeing yourself from the burden by throwing it away. His eyes would never lie upon these scribbled words, so you let it out. You’re not sure what you’re even writing anymore, your wrist is moving at its own accord. 

Satoru, I love you.  It might not seem like it right now, but I love you to the ends of the Earth and back again. Being married to you felt like a dream in more ways than I can fathom, but I’d wake up at night, and that bliss fades into loathing. You have no problem sticking up for me in front of your friends, so why, when I’m faced with impossible decisions from your family, do you go radio silent? We agreed it’d just be us. We decided we’d focus on each other and our work, not on family nonsense that drains my psyche and leaves me exhausted. They want something from me that I can’t give, and I didn’t know how to tell them no - everyone is so pleasant to me.  That being said. It’s not why I left… I’m actually not sure why I did it, or I just don’t want to see things for what they are. Every time we’d see each other for over an hour, we’d fight. I admit that I was the catalyst for most of the arguments, but you never reassured me. I’d fall asleep next to you afterwards, sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe, and you would just turn around and pretend not to hear. Why?  I guess that’s all I want to know, now. Why? I’ve always given you everything you needed without a question – why was it so easy to push me to the wayside? Why is it so easy to ignore me to my face for days on end? And why can’t you see me as more than an incubator for your unborn children?  I just can’t help but wonder… 

As you’re writing, the car your family called for you pulls up outside. You wanted to leave while they were all predisposed with work and school because you know you’d cry and cave if you saw their pitiful goodbye faces. They insisted on the fare, you’re insisting that you’ll be back as soon as you can. You take the half-finished note, folding it lax in your fingers as you stand and grab your bags. 

You’re leaving with more than you came with. Typical. 

And you’re leaving like you were never here, with the wind peeking through the front door and the sun on your skin. 

You thought you’d be more excited to get back to your life, but there’s an invisible feeling of longing planted deep in your chest that’s making it hard to swallow. The letter you penned to Toru is balanced between your fingers as you swing your heavy bags into the vehicle. This time, the driver watches you from the side with a cigarette between his teeth, mentioning your destination softly and how the fare was already pre-paid. You nod the older man along, giving him a phony smirk when the boot closes and you’re stepping into the backseat. 

You don’t care that he’s still lingering outside. It gave you time to settle in, rustling the soft paper, trying not to give the flustered words your attention. All this note is is a weak attempt to try to understand where things went wrong. Satoru was never unhappy in the relationship, not like you were; he just didn’t know how to approach your angst without being struck in the crossfire. He exercised the same cowardice he condemned you for, and now you two exist worlds apart. 

Still, you can’t help but wonder where he is… What he’s doing. 

Around this time of day, he’d be wrapped up in lectures. You can almost see his slumped figure over his laptop, typing without giving the keyboard a second glance. Toru’s always been an overachiever – too good at his job. Too good to still be an aide, but waits patiently for his time to come as a professor. 

It’s always been his goal to buy you a big house that you two could grow old in together. You can close your eyes and hear his sweet voice lost in your sheets, whispering every detail about your future in your ear. But when you open them again, it disappears. 

The car door slams on the rest of your shriveled sanity, and you’re standing in front of a home that wasn’t yours… Yet. 

You just signed papers online, carrying cold, hard cash in your bag that’d leave you with virtually nothing once you hand it over in exchange for keys. It’s like being in a wind tunnel – feeling the city pulse and move around you as you drag your measly two suitcases against polished concrete. You didn’t know what time it was – your phone is too buried in your luggage, but you know you just got off a nearly four-hour bullet train, and your ears rang. 

Luckily, the property owner isn’t too far behind you, and you can exchange cash for keys within two minutes of your arrival. 

You thought once you had a place to call your own, that you’d feel completely comfortable, but standing in the echoey, semi-modern space, you feel devoid of life. You don’t even own a speck of furniture – this is not your home. 

So, you leave your bags at the locked entryway, sliding off your shoes out of habit as you head to the back wall of covered windows. Your apartment is on the ground floor, and humans walk by, not knowing you’re looking over them. You take your time, pulling each curtain so the sun can bleach the wooden floors in gold. 

Right there, under the sun like a contented cat, you pull your knees to your chest and sit… for hours, just grounding yourself. Losing time as the sun floats through the sky. 

All you can do since the separation is to sit with the pain and waste time. It’s the only thing that keeps you sane. 

You can’t recall what time exactly you stood to relieve your throbbing bladder, but when you’re walking back into the empty expanse, your phone is dinging from the confines of your bag. Sighing, you lean down to flush it out. 

From: Utahime Are you back in town!! Suguru invited us out for free drinks  From: Shoko Don’t worry, i told him to fuck off if he already invited Gojo He said he didn’t To: Utahime, Shoko I don’t really think I’d be good company  From: Shoko One drink and you’ll forget about that maniac.  From: Utahime Please!! We miss u To: Utahime, Shoko I don’t trust Suguru. There’s no way he didn’t invite toru From: Shoko Okay, well i trust him enough. If we see him, it’s no big deal we’ll just leave From: Utahime You know he doesn’t drink anyway From: Shoko Tired argument, babe. He’s wherever Geto is To: Utahime, Shoko Yeah, well maybe he should marry suguru next.  From: Shoko Girl…  To: Utahime, Shoko I told you i wouldn’t be fun to be around right now. Enjoy your free drinks, you two deserve them 

The group chat goes silent enough for you to tuck your phone away, breathing in deep through your nose as you watch evening set in outside your windows. 

You’ve been putting it off since you returned, but there isn’t a speck of anything in this space, and you were exhausted. In some form of the phrase, you’d have to pick up your feet and carry yourself to the store to get an air mattress. 

That ten-minute walk felt like a marathon in your exhausted mind. But like everything in adulthood, you must be uncomfortable for twenty minutes to be comfortable for eight hours. You peel your body into action, rubbing at your eyes until you see stars. 

You’re only bringing your phone in case of an emergency. You didn’t want to see it – you didn’t want to see the lockscreen picture of you and Toru that you didn’t have the guts to delete. It’s better not to look because you can’t delete him; it just didn’t feel right yet. Somehow, someday, strength will take over, and you can rid your life of his shadow. One day, you’ll fall out of love and stare at someone else with the stars you’re rubbing into your eyes. 

It’s all you can hope for. It’s the only thing that keeps you warm and sane as you leave your apartment. 

You moved to a new neighborhood, and although you’re not unfamiliar, it’s different. The alleys are darker on this side of the city – street lights flicker, but you welcome it. Nobody is really around; convenience stores light up the area in neon, but that’s not where you’re headed. The local department store is just down the street. Foot traffic gets heavier as you approach the business district, which is still booming with the promise of night. 

Your one-track mind gets you in and out of the stark-white space in less than ten minutes. Your feet are moving so fast that your legs are numb, and you can’t see anything that’s not shrouded in inky blackness. If you cared to see anything for what it truly was, you’d notice just how depressed you are. You’re in pain – full, bodily pain like you’re recovering from an injury. 

It hits you all at once, and you’re almost back to your apartment. 

Then, you make a decision that doesn’t fully set in until it’s finished – you slide into a 7-Eleven, air mattress tucked under your arm, and pick up two cans of dangerously strong mixed drinks. You’re lying to yourself, thinking that they’d just be a vehicle for sleep so you can start work with a full night. 

You’re an incredible liar – even you believe the nonsense your brain is pushing. 

As you make it back into your door, bags hanging from your fingers and yawning sleepily into the night, you can hear your phone ping quietly in your pocket. Once you step inside and place your loot at your feet, you shrug to grab it. It’s the group chat again. 

From: Shoko

[1 image attachment]

Geto said hiiiiiiii

The picture is of the three of them, side by side at a bar table. Suguru’s in the middle, cradling a frosted pitcher of beer with the biggest close-eyed grin on his face. Utahime is behind him, peeking from around his back, sending you a friendly, stoic wink. Shoko’s barely in frame, but her smudged eye makeup and gently smoking cigarette between her teeth is undeniable. 

You crack a smile and send back a quick message. 

To: Shoko, Utahime Love u guys ♡ have fun From: Shoko Goodnight, we love you! Missing you like hell

That’s the last of it. You turn your phone off again. 

Before you can even set up the mattress, you’re cracking into your first drink, taking a deep breath to keep your taste buds at bay as you swallow the entirety in just under a minute. 

Thank god you can’t taste it, because you hated drinking like this. It’s pointless and depressing, but you were feeling so much that you had to numb it out. If Satoru could see you now… You don’t even want to know how he’d react. 

You drink more to chase him away. 

Uncoordinated and dizzy from the mixture of alcohol on an empty stomach, you drag the air mattress box into the middle of the open room. You didn’t want to carry it all the way to the bedroom, so you kneel, manicured fingers sharp as you rip into the tape and cardboard. 

You’re half-awake, blinking drearily as you throw the empty box behind you, crawling over the tufted, flat expanse to spread it out. You splurged on a bigger bed, needing something to roll in without fear of falling onto cold, hard flooring. It’s so big that you have to stand up, hiccuping softly as your feet spread it to full size. 

You stand over it, out of breath with your hands pressed to your hips. You can’t really see clearly through this drunken haze, but it dawns on you that you don’t have an air pump. You forgot to buy one. 

“Fuck.” You whine, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. You’re seeing splotches of white – they dart across your sight like scurrying mice, driving you into a feeling so sick that you’re almost anxious. 

Not thinking twice, you sit back on your knees, crawling to the air hole, and giving it one last push. You bring the nozzle to your lips, taking a deep breath before blowing. It’s weak, comically so. You can’t hold a stream for less than half a minute, and your head is already spinning. You’re whining again like a tired child, thoroughly beaten down and hopeless as you size up your situation. 

If only Toru were here… He’d make it all better. 

You’re standing on shaky feet, peeking around the darkness for the promise of your phone. It’s right where you left it, completely off and face down on the kitchen counter. Dragging your bare feet, you go to grab and turn it back on. 

You call him. All inhibitions are lost. 

He answers… right away. The phone doesn’t even ring twice. 

The line clicks, but he doesn’t speak–not yet. His breathing is shallow. 

“S-satoru?” 

More silence. You want to sob. 

“Toru, I jus- I know I’m the last person you want to hea-

‘You sound like you’re going to cry.’ He blurts out suddenly, voice so familiar it makes you sick. There’s no animosity when he’s talking to you; he just sounds worried. 

“I’m back in the city and I… I just – I don’t have any furniture at my new apar-

‘Come home. If you want to sleep in the spare room, it’s fine, I’ll let you have it. Just stop this madness and come home. I’m waiting for you.’ 

You have to hang up before you can respond, because the tears are coming and they’re disgusting and heavy. You’re sobbing into your hands, feeling so overcome and pathetic with yourself and this turn of circumstance. Of course, Satoru is being nice about it – he loves you and you blindsided him, he’ll take any grasp at you that he can get. 

You sob as you slip on a jacket and your shoes, tears and snot dripping onto the floors and leather. You’re shaking as you reach to wipe it away, unable to look at yourself in the reflection of your lock screen as you glance at the time. 

There are no trains running at this hour. The only things that lit up the streets are twenty-four-hour convenience stores and old, late-night family restaurants that make most of their money from the after-bar crowd. Your friends are likely tucked behind one of those doors, laughing, living, and feeding off the dopamine they pour into each other. You belong with them, leaning drunkenly into your husband's chest as he dotes on you. So many sleepless nights were spent in that spell. No cares in the world. In love. Young. You want to go back. 

So you walk that twenty-some minutes back home – Satoru’s home, now. Yes, you picked it out. Yes, you decorated it, but you had to be okay with letting it go, so you are. You just have to lie to yourself a little more every day, and hopefully, the breakup will morph into reality. You just don’t want to suffer anymore. 

In your daze, the front door code is still etched into your memory. So is the way to the fourth floor – you climb the steps, breathless by the time you get there. 

Your and Toru’s apartment was nothing less than luxurious with the money he poured into it. Though he promised that you two would split bills before you agreed on getting the place, that quickly fell by the wayside when he looked at you with those bright doe eyes, mentioning he’d love nothing more than to take complete care of you, so all you had to focus on was your work and sanity. He also had a mind to make you a mother, but he conveniently didn’t add that to his point that night. 

You hold your breath as you reach to knock on the door. Before your knuckle even hits wood, it’s swinging open. All the lights are on – you squint. 

Satoru is on the other side, loose shirt hanging from his shoulders, bone-white hair all ruffled with relaxation. Seeing him again after all this time nearly kills you. Of course, you can’t look him in the eyes. “Hi. Come on.” 

“I don’t want to talk.” You start, just protecting your heart from his musings before anything could transpire again. “I don’t want to fix things, I just want to sleep.” 

“Okay.” He mutters, standing off to the side so that you could step in. “Okay, come on. We don’t have to talk.” The door opens wider, and light spills across your face. It takes you a minute to gather strength to step inside, but when you do, rivers of ease flow over your shoulders. You sigh. 

“Your hair is longer.” He mentions in passing, catching himself as he goes out to touch you. Stagnant – midair, he hovers, telling himself no. He respects your space. “I changed the sheets in the room for you.” 

You ignore him, shouldering past his hard body with a singular goal in mind. Your stomach is in knots – your head lighter than air. Everything is fuzzy, and if you didn’t fall into the warmth of a bed right now, Toru would have to carry you to his. 

“Or you can sleep in our bed and I’ll take the spare room.” 

Again, no answer. He follows behind you loosely as you stumble down the hall. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Leave me alone, just stop talking.” You slur, stupidly thinking that not giving him any of your attention would make him stop trying to squeeze words out of you. 

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to me. You’re the one who left.” 

“Shut up,” you bite, turning into the cracked doorway of the spare bedroom. He’s still hot on your trail, sleepy eyes begging for more where you couldn’t see. 

“We can fix this if you just tell me what I did wrong-

Before he can finish, you’re turning around in the doorway, not giving him any mercy as you slam the door on his face. It locks shortly after, just rubbing salt in his festering wound. At least he didn’t lie about switching out the sheets – the whole room smells fresh, like comfort materialized. You’re fumbling with your pants as you lumber to the warm, soft expanse, exerting as little effort as you can before collapsing into bed. 

You don’t have the energy to flip the lights off, so they stay on as you roll around in the sheets, trying to swallow down the oncoming doom of nausea and dizziness. You know Toru is still standing outside of the door, you can see the shadow of his feet under the crack, but he can’t come in – or, he doesn’t want to break the lock out and piss you off even more. 

After a few silent minutes, he shrugs off, and you fall in and out of consciousness. Sleep doesn’t come – not for real, at least. Whenever you think you’re getting there, you’re startled awake with your vapid inner thoughts. His pull is supernatural; it’s like you’re struggling to cope with being so close, yet so far. Right in the other room, you can hear Satoru moving around restlessly – shuffling in and out of the bathroom, talking to himself. 

He’s alone, you’re lonely. 

You blame it on the alcohol wearing off in your blood. That’s what gives you the push to roll out of bed and stumble to the door. Satoru stills in the other room right as the lock clicks – you know he hears you. He knows you’re on the way. 

It’s why he’s not in the bedroom when you crack open the door. It’s like he tucked off to the bathroom on purpose, using the shower as a distraction while you fall into your old side of the bed. It’s made neatly – your throw pillows are fluffed, and you’re succumbing to your weakness again. 

You dozed off for about ten minutes before you heard the door creak softly. Satoru’s footsteps are featherlight, and he knows you’re awake. Your breathing isn’t as shallow as it is now when you're sleeping. He doesn’t say anything about it–not yet. 

Satoru waits for you, gathering the towel wrapped around his waist as he sits on the bed. He knows you too well. 

So he doesn’t flinch when he feels the bed tremble beneath him. Sheets ruffle around your knees as you rise blearily. He hums when your arms wrap around his hard, broad shoulders, then mumbles, “You’re predictable.” 

“I’m burning up, I need help.” You plead weakly, lips focused right above his sharp collarbone. His skin tastes like it always has – sweet, for some reason. Like he was sculpted out of sugar. 

“Have you been drinking?” 

You pause right at the stubble of his undercut, the translucent shag tickling your nose. “I don’t need to be scolded.” 

“Well,” he peeks over his shoulder, pulling your chin close. The glow of his eyes amongst the darkness of the room is frighteningly familiar. You can’t look away. “I know you don’t want to talk about it.” 

You’re waiting for him to do something – to take control of this situation and steer the reins in your favor. Right now, you want him to annihilate you in the gentlest way only he can. Touching yourself will never be enough now that you’ve tasted him. It hits you like a craving. 

You’re left flicking between his eyes and his shiny, pink lips. They’re drawing you in like a siren song, weaving incantations that only your drunken mind would bend to. And finally, he kisses you. Something inside of you shrivels up and dies – your pride. 

Now, you’re shedding everything for him, gentle grip turning into claws in his shoulders. His skin is soft after his shower, leaving bright red marks against the pale ocean. Toru grunts into your mouth, shifting over to his knees as he crowds you against the mattress. Big arms cage you in – your back is lodged in the sheets, you’re reaching to pull him closer. 

Through it all, you don’t talk. When you’re needily grinding up into his thigh, he’s silent. Reaching down to your core, he doesn’t say a word. 

Lips hot and panting into the hard skin behind his ear, hands clawed in his hair, you don’t whisper his name. 

Your legs open for him, thighs parting like the Red Sea. He’s so hard for you, twitching against the towel he rips away and abandons somewhere in the room. Right now, every single move mattered. There are no words to dull your mood – nothing for him to say that hasn’t already been said. 

Satoru’s spent a short-lived lifetime telling you how beautiful you are, how well you’re taking him, how sexy your body is. You know that’s what he’s thinking; he just won’t waste his breath telling you again. 

After all, you couldn’t be bothered to waste yours, telling him that you were leaving to his face.

To you, this hot, grinding silence is deafening. Toru’s biting at your neck, kissing you holy, but it’s so foreign that you couldn’t really focus. You bite down a plea. 

But he hears it. When he kisses you, he can taste the desire. His naked body is so pressed to yours that there’s no room to exist outside of it – you pull him closer. 

Somewhere in the headiness, Satoru works a hand between your soft, stretchy waistband. He knows you’re ready for him, and he knows he’s ready for you. This moment might have been the perfect opportunity to prove devotion to each other. What a shame you’re so caught up in your head, worried about losing more of yourself to morph into the reality of who Satoru needs you to be. 

He tugs your thin pants down your legs, staring down at the quivering flesh that blooms with irritation against the harshness of the fabric. You’re seething into his skin, hips lifting from the bed so he can take you quicker. 

The issue is, he wants to see you. Toru wants to dip his head between your thighs and devour your cunt until you’re screaming his name, but you don’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve it. 

The most you two could chew off without burying yourself in grief was wordless, raw sex. That’s all there is to it – Toru wants to fuck you, get his rocks off, then sleep like a baby. Sure, he’d care in the morning, but you’re presenting yourself to him with armor stripped. He’d be a fool to pass it up. 

When he sits up, you’re scrambling. The air is too cold, his height is too brooding. He’s staring down at you, pearly chest rising and falling in the nightlight, but the gaze isn’t really there. One hand works at his erection, thick fist wrapped around the base of his cock as he coaxes it to full hardness. 

You’re staring at his body, swallowing down gobs of want as you flick past his waistline. Your neat, mindful Satoru – he always trimmed his body to exactly what you wanted. The soft patch of hair that gathers under his belly button makes you crazy. The neat trimming of his pubes makes your mouth water, and you’ve been holding back for so long. 

If you could tell him anything right now, it’d be just how much you need him. It was eating you alive at this point – all this cruel buildup. 

You bring your hand to your lips, taking to biting down on the length of your thumb while he settles back against you. Any more sober, you’d stop him and tell him to wear a condom, but of course, you’re silent. 

He mounts you again, pressing two big hands on either side of your head. Your free hand reaches up, holding his wrist gently as he slowly eases himself inside of your hole, stretching you out like he never left. 

You take a second to focus on the feeling, eyes falling shut as the stretch engulfs every single one of your nerves. It’s so thick – drilling deeper and deeper inside of you until there was nothing left to give. All the way inside, Satoru nuzzles against that uncomfortably sensitive point inside of you, kissing it like he was proud of the pain. 

You open your mouth to praise him – to whine about how deep he is, but all that comes out is a soft, strangled moan. He grunts again. 

Then, he cuts himself loose, fingers working at the sheets as he pulls out halfway, pretty face screwing up as he fucks back into you. 

You’re moaning, crying, rejoicing, living for everything in this moment. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and your thumb-gag breaks through. Satoru fucks you with an unnatural, mean precision, drinking up the sound of your skin slapping into each other. With this fervor, you’d be bruised tomorrow, but it’s too good. You love it when he’s rough – it’s just what you needed after sustaining for a month. 

Your throat burns with the need to scream at him – to tell him to take you harder, to kiss you stupid, but you don’t. Satoru buries his face in your neck and gives it to you. Over and over, thrust after thrust. It hurts, but it’s so good.

Time creeps and crawls through the ordeal. Your belly is numb and raw, legs shaking from the tight strangle they have across Toru’s waist. He hasn’t moved an inch – letting himself plank over you, plowing into your weeping cunt with no mercy, and no end in sight. Veins bloom like red-hot wires in his neck, sweat beads like water in his collarbone, and he’s so hot that the humidity gathers in his still-damp hair, rolling off the strands and onto your skin. 

Thirty minutes roll by – he’s still going. Everything hurts. 

He doesn’t have your loving voice egging him on, drawing him closer and closer to the release he needs. You don’t have that loving, sweet touch toying with your clit that leaves you gushing and gasping for air. You both are trying to make do with the bare minimum, not even looking at each other. 

You’re shaking. 

Satoru sits up, a detached, manic look in his eyes as he breathes heavily through his red-stained lips. He stares down at you, searching your expression for everything. You’re not telling him how you feel, but your face is screwed up so much that he knows it’s not the best feeling. He hates that he enjoys the thought of that. He hates that he needs to push his pain onto you – in fact, he feels monstrous, but it doesn’t will him to stop. 

Instead, he slows his mean fucks, dragging his hands to your waist where he turns you over like a limp, freshly caught fish. You fumble at the stark change, coughing softly, eyes flying open. Under your breath, you cry. “Mmfmf.” 

“Shh,” he bites back, all sharp and unfriendly in the base of his chest. Hands still stuck in your hips, he pulls you exactly where he wants you, chest pressed to the bed, behind on full display – full mercy. Your skin is so inflamed, he takes a second to drink it in. 

Then, he slaps you right on your left cheek. You chew on a surprised yelp. Something slips. 

“Tor-

Another slap. You swallow down your protests. 

Behind you, you can feel him dragging his cock against the hot sensitivity hidden between your labia, dripping with the newfound touch Satoru is working himself up to give you. 

Again, at your prime, he’d take this moment to completely dive in. He’d lose himself in the warm tears you’re excreting, lapping up the fluids like it’s his only nourishment. He’d worship you – now, all he does is cup his hand against your embarrassingly wet cunt, longest fingers working at your clit. His palm rubs harshly against your quivering hole, and you use the mattress as a screaming pillow, finally letting it out. 

Tears come, now. They burn and ache because they know whatever sacred intimacy you shared with Toru before is long gone. He’s fucking you, now. If you closed your eyes and wiped your memory, this would all feel like a stupid, drunk hookup. 

That’s all you are, now. 

You don’t even make a sound when he starts to bottom out inside of you again. You feel like a statue on display with the way Satoru spreads you open, both hands grabbing at your stinging ass. He watches the way you swallow his cock like a delicacy, gulping down want. Now, he’s dangerously close. He knows this was what he needed – this lewd visual. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t have been further away from release, and it’s tearing you apart. You need to tell him – scream at him and curse his name, but you can’t. 

You let him make a mess of you, flooding your cervix with his sticky, fluid seed. He comes so hard and you can feel it – it’s so deep that you swear you can taste his desire bubbling in your throat. It’s acidic and raw, but it tastes like him, so you love it – you miss the taste when you swallow it down. 

He’s pulling out once he’s empty and satiated, come planted so deep inside of you that it doesn’t even slip out in his wake. He steps away, your hips fall on the bed, and you’re limp and unsatisfied. All you can do is blink. Satoru rolls away. 

You don’t know what he’s doing, or where he’s going, but when you fall over to your side, tears dripping into the mattress, you’re overcome. 

You’re crying, croaking weakly, “c-can you-

The sound of your voice stops Satoru in his tracks. He was heading back to the bathroom to clean himself up, but he thought you had dropped off to sleep immediately. 

“What?” 

“Can you… J-just try?” 

“All I wan-want to do…” You stop again, swallowing salty tears. “Please, all I want to d-d-do is come. P-please…” You feel so pathetic – and you are. You feel like the worst person ever born. 

If you could see his face, you’d see the speck of emotion that runs off his crystalline, flushed features. He would feel terrible if you cried like this to him a month ago. Now, he just feels something like an obligation to turn around and stalk back over to your side of the mattress. 

You’re still crying into your arms when he approaches, hiccuping softly as he lowers to a squat. 

Like this, he finally talks. “Swing your legs over, I’ll clean you up.” 

The smoothness has your eyes flying open, heart doing a billion jumping jacks all at once. Limbs shaking, you struggle to sit up. 

Satoru notices, knowing he has to retake hold of these reins. He reaches out for you, big hands closing around your thighs as he pulls you to the side of the bed. There��s nothing gentle about it, now. He licks his lips. 

Both legs hooked over his shoulder, your back falls back onto the mattress, and at the first flick of his tongue prodding at your quivering entrance, you’re crying again. But he’s good at this part. He doesn’t stop. That licks turns into sensual drags of the tongue, scraping against your sensitive slit, easing over your clit. You finally moan for him – real moans. Pleased moans. 

He presses a kiss to your hole. “Push it out on my tongue.” He demands, those few words feeling like acid on the tongue. It’s fucking filthy, but nothing out of his ordinary, deranged mind. You take a breath and tense your body, working on easing all of the deep come right back to him. 

Satoru is licking it up like an eager dog, slurping and sucking obscenely as his grip gets lost in your pillowy thighs. Now, he’s working you over like he’s chasing your release, knowing your body just like a doting husband would. It would only take him a few minutes of tongue-work before you’re coming for him, but now, it only takes a single one. 

You’re coming before you can even focus on the feeling, and it hits you like a brick to the skull. Your spine bends, bones creaking, blood rising to insane temperatures in your body as sweet, sweet bliss meets you once more. 

It’s all you wanted – this feeling has been the singular thing you’ve been chasing at Toru’s side. He gives it so well and so selflessly that he’s still lapping up mess when he feels you coming undone around him. He carries you through it just like he always has – thick, plush lips sucking at your insanely sensitive bud like he’s trying to receive something as collateral. It drives you crazy – you reach out to push him away. 

The job is done. Satoru rises to his feet. 

He heads off again to finish what he started, wiping your taste from his lips, back into his mouth as he gets lost behind the bathroom door. He leaves you on the bed to come back to your senses, fully sobered up and slightly sick from the onslaught of physicality. You reach into your matted hair, screwing your eyes shut in shame. Every time you move, your core trembles and cries. Everything hurts. 

In the bathroom, Satoru flicks on the lights and doesn’t recognize the face he sees in the mirror. He’s blown red, scratches all over his arms and back. His hair is everywhere, eyes beet-red and sensitive. He leans forward and spits in the sink. 

The faucet creaks as he turns it on. 

Everything washes away.

[fancypeacepersona]

Type Dangerous - R.S.

Synopsis. Five times Ryomen Sukuna’s “wingmanning” family is the biggest cóckbIock in existence, and the one time he finally gets what he wants - you, his nephew’s hot preschool teacher.

Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!teacher!reader, 5 + 1 things, Itadori family shenanigans, unckuna, he has the BIGGEST crush on you, making him blush, face-ríding, síxty-nine, Sukuna with tattoos, PÚSSYDRÚNK Sukuna, he goes feraI, p sIapping, p talking, he’s BIG, chokíng, tummy buIges, manhandIing, dúmbifícation, creampíes, through pantíes, cúmplay, slight bréeding, getting together, nosy families, lowkey crackfic, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.6k

A/N. HEHE TOLD Y’ALL I’D WRITE IT…

“This is my uncle, he just got out of jail.”

“Hell yeah.” Not the most courteous introduction to Yuji’s wide-eyed lil’ friends - but if Jin had bugged n’ blackmailed him into picking the brat up from preschool today then he was going to make sure it never happens again.

And as Yuji starts swinging from Sukuna’s broad, beefy biceps, he grins at his miniature crowd. “He also has tattoos and likes to drink.”

“Hell yeah- don’t forget about the cars, twerp.” Sukuna’s nodding, breezing past the horrified faces of parents that tugged their children at least seven feet away. Seriously, how long was this teacher going to take? He could see your back hunched by another corner of the classroom, hugging a sniffly student goodbye.

“Oh yeah- and he likes driving fast and slashing tires.”

You straighten, probably hearing every word - not that he cared, Sukuna couldn’t imagine who’d want to be around this all day. “Hell ye- oh.”

Until you turned his way.

And Ryomen Sukuna feels his heart drop- right along with the muscular right arm that was stuck out for Yuji to climb all over like a handlebar. And with it, his nephew. 

Who seems quite disgruntled at his sudden meeting with the soft, padded floor of the preschool classroom, standing on his own two feet for the first time since Sukuna had arrived here. He furrows his light brows, “Hey- wha’s the big- oh! Teacher!”

Seems like it runs in the family, Sukuna muses - because all it takes is one glimpse of you starting to head their way before Yuji lights up as brightly as the Sun itself. And to Sukuna, whose nephew was a perpetual Christmas tree, it almost made him wish he wore his usual shades.

At least that would’ve hid the way his crimson eyes sweep up n’ down your figure, languidly. Breath stuttered, mouth partly agape. 

Sukuna’s utterly forgetting himself before he’s called out by one of Yuji’s friends- a squeaky, orange-haired girl no older than five. “Ewwww- why are you red?”

“Shut it, bob-cut.”

“So—” Perfect timing, you sidle up to the bustling little group right as Sukuna spits out the tail end of his sentence. A brow of yours raised, bob-cut? 

And oh- you’re even more perfect up close. Is it really too late for him to enroll in preschool? He didn’t see any age restrictions around, and he could count till ten, surely. Genuinely considering, he’s gulping at the way your pretty eyes narrow. “Jin’s not here today? Yuji, do you know this man?”

The boy in question bounces with excitement, “Of course! This is Sukuna, my uncle who just got out of jail and drives fast cars.”

“Ah- ahah.” Said Sukuna chuckles gingerly, eyes flitting between his beaming nephew and your blank expression. Finally settling on the kid, “Yuji! What have I told you about uh- the benefits of um- safe driving and caring for our fellow civilians on the road?”

And there was Sukuna’s first mistake - asking a question, because surely that was a sign for Yuji to nod solemnly. “That it’s for lame pussies who- mmpf!”

“Ah…” You blink.

The damage was already done- but Sukuna’s clapping a meaty palm over Yuji’s mouth already. Oh, he was smashing this kid’s iPad when they’re home. A thin line of nervous sweat beads down his temple as he stares up at you, “K-kids these days, right, ma’am?”

Yuji frowns, “But you do call them lame pussies who-”

“Yuji!”

“Right right, miss.” The lively girl from before - Kugisaki, he thinks her name was - latches onto your swaying skirts. “And he also likes to drink.”

“And slash tires.”

“Tuna mayo.” 

The crowd mercifully quietens down for a split-second. “…”

Until a grumpy black-haired boy peeks through his bangs at that last line, as if translating. “He says he also sets fires.”

Sukuna never said that - but he doesn’t get a single chance to say so. Too busy staring at the constant knit of your brows, the way your gaze was darting from the children to Sukuna like a tennis match, trying to bite back a smile. “I-is that so?”

“And he has a lotta tattoos.” Yuji pries off his uncle’s muffling palm, back to climbing him like his very own jungle gym. As if to prove his point, he pokes the bulging band of black ink that encircles Sukuna’s bicep. “See?”

And if he was any less devastated about making himself look like an absolute fool in front of his nephew’s pretty preschool teacher, then maybe he’d have noticed that look in your eyes. 

Maybe.

Maybe he’d have seen the slight glint in them as you followed Yuji’s pudgy, directing finger - from the wide tattoos at his biceps, to his wrist, to the circles peeking through Sukuna’s off-white undershirt. So tight that it was like the pale color was nearly painted onto him- if Itadori Jin was the sweet, soft single dad that was always early for pick-up, then Sukuna was just rugged. 

From the dishevelled state of his twinning rosy hair, to the studded piercing on his left earlobe, to the naturally-honed muscles that made him look hulking.

And it almost seemed like you were…checking him out? But surely that was a figment of Sukuna’s imagination, right? Right?

You’re nodding as Yuji looks to you impatiently for approval, “Why, you’re quite right, Yuji.” The corners of your glossed lips curl upwards as you turn to Sukuna - and he feels electricity pang down his body. “Uncles these days, huh?”

Ah, he was gone for. 

It was almost a comical sight, you’re thinking - such a large, towering man well over six feet, speechlessly gawking at you. Leaned forwards, ears red; barely even registering the way his nephew grabs onto the tufts of his coral pink hair like a horse- whispering for the rest of his friends to join in.

Kugisaki makes two treks grabbing onto his sides before she’s looking up and crinkling her nose, “Ew. You’re red again, Mr. Felon.”

“He’s not Mr. Felon, he’s Mr. Tire-slasher.”

Yuji shakes his head, “No, he’s Mr. Mugshot.” Seated upon Sukuna’s broad shoulders, the boy adjusts his body to stick a hand inside his backpack and search. “Would you like to see the mugshot, miss-”

“Okay, time for us to get home.” 

Firmly, Sukuna tries to shoo away the army of toddlers trying to climb him as gently as possible - only four glares, now that’s a record. Nephew still on his back, bag now wrestled into his hand and well away from where Yuji could procure any printouts of his (admittedly flattering) mugshot. 

He’s feeling his heartbeat pick up just a lil’ as he darts his eyes back to you, “I-it was just probation, by the way. Happened to slash some uh- tires…” 

“And also drive fast!” Yuji pipes up happily.

“…That too.” Grouchy face wincing at the amused smile on your face- goddammit he’s never going to be able to show his face here ever again. Sukuna simpers out a wave, making sure to flex his chiseled biceps at you ever-so-slightly - if he couldn’t keep reputation, at least he could make you stare. “See you ‘round, teach.”

“See you around, Mr. Mugshot.”

Fuck. 

.

.

.

“I thought I said I’m not doing shit for the brat’s school again.” 

Jin patiently gestures for him to hush with the swearing in front of the gaggle of children, humming as he keeps handing out sugar cookies - half-off for dealing with Sukuna’s shoddy customer service. “Well, technically, we’re not in the preschool. We’re in the park.”

His younger brother seethes, flicking the ribbons of his pretty pink apron (Jin’s doing, of course.) “Having a damn bake sale-”

“Shush, Ryo. There are children around.”

“Exactly my point!” Was Sukuna the crazy one? He must be the crazy one. And he’s running a grumpy hand through his unruly pink locks- before remembering that one of those damn kids running around this bake sale had called him cotton-candy head and now he’s both irritated and unable to self-soothe.

It’d been Jin’s idea to drag him to the preschool bake sale, held at the nearby children’s park- something about raising money for a talent show.

Honestly, fuck talent shows. It didn’t even take two minutes surrounded by all the fanfare for him to have half the mind to eat those sweet treats himself and just leave-

“Oh hey, you’re Mr. Mugshot.” A little boy wearing a panda mask, one he’s never even seen before, points up at him and giggles as Sukuna glares. Did that nickname really spread?

He’s bending over their frilly pink stall with a damn good word or two about-

“Oh! Jin, thank you for coming.” Before he’s hearing the sound of the pearly gates of heaven, and an angel to accompany right along with it. You. Who’d silently meandered up to their cookie stand with an expression of both delight and concern. Your gorgeous mouth pursing as you stop to think, “And…Sukuna, right? Thank you, too, the children really appreciate the work you’re putting in.”

You remembered his name. He has to hold back a squeal. 

“A-ah, yeah- yeah! Of course, of course.” He’s swiftly leaning over the stall, arms crossed so that you can fully take in the way they streeetch his tight sleeveless turtleneck. 

In the faint distance - honestly, it feels like miles away - he’s hearing the panda-mask boy unsubtly whisper something to his father about how ‘Mr. Mugshot has turned red.’ 

Not! Obviously not- smooth. Ryomen Sukuna is supposed to be smooth, and he’s desperately attacking his features into something that resembles suave nonchalance. “I’m a…real philanthropic type of guy, y’know?” Cocking his head with a smug grin, “So, you come ‘round here often?”

You’re smirking, your giggle sounding like his favorite song. “Well, it is my preschool class.”

Ah, shit. His eyes widen just a fraction, right. 

Scoffing, “Tch, uh, yeah. I knew that.”

So many days spent mentally praying that yet another one of Jin’s work meetings went over time again - just so that Sukuna would have an excuse to see your pretty face. And that’s the first thing he says?

Suddenly, he’s too aware of the ogling toddlers, of the snug pink apron that he was currently donning - and the way your eyes seem to stray down to the gaudy bow settled between his pecs.

At this point, it seems even his brother takes pity on him. Adjusting his glasses with a soft chuckle, “It seems Ryo here had the greatest time at pick-up last week, he only had good things to say about you, ma’am.”

You blink in slight surprise, eyes taking in Sukuna’s large, fidgeting figure. “I’m quite flattered.”

Yes! Sukuna’s pleading eyes snap to the interested twinkle in your eyes, and then to the other man- yes, keep going!

“Of course, Yuji did tell me he was upset he didn’t get to show you his printed mugshot of him. It was all that he could-”

Fuck no! 

Catching the other’s urgent eyes, Jin sputters- “B-but- but, it was just a little vandalism, of course. Just a little ah…a little driving and- eek!” Cutting himself off promptly as soon as Sukuna steps down on Jin’s foot, syllables stumbling, looking ‘round anywhere for any distraction. “Why don’t you- ah! Why don’t you give our lovely teacher here a cookie, Sukuna. Free of charge.” 

You’re waving your hands, oh-so-sweetly, “I could never, please let me pay-”

“Nah, a pretty girl like you? I should give you more, ma.” He could give you a totally different type of cookie but this might just not be the place to say those words out loud- ah, he’s still got it. 

Sukuna’s thumbing out the biggest baked treat between a fluffy tissue and handing it over to you- ready to feel the sweet, sweet graze of your fingertips, if he was lucky.

But oh- it seems like the gates of heaven really have just opened up to him, because instead of taking it from his hands, you’re leaning down and taking a bite. Straight from where he held it. Humming as the candied taste floods your mouth, the soft pushness of your lips taps against the edge of his thumb.

And he wonders how they’d feel on his lips, instead. 

“Ah, sorry.” You’re taking a peek at him through your lashes and maybe he doesn’t still have it because Sukuna feels his breath hitch. “It just looked so good, and my hands are a little…”

And it’s only then that he’s noticing just how many boxes upon bags of things you’d bought from nearly every stall here. Happy to support your students - oh, you really were an angel. 

“Oh, let me.” Ever the gentleman, Jin hastens to move around a few bags so that you’re more comfortable. All while Sukuna can only hold out the cookie and freeze. Slack-jawed. 

Completely ridiculous. 

He doesn’t move a single millimeter, not even when you’re now able to easily grasp the baked good from him. Expectantly waiting, palm raised - while he only ogles you. 

“I uh- let me just-” And it takes Itadori Jin both hands to pry the crumbling cookie from Sukuna’s hands, sighing before wrapping up about two more in apology and handing them over to you. “We do hope you like them, ma’am.”

“Mhm—” Rubbing over the crumbs at the edge of your lower lip with one hand, you look dead-set on Sukuna as you murmur. “It was delicious. My compliments to the chef.”

Sukuna might not have been the chef - baker, whatever you said goes - it was Jin, but he can’t help but feel on top of the world as if he was. Waiting just until you’re out of sight, walking through the sunny Spring park up to the next parent-manned stand, to pump his fist with a low ‘hell yeah!’

“Ryo, you haven’t been this smitten since- well, ever.”

“Daddy, Mr. Mugshot is really weird.”

Sukuna whirls at a few staring parents- “The fuck are you lookin’ at?”

.

.

.

“Remind me why you’re here again?”

“Remind me why you’re here again?”

Arguing with a thirteen-year-old wasn’t very high on Sukuna’s bucket list, and yet, it seemed to happen on a nearly daily basis. He would blame middle school for being the root of Choso’s attitude, but he suspects the new emo look has something to do with it, too.

And maybe the fact that the older man was accompanying one of his weekly visits to Yuji’s preschool playground. Cutting off just the last of Friday’s classes just so that he could walk down the street to see his little brother. Despite seeing him at home every day, but still. 

That’s also what Sukuna himself was here for- of course. Why else would he-

“Ah ah- Kugisaki, what have I told you about using the toy construction hammer for things other than construction? We don’t hit, m’kay?”

Sighing, the way that Sukuna’s towering frame leans against the playground’s cherry blossom tree for support draws such disgust from Choso. Dark eyes flickering between his blushing uncle, and you - in the middle of the sand pit, trying to wrangle a class of toddlers. “You’re pathetic.”

“Shut it, scrawny.”

“Why don’t you just talk to her?”

Sukuna’s life flashes before his very eyes, and strangely it’s mainly made up of every moment where he’s embarrassed himself in front of you. Looking away with a huff, “It’s…complicated.”

The other snickers, “Well, it’s about to get a whole lot more complicated because she’s coming up to us right now.”

Oh, fuck.

Now, he might have had the sense to ‘accidentally’ bump into his oldest nephew just as he was on his route to meet Yuji (Sukuna had memorized his schedule, sauntering by this very block for an hour until he’d run into Choso) - but he didn’t have enough wit for this.

Conversations? With both parties and a classroom of preschoolers participating? 

He was just about ready to race right out of here and leave Choso to the wolves-

“Cho! You’re here as always.” You’re smiling as you waltz up to them, a neat line of toddlers following you as they would a mother duck. Hitting him with your scent of flowers n’ the sunniest of days, “And I see you’ve brought along a guest with you- how are you, Sukuna?”

“F-fine.” F-fine? With a stutter? Sukuna simply bristles at the smirk his nephew shoots his way, already feeling the tips of his pierced ears start to scald bright hot. 

“Bubba!”

Saved by the bell-like shriek of Yuji, enough to make Choso take a few steps over and hug his toddling brother so tight that the former squeals. Checking him over for scratches, dust, stickers- you name it. 

You’re catching the raise of Sukuna’s brows and chuckle, “He is always quite the attentive older brother. You should join us more often, I’m sure Yuji would enjoy having his favorite uncle around.”

Mouth dry, “I’m- I’m his only uncle.”

Yet, your grin still stands - a slight knowing curve in them that makes his brain fuzzy, and his lips just a bit too loose. Did he say he liked drinking again? What a fucking lie, you got him more buzzed than a shot of straight vodka pumping through his nerves. 

And he’s finding himself reaching over to brush a stray petal of cherry-pink from your crown. Blurting out before he can stop himself, “Hey…so what’s your ty- I mean, are you seeing any-”

“She’s mine!” Cuts off an annoying, grating voice - one that understood what you evidently didn’t, with the few syllables that Sukuna had been able to croak out.

And he’s looking over your shoulder to find himself being stared down (stared up at?) by a boisterous, buzz-cut boy slightly older than Yuji. Protectively standing behind you as he glared daggers, “When I’m old like you, she shall be my bride, Mr. Mugshot.”

Huh.

You’re droning out in your nicest tone, wagging your finger. “Now now, Todo Aoi, what have I told you about not proposing to your teachers?”

“To not.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Proposing.” Stifling a sigh, you realise that it would be yet another chat with Todo’s guardian about the boy’s harmless little puppy crush. 

But before you can direct the conversation back towards anything else, he’s stabbing an accusing index up at Sukuna’s looming frame. “Miss teacher here-” Not quite your name, but close enough. “-and my sweet idol Takada-chan are the only ones I shall marry. You can’t have either!”

“Who the hell…” Sukuna furrows his brows- what was this boy talking about? “Listen, kid, I-”

“Pffft–!” He could recognize that burst of muffled laughter anywhere, and at least Choso was having a grand ol’ time- whispering to Yuji, “Don’t you think this is like those late-night dramas dad pretends not to watch?”

No! Sukuna’s internally groaning. 

“Oh- oh yeah!” An over-hearing Kugisaki bounces at the mention of dramas, “My mommy watches those. Times like this the two guys will fight over the pretty girl.”

Todo puffs up his chest, “Then fight me, old man- I demand a duel!”

“I’m not even thirty?”

“That’s old.” Choso nods.

“You’re thirteen.”

“I’m five!” Yuji jumps up, and immediately his older brother’s pulling his phone out to snap a few hundred photographs at the cuteness. 

Todo stomps, “Fight me, fossil–”

And his young nephew - that traitor - is the next one to shrill with glee at the altercation, clapping his hands once Todo charges forward with a damn war cry to pummel Sukuna’s abs with hits about as fierce as cotton. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

At the slight raise of your brows at the chaos, Sukuna rushes to explain, “Please excuse my nephew’s behaviour, ma’am, I don’t know where he got it from-”

Choso deadpans, “But you’re the one that taught us that the best talk is to talk with your fists because-” The two brothers turn to each other in unison, as if preaching the truth and nothing but the truth. “-we’re no weakass bi-”

“Their father.” Sukuna grits out- okay, maybe that kid’s punches were getting a little more painful. Or maybe it was just the way you were cocking your head at him that made his stomach churn, “Surely.” 

“Defend the honor of your woman, geriatric–!”

Seemingly snapping out of the little reverie of taking in whatever the fuck this was, you clap your hands in that teacherly way to demand silence. “Alright alright, break it up. You wouldn’t want me to take down any of your star points, would you, Aoi?” Tugging away the boy from Sukuna, you grimace up at him. “I’m so sorry about all of- well- this.”

Waving off- remember, Sukuna, nonchalance. Nonchalance. “Don’t worry about it, mama.”

“Y’know how they apologize to each other in the dramas?” Kugisaki speaks up, and honestly, this girl really did speak up at the most inopportune times. She glows at all the attention on her, “They kiss.”

And she was a genius.

An absolute genius, bob-cut!

Yuji - ever his lil’ ally - starts pumping his fist with whoots- “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Starting up a slight chant within your group, you turn to him in question.

“I uh…” Sukuna starts, tilting his body down ever-so-slightly, until you could could nearly every thread on his dark hoodie. The way his slashing tattoos framing his jaw ripple as he gulps, “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, ma- that’s assuming you wanted to do something, and what I meant was-”

It was one second. A singular, heavenly second that your lips graze the right side of Sukuna’s cheek as he rambled - fluttering away right before his skin started to scorch with a blush.

Quite frankly, fuck nonchalance. 

“Ewww, he’s red again. What’s wrong with him?”

“Were you this red when you were setting fires, Mr. Mugshot?”

“He looked nothing like this in his mugshot- wanna see?”

“Salmon.”

Ears tinting a shade that matches his hair, voicebox void of any coherent words, Sukuna barely even functions until he’s hearing the sharp ka-chick! of a camera shutter. Whirling his head ‘round to find Choso with his phone pointed at him, catching him in all his flustered glory. “I’ll send it to the family groupchat.” He turns to you. “And to you on the preschool groupchat.”

Imagine Sukuna’s surprise when he finds you nodding, “Mhm, oh, and I should really be getting the kids back now, it’s almost time for the bell.” Making the kids waddle into a neat line once more, you wave. “Thank you for the visit- do come again, it was quite…interesting.”

And they stare - Choso at Yuji, Sukuna at you - as you and your classroom disappear back within the preschool walls. “No phone for you for two weeks.”

“No hot teacher’s number for you forever.”

Only after a second- “Hey- hey kid. Show me that number again? I’ll make it one week.”

.

.

.

Sukuna had almost, mercifully, forgotten about that damn talent show. 

The bake sale? Gaping at you for nearly five full minutes straight? Never happened. 

And he’d almost convinced himself of that- until the time came for him to be seated right on the very front row of the cozy preschool auditorium. Taking up nearly three chairs as he squeezes himself into the humble seat, arms crossed and scowling. 

“You know…” Jin claps as Yuji and Kugisaki fight to clamber onto stage first, with a reluctant Fushiguro in tow. About to showcase whatever it is that they’d been practising with doves and sticks all week. From the corner of his mouth, “When we had the kiddos over, Megs told me something very interesting the other day.”

“Hm.” Sukuna’s grunts noncommittally when Yuji pulls out a comically large fairy wand - ah, a magic show.

“Something about you duelling with a kid for the hand of a certain someone.”

Letting out a strangled groan, his eyes immediately find you - as they always seemed to do. Stuck on the way you were kneeled by the front of the stage, motivating each little performer tonight. “Y-ya don’t say…”

Jin beams, “You know, you should really ask her out, Ryo- oh! Do you need our help? I can tell you this, the Itadori family makes great wingmen.”

“Ya don’t say.”

Tattletale, Sukuna’s grousing. And just as Fushiguro Megumi finds himself being stuffed into a box - to be sawed in half as all good magicians did, apparently - the older man slowly, menacingly pulls out his prized camcorder. 

Just in time for Fushiguro to glance over and have his face pale at the blinking, recording lens. 

“After all, Megumi did say you were blushing like a- what was it- ‘maiden in love’ that day. How cute.” 

“Ya don’t say.” Sukuna zooms in, right on the black-haired boy’s ashen face once the saw raises high in the air to magically cut him in half. And to make things even worse, he starts pointing at his camera, mouthing through a grin, ‘Oh yes.’ At Fushiguro’s slight shake of his head. ‘You are dead.’

But, alas, it was too good to be true.

And instead of having the little snitch be the casualty in one of Yuji’s magic tricks, the talent show goes shockingly smoothly. Hell, Wasuke slept through only about half of it, which was as much of a compliment as one could get. 

All because of your efforts, surely - and when the entire thing ends with (surprise, surprise) every little brat getting awarded a winning prize, Sukuna finds himself not half-annoyed that he’d actually sat through all of it.

Well, right up until about when it was time for the exhausted preschoolers to be taken home by their families. 

And Yuji comes bounding up to the four with a squealing—“Dadda–! Bubba–! Gramps–! Mr. Mug-”

“Another word out of you and I’m throwing your iPad out the window.” Sukuna grumbles, heart leaping to his throat when he’s spotting your chuckling figure follow up behind his nephew, as if Jin’s elbowing wasn’t a sign enough.

Yuji frowns, “Aw, but I already told everyone here.”

Damn gremlin- but before he can get another word in, you’re already greeting his brother and father with a smile. “It’s so great to see you again, Mr. Itadori- I hope that blood pressure you were telling me about is better now.”

“Ah, ya know- I won’t be dying any time soon.” Wasuke barks out a hoarse noise of laughter, before beadily eyeing Sukuna. “This one, however…”

Your gorgeous face drops in worry, and he doesn’t know whether to whine at his father for letting you make that expression, or giggle because you cared about him. Fuck. “Oh no- everything alright, Sukuna?”

But Wasuke answers for him, “No. Not at all, quite the incurable disease, my dear.”

He watches on in matching confusion with Yuji as Jin lights up beside him, “Ah- ah! Right right, that-” Soothing his face into something pitiful as he turns to you, “That ah- thing that only heh- one person can solve.”

About as subtle as a sledgehammer. 

And just as efficient in bagging the woman of one’s dreams.

Because you only furrow your brows in confusion, “I’m…sorry? What?”

Sukuna’s older brother’s smile tightens in desperation, nervously laughing. “You- you know…that thing?” And you tilt your head, eyes darting between the four as if trying to work out the punchline. “The thing like- the heart condition? No- not something serious but like…the butterflies?” Now looking to Sukuna for help - as if the other man wouldn’t just let him rot in the very grave he’d dug for himself. 

Then at Choso, who’d been quietly attempting to disappear into the wall plaster. Trying not to laugh as he dotes on Yuji, “The doki-doki.”

Jin snaps his fingers, “Yes! Like the doki-doki? The-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake- he wants to fu-”

“That’s enough for tonight, pa.” It really does run in the family - because in a split-second, Sukuna has his palm clapped over Itadori Wasuke’s mouth. Smile painfully plastic, “Did you take your meds today, dear father? I don’t believe you took your meds today.”

He plunges his sprightly father into Jin’s arms, “Say, Jin, why don’t you get dad his meds.” Making note of the way that you - still thoroughly confused, and now thoroughly off your shift helping each student get to their guardian - were toyin’ with the cute decorations of your car keys. 

Letting his mouth work before his brain could regret anything- “And why don’t I walk you to your car, ma?”

“I- what.” You’re somewhat shocked at being addressed so directly, and at the kindly incline of Sukuna’s head. “Don’t you have a heart condition? I wouldn’t want to exert you, Sukuna.”

Wasuke grunts, “Exert him in another- mmpf-” Hastily shushed by Choso’s palm, more for his sanity’s sake than his uncle’s.

These damn- he narrows a glare down at an unabashedly-eavesdropping Jin and Wasuke. “No. No, don’t worry about it, they were just joking. Ha. Ha.” 

Well…it was quite dark outside the building, even with the surrounding streetlights. And your vehicle might just be a little ways away but it never hurt to be extra safe, did it? Especially when his stature was so intimidating anyways?

And so, you nod. 

And he walks with you.

More like floats beside you on cloud nine, actually. Sukuna’s sure you two made quite a sight in the corridor, if the way passing parents whispered to each other signalled anything - him, with his ears flared red, unable to even look at you directly as you two were alone. You, as perfect as ever.

“Ah- so-”

“What did you-”

You’re both speaking at the same time once you’re out of the school building, laughing into the nearly-empty night air that forms clouds out of your puffs of laughter. The few minutes of a walk to the parking lot seemed like eternity - and Sukuna would have gladly let it be. 

“You speak.” You’re urging.

“No you.”

“You-”

“I refuse.”

“Fine.” Rolling your eyes, you never noticed the way he always seemed to nudge his head ever-so-closely to you whenever you spoke. As if he was hanging onto your every word. “What did you think about the talent show?”

“Brilliant. All because of you, of course- got so much blackmail to use in ten years.” He cackles.

Though, that’s stopped short very soon the nanosecond you’re nudging him playfully. Heat touching heat. And he shivers, “Hit me if this is strange.” Letting the tense air clog his throat, at least, that’s his excuse for it. “But do you remember that thing I meant to ask you that one time at the playground…”

“Yes—?”

“Are you-” Sukuna’s husky baritone cracks and he twists his face into a wince, “D-do you happen to be seeing anyone?”

You blink, and there’s something about the way you look at him that makes him feel like you’re holding back such a smile. How he wished to see it right now. Musing into the silent night air, only thrumming with your footsteps towards the car, “Nope.”

“O-oh.” And if this was any other time, then he’d be embarrassed about how obviously relieved he sounds. How you surely must have picked up on it.

Faking nonchalance, he’s stuffing his hand into the baggy cloth of his ripped jeans, “Cool.” And it was a damn good thing you didn’t have x-ray vision like all the heroes in all those weekend cartoons Yuji watched - because then you’d have seen the way his painted nails dig in so deeply into his palms in pure excitement. Nearly hard enough to draw blood. “Very cool.”

“Very cool.” You’re echoing, now stood by the driver’s seat of your car - just waiting for him to say something. Anything. 

Waiting as he opens his mouth- “What’s your ty-”

“Yuji- Yuji noooo- don’t interrupt your uncle’s k-drama moment- oh, dammit.” Itadori Jin, who’d been chasing after an adventure-hungry Yuji, balks at the way you were both so close. Snatching up his struggling toddler, “Forget about me! We- we never here- go back to doing whatever you were doing!”

And somehow, you lurch apart as if you’d just been shocked. Only now realizing just how warm the temperature of his proximity was, fighting to keep your professional façade in front of your spying audience. 

“I bid you goodnight, Jin- Yuji.” Gesturing out a wave, you’re getting into your ride so quickly that Sukuna thinks he must’ve been dreaming you up. “And you, Sukuna.”

Nevermind- not a dream. 

Definitely not a dream. Because even in his sweetest hallucinations he wouldn’t have been able to make you say his name like that. Almost a purr. Almost batting your lashes.

Almost ripping out his heart from his very chest as you then speed down the road.

“That’s the best ya could’ve done, sonny? Even after I taught you everything to know about wooing a woman?” How very much like Wasuke to manifest from nearly thin air, from somewhere out of the shadows of the building. 

“Not that.” 

“Especially that.”

The older man only waves off Jin’s bemoaning concern about ‘ruining the moment- they had a doki-doki moment!’ “Choso’s in the car, can’t believe I lost a bet to a middle-schooler. Dammit.”

Sukuna’s eyes widen, “You…bet on me?”

“Whaddaya think, sonny?” 

Jin smiles, “Guilty.”

“Gwuilty!” 

“No- no, Yuji, not guilty.”

Wasuke paces away, shaking his head. “Thought I raised you better- keh! Thought I’d get grandchildren from you, too. Tch, now I owe a middle-schooler fifty yen, oh, woe is me.”

It takes a second for Sukuna to register the words, “Wait- only fifty yen?”

“Yeah, that’s just about my belief in you, kid.”

.

.

.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! 

“Oi- oi, Jin. Go get the door.”

“I’m cooking dinner–! Cho, could you get the door?”

“I’m in the middle of homework- ask uncle.”

Sukuna grumbles, why the hell was he the one to always answer that damn door? Honestly, Yuji could buck up and get some experience yelling at sleazy salesmen sometimes. Sprawled out across the TV room couch, he stares at his nephew playing with a toy bow and arrows set on the floor, “Yuji, could you get the-”

“I can hear you, Ryo.”

Dammit- there was a reason why Itadori Jin was the older brother. 

And there was also a reason why Ryomen Sukuna had a reputation in this quaint neighborhood for being a boor - not that that was much of a brag. But at least it explained why he was stomping up to the oak front door, damn near ripping it off its hinges with a growl- “We’re not buying any- oh.”

‘Oh’ was right.

Because standing right there on his porch was a damn sight for sore eyes - you. 

You, with your mouth parted and your brows slightly raised as you looked from the messy bangs of his locks to the oversized sweater he was wearing. You, who doesn’t even flinch about the fact that he’d just answered the door yelling. You, donned in a pretty lil’ skirt that makes him gulp- 

“You okay, Sukuna?”

“No. So how are you doin’ on this fine day, ma? ”

“Oh!” A happy call of your name makes you turn - even though Sukuna just stares, shell-shocked. Jin shoves him bodily out of the way, opening the door wider, “Please- come in, we’ve been expecting you.”

Looking down at the slight stain of something at the hem of his sweatpants, the other man frowns. It’s not like that was news he’d ever forget - so why the hell was he looking like that? “We have?”

“Yes?” Jin’s showing you the way in- only for you to be dragged in by an overeager Yuji anyways. And as the two of you disappear down the halls, he’s turning to his taller brother in genuine confusion. “Did Cho not tell you that we were having Yuji’s teacher over for dinner tonight?”

At Sukuna’s sputtering, Jin wastes no time grasping a nearby broomstick and thumping the wooden end up against the ceiling. “Kamo Choso–!”

And out comes a muffled reply, “I told grandpa to tell him!”

“Haaah? I told Yuji to.”

It sinks in. The fact that you were here, all prettily dolled-up and at their family home - and you’d happened to see him in nothing but a stained, ratty sweatshirt and pants torn down the side of his thigh to show off one tattoo. 

Jin grimaces, “Um…we can still wingman our way through this?”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

Murder does not, in fact, come before dinner; as all good manners dictate. And Sukuna decides that revenge can wait after he’s totally, completely, utterly made you swoon.

“S-so-” Only after a quick change into his best tightly-fitted turtleneck and his silver chains did he dare to show his face ‘round you again. Spritzing enough cologne to almost overpower Jin’s omurice, he tries to smize from where he was sitting right opposite you on the kotatsu. “Nice place, huh?” 

The shot of extra, extra strong sake that Wasuke slides over is a consolation as much as a ‘you’re not in a restaurant, you fool!’ He finishes the cup in one go.

“You do have a very beautiful home.” You’re nodding over at a proud Jin. 

“And the- food- how is the food?” Another cup- what moral support, father. 

“Mmm- amazing, I usually never have the time to cook much for myself with the kids n’ all.”

Which Jin takes as the cue for him to butt in on the conversation, helping it flow as smoothly as an enclosing dam would to a river. “You like kids, huh?” Kicking Sukuna underneath the kotatsu, he rattles the plates. “Our Ryo here also…tolerates children.”

“Really?” You’re teasing, “I couldn’t tell.”

“Why I love kids, yeah.” Sukuna tuts as he lifts his hand to pat the crown of Choso’s head- who only swerves out of the way, food finished n’ leaving the room to join his brother playing. Hiccuping, you were so pretty sat in front of him like this- too pretty, that the vision of you was starting to get blurry. 

And another cup.

He’s jostled by the tap of Jin’s hand on his arms- “And he’s actually quite sweet in his own way once you get to know him. I’m sure dad agrees-” Ignoring Wasuke’s ‘I don’t’. “-that he’d make such a responsible-”

“U-unless you don’t like kids.” Still stuck on that - still. Sukuna downs it and then shakily pours himself another. “In that case, I don’t like kids either. Yeah, can’t stand them.”

And another. 

Jin and Wasuke share a glance between themselves when the hulking man leans over the kotatsu towards you with what sounded suspiciously like a whine. “Would you want kids with me?”

And- 

“Sukuna-”

“W-well—time for Ryo to be put to bed, I think.” Jin hastily stands up, struggling to hoist his oversized younger brother from his seat. Failing, evidently, as in that time he’s managing to gulp down another two or three sake cups. “Dad- a little- help?”

Wasuke only shakes his head gravely at you, “You should know he was switched at birth.”

“We’re nearly identical twins–”

“Twins? What-” Sukuna babbles, “Does she want twins?”

Glassy eyes blinking n’ squinting furiously down at you as if trying to figure out whether you were real. Before ultimately giving up, it seems.

Because he’s stumbling a few unsteady steps forwards, pulled by Jin, before dropping to his knees and toppling his head over your lap, just by the gap of the kotatsu edge and your stomach. He’s nuzzling his face right against your tummy, “Mmm— maybe triplets. Would be the cutest fuckin’ things if they looked anything like hck! her.”

You giggle and he gasps- as if the epiphany had just struck him. “Quadruplets?”

Starin’ down at him, at the rosy blush painting his ears, you’re muttering. “You wish.”

“Dammit- even this hck! illusion of her is fine as fuck. Shit. I wonder if her type is…” 

Trailing off, he looks to his older brother for assistance- who helpfully supplies, “Sad and drunk?”

Wasuke’s contribution- “Zero game- as the kids say?”

“Dangerous?” You pretend to think, assessing over the mountainous heap of a man. “Actually- only pretends to be but is really a softie inside?”

“Yes! That- wonder if he type is dangerous…pretend dangerous. I’d give her all the kids she’d ever want- all big…n’ glowing…” It was almost like the setting of the sun, and just as quietly that Sukuna’s dipping past the edge of consciousness. “And…mine…if she wants. Oh, only if she wants- I’ve gotta- hck!” He turns up slightly to you, “-gotta woo her first, you see? Gotta date her…marry…but- but most of all…” Words slowing, heartbeat still racing whenever he looked at you. “I…just want to love you, pretty girl.”

And with that, he was out like a flickered light. 

With only Wasuke, Jin, and Choso with his camera snooping through the doorway as witnesses for when you’re snaking a hand down to the phone bulging in Sukuna’s pocket. Quickly entering a few coordinates and a date. 

And a heart emoji.

.

.

.

“Oh- oh, shit, mama.” Sukuna’s tongue lays over the sheeny insides of your thighs, throat muddled with groans and the cloying taste of your slick gluing to his rovering mouth.

Honestly, fuck whatever tips his family had made him memorize before coming over for his lil’ ‘talk’ at your cozy apartment, as promised. Because the two of you had barely made out two or three words before Sukuna found himself sprawled on his back on your bed. 

Your knees framing his face, your clothed cunt right near his mouth.

Right near where he’s dotting your skin with hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your entire body tremble. Whimpering over your shoulder, “D-didn’t think you’d be such a tease, Kuna.”

“Because this isn’t real.” He’s breathing out, as if he’s just so sure of that fact. As if he can glide his ringed index down the dampened slit of your folds and drool- because this feels like a dream n’ he was going to savor every moment. “Fuck, there’s no way this is-”

And just at that very moment, he’s craning his head up further between your pretty, pretty legs. Greedy tastebuds darted out just so he can catch the treacly splat! of your leaking slit.

Dampening his tongue n’ drooling all down the edge of his tattooed chin, “Do you even know how many times I’ve imagined this exact moment?”

“Mmm- no-” You’re wrenching out a heady puff of air- spread on your front in the meanest sixty-nine. You gulp down your parched throat as you’re taking in the wet, bulging outline of Sukuna’s erection through his boxers. “But I can guess.”

He was just so big, aching- 

Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t just rock-hard. He was hard enough that he’s sure his round, bawling tip was damn near ready to fall off, twitching oh-so-painfully in his pants as he’s snapping back your soaked panties with a wet thwack!

Just a glimpse of the wet haven you were hiding and he’s groaning throatily, “Guess-” He hisses, close enough that the straight end of his nose slides down your puffy pussylips. Nudging your panties to the side and sniiiiiffing you, “You’ll never be able to guess how badly I want you, pretty girl.”

Never.

Never would you have even been able to register that within mere split-seconds, he’d have one beefy arm looping around your hips to make you sit on top of his mouth.

Slamming the edge of your cunt against his chin, plopping your full weight down until he’s nose-deep between your quivering legs. “Fuck-” Letting the first gush of your saccharine juices flood his throat, lips against lips. “Fuck fuck fuck- what was I even…saying?”

“W-wait–” Your breath hitches, spine arching into such a perfect curvature. You claw onto his meaty thighs in an attempt to regain balance, “You won’t be able to breathe like this, Sukuna-”

“You think I fucking care?”

It’s spat - spat - out right against the swollen nub of your clit. Hazed crimson irises rolling to the veeeery deep, dark depths of his skull at the first long gliiiide of Sukuna’s tongue from top to bottom of your pussy. 

Cheeks hollowed the very moment he’s pushin’ himself even closer, “You think I ngh- can care about anything else?” The very moment he’s tugging you back down - with the full force of his upper strength, hard enough that your heated aches with raw, primal bruises. “Be a good girl n’ put that hah- pussy on my face. Fucking- sit-”

“I don’t- fuuuuck—” Fingers twitching, it’s all you can do to fumble with the drawstrings of his wettened boxers. 

Thighs shaking at every flicker of his slimy tongue swirlin’ and stirrin’ every inch of your outer pussy. Your head muddles with the realization that Sukuna’s tongue was just so long that he could lap at your glisten hole n’ still have enough length left over to snag on your clit. “You’re not going to be the only hah- one-”

Whimpering, you find your eyes blurring up each time the ridged texture of his tastebuds glissade between your folds. Curlin’ in just past the elastic circle of your entrance-

And you’re gasping - but you don’t know whether it’s because of the lecherous intrusion or because of the way you’re pushing down Sukuna’s snug underwear to free his massive cock.

Reddened, swollen.

He’s bulging all solid and girthy that it makes your hole clench ‘round his flexible tongue. The cutest ruby-red at the top of his shaft, forming a gradient all the way down to his tight, heavy balls. Mentally, you’re counting about nine- fuck, maybe even ten damn inches that hit the end of your chin as he springs up. 

And from where you’re straddling him, you can make out what looked like a matching thick, black band of ink around his bulky hilt. 

Letting the polished pink crown of his cockhead smear out a generous dollop of pre, you’re teasing your tongue out just enough to taste the salted caramel taste. 

“You’re so…” Sinking him past your spit-slicked lips, his swabbing mushroom tip is just so big that your jaw aches just by looking at him. Just by fitting him inside, right until his drivelling slit- “-s-sho big, Sukuna.”

“Fuck- fuck-” He’s spitting into your cunt and you find yourself flinching, hard enough that his pearly white canines nip at your thighs and you cry out.

And he’s only holding you back - not letting you shift your restless hips even a single centimeter as he’s eating you out like a man dying of thirst. Dry tastebuds lavishing himself with wads of slick, Sukuna’s stuffing your tight hole with the entirety of his tongue. “You’re m-making me drool.”

You swear you’re feeling the thin line of his wet spittle stain the front of your cunt, whimpering around his bulbous cockhead. “Made ya stutter, too, Sukuna.”

“Ohhhh- talkin’ smart, are we?” Snickering, he lets off a loud spank against the front of your pussy - one that makes your bones reverberate, and your mind numb. Pushin’ back to ride the circling girth of his tongue, to ride him. “Why don’tcha put that mouth into use elsewhere?”

Elsewhere - his cock was so hot and throbbing between your swollen lips. Just the slightest slip n’ slide makes it feel like he’s pulsing all the way at the back of your throat. 

Creamin’ out a spray of syrupy precum that slides down your tongue, “So big- too big.” And yet- it was just so cute how you’re suckling him like your favorite lolly, eyes criss-crossing when you’re trying to take more. He couldn’t even bottom out. “Mmm– dunno if it’ll even all fit.”

“Well…” 

The way he’s drawling out in a smoky tone makes you ponder that this won’t be ending well for you. And Sukuna’s dark chuckle hits your cunt in a murky gust, “You’re takin’ it in from here—” Just at that sultry second, he’s crowning the snug circle of your hole with two fingers. 

Making you break out with a shrill waiiil as he sinks in the thick, calloused curves of his fingerpads. Letting such thick digits stretch you out fully, make your head spin. “So shut it n’ take this looong fucking cock, ma.”

All that it takes for him to plunge a few more throbbing inches past your maw, oh-so-big that you’re drooling down the sides of your mouth already.

Striking the edge of your throat and making you choke on his sheer size, your nose wrinkles as you’re tickled by the curly tendrils of his pinkish hair. “This enough or you want three, pretty girl-”

“I-”

Letting out such a cloying squelch that spurts from your pussy once he’s teasin’ your entrance, “Not you, mama. She wants three.”

Moaning away wildly after each pump of his fingers- Sukuna doesn’t even have to try to dip into each nook n’ orifice. Slamming to fingers down to each knobbly knuckle with a resounding slam- “See? See?” 

So cockdrunk on the feeling of his velvety tongue that you’re only partly registering the way his vocals are higher. Unsteady. 

The way you’re clamping your dewy walls in a cute, squelching smooch ‘round his digits makes his voice fucking crack. “J-just take it a bit- fuck- deeper.” Mindless little half-thrusts up into your heated mouth like he can’t even control it- “You can swallow it up like a reeeeal good girl, can’t you?”

“Mmm—” Purposefully letting off your pretty sounds all over his fleshy girth, “Yes- yes yes yes- more.”

“More?”

“More.”

As if he wouldn’t fucking ruin you if he could. 

“You want more?”

“Y-yes- oh.”

Only to be gifted with such a rude slap of his doughy palm, “Not you.” And he’s waiting for the soppy squelches leaking out from your cunt, the way you’re talking to him from your swollen lips just to continue. 

Squelch after squelch.

Your pleas only spur him to tug at the sweet, softened ring of your cunt, latching his lips over the flexing muscle. “If you say so—” Crooning, you can feel the cold hiss of his metallic rings upon the insides of your thighs. Sukuna’s biceps shifting as he starts to tug them off–

“A-actually-” You’re popping off of the strawberry-pink curve of his cocktip with a plop! a few glittery strings of pre and spit still connecting you lewdly to it. “…Keep them on?”

“Oh. Ohoho- you naughty lil’ thing.” He’s swatting over the slope of your dripping wet pussy n’ giving your clit a good pinch with his ringed fingers. “You like it like this- like- this-?”

He’s spitting out each word into your cunt, thrusting the barrelling tips of his fingerpads to graze just below your pulsating g-spot. “All those mouthy lectures?” In vulgar tandem strokes with the thwack! of his heavy, curvaceous balls slapping your chin. “And you wanna take it like- this- mama? Ohhh, it just makes me wanna…”

Trailing off, Sukuna’s body is just bulky - oh-so-tall that he can bend and reach down to cup your throat with his one free hand. 

Digging five of his fingertips into the side of your throat as he’s holding your neck and squeezing- feeling the cylindrical outline of his cock bulging your poor mouth. Up n’ down, up n’ down- he’s feeling for the precise moments his plump cockhead lodges at the back of your throat. 

“Who’d have known the cute lil’ teacher would be such a slut f’me. Cat got yer tongue, girl, orrrr—s’it just my dick?” Humming over your clit, he’s adding a fourth finger that swabs at the texture of your gummy walls. 

“F-fuck off- ngh-”

“Wha’s that? Try- try and say my name?” Squeezing. Only feeling your ripped, pathetic vibrations. “Can f-feel myself over here.”

With four neatly pushing fingers. 

Pulling back with a sluuurp–! Slowly, just so that you whimper that the knobs of his joints, just so that he can thump right on the target of your g-spot and make you cry out in cute bliss. “So s’only fair that I’m over here, pretty girl.”

“Yes- yes yes yes—” Words bubble out and slur out of your maw, in unison with such sloshing spurts of saliva. 

You’re drooling everywhere - from both pairs of lips. Your mouth over Sukuna’s hard, vein-covered erection, glazing his puffy lines of veins with sap. And your pussy slide-slide-sliiiiding down the gaping area of his mouth, wide open and eagerly lapping up each sloppy drag of your hips.

Faster.  

And now that Sukuna had actually found your most favorite spot, he couldn’t fucking stop.

Not when each whack at that same exact spot makes you splash your sweetened slick all down his throat, not when you were clenching your walls and cryin’ out at the frigid brush of his thick rings.

Again and again, he’s probin’ his crowned fingertips to push against the insides of your pussy, “Don’t think m’gonna last ngh-”

 “Yeah-” And that’s not to say his tongue was letting you off easy, either- simply aching with the feverish state of his movements. But it hurt Sukuna more any moment he wasn’t snogging your glossy cunt, n’ so he’s slapping your clit with a wet one-two. Spank after spank to make your hips jerk back and forth, “Whaddaya want? To cum? S’that it?”

Blubbering over the taste of his slick, sensitive slit, “Yes- yes, please- m’so fucking close.”

“Not. You.” Each word ended with two swats on your simmering pussy, you’re webbing his chin all down with syrupy sap. 

Moving off from your throat with a final squeeze, a bicep tightening ‘round your hips to squeeze you in place. “Not you- but you, pretty girl.” Slickly gliding back and forth all over your pried-open cunt, all over the quivering rim of your hole. Everywhere and anywhere. “Why don’tcha talk louder?”

And it’s not just you riding his tongue dry - it’s Sukuna bucking animalistically upwards, too. Pressing the ridges of his washboard abs up against your front, you’re just fountaining out so much sappy slick that it’s running down to the large mouth that he had tattooed across his stomach. As if both his ravenous mouths were gulping up each of your slick puddles. 

Crooning at the oversaturated squelch that spills out of you- he’s nodding like he’s never heard a sweeter sentence. Nudging his knuckles to bump against your g-spot, “If you say so—”

You don’t get to find out what he’s hearing - but you’re registering the gist soon enough.

Because by then Sukuna has his ringed index swiping your g-spot, coldly massaging that bundle of nerves. Hard. Sloppy. At the very same second he’s settling the fringes of his canines on your perky clit and streeeetching-

“O-oh my god I’m—” Keening out a whimper, your high runs you over like a rollercoaster. And you’re rocking your boneless body to and fro just as much, thumping your thighs into Sukuna’s sharp jawline. 

“Yes-” Clenching around his motions so hard that he has to fight to unstick his digits from the sides of your bubblegum walls, still fucking you through your lecherous high. “Oh, hell yeah, been so good for you, mama- why don’tcha reward me? Use me- hck- use me.”

As if you weren’t thrusting your cunt back into his face in a frenzy already, he’s using the arm holding onto your waist to keep you repeatedly moving. 

Tired-out. Fingers tugging into each crevice of your velvety walls. Cheeks aching and hollow where he’s putting such force on your throbbing clit to suck- “Ride my- mmmf-” Talking with his mouth full, “Ride my fuckin’ face raw- wanted to taste y’cumming on my tongue for so long.”

With your spine arched, you’re pulling off of the bulged tip of his cock just as he’s spewing out a slimy ribbon of ivory white. Just a single drivel of cum- just from the way you’re cumming. 

“God- god fucking dammit.” Sukuna spits, right into your cunt. And he barely even takes his eyes off of your slobbering pussy to snake a free hand down and plug his geysering orifice with his thumb.

Stopping himself promptly from cumming if it isn’t anywhere near your pussy.

But that didn’t mean he was letting you get away.

Oh, no- he’s still pulling you back with inclines of his head like a man addicted. Thoroughly drunk on the heady globs of slick that travelled between your legs, pushing and pushing himself upwards to glue his glossed lips all over your cunt.

You can feel yourself squealing with each lap of his scratchy tongue- the primal overstimulation too much that great droplets of tears take over your eyes. 

“O-oh– fuck- m’so sensitive, Sukuna.” You’re arching your back away- “I don’t know if I- oh!” Only to get pulled back down. Toes curling when this only spurs him to dive himself even deeper, flopping out the flexible end of his tongue to try n’ flit past your squeezing hole. 

Drawling, “Remember those fuckin’ sugar cookies? You taste- hah- even fucking better.”

Sniffling, your spine zings with a few more zaps of electricity as he’s starting to caress your sweetened g-spot once more. 

And the only thing you can do is try and pathetically pry his firmly-planted palm from his lengthy shaft, trying for the life of you to just get another taste-

“Oh. Oh.” Sukuna gasps from behind, pink brows raising. “I see what you’re doing, pretty girl. H-heh…hungry for more, are you?”

He didn’t need any further answer - because the way you’re cutely clenching to glaze his scouring digits tells him more than enough.

And before you know it, you’re finding yourself pulled off of his long, aching cock like some glorified ragdoll. Sukuna was just so large - in every sense of the word - that he could manhandle you with only one arm. 

Clinging onto the side of your waist as he’s sitting up, he makes you straddle the twitchy length of his cock. And now that you were seated upon his lap- oh, could you admire him.

Ryomen Sukuna was a fucking masterpiece. 

From the bands of tattoos circling his biceps, his wrists, straight down to the plush of his sculptured thighs. “Like what you see?” He tilts his head cockily down at you, slouching sexily back on your wooden headboard to let you take in all of his tensed core. 

Glistening pecs all temptingly large, abs ripped. 

“M’gonna get those pretty haaah- fucking initials of yours tatted.” He’s tapping the prominent side of his left v-line with a polished finger, “Right here.”

Climbing further upon his lap, you rest your ass cheeks back against his swaying cock, bobbing so hard n’ proud between your sheeny thighs. Pouting, “Only if you fuck me, Kuna— ngh-”

“Kuna? Tch- you see that lil’ tattoo here, mama?” He sounded as if he was shattering, and he’s leaning back so that you can take a goood, long look at the circular tattoo on his base. Nuzzled by the tufts of his pinkish happy trail, and his tender underside - but it was still there.

Like a target. And Sukuna’s thinking the exact same thing, “You’re gonna take it riiiight- till- here-” Lodging the swollen end of his shaft to plug your hole, it’s such a tiiight fit as he starts bullying inside. “Until- hah-” Feeling a hand down your tummy, your womb. “-here.”

He was going to fit himself until your pretty pussy won’t be able to forget him.

And it takes only seconds for you to be clawing onto his tattooed deltoids for dear life, feeling the inner parts of your thighs slip n’ slide down his own with perspiration. You scramble with the stringy, slightly-torn fabric of your panties still on- “Kuna- Su–Kuna, this-”

“Nah, let it stay.” Snickering, he claws onto the top of your scalp. “You have much…heh- bigger ngh- problems ta worry about, pretty girl.”

Bigger - his prolonged shaft was simply ravaging your walls. Plumply ballooned-up enough that his veiny layer rubs your sweetest spots without even meaning to, and you’re just seeing stars with every inch deeper his mazing cock spears through. “Fuck- fuck, it really is big-”

“Mhm– and you’re going- to take- it all.” Times like this he’s wishing he had just about four fucking hands. Because one’s pushing down, down, down on the lolling top of your head, the other’s pushin’ your trembling thighs apart just so you could straddle his meaty hips. “All hah- say my name. Say my name while you take it-”

And he always did love the way you said his name.

The way you’re letting free a few bubbly spurts of saliva as you’re babbling away–”Sukuna- Su-” Throat clogging up with so many sobs of utter bliss, “Kuna—”

“Again with the ‘Kuna’- s’not my name, silly girl.” Even though each sound of that slurring nickname makes him twitch against your deepest insides. 

But you can’t even hear him properly, eardrums distantly popped until the only thing you can feel is the thump! of your heartbeat between your legs. And the way that his reddened, slick-glazed tip was thrashing your tight insides, “Kuna- ngh, please, Kuna. Wan’ it a-all hck! Inside.”

The swabbing girth of his cock was so fat that he has you stupid with just his size, biceps bulging as he’s pressurizing down on your head. “God-” And you can only blink pathetically once he’s bringing up his free hand to your blurry line of sight. Hissing, “Bite down-” Lips smirking as you plant a kittenish bite, he fucks up into you once to make your force increase. “Bite down harder and take it.”

He wasn’t wasting any time - he didn’t have the fucking patience.

He barely even had the sanity to tease you and edge you for hours on end like he’d always wanted to. Instead fucking up into you like a damn animal- he’s swatting your cunt with the edge of his throbbing cock. Spitting through clenched teeth, “O-oh, if yer gonna ask for all of it then m’not playin’ around, ma.”

You sink your teeth in and nearly scream into the flesh of his forearm, gnawing down right at his tattoo. “Mmmpf- big- nghh–” Unable to fucking take it, the only thing you can do is arch your hips deeper and let his pummeling rams spike your poor insides.

Hitting the very back of your cervix with a wet thwack! that makes your eyes damn near bulge out of your head.

He…bottomed-out. 

“Lemme check now…” Taking a single peek at the way his hilt was all covered up by your bloated folds until he couldn’t see that tattoo anymore. “S’all in.”

And the towering man wasn’t celebrating once he did - he was pumping all his fleshy inches into you like he’d gone feral. 

Eyes dazed and hooded, mouth frothing with a line of silver drool - Sukuna grunts after each singular gliiiide of his watery orifice drawing down the bottom of your pussy. Sloppy. “F-fucking hell, never felt like this- what the…”

“Are you okay- oh god nghh–”

“M’fuckin’ more than okay.” Spitting out crassly, Sukuna swerves his hips off of the rickety bedsprings to drag his cock harder down your cunt. And it just felt so delicious to have his swollen veins stir up your walls, “S’just— who let you feel this good?”

Your honeyed cunt has made him way too pussydrunk that now he’s tattling out everything from his melty mind. And you can only whine– “Heh-” One hand grazing his scorched ear, “You’re blushing, Kuna- better not be ngh- tapping out on me.”

“Tapping out?” Punctuated by a hard spank against the door to your womb - exactly where he said he would be - and then a harder one against your mapped-out g-spot. “Me? Me tappin’ out?”

Blinking through the splotchy whites sparking in your vision, “Y-yeah- fuck!”

SPANK!

Oh-so-hard, he’s swatting your pussy with enough stinging force that it makes glittering drops of slick splash across his slamming palm. “You n’ this smartass pussy are gonna see.” He’s gritting through dangerously grinning teeth, “There’s a fuckin’ reason I’m Ryomen fucking Sukuna.”

Because he’s rude - and he fucks even ruder.

Pounding away upwards into you like he doesn’t care if he’s bruising great purple bruises at the bottom of your cervix. The mattress creaks in fervent protest after each gyration of his hips, “P-please-” The only thing you’re mewling out like a broken record, “I-it just feels so…”

Trailing off, your movements are sluggish as your hand starts to slither down between your rutting legs. Yearning to just touch your neglected clit-

SPANK!

“Oi- and who’d ya think you are to touch- hngh- my pretty girl?” He’s grinning, manhandling you in an instant. Before your candied brain can catch up, Sukuna has both your arms pinned behind your back, chin hitting his cushy pecs. “I’ll touch her when I feel like it-”

Such a fucking tease, at the constant timing of his slimy mushroom tip spearing your cunt like a headlight- Sukuna lifts off one of his hands downwards.

Replacing your own with his roughened fingers, he pinches your poor clit—“Sh-shit m’so sensitive there- keep going, Kuna–”

And at this point you weren’t just drooling you were sheening the entirety of his smooth pectorals with a shiny polish. Letting it smear down the side of your cheek as you drunkenly lean on them like pillows, “Chehhh-” He’s spitting out, staring down at the glistening glaze dripping down to his bumpy abs. “Tha’s supposed to stay inside, pretty girl.” 

“I-inside?” Dazedly, the only thing you can think of were your rummaging insides, the way that Sukuna was fucking you like he hated you.

But it was the complete opposite. And he’s draggin’ on your clit, giggling to himself like he’s in love as he watches you huff n’ puff. “God you love it like this- c’mon, ngh- teach, milk this fucking cock- why don’t ya?”

“I-I am-”

SPANK! 

“Harder, mama, make me feel it.”

With a right spank to emphasize his sentence, he’s jostling his hips upwards so you’re left throwing your head back at the full, stretching impact. Unable to even handle the slightly spring recoil that comes with striking your cervix, he’s bouncing you on his pelvis. 

“S’this what you thought about every- hah- time you saw me?” Taking hold of your neck for a brief moment, he’s spitting doooown your throat. “Wantin’ me to fuck this- ngh- pussy raw?”

And the locked restraint on your neck helps bend you into the perfect geometrical curvature to stare up at him as he collapses forwards. Hot breath wafting your features, you whimper- “Y-yes.”

“Not you.”

“Kuna.”

“I’ve been dreamin’ of this for aaages now-” His clammy forehead crinkles as he’s scratching down your clit with the rough texture of his happy trail. Leaving it all stinging n’ raw to make sure the impact is extra sensual as Sukuna rubs over a slooow ‘K’ right on top. 

Rutting into your poor cunt so hard that the skin surrounding his v-line was all reddened- and he can’t help but take one look and moan. “M’getting that tattooed.” Watching as his mean, curvaceous cock molded your walls constantly to him. “Oh- trust when I say-”

And then a ‘U’

“Fuh-fuuuuck, please-” It almost feels like you’re begging for your damn life by now, lungs ripping with moans every time he’s thumping up. You ride your hips in a sexy figure-eight and feel the way Sukuna’s thumb trembles on your clit. 

A wobbly ‘N’

And you already knew what was headed next- oh, you were already prepared. 

But what you weren’t ready for was the completely vicious way that he’s accelerating his papping hips, so fast that the dark tattoo nuzzling your entrance was almost a blur. Thump after thump- 

You’re falling over until that symbolic inking of a widely-opened maw on his stomach licks up your core. Body twitching with white hot flashes of something electric running through your veins, “F-fuck- fuck, s’not gonna last-”

“S’that soooo—?” Sukuna asks down at your pussy to confirm, and only after a few ‘uh-huh’’s does he bore into your stupidly heart-shaped eyes. Tongue lolling straight out for him to lap up into his own mouth, “She says you’re close-”

A firm ‘A’

Another SPANK!

“-and I say you’re cumming already.”

“Wh-what…”

He’s ending off with a perfect heart shape rolled over your clit. What’s that spell- he’s asking mentally. 

Only for you to mewl wantonly as if you’d just heard. “Kuna- Sukuna- Yes- yes m’cumming m’cumming—” 

It’s like you’re enveloped in a tidal wave - you didn’t know where your orgasm started and where it ended. Just that Sukuna’s moans break into something octaves higher as he fucks you through your bliss.

You claw down the expanse of his flexing back with each burst of pre splattering your gooey insides. Toes curled, eyes all teary. “I-it’s so- hck! Feels too good…”

Turning you into absolute mush every time he pumps his thorough inches into you- and the mean fingers on your nub just tug n’ tug.

And it’s only after a few more of your shrilling whines that you’re still feeling the hot entrance of his shaft plummeting through, your walls squeezing ‘round his flared tip. “I want you to cum, too, Sukuna.”

“F-fuck.” He lets out, softly.

Cupping his attractive face, if you thought you were gone then you weren’t ready for the way that Sukuna looked. Cheeks burning hot and red, mouth parted with overspilling drool, brows furrowed into such an expression that it almost makes you feel shy.

Repeating those very same words, you start sloppily swervin’ your hips straight to his. “Cum inside m- ngh, please?”

All this time and his cute lil’ teacher was still minding her p’s and q’s. 

So, of course, when you’re asking him that nicely- it’s the least he could do to listen. To let out a final, vulgar stroke that has him spilling over the edge.

In great, piling heaps of ivory cum that puddles at the bottom of your pussy. There’s so much of it that your ears ring with the lecherous sluuurp–! as your cunt walls suck up every last steaming drop. 

You can feel it trailing down the insides of your thighs like a waterfall and keen, “Just like that, f-fuck…” Almost like you’re hypnotized, you drag one of his much-larger hands to palm the outside of your tummy. “Can feel it all the way here.”

“O-oh my god…” He’s groaning, eyes drifting off to the back of his head as soon as you’re meeting his tempo. Slamming down to rob his aching balls, milking him all dry - you were overspilling and it still wasn’t enough. “Y’really are a dream.” 

And there’s something about the way he’s sluggishly brushing away a stray bead of perspiration from your temple. Something about that lazy, half-lidded look in his eyes, the complete n’ utter reverence in his tone as he asks- “So…s’your type ‘dangerous’, mama?”

Almost…shy.

Oh, it hits you. He’s pussydrunk.

You’d made big, bad Ryomen Sukuna completely and utterly pussydrunk.

To the point where his studded ears flare a deep crimson once you giggle, “Mmm- pretend dangerous, Kuna.” His eyes shine. You think back to that night at the Itadori household, “And I also remember something about quadruplets?” 

It’s then that Sukuna whimpers. 

Not even pulling out. Not even considering such an impossible feat for even a split-second before he rolls your weakened body over.

Hovering over you now, it’s so easy for his beefy arms to tug your legs over his shoulders. Still shaking. Still suffering from the aftermath of your orgasm as he’s holding them tight and bending down, down, dooooown.

Straight into a mating press. 

Oh, your breath catches.

“Before I pound you until you can’t haaah- walk, mama-” Uncharacteristically, Sukuna gulps as he shifts his crimson eyes away from you. “-m’I giving you quadruplets that’ll have my last name?”

Now that was a round-about way to ask someone out- and he knows it, too. 

But it only makes you shuffle up onto your elbows on the now-ruined sheets, sticking to you like glue. You place a lingering peck on Sukuna’s wobbly, overstimulated lips, “Mm- I love you, too, Kuna.”

Oh, how he loves you. He almost cums right then and there. 

Fuck.

He does. 

.

.

.

“You.”

“You.” Yuji narrows his eyes down at the sight of Ryomen Sukuna towering over the busy preschool pick-up. Trying to look over his broad shoulders for any sign of his father, “Huh? But dadda said he was coming to pick me up today?”

Sukuna gingerly scratches the back of his head, “Yeah, well…listen, twerp- I mean, kid. There’s something I need to-”

Only to be cut off by a dramatic gasp—“Oh no- Did dadda go to jail just like you-”

“No,”

“Did he drive fast-”

“No.”

“Did he drink-”

“No-”

“Did he slash tires-”

“Maybe once?”

And fuck- he really didn’t understand tiny children, because explain to him why the pink-haired boy starts bawling in his arms. Pitiful enough to draw the glares of parents wrenching their own children away from the perpetrator, loud enough to draw the sweet concern of you.

Walking from your station saying goodbye to one other student, “Yuji what- oh!” You’re pressing your lips together to contain your smile as you happen to see who was throwing Yuji on his shoulders to soothe him. Bouncing him lightly until he smiled- and you did, too. “I didn’t expect you so early today, Kuna.”

“Yeah, well.” He’s using Yuji’s palms to cover the pinkish ends of his blushing ears, “Decided I wanted to see ya off from work today.”

Now past grief and straight into utter nosiness- “Wait- what do you mean ‘see off’.” He gasps, “Is she going to ja-”

“Brat-”

“What your uncle means to say, Yuji-” Playfully pinching his chubby cheeks, you try to ignore the gawking stares of every other one of your remaining students as you promptly turn to face Sukuna. Giving him a sweet, sweet peck on his. “-is that you’ll be seeing a lot more of me around.”

Another gasp - well, multiple.

One from Itadori Yuji, who gapes, open-mouthed between you and his uncle - as if wondering how he ever managed to bag you, and wait does that mean you’re his auntie now?

About twenty from your crowd of students, right along with a few whispers. 

“Hey, isn’t that weird Mr. Mugshot?”

“So that’s why Mr. Mugshot was always red- eugh! In my momma’s dramas they don’t get together, they just die.”

Fushiguro frowns, “I would rather die than watch him like this. Gross.”

“Caviar.”

Walking up from the group, Fushiguro tugs on your skirt. Innocently - but Sukuna could feel the evil intent. He just knew that boy was a villain. “Inumaki asks whether you mind that he sets fires, miss.”

What the fuck is with the fires-

And then finally - three distinct, unfortunately familiar gasps that make Sukuna dread turning around. Struggling against it, even as his nephew tugs on his locks of pink hair with a delighted squeal- “Dadda–! Bubba–! Gramps-”

You smile, watching Choso take flustered pictures of his uncle. “How the hell did you even win her over? All of these are going in the blackmail folder. Maybe your wedding presentation too.”

Sukuna bites back a shy blush- turning it into a scowl, “Maybe…”

“Well, I’ll be.” Wasuke nods his head in approval, “All thanks to the ah- ‘wingmanning’ as the kids say. I’ll be expecting at least three grandchildren in the future, sonny. And when I say ‘future’ I mean in nine months-”

“Dad! It’s too early for that.” Jin, ever-the-voice-of-reason, gives you a breezy handshake. “Congratulations- by the way.” And it’s all soft. It’s all sweet- that is, until you’re trying to pull your hand back and he only tightens his grip. Smile still tightly in place, “I will be the kids’ godfather, by the way.”

Settling an arm around you now, You and Sukuna don’t know whether to laugh or stand in shocked silence as Jin finally sets you free - but you don’t have to make the choice.

Because the annoying, grating voice of Todo Aoi breaks through—“Noooooo– my bride!” 

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[fancypeacepersona]

U can put as gif