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sushirrrry · 14 days ago

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OURS || a harry styles x original character story

cw: infertility/fertility struggles, emotional distress, themes of grief and uncertainty, declining mental health, graphic sexual content, language, alcohol-use, depression, medical intervention for pregnancy word count: 20,355

summary: harry and thea are looking to grow their family. over seasons of trying, their lives look a little bit different; emotions run high, their limits are tested, but if there's one thing for sure: it's their love for one another.

authors note: this is a story that's been on my mind for a while - this took me a full day to write, it just kept flowing out. it's loosely inspired by certain inspirations from landslide by fleetwood mac; following the seasons of our lives, and understanding where who we are when we disappoint ourselves for who we think we should be. it's about the pressures we put on ourselves, even when we have everything we want.

this is a really really special one to me & this is one that I don't think it's one for everyone because it's very emotional, but I hope you give it a chance <3

without further ado; I hope you enjoy <3

_______________________________________________

Spring

The house was quiet in the early blush of morning; a hush wrapped in the pale gray-blue light of spring. Rain ticked gently at the windowpane, not enough to storm, just a soft percussion against the silence. The early spring showers were comforting to them; they always had been.

Thea sat on the closed toilet lid, knees drawn together, fingers knotted in the hem of Harry’s old T-shirt that she had been wearing the past few nights; it was the t-shirt that she had found out she was pregnant in both other times. It still smelled faintly of him—laundry linen and cedar from the left-over cologne that rubbed from his skin. Her bare toes curled against the tile of the cool floor, the cold seeping through as she counted down the seconds.

The test lay on the edge of the sink, face-down, unread and pending a result.

Outside the door, she could hear the occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant thrum of a car passing on the wet road. But inside, time had paused even when it needed to move faster than ever. Thea closed her eyes, inhaling sharply, willing her heart to slow. It felt too fast, too eager, too much like something was about to break open with joy or sadness.

When the timer on her phone buzzed, it startled her. She reached out with trembling fingers, turned it off quickly. She didn’t want Harry to hear it; she didn’t want to make this a big deal. Making it a big deal meant that there would be disappointment if things didn’t go the way she needed it to go.

When she flipped the test, her eyes focused on the words:

Not Pregnant.

The breath left her lungs in a soundless sigh. Not devastation—not yet, no, it was more a bit of confusion, if she was honest. This was only the second test she had taken, they were only on month two of actively trying. It wasn’t supposed to happen overnight, she knew that. Her doctor had said it could take time, and she may have just been lucky with the ease of it with Teddy and Niko. Thea and Harry got pregnant practically on command with their two boys – no scheduling, no ovulation testing, just the pure love and admiration that was bundled up when they tried.

Then, it was like her body had known what to do— fate had simply reached down and tucked new life into her with a gentle sort of magic that only expecting mothers could understand.

This time felt different. She was reaching for something she couldn't quite catch, and she was frustrated with the waiting process.

She sat there for a few more minutes, test in hand, until the world beyond the bathroom began to stir and she had been broken from her thoughts. She heard the boy’s bedroom door creak open and the soft shuffle of little feet padding down the hall—this early, it had to be Niko.

Thea quickly slid the test back into its foil wrapper and tucked it into the bottom of the drawer beneath the sink, under a pile of spare toothbrushes and half-used tubes of ointment. She washed her hands in cold water, splashed her face to feel something, and forced her shoulders to soften before she stepped into the hall and preparing herself for the weekend morning.

When she entered the kitchen, Harry was already up. He stood at the stove, barefoot in sweatpants and an old band t-shirt that had fraying on the edges, flipping pancakes with Niko perched on the counter beside him. Niko’s cheeks were pink with sleep and joy in helping his dad cook breakfast, his curls tousled as he watched the batter bubble.

“Mornin’, gorgeous,” Harry said over his shoulder, his voice warm and a little husky with sleep as he watched Thea enter. He moved over to kiss her temple as she entered. “Coffee’s on. Teddy’s still out like a log.”

“Thanks,” she said, and smiled as she reached for a mug. It didn’t quite reach her eyes—the smile, but Harry was too focused on preventing Niko from sticking a finger into the skillet to notice that.

“Mummy, Daddy said I can do the blueberries,” Niko announced proudly; his legs swinging along the countertop.

“Did he?” Thea poured her coffee, watching her son beam. She moved over to kiss the top of his head, feeling her son’s warmth and certainty made her feel just a bit better. His little arms wrapped around her as she stood and watched Harry grab the small bowl of berries for Niko to help with.

“He’s on berry duty,” Harry confirmed with Niko, watching the little boy nod incessantly. “But only after the pancakes are on the griddle. No sabotage this time, huh?”

“Right!” Niko stated, unwrapping himself from Thea and taking the bowl in his hand.

Thea moved to settle at the table, curling her hands around the mug for warmth and grounding. She took in the scene before her—Harry humming the music he had put on under his breath, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon wafting through the kitchen, Niko swinging his feet and singing a made-up song about blueberries as he of course enjoyed a few straight from the bowl.

It was beautiful, their life. Full of small, golden joys. But then there was a quiet space in her heart that had begun to echo; the loneliness of knowing that she wasn’t pregnant, and how she was starting to question her own capabilities.

Her attention had been taken as they started to hear Teddy stumbling down a few minutes later, rubbing his eyes and dragging his worn fleece blanket behind him like a cape. He crawled into Thea's lap without a word, nuzzling into her shoulder. She wrapped both arms around him, burying her face in his hair, breathing him in.

“You okay, Mum?” he mumbled into her collarbone. Teddy was so inquisitive and sensitive and understood emotions much more than any six-year-old should; it gave her such confidence in not only their parenting but knowing she had procreated with such a wonderful human being.

“Yeah, baby. Just tired.” She ran her fingers through his hair, managing the bedhead that he sported.

He accepted the answer easily, already half-asleep again in her arms. After a few incidents of too-early blueberrying the pancakes, Harry brought over a plate stacked high with pancakes, blueberries dotting the surface like constellations. Teddy got everyone a cup, Niko brought the juice to the table. They ate as a family, passing syrup and discussing the prehistoric period of dinosaurs, laughter blending with the rain pattering outside. And for a little while, Thea let herself pretend the weight in her chest wasn’t there—this was too important not to soak up.

After breakfast was finished and the boys had run upstairs to get dressed for the day, she lingered in the kitchen, washing the dishes and putting everything into the dishwasher. Harry came up behind her, slipping his hands around her waist in a moment that felt intimate, but also made her still.

“Go get dressed,” he said, voice low against her ear. “We’re taking a walk.”

Thea turned towards the window, noticing that the rain had slowed, but just to a small shower, “In the rain?”

Harry nodded, kissing her cheek before her backed away, giving her a small pat on her behind and walking towards the stairs, “The slow kind. The gentle kind. You like that.”

And he was right—he was always right.

After they had managed to get everyone dressed and ready for a walk in the weather, they walked to the park with umbrellas and wellies, the boys splashing in puddles, laughing so loud it startled a pair of geese. There was something magical about holding her husband’s hand and watching the way that their boys loved one another, and life itself.

Thea watched them from a bench under cover as they grabbed onto the wet monkey bars, Harry beside her with a hand on her knee.

“You’ve been quiet this morning” he murmured into her hair, pulling her into him

She let herself melt into him. “Just tired.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment; she could feel that he was wanting to ask a question. She didn’t make eye contact because she didn’t want to upset him or make him think that she was upset. She wasn’t. She was just…

“Any news?”

Thea stilled at his question, and Harry felt it immediately. His fingertips ran against her shoulder, as his head turned towards her, watching her profile.

“I took one this morning,” she told him quietly. “Negative.”

His arms tightened around her. Not in frustration or pity. Just presence.

“It’s only the second month,” he said, shrugging it off. “We’re okay, right? I mean, you’re doing okay with it?”

She nodded, but it wasn’t confident. “Yeah. I know—I’m fine. It’s just—it’s different this time.”

Harry turned her around to face him. His eyes searched hers, soft and steady.

“Well, I want you to know,” he said softly, holding her hands in his, “there’s no pressure from me. None. I don’t want this to weigh on you.”

“I know.” She reached for his hand. “But I want it. It’s just... harder to admit that when it’s not happening, especially because Teddy and Niko were so quick—I mean, I don’t even know that we really planned Niko.”

Harry nodded; a possible smirk trying to cross his face as he remembered the night that Niko was conceived—or the trip they had taken where Niko was conceived. It was unclear the actual date, but he knew that on the fourth day of the trip, he could barely move from how busy they had gotten with one another after being able to be alone for a week.

His eyes turned towards the boys. “Still feels early, doesn’t it? Like we just opened the gate, and maybe the timing is just… not right, right now.”

Thea could tell that Harry was trying to keep the positive mindset, which she appreciated to some degree. Everything he said was true, but she didn’t want to be hopeful right now—she would later, but not right now. Now, she just wanted a moment to feel sorry for herself; she wasn’t sure why.

“Yeah,” she said. “But I feel like I’m already behind, or that something is wrong.”

The wind tugged at her coat. He squeezed her hand, shaking his head.

“We’re not behind,” He told her confidently, “We have so many options if this is really what we want, and we’ll give it a year. If nothing happens, we’ll make sure that nothing is wrong and go another route. There’s no reason to give up on it when everything before has been fine.”

Everything he said was true, she knew that. She felt that—she felt him.

“Mum, look!” Teddy yelled, the boys ran towards them, breaking them out of their bubble before Thea and Harry put their façade back on. Teddy barreled towards them with a black obsidian rock, shiny and wet from the rain, Niko following behind with his wellies sloshing around the puddles.

“Wow!” Thea gave him exaggerated surprise and wide eyes as she looked at it, “Very beautiful, Bear.”

“You think that the dinosaurs saw this rock?” Teddy asked, rolling it around in his hands.

Thea breathed in, “Probably, are we bringing that home with us?”

Teddy nodded, setting the rock between Harry and Thea before the boys ran back out to the playground—they had been loving to pretend that they were knights with armor and swords, sticks in their hands as they let their imagination run wild. It was one of the best parts of parenting: watching their children have imaginations that grew and grew to the point of magical fantasy.

Thea felt the ping in her chest: it was guilt. Guilt that she had been feeling sorry for herself all morning and not taking in these small moments with her boys while they were in such a beautiful age; they were giggling and talkative, so brilliant, and completely independent on so many levels.

She bit her lip as she felt Harry pull her shoulders towards him, kissing her temple.

“Our life is so beautiful,” Harry reassured her quietly, “It can only get more beautiful.”

She nodded, licking over her lips as she felt a sting behind her eye. It could only get more beautiful.

That evening, after they had made, eaten, and cleaned up dinner, while the boys painted paper butterflies at the table, Thea watched them and wondered how long she would carry this mix of gratitude and longing.

Their boys were loud and beautiful and messy. There was so much love here, in the chaos. Still, she wondered what a third would look like seated between them.

Would they look more like Harry? Would they have her quiet streak, or be another storm of joy like Niko? Would they be inquisitive like Teddy?

Harry noticed her staring and smiled from across the table. He mouthed, "Still hopeful?" and she gave him a slow nod. It wasn’t all sadness. It wasn’t even grief yet. But it was something between the lines of waiting and wanting, and she didn’t know how to carry it except with both hands open.

Later, while the boys built a fort out of couch cushions and old blankets to wind the night down with a film, Thea went upstairs to get their nighttime routines started. She wasn’t avoiding Harry—not really. She just needed a few moments to herself, to sort through the dull ache of disappointment that clung to her ribs like cobwebs.

She remembered when they'd first talked about a third baby, curled up together after one of Niko’s rare full nights of sleeping in his own bed. They had made such a deal of it; letting their own thoughts merge back together as a couple and not just as mum and dad.

"What if we went for three?" Harry had murmured, his hand tracing lazy shapes on her bare back.

She'd laughed, breathless and stunned. "Three? You sure?"

"I'm sure," he'd whispered into the darkness, still being able to see her eyes at their proximity. "I could do this forever with you."

And she’d wanted it too. Another little voice in the house, another pair of chubby arms flung around her neck. They had waited until things settled—until Teddy was in school, until Niko was potty-trained, until her work schedule became more flexible. They had waited for the perfect time.

But the body doesn’t always follow the calendar.

She walked slowly through the boys' shared room, straightening rumpled blankets and stepping over LEGO mines on the carpet. On the shelf above Niko's bed was a framed photo of their family from last summer—Teddy with an ice cream mustache, Niko in Harry's sunglasses, and Thea squinting from the sun, her arms draped around them all.

She touched the frame gently. A pang tightened in her chest. How could there be so much fullness, and still, something missing?

Harry found her folding laundry at the end of the small bed. She was tucking one of Teddy’s dinosaur T-shirts into a drawer when she noticed that he had been standing in the doorway.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “We don’t need a test to tell us we’re doing something right. Look at those two tornados’ downstairs.”

Thea laughed through a tight throat. “They are a bit much.”

“You gave them to me,” he said, crossing the room now. He bent down in front of her, taking her hands into his as he looked up and saw her—really saw her. “And you’ll give us what we need now. However that looks. We just have to keep loving each other through it.”

She bit her lip before she leaned down and kissed him then, grateful. He always knew how to hold her together.

That night, once the boys were in bed and the house had gone still again, Harry lit the candle on her nightstand—the one that smelled like peonies and old books and really took in the scents of spring. Thea curled into him under the duvet; her head tucked beneath his chin as he rubbed her back, letting the silence of the room speak for a few moments.

He whispered stories about what summer looked like. Imagined their children running wild through a garden they hadn’t planted yet. He spoke as if it was already true, every detail vivid.

“And the baby?” she asked softly.

“They’ll be the loudest one of all,” Harry said softly. “Just like you.”

She smiled, even as her chest ached. Even as the rain began again against the windows.

The following morning, she woke to birdsong and the smell of coffee. Sunlight streamed in pale ribbons across the sheets. She rolled over to find Harry already dressed, hair damp from a shower, a mug in each hand as he gave her a tight smile. He knew she needed to be loved the most and doused in hope.

Hope, she thought again, is a kind of love. And today, they still had both.

+++

A few days later, the house cracked open at the seams more than either of them could handle in the moment. It was just before dinner, everyone home—Harry had gotten home from work just an hour prior, and things spiraled in the way only families with small children could truly understand.

Thea had spent the day with the boys; her part-time job at the library was helpful, allowing their childcare needs to be kept to a minimum. Harry was standing by the stove now, shirt sleeves rolled up as he prepared dinner, letting Thea handle the rest of the days chores—laundry, cleaning the bathrooms, and currently, vacuuming upstairs.

Niko had refused to wear pants, again. This had been ongoing for quite a while, and Harry and Thea just let it go. But, he was currently screaming from the hallway floor, red-faced and sweaty, because Teddy had told him all the dinosaurs had died. Teddy, now sulking and having emotional turbulence himself, crossed his arms at the kitchen table and shouted back at his brother that he was just telling the truth, and if Niko didn’t like it, he could go play with someone else.

Niko screeched loudly, tears staining his cheeks as he threw a toy truck at Teddy—who matched in the screeching.

Harry, elbow-deep in a boiling pot of pasta, turned sharply to the table. "Enough, both of you! That is not how we talk to each other,” He pointed his finger, “No hitting, Nikolai.”

His voice cracked like a whip across the room. The sound was sharper than usual—too loud, too angry, almost like he was at the end of his tolerance.

“Theodore, go to your room, now.”

Teddy’s face crumpled at the suddenness of his dad’s words; it was more of the shock that scared him. He shoved his chair back with a screech and bolted down the hallway, up the stairs, and slamming his bedroom door behind him.

Niko hiccupped once, startled out of his tantrum, and stared at the kitchen doorway. Thea stood there, her expression hard to read.

“Harry,” she said softly. Too softly—it was the kind of tone that meant trouble. He shut his eyes for a moment. He turned, already sighing.

“I didn’t mean to shout like that, but—”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “But they’re kids. And you scared them. You scared me a little, too,” She shook her head, “You don’t talk like that.”

He blinked, chest rising and falling, guilt rising fast as he looked down the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, running a hand down his face. “I just—I’m tired. And everything was loud, and it’s been a long day and—”

She crossed the room, touched his hand gently. “I know. I really do. But we have to be better than that. We’ve always said we would be.”

He looked at her, eyes tired, shoulders slumped. There was such a growth about Harry that she couldn’t pinpoint; he looked older, hair shorter but mature, the softness of his features was starting to fade from the young memories that she held of him.

He wasn’t just a young, cocky boy who she fell in love with anymore. She knew there were aspects of him that would come out every once in a while; she loved the way he spoke to her in their intimate moments that reminded her of their youth.

But then there was this Harry. The father she had made of him; the husband she had turned him into. There was a softness to him now, one she couldn’t explain.

“I just don’t want them to think they can’t make mistakes. I want them to feel safe. I messed that up—I’m sorry.” He bit the inside of his cheek as he shook his head.

Thea leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Then go fix it.”

He nodded and set the spoon down, brushing his hands on a towel to dry them before heading up towards the boy’s room.

Moments later, she heard him knock on Teddy’s door. It didn’t open right away. But then it did; she heard the softness of the words, not the specifics. Harry got down on one knee next to the boy’s bed where he had been hiding under the covers, and apologized like he meant it, arms open, heart wide.

Teddy didn’t say much, but he hugged him tight.

Down in the kitchen, Thea scooped Niko into her arms and held him close, murmuring quietly that she was sorry he was sad, that daddy mean to yell. Her eyes met Harry’s over their boys’ heads as he returned.

It hadn’t been a perfect way to handle a situation, but it had been real. And sometimes, that was the kind of love that mattered most. The real moments.

That same night, after the boys had gone to bed and the house had fallen into a rare quiet, Thea and Harry curled up together in their bedroom. It wasn’t a scheduled night—it was just a night to them. There was something about the hush that made everything feel closer, more tender. The soft lights of the lamp on the bedside table illuminated around the headboard, a glow of amber giving the room a romanticism.

Thea shifted beneath him, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw as he kissed a slow, familiar path down her neck, his knee guiding her thighs apart. It had been weeks since they’d had a night like this—no interruptions, no exhaustion that overtook them first. It was just time; it was just them together.

The boys had gone to sleep quite quickly, which allowed this to be sought after time.

He moved with care, every touch reverent, as if reacquainting himself with every inch of her skin. Her shirt had long since been discarded, his hands beneath her thighs, mouth brushing over her breastbone as he let his hands wander to the edge of her shorts.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he whispered against her, and she hummed in agreement, arching toward him. Her hands knitted through his hair as she giggles just a bit at the softness of his kisses.

Just as he began to slide his hands down the waistband of her pajamas, a soft whimper echoed through the hallway. They both froze.

Another cry, a sniffle. It was closer now, but then there was a tiny knock, then the creak of the door opening.

“Mummy?”

Niko stood there, hair mussed, clutching his favorite stuffed monkey. His bottom lip wobbled, and tears were filled in his eyes like earlier, but he looked completely broken and needing like a hurt puppy.

“I had bad dream.”

Thea blinked, chest rising with a silent, exasperated laugh. Harry rolled off her, falling back against the pillows with a groan muffled by a grin as he pulled the blanket around himself.

Thea had the blanket thrown against her chest as she sat up a bit and took in a deep breath, calling the smaller boy over, “Come here, love.”

Niko climbed into the bed without hesitation, crawling right between them. He snuggled into Thea’s side on top of the blanket as she held him close, and sighed dramatically; his warm cheek pressed to her arm.

Harry turned onto his side, gently brushing the boy’s hair back. “Scary dream? Loud dream?”

“There was a shark in the garden,” Niko murmured, thumb moving to his mouth, but Thea moved it away gently; they had been trying to break the thumb sucking habit.

Thea kissed his head, letting him fall into her touch. “That’s terrifying. We’ll make sure it doesn’t come back tomorrow, okay?”

Niko nodded sleepily, snuggling into his stuffed monkey, just a soft voice speaking out. “Thanks.”

Within minutes of having his hair brushed, he was out again, breathing soft and even.

Harry met Thea’s gaze over Niko’s head. She was laughing silently now, face buried in the crook of her elbow.

Harry sighed and mouthed, “We were so close.”

Thea reached out, lacing her fingers through his. “Rain check.”

He squeezed her hand, smiling at the ceiling. “I guess you’re worth the wait.”

And somehow, even with a squirming toddler wedged between them and desire shelved for another night—it still felt like everything was exactly where it was meant to be.

Like Harry had mentioned before, they weren’t on a ticking clock. These small moments reminded them of that; to enjoy what they had in front of them. And while the night would be full of toddler kicks, and no space in the bed, Thea would soak in every single minute.

Summer

Thea felt the change in the air before she marked it on a calendar. The lilacs were gone, replaced by the buzz of bees in lavender and the tang of sunscreen on small shoulders as she prepared the boys for another day swimming in the blow-up pool in their backyard.

Summer had arrived quietly, not with a bang but with a sigh, and the long, warm days brought with them a particular kind of expectation.

The ovulation calendar on the fridge had more marks on it now, just a few months later. Little hearts, red dots, their hopeful stars in the corners. Thea had begun logging symptoms in her phone, charting basal temperatures, listening to podcasts about fertility over breakfast while the boys painted at the kitchen table.

Even Teddy had started calling the stickers on the calendar her "wish stars," not knowing the weight each one carried. Niko tried to peel one off and stick it to his forehead once, giggling until she laughed too hard to stop him.

She didn’t want it to consume her. But it had begun to trickle into everything they did.

Every cramp, every headache, every mood swing felt like a message from her body she couldn’t quite translate; it was always a reminder that she was failing. Hope made her hyper-aware. Disappointment made her mute.

And in between it all, she clung to the gentle routines of motherhood, wiping sticky fingers and tying shoelaces, brushing crumbs from the table and kissing Niko's knees after falls. Folding laundry while Harry read to the boys in the next room, making grocery lists while thinking about due dates that never appeared.

But then there was the aspect of being a wife; being a partner. Harry was there through it all, and she knew that every movement, every word spoken between them had been calculated to what had been going on behind the scenes of it all.

It was as if there were two tracks in her mind—the life she was living, and the one she was waiting for.

She couldn’t have been more grateful for Harry if she tried; Harry tried to keep things light. He cracked jokes during scheduled intimacy by letting her know that her that she was late to her appointment with the love doctor, teased her gently about their shared Google calendar reminders, cooked elaborate meals to distract her when the test was negative again in early June.

He even baked a lemon cake from scratch. He picked peonies from the neighbor’s yard because he knew she loved them and wanted her to smile when she woke up. He made a playlist titled "Hopeful and Horny" and played it while they folded laundry, wiggling his hips until she finally cracked a laugh. He wore ridiculous boxer shorts with tiny hearts on them one morning and strutted around like a runway model just to get a smile.

She loved him for it; she did. But she could see the worry in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. In the way his hand lingered on her lower back, as if he could soothe something inside her just by touch. The way he watched her when she wasn't watching him.

"Maybe it’s the timing," she offered one night, their limbs tangled under the ceiling fan, sweat glistening between them after their scheduled session. "Maybe we’re just missing it by a day or two."

"Or maybe we’re just tired right now," Harry said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her temple. "And this is going to happen when we’re not looking."

But they were always looking. Every cycle was a countdown; every day was crossed off the calendar waiting for a new one. Every month another chance, another test, another quiet ache of disappointment when she got her period. And underneath it all, there was the pressure to stay soft with each other and to not let the want harden them.

It wasn’t helpful that they were both stressed; there were many arguments—stupid ones, nitpicking and petty. Ones about milk left out or who forgot to switch the laundry from the day before, so they had to run it again. But they weren’t really about the left-out milk or undone laundry. They were about pressure, unspoken and constant. A weight pressing down even on the days that felt easy.

Harry and Thea weren’t like this; they had never fought about anything. But now, they got under each other’s skin.

One afternoon, Thea snapped at Harry for letting Niko eat too many popsicles before lunch.

It wasn’t a big thing, really, just one of those tired, half-hungry moments where words came out too sharp and fast. She had been unloading the dishwasher, the sink still full from after breakfast, when she noticed the empty plastic wrappers tossed on the counter.

She counted three of them when she held them out to Harry.

“Seriously?” she said, eyes narrowing. “You let him eat all of those? He’s not going to touch his lunch now.”

Harry had barely looked up from where he was drying off a sippy cup. “He’s three. He wanted something cold.”

“That’s not the point.” Thea narrowed her eyes at him, shaking her head.

Harry shrugged, placing the cups back in the cabinet. “Well, I didn’t think it’d ruin his entire appetite.”

“It’s not about ruining his appetite, it’s about boundaries. You can’t just give in because it’s easier,” She didn’t want to raise her voice, “I also told him no.”

That was when Harry set the cup down with a little too much force, the clatter echoing through the kitchen; Thea stilled. “You know what?” he said quietly, and then louder—“Sorry I’m so fucking incompetent.”

He didn’t slam the door when he left, but the silence that followed was louder than anything he could have said. Thea didn’t follow right away, almost shocked by the way that he spoke. She stayed in the kitchen, breathing through the heat rising in her chest. She knew she’d been too harsh. It wasn’t really about the popsicles.

It never was.

Ten minutes later, she stepped outside with the screen door creaking behind her.

The sun was high and bright, hanging heavy in the sky like it couldn’t be bothered to move. The air was thick with honeysuckle, warm and heady, the scent curling lazily in the breeze. Cicadas droned in the background. Somewhere, a lawnmower hummed distantly; the boys were in the small pool in the back, one that Harry had set up for them that morning and they never left in the summer.

She found him at the edge of the yard, shirtless, knee-deep in the garden bed. He was yanking weeds with tight, angry fists, tearing them straight from the roots like they’d wronged him personally. His back glistened with sweat, the muscles beneath his shoulder blades shifting with each pull. His hair clung damp to the back of his neck.

The flower beds were a mess now; half-dug up, soil scattered in uneven mounds across the grass. Clumps of earth clung to his forearms, his knees. One of the tomato cages was bent at an awkward angle, shoved aside in his frenzy.

It was like something had needed breaking, and this was the only thing he could break without consequence. She stood quietly for a moment, arms crossed over her chest, watching him. He didn’t acknowledge her; he just kept pulling.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” she said eventually, squinting in the warm June sun, her voice softer than it had been in the kitchen. “It’s just… I get overwhelmed, you know.”

Harry paused, breath caught in his throat. He didn’t turn around, and just let the weeds fall from his hand and dropped back on his heels.

“I know,” he said, voice low and rough, nodding. “Me too.”

Thea took a step forward, the grass warm beneath her bare feet. She crouched beside him, not touching him yet. Just sitting in the wreckage of their backyard garden, the heat of the day pressing against their skin like a held breath.

“Let’s not fight about popsicles,” she murmured, grabbing at some of the weeds he had been throwing.

Harry gave a tired, huffed-out laugh, rubbing his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Then stop talking to me like I’m the fucking babysitter.”

Thea’s heart dropped; shaking her head as she tries to explain, “I wasn’t. I’m just tired. And you’re—”

“I’m tired too.”

They sat there, side by side, the dirt between their fingers and the silence between their breaths. Thea looked over at him—really looked this time. His jaw was tight, his hands raw from pulling, but his eyes were soft. Hurt. He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at feeling like he couldn’t get it right.

And she understood that. God, she really did.

She reached out, brushed her fingertips lightly over the curve of his knuckles, dusted with soil and sweat that was caking it on. “You’re a good dad,” she said. “I wouldn’t be wanting you to have my third if I didn’t think that.”

Harry looked at her then, finally, and something in his shoulders released. Not fully, but enough for her.

“Yeah?” he asked.

She nodded with a confirmation. “Yeah,” She bit her lip, “I’m sorry.”

Their boys shrieked in the kiddie pool nearby, splashing and laughing as if the world were simple. For a moment, they just sat there, watching their children and breathing through the quiet. Then Harry reached for her hand. Their fingers were dirty and warm, and neither of them let go.

They didn’t really talk again until dinner; just letting their moods mellow out. And even then, it was just about what movie the boys wanted to watch afterwards. But something had eased in the silence. +++

A few weeks later, they decided that they needed to leave the house.

One of their ideas involved taking the boys to the beach for a weekend. It was a last-minute, summer escape to breathe something saltier than their house. Thea wore a white sundress, her hair braided back in a pretty French braid, and she smiled more that day than she had in weeks.

They built sandcastles, of course. Harry was the king at building sandcastles, being very articulate and being patient with the boys. Teddy buried Harry’s legs in the sand. Niko collected shells and gave Thea each one with a kiss to the back of her hand as they laid in the sun. They let the boys stay up past bedtime and ate fish and chips on the boardwalk, salt on their fingers and the sound of crashing waves in their ears.

Harry watched her splash in the surf with Teddy while Niko dozed on a towel. She looked radiant, so alive in the heat and wind, her laugh carried by the sea breeze. Something about being in the ocean and letting her hair down made even the tensest moment feel like it could be washed away by the salt water. Teddy clung to his mum’s side as they waded in the water, laughing when a big wave would come around.

To Harry, it felt like falling in love again. But not new love—deeper love, an earned love. A love that had been through the ringer.

That night, back at the rental house, she curled into him in bed, the scent of saltwater still clinging to her skin that had turned a darker shade of tan. The windows were open, the air warm and slow, cicadas humming outside along with the sounds of the water hitting the shores. She wore one of his old T-shirts and nothing else, and he knew without asking that she just wanted to be held.

A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, not doing much except moving the warm air around the room.

Harry had one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting against the dip of her waist. He was half-asleep, lulled by the sound of water and the sticky, slow rhythm of summer nights. His fingers idly traced the hem of the shirt she wore.

“You know what I miss?” she whispered into the darkness.

“Hmm?” He echoed; his eyes were closed as he just listened.

“Us. Just being us. Not planners or hopefuls or testers. Just... you and me.”

He rolled to face her fully. “Then let’s just be us tonight, huh?"

There was no rush. No sense of calculation or looking at the schedule and trying to understand how to track temperatures.

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm, like she imagined the ocean at night would feel if it washed up on her body. Her hand slid into his curls, and his fingers moved under the hem of the shirt to find her bare hip, the curve of her ass. Her breath hitched when he squeezed gently, and the kiss deepened, their mouths opening like they were starving for something that had been waiting just beneath the surface.

Thea shifted beneath him, rolling to her back, pulling him over her. The old mattress dipped with their weight, and the air between them sparked like a struck match.

Harry pushed the shirt up her torso, dragging it slowly so it bunched beneath her arms. He leaned down, kissed her sternum, her ribs, the underside of her breast, pausing to suck and mark her where tan lines had formed. She gasped softly, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him there, encouraging him to take more.

They weren’t in their heads tonight. There was no "should we" or "what if." Just a slow burn of want that felt familiar and feral and organically them.

He pulled her underwear down, slow, one side at a time as he shimmied them down her legs, letting his knuckles brush along the inside of her thighs. When she was bare, he sat back on his heels and looked at her with her legs spread open for him, chest rising and falling, flushed and already wet for him.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he murmured back at her, like it was something he hadn’t said to her in a while but had never stopped thinking.

She pulled him back down with a smile, one hand sliding into the waistband of his boxers. He gasped at the feeling of her hand around him as she helped him out of his own underwear, eyes fluttering as she pumped him; something dirty, something that didn’t happen very often nowadays. “So are you. Especially when you look at me like that, Styles.”

Their mouths met again, messier this time, hungrier with a need that neither of them had realized was built up. Her thighs wrapped around his hips, heels pressing into the backs of his legs. He slid into her with one slow, grounding thrust, and they both gasped at the sensation—how familiar and electric it still was, even after all this time.

They didn’t rush. His hips rocked into hers in long, rolling waves, her back arching to meet him. The headboard tapped softly against the wall, the rhythm of their bodies syncing with the pulse of summer outside. She clawed at his back, left little half-moon indents in his skin. He kissed her jaw, her throat, her collarbone—every place he used to know by heart.

At one point, he pulled out and flipped her over, hands gripping her hips as she buried her face into the pillow, muffling a moan when he slid back in. It was a little dirtier now, a little grittier—like how they used to do it on those college nights when they couldn’t get enough of each other. She smiled into the pillow at the familiarity that hadn’t been so frequent.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his voice low and wrecked against the back of her neck. His hips snapped forward again, a little rougher this time, and he bit down on her shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her gasp and clutch the pillow tighter.

Every thrust dragged a moan from her throat, high and broken, her body rocking with the force of his pace. Her knees were wide, pressed into the mattress, back arched in offering. She was dripping around him, so wet he could feel it slick and hot down his thighs, the way her body gripped him like it didn’t want to let go.

His fingers dug into her hips, bruising almost, pulling her back to meet him as he drove into her, deeper each time. Skin slapped, wet and obscene, and the only sounds in the room were her panting, his groans, the creak of the bed, and the soft lapping of waves through the open window.

“Fuck—baby,” he growled, breath catching as she tightened around him; he knew the game she played. “Your pussy is so fucking good… always taking me so good.”

She whimpered, her voice gone high and desperate. “Don’t stop… please, don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he panted, then leaned over her again, chest flush to her back, his hand sliding between her legs. He found her clit easily, fingers slick, and began circling it in slow, filthy little strokes. “Gonna come for me?” he murmured into her ear. “Let me feel you fall apart? Hm?”

Her reply was a choked cry, her hips stuttering, thighs beginning to shake as the pleasure built fast and sharp. His name spilled from her mouth again and again like prayer, like surrender to his dirty games, and then she shattered with a sob, pulsing around him in waves that made his own climax slam into him like a freight train.

He groaned deep in his throat, fucking her through it, losing rhythm, and finally buried himself one last time, spilling into her with a curse and a tremble. His whole body seized, mouth open against her damp skin, like the force of it had knocked the breath from his lungs.

He stayed inside her for a moment, pressed to her back, their bodies sticky with sweat, tangled in the sheets and each other.

Eventually, he slid out with a groan and collapsed beside her, chest heaving, arm falling heavy across her as she fell onto her side. Her skin was flushed and glowing, her breath still unsteady, a small, satisfied smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

The fan whirred around them. The waves kept rolling outside the open window. And the two of them lay there, ruined and warm and absolutely right, the scent of sex thick in the air and his cum slowly leaking down her thighs. Familiarly.

Then she reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together, still catching her breath.

“That,” she whispered, smiling into the dark, “felt like us.”

Harry leaned over, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered back, “Still got it in us, apparently.”

Afterward, she cried. It was not loud, but it was after they had gotten ready for bed and everything got quiet again. Just tears that came from some tender place she hadn’t touched in a while. Harry didn’t ask her to explain; he didn’t need her to. He just held her tighter and let her soak the pillow with her fallen tears.

And in the dark, between breaths, they remembered how to feel like home.

+++

July crept in, hot and thick and with unnamed emotion. Their bedroom became a haven of fans and quiet music, a retreat from the weight of wanting. Even their kisses grew quieter, slower. Grief didn’t always roar, sometimes it was just a sigh.

Still, the tests stayed negative. Today was a difficult one; they were all difficult, but this seemed to rock Thea harder.

One evening, Harry came home with a bouquet of yellow roses, a new stack of books from a few authors that he knew that Thea liked, a bar of dark chocolate tucked in the bag, along with a new small bullet vibrator—that was just to be cheeky, but also to remind her.

“Just because,” he said, placing them beside her on the couch.

She looked up from the TV she had been watching in the quietness of the boys playing in their room, her eyes shining. “You always know what I need.”

“You need reminding that you’re loved. Not just on the two days a month we cross our fingers." He moved over to where she was sitting, flopping down next to her.

She leaned into him, head resting against his chest. The TV played some old movie neither of them were watching. His fingers threaded through her hair. Thea closed her eyes and let herself exist without expectation for a moment.

“Do you think it’ll happen?” she asked quietly.

He kissed the top of her head, speechless for a moment before he felt her settle into him. “I don’t know,” He told her truthfully, “But I hope.”

She nodded, but her throat caught.

+++

One Saturday morning in July, Thea met her sister Erika at their usual coffee shop—a small, airy place tucked beside the library, with ivy growing up the brick and mismatched mugs. Erika was already seated at their usual corner table, two iced lattes in front of her, a pair of sunglasses propped in her hair.

“You look tired,” Erika said bluntly, handing Thea a straw as she squinted up at her.

“Wow, thanks,” Thea replied dryly. She stirred her drink and took a long, needed sip. “You always know how to flatter a girl, huh?”

Erika grinned, unapologetic as she leaned forward. "It’s what sisters are for. So... how’s everything?"

Thea hesitated. She hadn't meant to bring it up. But something in her chest cracked the moment she saw her sister's familiar eyes—the ones that had known her before marriage, before babies, before grief had a name in her repertoire.

“We’ve… actually been trying,” she said finally, voice low. “For a third. But it’s not happening.”

Erika blinked almost blankly, like she hadn’t heard her at first. She reached across the table and squeezed Thea’s hand. “Oh, hon. How long?”

Thea nodded, swallowing hard, remembering the last few months. “It’s only been a few months. But it was so easy before. And now I’m doing everything—temping, tracking, testing. I feel like I’m on a timer all the time."

Erika was quiet for a beat. Then she said, “You remember how I got pregnant with the twins?”

Thea blinked, sighing. “By accident. On a cruise.”

“Exactly. Drunk on overpriced wine coolers and not a single ovulation app in sight. There may have even been a bit of ass play—”

Thea barked a surprised laugh to interrupt her sister, “Okay! I get it.”

“Point is,” Erika continued, “even when we’re doing all the ‘right’ things, bodies are weird. Mine decided to double down for no reason and yours is just... taking its sweet time. Doesn’t mean it won’t get there.”

Thea thought for a moment, nodding. “It’s just hard. I feel like I’m failing at something that should come naturally.”

Erika leaned back, holding her cold cup in her hands. “Thea, you’re raising two actual tiny humans who think you hung the moon. You’re not failing at anything. You’re human. And honestly, sometimes I think the people who try the hardest are the ones who love the deepest."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching a little girl chase a pigeon across the patio.

Erika added, more lightly, “Besides, you really want to be outnumbered? My twins colored on the cat last week. In Sharpie,” She took another sip, “Marshmallow has a green ass.”

Thea snorted into her coffee. “That helps. A lot."

“Good. Because even though I know you want three, it may not be happening for a reason beyond you.”

Thea gave her sister a soft smile, “So, how is being a mum of twins going?”

“I’m wearing yesterday’s dry shampoo and a shirt I stole from my husband, and a diaper."

They both laughed until tears prickled Thea’s eyes.

She reached for her sister’s hand again. “Thank you. Really. I just needed to say it out loud."

“Say it as many times as you need. You’re not alone. And if your uterus needs a pep talk, I have wine and several colorful metaphors ready."

“Deal,” Thea said, smiling genuinely now. “Big deal."

Her sister tipped her cup toward her with a smirk, eyebrows raised. “So. You and Harry, then. Still good?”

Thea lifted a brow herself, glancing at Erika for a moment before shaking her head. “What does that mean?”

Her sister grinned wickedly, leaning back in her chair. “Is he still as good in the sack as he was when you were younger? I was a little worried that’s why you stayed—don’t get me wrong, very glad he’s been the best dad to the boys, but you know.”

Thea laughed, covering her face with her hand. “Oh my god, stop.”

“What? I’m just saying—it was the only thing I couldn’t argue with. You two had that thing. Like, walls-shaking, might-die-of-lust kind of thing. Remember that holiday that we went on as a family and Harry came for the first time?”

Of course, Thea remembered that trip. It was when they were nineteen and full of love and lust and completely unbothered by the world around them. They had to be touching at all hours of the day, and she could barely walk through a doorway without Harry’s eyes trailing her. They had sex on every surface, anytime they were alone. She knew that her family could sense the glow that they both had. It wasn’t just the holiday tan.

“Yes,” Thea pulled her lips into her mouth, “I do remember.”

“Course you do, you were animals.” Erika joked. “Either way, I hope you still want each other like that.”

Thea rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. She swirled the latte, and stared out at the patio of the café, the warm breeze playing with the hem of her shirt.

There was a pause before she bit on the straw. “But… yeah. We still have that.”

Erika’s teasing faded a little, her tone softening. “Then maybe that counts for something. That you still want each other, after everything.”

Thea nodded slowly. “It does. Especially now. It’s like—when the rest of life feels too big, he’s still the only person I want touching me. Still the one who knows how.”

Erika touched her cup with her sister’s, this time in something like sisterly solidarity. “To good sex with the same person for a decade. Miracles do happen.”

Thea clinked her cup against hers and smiled back at her. “Cheers to that.”

As she drove home, the sun pouring in through the windshield and the iced latte sweating in her cupholder, Thea felt lighter. It wasn’t that anything had changed.

But the weight had shifted. Just enough for her to understand that. And for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she was holding it alone.

Later that same weekend, Harry found himself at his mum’s for lunch—just him and his sister, Maeve, and the smell of roast chicken filling the kitchen like childhood. It wasn’t planned, not really. He’d dropped the boys off for a few hours to play with their cousins and stayed for tea, and then Maeve had shown up with a box of old books she wanted to donate.

They sat around the kitchen table, sunlight pooling on the floor, windows wide open to let in the breeze. His mum passed around plates of food while Maeve poured some water, chatting about her work and her daughter’s obsession with glitter glue.

“So,” his mum said after a lull in conversation, eyeing him over her glasses, “how’s Thea? She looked a little run-down last time I saw her.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, not sure if he was wanting to bring up in conversation what had been going on at their house. He figured that between his mum and sister, they should have an opinion on it—he didn’t really know if he wanted them to, but he figured he could test it anyways.

“She’s fine, tired,” Harry said gingerly, tentative before he smirked upwards, “We’ve been trying again. For a third.”

Maeve nearly choked on the sip of her water. “You mad bastard.”

“Thanks for the support,” Harry muttered, smirking. He picked at the corner of his plate, reluctant to look either of them in the eye.

His mum reached across and touched his wrist. “You don’t have to tell us, love.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just... not going the way it did before. Not as quick. And it’s hitting Thea a bit hard.”

Maeve softened immediately seeing her brother’s reaction. “That’s rough. I get it. It’s not just a want, is it? It becomes this... ache.”

Harry nodded, taking in a large inhale. “She’s doing everything right. Temping, charts, the apps, all of it. And I can’t do anything but show up when the calendar tells me to. I feel like... I don’t know. Useless.”

His mum gave a sad little smile, tilting her head. “That’s because you love her. Watching someone you love carry something heavy—especially something you can’t fix… it’s awful.”

Maeve leaned forward towards him. “You’re not useless, H. You’re the anchor. You’ve always been the one people lean on. Just keep being that. And for God’s sake, let her cry without fixing it. That’s the trick.”

Harry cracked a grin. “You’re starting to sound like a therapist.”

“I have three, so I know how it feels—it feels like when there’s a gaggle of geese and one is chasing you, the other is squawking, and the other is flapping its wings.”

They all laughed, low but communal, the kind of laugh that came from knowing too much.

His mum let her hands rest on his wrist as he stared at the table, wondering if he wanted to talk about it—or why he felt so lonely talking about it. “Three’s a lot. But if anyone can do it, it’s you two. Just don’t forget to be kind to each other while you wait.”

He nodded again, quietly grateful.

As he packed up to leave, Maeve slipped a chocolate bar into his pocket.

“For Thea,” she said. “And maybe a bit for you.”

When he got back to the house, the boys were still napping, and Thea was on the couch with a book he had gotten her. He kissed her forehead and tucked the chocolate beside her without a word. She looked up, surprised, and he just shrugged.

+++

In late August, a heat wave struck. They abandoned the oven in favor of cold pasta salads and watermelon slices. The boys ran shirtless through the sprinkler all day. Harry built blanket forts and read them stories by flashlight. They ate dinner on the floor, drank lemonade by the pitcher, and left chores undone.

Thea wandered the garden barefoot, letting the dirt cool her skin. Sometimes she stood at the edge of the tomato patch and whispered prayers into the wind. Not always to a god, most of the times, sometimes just to the universe, or to the cells in her body.

Once, she found a ladybug on her finger and cried like it was a sign. She cried more often now. In the car. In the shower. When she saw a stranger with three kids at the grocery store. When Niko asked, innocently, if their next baby could have red hair like the doll in the book she had been reading for bedtime.

But she still laughed, too. Still found Harry in the doorway of a room and thought how lucky she was.

Thea didn’t stop hoping—not yet. But she began to ask new questions:

What if this was it? Could she be happy with two? Was she less if her body didn’t give them another?

She didn’t voice them aloud—not yet. But the questions lived in the quiet.

And Harry, he was always there. A constant hand on her back. A note left in her coat pocket. An extra strawberry on her plate because he knew she’d give the first to Niko when he asked. He didn’t push her. He didn’t rush her. He just stayed. And loved her. They hadn’t given up. Not yet.

But something had shifted between them all. The heat of wanting had become something heavier; something deeper. It wasn’t desperation, no, it was devotion.

Autumn

September arrived with a crispness in the air and a hush that seemed to stretch out across the days. The trees began to tinge with color—burnt oranges, golds, and rusts—and the evenings came earlier, curling into their home like a familiar guest. Thea loved autumn, always had. But this year, it felt different. Like the world was letting go of something she was still trying to hold.

One thing that had hit her the hardest was Teddy starting school. Being six, he was starting his first year of primary and there was such a hole in her heart that she hadn’t even been paying attention to.

He wore his new shoes with pride, his backpack bouncing behind him as he ran ahead to his classroom. Harry helped him pack his small backpack the night before, giving him his bath, his pep talks on how to meet new friends.

Thea stayed strong until the car door closed, and then she cried—harder than she expected. Not because she was sad, exactly, but because she felt too many things at once: pride, joy, loss, and that quiet ache that never quite went away with a child growing up. She sat in the driver’s seat with the radio off, her coffee growing cold, remembering the way his hand had slipped from hers without hesitation.

The silence in the house that afternoon was its own kind of heartbreak. Niko played quietly on the rug with his trucks, not asking where his brother was, as if he instinctively knew this was something that would happen now—or he didn’t want to upset Thea. Thea folded Teddy’s little uniform shirts from the drying rack, smoothing them flat with shaking hands, and felt the shape of his growing up press against her chest like a bruise.

She didn’t regret it. She was proud, of course, but she missed him terribly.

Niko turned four the following week—another moment that hit her harder than expected. They threw a party in the backyard with blue balloons and a dinosaur cake with kids and parents from Niko’s play group.

She was smiling, but her eyes were far away—watching Teddy grow too fast, Niko turn another year older, and herself fall behind in a race she never meant to enter. She wanted to freeze this moment: Harry rolling in the grass with Nerf guns, Niko roaring with cake on his face, Teddy trying to explain paleontology to a three-year-old. But time didn’t freeze; it only marched on, quicker.

And that ache in her chest stayed right where it was, nestled between joy and longing.

+++

One evening, after the boys were asleep and the dishes were done, Thea joined Harry on the front porch. In the evenings, he had been sitting out here and reading his books; she let him sit in silence for a bit, he deserved it after working all day. The air was sharp with the scent of fallen leaves, and she wrapped herself in a blanket as she settled beside him. Today, she wanted to distract him.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the crickets before he looked up from his book when she went to speak.

“I keep thinking,” she said softly, “what if this is it? What if it doesn’t happen?”

Harry didn’t answer right away; they sat on the swing that hung from their porch. He reached over, took her hand and took in a deep breath.

“Then we’ll raise two incredible kids and be grateful every day of that. And we’ll still build a life full of love and adventure. You and me,” He swallowed, clearing his throat, “It will take time to… move on from. But we’re the story, remember? We get to write it how we want it.”

She blinked fast, nodding. “I just thought... I don’t know. That I’d feel it. That I’d know when I’m done trying."

“You don’t have to know,” he said. “We don’t ever really have to stop, if you don’t want. We just have to come peace with the results.”

There had been a moment when Harry watched her carefully, seeing the sunken in features of her that looked like a ghost of who she was. Harry was never one to push; pushing her to do something never worked. But this wasn’t the woman he loved sitting next to him. This was a shell of her.

For the first time, Harry felt scared.

Then he asked, gently, “Are you okay?”

She blinked again, surprised by the softness in his voice, how close the question landed to the ache inside her. It took her a moment to answer him, because she tried to settle on an answer that felt correct.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think I keep saying I’m fine, so I don’t have to explain how tired I really am. It’s like my hope is a thread I’ve been holding too tightly. My hands hurt from it.”

He nodded, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Would it help to talk to someone? Like, someone besides me?”

She looked over at him, eyebrows drawing slightly together. Harry worried that he overstepped but then shook his thoughts about that away. He was doing the right thing.

“I mean it,” he added quickly, turning towards her. “Not because I think something’s wrong with you. But because I love you. And because sometimes the strong ones—”

“—need help too,” she finished his sentence, voice breaking a little.

Harry squeezed her hand at the break in her voice, noticing the tears in her eyes. “Yeah.”

She was quiet for a while, just listening to the crickets and the rustle of dry leaves across the porch steps.

“Maybe,” she said finally, nodding. “Maybe I do—maybe I need to.”

“Okay,” he said, quietly letting the word fill the space. “Then we’ll figure that out together.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, blanket tucked up to her chin.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t thank me for loving you,” he replied. “It’s my favorite thing to do.”

They stayed there until the air grew cold and the stars came out from behind the soft clouds that had come over the autumn sky, a shared silence between them that was heavy, but healing.

Later that night, after Thea had fallen asleep curled on the couch, still wrapped in the blanket from the porch, Harry stared at her for a moment before he grabbed his keys and drove across town to his mum’s house.

It was a quiet drive there, a thoughtful one. But his thoughts were so jumbled he wasn’t sure where to place them. After he had knocked on her door, she opened the door in slippers, eyebrows lifting at the sight of him.

“Harry?” she asked gently. “What is it?”

It was then that he realized he didn’t have an answer to the question. He didn’t know why he was there.

He just stepped inside and shook his head. “Sorry. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

She didn’t ask questions right away, knowing that something was eating him up. As a mother, she just ushered him to the kitchen and turned on the kettle They sat at the table in silence, the low hum of the heat filling the room until the water boiled.

When she finally placed a cup of tea in front of him, he wrapped his hands around it but didn’t drink any of it.

“I don’t think Thea’s okay,” he said at last, voice low and rough. “She says she’s managing. And I know she wants to be. But I can see it eating her up. The waiting. The pressure. The heartbreak.”

His mum nodded, waiting.

“I feel so useless,” he went on. “Like I’m holding everything with frayed hands. Trying to be strong for her and for the boys, and at the same time, I’m terrified I’m doing it all wrong. I want to fix it. But I can’t. And it’s driving me mad.”

She reached across the table, laid a hand over his.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “you’re not supposed to fix her. You’re supposed to love her.”

“I do,” he whispered, eyes wet. “More than anything.”

“Then that’s what you do. You love her through this. And when she breaks down, you let her. You be the steady one—not the perfect one. The present one.”

Harry looked down, shoulders sagging with the weight of it. “I’m just scared.”

“I know,” she said. “But love is still worth being scared for.”

He let out a long breath, blinking fast at the way that he could feel the tears prickling the back of his eyes. Then nodded.

And for the first time in weeks, he let himself cry—quiet and unguarded. Not because he was weak. But because he loved so deeply, he didn’t know where to put it all.

He covered his eyes with his hands, feeling the sob catch up to him before he shook his head. His mum jumped from her seat to move towards him, letting him fall into a hug with her.

“Oh, Harry,” She held him as he cried; it wasn’t something that happened often enough for her to know how to handle. Her eyes shut as she rubs his back to quiet him. He let himself be someone’s son for a moment, not a father or a husband or a man trying to hold up the sky. “She’s going to be okay.”

Harry had come to the conclusion that he just didn’t know how to love anyone as much as he loved her. And he didn’t know how to handle the sadness that overcome her; it didn’t just affect her, it affected him. Everything that was happening to her was happening to him, and he didn’t know how to stop it—how to make it better.

She pulled back to look at him, brushing his hair out of his face the way she always had. “You keep showing up by staying soft, even when the world makes you want to harden. You keep kissing her forehead. You keep making the boys laugh. You keep doing the little things. That’s how we hold the people we love when they’re slipping.”

Harry wiped at his face with his sleeve, laughing under his breath. “I used to think I’d have it all figured out by now.”

“No one does,” she told him, definitely. “We just figure it out in pieces. And when the pieces don’t fit, we make room.”

They sat together in the quiet for a while, drinking tea that had long gone lukewarm.

Before he left, she packed him a container of stew and an old photo from when Teddy was born—Thea asleep in a chair with the baby on her chest, Harry bent over them, his face lit with awe.

“Just in case you forget what you’ve already done right,” she said, handing it to him.

By the time he pulled into the driveway at home, the lights were low in the living room. He walked inside to find the blanket had slipped off Thea’s shoulders. He tucked it back around her, brushing a kiss over her forehead.

She stirred just a little at the movement.

“You okay?” she mumbled, eyes still closed.

He settled beside her on the couch. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I am now.”

They fell asleep like that, tangled together, not knowing what tomorrow would bring—only that they’d face it side by side.

+++

At the end of October, Harry planned something small—just for them. He booked a night at a bed-and-breakfast two towns over, close enough that his mum could watch the boys.

They drove with the windows down, music playing softly, whatever Thea wanted. The trees were truly at their peak, fiery and full, and Thea let her hand drift through the air outside the car like a ribbon.

The inn was old and smelled a bit musty but had character that couldn’t be replicated, with creaky floors and quilts folded at the foot of the bed. They walked through a pumpkin patch that afternoon, laughing at the absurd shapes. They drank cider from paper cups. They touched fingers in the car like teenagers. All of it being a reminder of what they were, who they had been.

That night, after a dinner near the pier where they both had a little too much wine that they had to walk home, Harry gave her a small box.

Inside was a necklace: a delicate silver chain with three small stars—simple and shining like something made of quiet wishes.

“Two for the boys,” he said softly, pointing to it, “One for what we’ve hoped for. No matter what happens next, that part is ours too.”

Thea’s fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the stars to her chest. The gesture, the thought, undid her.

She didn’t speak. She just looked at him with eyes that had loved him through seasons of waiting, and kissed him, so slow and so sure.

It started gentle, it always did. The kind of kiss that said: I remember you. I still want you.

His hands were reverent, moving slowly over her arms, her sides, the curve of her back. She leaned into him, into the warmth of his chest, into the certainty of his touch. His mouth trailed down her jaw, his breath hot against her skin, and when she whispered his name, it was with a need that had nothing to do with making a baby—and everything to do with being seen as his wife. His partner.

He undressed her with care, as if it were something sacred. And when his fingers slid beneath the waistband of her underwear, she gasped, head tipping back. He murmured something quiet against her collarbone—something that sounded like “God, you’re everything”—and she felt her heart swell too big for her body.

They made love that night like it was a beginning instead of an end.

Like it wasn’t about schedules or trying for two lines on a test. It was just skin and breath and the kind of intimacy that comes from years of knowing someone in both silence and chaos.

She guided his hands, showed him where it ached and where it healed. He moved inside her with something close to awe. It was slow, deep, full of reverence and restraint, until restraint gave way to something hungrier. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands gripping his shoulders. Every kiss felt like a question of her sanity, every sigh an answer.

And when they came, it was together—trembling and breathless, her name on his lips like a promise.

Afterward, they laid tangled together, her head on his chest, the windows open to the rustle of leaves and the hum of crickets outside. The necklace still hung between her breasts, the stars catching faint moonlight.

Thea stared at the ceiling, letting herself feel all of it—the weight, the want, the wonder. The ache that had dulled, the love that hadn’t.

For once, she didn’t try to name the feeling. She just let it be.

The next morning, they lingered around the small room. Breakfast was warm cinnamon rolls and strong coffee, served in chipped floral China. Harry pulled a chair close to hers on the porch of the inn, both of them bundled in oversized sweaters. The sky was blue with the hint of winter in it; she could smell snow if she tried hard enough.

“We could do this more,” she said, watching the wind ruffle the bare branches of the trees that had lost all of it’s leaves.

“Get away?” He asked softly.

“Just... remember who we are. When we’re not parents. When we’re not hoping. Just us.”

Harry nodded, finishing his sip. “Let’s remember, then. Even when it gets hard.”

She reached for his hand, fingers cold but sure. “Let’s promise.”

They drove home in silence and song, windows down, the air biting but invigorating. When they returned home later that day, the boys barreled into their arms with sticky hands and glitter in their hair. Maeve reported bedtime disasters and cereal for dinner but said it with a smile.

As Harry carried their bags upstairs in the house, Thea lingered in the hallway, watching the boys chase each other down the stairs. She touched the star necklace at her throat.

Something about Thea had started to feel… happier. More put together. Maybe more alive than before. She had her ups and downs, but she knew the person who was there for them all.

Even in her darkest hour, she knew who was there.

+++

A few days later, they went out to dinner with friends—Ben and Lila, college friends who now lived two neighborhoods over, who had one baby and another on the way. Harry and Thea hadn’t been very good about meeting with friends, so they decided to reach out.

They met at a cozy Italian place downtown, the kind with candles stuck in old wine bottles and menus written on chalkboards.

Thea wore her favorite dress, the green one with the sleeves that made her feel pretty, and Harry had shaved and put on cologne. For a little while, it felt easy. They ordered drinks, shared appetizers, laughed over stories from years ago and what had been going on in their lives so far.

Thea wanted to be a good friend and ask about how the pregnancy was going, how excited they were. She tried to push herself to ask questions, to keep herself engaged. It wasn’t always about her, after all.

But then, halfway through dessert, Lila leaned in with a fond smile and said, "You guys are so good with your boys—I love seeing your posts online, they’re always so handsome and smart. Honestly, if anyone should have a big family, it’s you two."

Ben chuckled, nodding in agreement. "You’re the ones we looked up to when we started having kids," He took a sip of his whiskey, “Thinking of having more?”

Harry laughed softly, polite and tight-lipped. Thea managed a smile, knowing it was coming from a place of love. She reached for her wine glass to buy herself a second. "We’re... figuring things out."

“Of course you guys will,” Lila smiled, “Wouldn’t surprise me if it was sooner than later.”

In the moment, she watched Harry shift in his seat; it wasn’t really just an uncomfortable look, it was a bit of a… frustrated one.

The moment passed. Lila started talking about baby names, about the ones that she loved and was thinking of using—they were having a girl. Harry changed the subject, nonchalantly taking it back to asking about if they were putting their son in sports.

After dessert, they paid the bill. Said goodbye on the sidewalk with hugs and promises to do it again soon. The car was mostly quiet on the drive home. It wasn’t until they hit the main road that Thea spoke.

"Well, that was fun."

Harry kept his eyes on the road, lips tight as he tried to not say anything else. "Yeah. It was."

Another pause, the sound of the car on the road was the only silence they had. Then she whispered, "That comment didn’t bother you?"

He exhaled slowly. "Yep."

"I know they meant well," she said quickly, defending the moment. "I know. But—"

"It still hurt."

She turned her head to the window. "I felt like a defective doll. Like, 'Oh, of course they’ll have another soon.' Like it’s that easy."

Harry gripped the steering wheel tighter. "I wanted to say something. I just didn’t want to ruin the night."

"I get it. I do. But I’m so tired of pretending. Of laughing it off and then crying in the bathroom."

Harry reached for her hand. "You don’t have to pretend with me."

She looked at him then, eyes full.

"I know. But I feel like I have to pretend with everyone else. Like it’s shameful. Like I’m not doing my job as a woman or a mother or a wife—like I’m missing something."

He pulled the car into their driveway and shut off the engine. They sat in the quiet hum of the evening.

"You are doing everything," he said, turning toward her. "You are carrying the weight of hope and heartbreak every day. And I hate that people don’t see that. But I do. I see all of it."

She wiped a tear from her cheek and gave him a small smile. "Maybe next time I’ll just say, 'We’re infertile, but thanks for the vote of confidence.'"

Harry laughed, surprised. "Honestly, I’d pay to see that."

They walked inside together, not lighter exactly, but together. And that made all the difference.

+++

One evening in early November, over dinner with the four of them sitting at the table, Teddy put down his fork mid-bite and looked up at them with serious eyes.

“Where do babies come from?” he asked, as serious as he could be.

Thea nearly choked on her water, coughing into her napkin as Harry stopped chewing midbite as he stared straight ahead at his son.

“Wow,” Thea said, eyes wide as she looked at Harry, raising her brows at the suddenness of the question.

“Um,” Harry said, blinking fast, trying to understand where that had come from. “That’s... a great question, mate. Why are you curious?”

“Eli from school says his mummy has a baby in her tummy,” Teddy continued, completely serious, shrugging as he stabbed a bite of chicken. “He said it grew there because she kissed his dad a lot. And they got extra married. Like, twice or something.”

Niko laughed so hard milk came out of his nose. “Extra married!” he howled, pointing at his brother like it was the best joke he’d ever heard.

Harry pressed his lips together, trying not to grin. Thea, still red from her coughing fit, let the smile grow over her face.

“Oh my God,” she whispered to Harry. “Extra married.”

“I mean, I guess we’ve been slacking,” Harry said under his breath. “Only got married once.”

Thea nudged him beneath the table, still laughing. She wiped her mouth, took a deep breath, and met Teddy’s gaze.

“Well, that’s kind of sweet, isn’t it?” she said. “And not entirely wrong. Babies do grow in their mummy’s tummy, but it’s a bit more... complicated than kissing.”

“Like how complicated?” Teddy asked, squinting like he was gearing up for a quiz.

Harry jumped in, biting at his lip. “It’s like gardening, I think,” he said. “You need a seed and a place for it to grow, and lots of love and time.”

“Like when we plant tomatoes?”

“Exactly like that,” Thea said, thankful for the metaphor. “Except instead of dirt, the seed goes into the mummy’s tummy, and if it sticks and grows, then you get a baby.”

Teddy mulled this over. “Where do you get the seeds to grow babies?”

Thea's breath caught, eyes glancing at Harry before he clicked his tongue and shook his head to try and manage an answer for him.

“Eli’s dad probably bought them at the store.” Harry nodded before he took another bite. “They kissed a lot, got married again, and then put the seeds in his mum’s tummy. Boom. Baby.”

Thea smirked at his answer, nodding a few times before she caught his glance; his foot caught hers under the table.

“Do you want another baby?” Teddy asked suddenly, turning his wide, curious eyes on her.

She paused, looked at Harry before turning back to Teddy—glancing at Niko.

“We’d love another one,” she said honestly. “But we love what we already have. You, Niko. You both are everything to us, you know that?”

Harry leaned forward towards Teddy. “Sometimes we dream about one. That’s all.”

Teddy seemed satisfied with this; it was a moment that warmed Thea’s heart. He nodded and picked up his fork again. “Well, I hope the seed works. I want someone littler than Niko. He keeps sitting on my bed when I’m reading.”

“I do not!” Niko yelled at him.

“Yes, you do!” Teddy nodded.

Niko scrunched his nose, looking a little too much like Harry, “I’m guarding you!”

“From what? My books?!”

Dinner dissolved into giggles and squabbling and a heated debate about who had more green beans on their plate left. Thea leaned back in her chair, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. Later that night, as they washed the dishes, Thea turned to Harry, elbow deep in suds.

“You were really good with that,” she told him, leaning her cheek against him.

“I blacked out a little,” he replied, drying a plate. “Pretty sure I compared conception to salad.”

She laughed again, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for planting your seeds in my garden.”

+++

A week later, they sat in the doctor’s office, Thea clutching a clipboard of intake forms, Harry bouncing his knee up and down like a drumbeat.

It had taken months to admit it was time to ask for help. Something about the dinner with Teddy had set a moment in Thea’s heart; maybe it was time. Now they were here— blue walls, waiting room magazines, a tray of paper cups in the corner.

They were there for testing, making sure that everything was normal. The tests weren’t painful, just drawn out and took a lot of energy between the two of them.

Blood work, hormone panels, and ultrasounds. Harry gave his sample in a room with posters that made him blush and a nurse with a very professional tone; something very demeaning that he couldn’t think too much about. Thea tried to make him laugh about it, but she could only get a smile.

Thea had never felt so clinical in her own body. She smiled politely, and she thanked people too much each time they came in and out of the room. She counted the tiles on the ceiling and avoided making eye contact with herself in the mirror afterward.

When they returned to the office for all their results two weeks later, Thea felt her stomach twist into a thousand little knots at the answers. The doctor, kind-eyed and composed, sat across from them and cleared her throat with her clipboard—their fate sitting in her hands, literally.

"I want to start off by telling you that everything looks normal," she said. "Which, in a way, is good news.” The doctor gave them a smile, Harry side-eyed Thea for a moment as he watched her shoulders loosen from the news. “But it also means we don’t have a clear answer. This happens sometimes. We call it unexplained infertility."

Thea stared at the table, fingers twisting in her lap. Harry reached over, squeezed her knee.

"So, what does that mean?" he asked, shaking his head, “Or where do we go from here?”

"It means your bodies are doing what they should—all of Thea’s numbers are correct, your sperm count is at perfect levels for conception. But for some reason, conception isn’t happening naturally. You’re still young, and there are options. There are many paths to growing a family, and we obviously want to make sure that you are able to grow that family."

They nodded, dazed.

Thea swallowed hard. She wanted to say something, to ask the right question, to be the kind of person who knew how to advocate for herself in moments like this. But her mouth felt dry, and her thoughts were tangled. She glanced sideways at Harry, who was still staring at the doctor, brow furrowed, jaw tight.

“So, what now?” he asked again, this time more softly.

The doctor leaned forward, her voice calm and measured as she could tell that there may have been some frustration. “There are several options. We can begin with intrauterine insemination—less invasive than IVF, and sometimes successful after just a few rounds. If that doesn’t work, IVF is the next step. And of course, there’s also the path of adoption, if you’d prefer to pursue something non-medical. None of these are easy, but all are valid.”

Thea looked down at her hands. She hadn’t realized her nails were digging into her palm.

“Is it… is it my fault?” she whispered, not meaning to say it aloud.

The doctor’s face softened at her, shaking her head. “No,” she said firmly. “It’s no one’s fault. Please hear me when I say that—this isn’t about blame. It’s about biology, timing, and sometimes things we don’t fully understand yet,” The doctor licked her lips and gave her a pressing smile, “But we have modern medicine, and we have ways to help you.”

Harry turned to her, his expression suddenly raw.

“Thea,” he said quietly, trying to grasp where she was.

“But we did everything,” she murmured, her voice cracking, almost unsure of the uncertainty of the unexplained. “All the right things. The tracking, the testing. The vitamins. The no caffeine. The waiting. The prayers. And still…”

The doctor tried to meet her eyes, “Sweetie, you’re not a failure.”

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away. She couldn’t cry in front of this woman in a lab coat who was holding all their quiet heartbreak in a manila folder. After a moment, Harry looked at the doctor and she gave him a tight smile.

“I’m going to give you both some space,” the doctor said gently, “Take your time. When you’re ready, I’ll have my nurse bring in a referral packet, and we can walk you through what the next steps might look like—if and when you're ready,” She held the file close to her, “If it’s not today, that’s okay. We’re here for when you are.”

The door clicked shut behind her. Thea stared at the floor.

Harry exhaled. “We’re still us,” he said, as if that mattered more than anything else. “We still have our boys. We still have each other.”

“I know,” she said. “But it’s just not how I pictured it. I thought it would be… like, what the fuck? Unexplained infertility? How is it unexplained? How—it just feels like I’m failing.”

He shook his head, unable to come up with an explanation of the unexplained. “You’re not failing, baby.”

She looked at him finally. Really looked. His face had softened, but there was a heaviness around his eyes. He was trying to be strong, for her, for them. She could see it.

“Can we not tell anyone yet?” she asked, grabbing her purse. “About the results. About this appointment. I just want to keep it… between us. For a little while.”

“Of course,” he said. “For as long as you need.”

She squeezed his hand. It didn’t feel like closure. Not yet. But it felt like something real. A place to start from. Or start all over again.

But life went on, and being a mum and dad went on.

That night, after dinner, the house felt unusually quiet. Thea was wiping down the counters while Teddy and Niko chased each other through the living room in socked feet, their laughter echoing off the walls. She looked up when she realized Harry wasn’t with them—he was usually the one dragging out bedtime with tickle fights and extra storybooks.

But the boys said he’d gone to “get something from the garage.”

Thea was a bit confused by Teddy’s statement, but she shook her head as she continued the nighttime chores. She finished loading the dishwasher, washing the dishes in the sink. She waited for a while—noticing that the time went from 7 to 7:30. Five more minutes. Then, ten. Twenty. She checked the bathroom. His office. He hadn’t come back.

Nothing.

Her heart started to thrum uneasily as she saw the light on in the unattached garage. Her heart stopped for a moment before she decided to make her way out there. The temperatures had dropped significantly from October to November, and it was quite chilly.

She slipped outside of the door, telling the boys to get upstairs to their room before she got back. The night cool against her skin and padded barefoot across the stone path toward the garage. She pushed open the side door slowly, it was ajar, and there he was.

Harry stood by the workbench, shoulders slumped, head bowed, a bottle of whiskey next to a half-empty glass. He swayed slightly where he stood, like gravity had become a little heavier. There was a second glass beside the first—unused, forgotten. The scent of alcohol lingered in the room, sharp and earthy, cut with motor oil and sawdust.

“Harry?” Thea said softly. He didn’t turn around; didn’t show any signs of acknowledgement before.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, which of course meant he wasn’t.

She stepped closer, a step at a time. “You’ve been in here a while.”

He gave a hollow laugh, but it was short-lived. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—couldn’t do bedtime tonight. I—I couldn’t.”

She looked at the bottle. Then at him.

“Are you drunk?” she asked him gently, taking in a breath. Her hands dug into her back pockets of her jeans as she approached him.

He exhaled sharply, like he wasn’t sure whether to lie to her. She could tell that tried to come back to the world, he swallowed and responded with raspy breath. “A little.”

Thea’s heart thumped louder. “The boys asked for you.”

“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I know, and I hate that I wasn’t there.”

He turned around then—his eyes bloodshot, lips parted, flushed in a way that wasn’t just from the whiskey. He looked like someone unraveling at the seams.

“I hate this,” he said again, his words slurred but sharp with feeling. “I hate that you have to go through all this, and I’m just standing on the sidelines. I hate that I can’t take the pain or the tests or the pressure off your shoulders. I hate how small I feel in all of it. How powerless.”

Thea moved to him quickly, her hands finding his arms, grounding him.

“You don’t have to do it all,” she said. “You’re not supposed to be the answer. You’re supposed to be with me. That’s it.”

He leaned into her like a man giving up the last of his weight. She wrapped her arms around him, feeling how unsteady he was—physically, emotionally.

“I wanted to be the easy part,” he murmured into her hair. “I wanted to be the one thing in your life that didn’t feel like a fight.”

She pulled back enough to cup his cheeks, her thumbs brushing the warmth of his tear-stained skin. “You are, Harry. You are the easy part. This? This is just life. And I’d rather live it with you falling apart than pretending to hold it all together until you snap—we will figure this out.”

He closed his eyes, his forehead resting against hers. “I’m scared I’m going to lose you.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m scared I’m going to lose me too.”

They stood like that, swaying gently, in the soft, alcohol-sweet air of the garage. He was shaky and tired, and a little drunk, but present—and for Thea, that was enough.

“Please don’t turn to this.” She told him, pleading, begging as she pushed the glasses and the whiskey bottle away. “This—we aren’t going to do this, okay?”

Harry’s jaw was tight as he nodded into her. Tears burned in his eyes; he felt like shit, he looked like shit. He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry, and he couldn’t think of a better way to make the pain go away.

Eventually, she guided him back into the house, one arm around his waist, the other holding his hand. The boys were in their room, the house dim and quiet—she tried to make it unknown that he was in the house, she didn’t want the boys seeing him like that.

She helped him sit on the edge of their bed, pulled his shirt off over his head, and kissed the top of his shoulder.

“Just go to sleep,” she said. “I’ll take care of bedtime.”

Harry nodded, his hand still clasped in hers. “Thanks for finding me.”

“Always,” she whispered back to him. “Loving you is my favorite thing to do.”

Winter

December came with a stillness, as if the world was holding its breath.

Frost clung to the windows each morning, and Thea found herself waking earlier than usual, just to sit in the silence before the boys filled the house with their usual noise. She would wrap herself in Harry's sweatshirt, sip her tea by the window, and watch the steam dance.

They hadn’t made a decision yet. Not about IVF. Not about adoption. Not even about stopping. It was a liminal space—a pause that felt both peaceful and terrifying. But the urgency had eased. The need to solve something had softened into something quieter.

Thea no longer tracked every temperature or symptom. The ovulation stickers were gone from the fridge. Her body, for the first time in a long while, belonged only to her.

The holidays were noisy and sweet in all the best ways. The house constantly smelled like cinnamon and pine, and the stereo kept skipping halfway through Harry’s White Christmas CD because Niko had jammed a raisin into the CD slot.

Teddy made lopsided ornaments at school out of popsicle sticks and sequins, proudly hanging them in clumps on the same branch until it sagged under their weight. Niko got caught chewing on the corner of a salt dough snowman craft that Thea had sat down to do with the boys, the white paint smudged on his lips like frosting and cried when Thea took it away.

There were snowball fights in the front yard until the boys’ cheeks turned pink and Thea had to coax them back inside with promises of marshmallows. There were flannel pajamas all around and matching socks that never stayed on. Harry read The Polar Express by the glow of the Christmas tree while the boys curled into their parents’ sides, eyes heavy with sleep.

Every night ended in drinking cocoa—thick and too sweet, with whipped cream mustaches and sugar highs that led to pajama dance parties in the living room. It was chaos, sticky and warm, and somehow it felt like magic, even with the mess, even with the exhaustion. Especially because of it.

Thea wanted her boys to feel that magic that had been so drained from them for so long.

One night, just a few days before Christmas, the house finally stilled.

The boys were asleep upstairs, their soft snores crackling faintly through the baby monitor on the side table. Outside, snow drifted in lazy spirals beneath the porch light, collecting in hushed white piles. The tree lights glowed dimly in the corner, casting golden halos against the walls. A fire popped in the grate, low and comforting.

Thea lay stretched along the couch, her socked feet tucked beneath Harry’s thigh. A half-finished cup of tea rested on the coffee table, steam no longer rising. Harry’s arm was draped behind her, his hand lazily curling through the ends of her hair. They didn’t need to talk. The silence had a weight to it that felt intimate, not empty. Safe.

“I love you more now than I ever have,” Thea said softly, her voice almost lost in the hush of the room.

Harry turned to look at her. His brows furrowed slightly, not from confusion but from the intensity of hearing something he didn’t know he needed.

“I mean it,” she added, her voice steady now. “Not just in the easy moments. But in the ones where we don’t know what comes next. You make the not-knowing feel okay.”

His throat worked around the emotion building there. He didn’t speak at first. Just studied her face like he wanted to remember it exactly how it looked—soft and honest in the glow of the lights, with her sweater slipping slightly off one shoulder and her fingers curled near her chin.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead—slow, reverent, lingering.

“That’s all I want, Thea,” he murmured. “For us to feel okay. However this looks.”

She blinked up at him, eyes shimmering slightly.

“It’s not always going to be glitter and gingerbread,” she said; her eyes felt the burn of a few tears as she stared at the Christmas tree. “I just… I just have these moments where I get sad that this is what I was made for, and I—I feel like I don’t know how to feel.”

He smiled faintly, rubbing hands through her hair. “I know.”

“But I’m so lucky.”

Harry let out a quiet breath and pulled her closer into his chest. Her hand settled over his heart, and he covered it with his own. Through the window, the snow kept falling. The tree lights blinked on, then off again, a quiet rhythm in the stillness. And in the space between heartbeats, between the mess and the magic, they chose each other again.

Not just in the easy moments. But in all of them.

+++

The living room smelled like cinnamon and roast potatoes and a large roast chicken that could feed a hundred people, and it was about ten degrees too warm from the oven working overtime.

The wrapping paper littered the floor, clinging to socks and bare feet. Teddy and Niko were in the corner with Maeve’s youngest, building a leaning tower of wooden blocks while the older two took turns flying a paper plane dangerously close to the Christmas tree.

Harry’s mum moved through the kitchen like a practiced orchestra conductor, towel thrown over one shoulder, cheeks flushed from heat and champagne. She opened the oven, checked the parsnips, then closed it again with a decisive nod. “Gravy’s done,” she called, even though no one had asked.

Harry had disappeared somewhere with Maeve’s oldest to assemble a toy castle, and Thea found herself alone in the kitchen for the first time that day, standing by the sink with a glass of cranberry juice and flushed cheeks of her own—not from the warmth, but from watching Harry with the kids.

He was in his element here, his hands always full. His heart was wide open.

Maeve leaned her hip against the counter beside her, stealing a segment of clementine from the charcuterie in front of Thea.

“Been a minute since we’ve all been under one roof,” she said casually.

Thea smiled, taking a sip of her juice. “I’m still full of breakfast, too,” She turned towards the dinner being prepared, “Feel like I may explode.”

“She lives for this,” Maeve replied, her voice fond as she gestured to her mum. “You alright, though? You’ve been a bit… floaty today.”

Thea hesitated. She looked at the frosted kitchen window, where snow dusted the garden wall. “Yeah. I’m good. Just… tired.”

Maeve didn’t push. But Harry’s mum came around the corner just then, holding a tray of pigs in blankets, and she caught the tail end of the exchange.

“She’s not just tired,” Harry’s mum said gently, setting the tray down. “She’s been carrying a lot. I see it.”

Thea felt her shoulders stiffen slightly. “It’s okay, really—”

Maeve shook her head. “Don’t do that. Don’t shrink it. You can say it.”

Thea looked between them; two women who loved Harry fiercely, who had welcomed her without condition—and slowly set her glass down as she thought about telling them everything that had been going on.

“We’ve been… thinking,” she said, hesitating as she licked over her lips. “About other options. For trying. To get pregnant, I mean. Not today. Not tomorrow. But... soon, maybe.”

Maeve reached for her hand instantly, grounding her. She didn’t want to say anything until she let Thea finish.

Thea’s throat worked. “Sometimes it feels like maybe we’re pushing something that just... isn’t going to happen again. And other times it feels like I’m giving up too soon.”

Harry’s mum wiped her hands on her apron and stepped forward, “Darling,” she said softly, “you have never done anything wrong in my son’s eyes. You know that, don’t you?”

Thea blinked a few times, parted lips closing as she glanced at the floor.

“He’s been head-over-heels for you since he came home from uni one Christmas break,” she said, turning to Maeve who was smirking at the remembrance of the day. “Walked through that door beaming, like someone had handed him the sun and he couldn’t believe he got to keep it.”

Maeve let out a quiet, knowing laugh. “You should’ve seen him. Wouldn’t shut up. All we heard about was this girl, Thea,” She tilted her head, “And he’s never lost that stupid smile when he talks about you, either.”

Thea looked down, overwhelmed for a moment by how much love they gave her. How much space they made for her to just exist in the gray areas—without judgment, without needing to perform gratitude.

Harry’s mum gave her arms a squeeze. “Whatever you two decide, it’s already the right choice. Because you’re making it together.”

From the other room, there was a loud crash and the unmistakable sound of Harry laughing as one of the kids shouted, “It was his idea!”

Maeve turned and grinned. “Well. Sounds like your sun is being a menace.”

Thea wiped her eyes quickly and laughed, her heart aching and full at once. “Yeah,” she said. “But he’s mine.”

Harry’s mum smiled, eyes crinkling back at her. “Yes, love. He always was.”

+++

On New Year’s Eve, they stayed in.

There was no glitter, no clinking glasses or crowded parties. Just a blanket fort made from sofa cushions and old sheets, lit with the warm glow of fairy lights clipped to laundry pins. The boys had helped build it with the kind of serious concentration only kids could muster—Teddy determined to engineer “roof support beams” out of broomsticks, while Niko insisted they needed two flashlights “in case one gets scared.”

They ordered pizzas and ate them cross-legged on the rug, slices greasy and hot in their hands, laughter echoing off the walls with each melted cheese pull and story about their favorite parts of the year. Harry wore flannel pajama pants and one of Thea’s old university sweatshirts. She wore thick socks and no makeup, her hair up in a messy twist. It was imperfect and quiet and theirs.

By ten-thirty, Niko was fast asleep on Harry’s chest, his little fists tucked beneath his chin. Teddy drifted off moments later with his head on Thea’s arm, his breathing slow and steady, his long limbs flopped across her like he had no idea he was growing so fast.

The TV still played in the background—some countdown special in Times Square, the noise muffled and irrelevant. Outside, snow had begun to fall again, blanketing the neighborhood in a hush.

At some point before midnight, Thea blinked awake. Her arm was numb beneath Teddy, and the lights of the fort cast soft shadows across the ceiling. She slowly untangled herself and stood, stretching her legs as quietly as she could. Padding into the kitchen in her pajamas, she poured herself a mug of warm spiced cider from the slow cooker they’d forgotten to turn off, its sweet scent still lingering in the air like comfort.

She didn’t need noise or fanfare. She just wanted a minute of stillness. The clock on the microwave read 11:53. Only seven more minutes of the year.

A moment later, Harry appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. His hair stuck out in all directions, flattened on one side, and he still had the blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. He looked like the grown-up version of the boy he must’ve been—sleepy, kind, quietly wonderful.

“Hey,” he murmured, crossing the tile floor barefoot. “You left me.”

“You were snoring,” she teased gently, handing him a mug of his own.

“Rude.” He took it anyway, standing close beside her as they both leaned back against the counter, watching the snow fall through the window above the sink. The silence between them was comfortable—easy. It didn’t need to be filled.

“We didn’t make any resolutions,” he said after a while, sipping the cider.

Thea glanced over at him, shrugging. “I don’t want to make promises we can’t control.”

He nodded slowly, understanding completely what she meant. “Then let’s not make promises. Just... intentions.”

She considered that for a moment and nodded, then smiled softly. “I intend to find joy. Even when it’s not obvious. Even when I have to really, really look for it.”

Harry looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the low light. Then: “I intend to keep kissing you in the pantry when the boys aren’t looking.”

A breathy laugh escaped her, unexpected and warm as she thought about the way he looked at her.

“I intend to hold your hand,” she whispered, “no matter what happens.”

Harry didn’t reply right away. He reached out and laced his fingers through hers. The kitchen was quiet but full—with everything they’d shared, everything they hadn’t said aloud, everything they were still building together.

When Thea turned her head, she watched as the clock ticked to midnight.

Somewhere in the distance, a few scattered fireworks cracked through the air—soft and distant behind the snowfall. Niko stirred in the next room, but didn’t wake. Teddy muttered something incoherent and rolled over; both of them sleeping into the new year.

They clinked their mugs together—porcelain meeting in the smallest toast.

“Happy New Year,” Thea said, her voice thick with something close to wonder.

Harry leaned down and kissed her softly. It was just a small kiss; a knowing one that made her hum in acknowledgement as they stared at each other for a moment.

“It will be,” he said, putting the intention into the universe to be caught. “It will be.”

And outside, beneath a sky that didn’t ask anything of them, the snow fell softer than ever.

+++

January was cold in the way only the start of a new year could be—bright skies, brittle winds, and mornings where the frost stretched across the windows like lace. Life had fallen into a rhythm again. School runs, lukewarm coffee, wool socks, and Lego landmines scattered across the hallway. The holidays had passed, but their softness lingered. There was a quiet steadiness to the days now, like everything had settled just slightly into place.

There was a letter that arrived on a Wednesday.

Thea found it among a small pile of post on the kitchen counter tucked between a bank statement and a coupon flyer for carpet cleaning. The envelope was clinical and white, the logo of the fertility clinic embossed in the corner.

She stood there for a moment with her thumb beneath the seal, the kettle starting to hum behind her. When she finally opened it, her eyes scanned the page once, then again, before she set it gently on the counter.

Consultation appointment offered: February 12th, 10:30 AM.

There was no rush of dread, no panic. No buzzing in her ears from being overwhelmed. Just a quiet hum in her chest, like something long held had found its place to rest.

She didn’t call Harry right away at work. She didn’t need to. Instead, she folded the letter in half and slid it into the drawer beside the sink, where she kept the extra birthday candles and takeaway menus and the measuring spoons she always forgot were there.

Not out of avoidance. But out of peace.

That afternoon, while wrangling Niko into his boots to go pick Teddy up from school, she slipped on her long gray coat—the one with the deep inside pocket where she kept tissues and receipts. As her hand brushed the lining, she felt something crinkled and unfamiliar.

It was a small square of folded paper. It was cream-colored, soft at the edges. Harry’s handwriting on the outside in blue ink from the pen that sat by the sink to write notes for groceries.

She opened it slowly, the sounds of the boys echoing in the hallway, snow boots thudding against tile.

whatever path we take, I’m already home.

Her breath caught. Not in that cinematic way, but in the real, aching way where your chest pulls tight before the tears ever come.

He must’ve tucked it there days ago. Maybe even weeks. He hadn’t asked if she’d found it; hadn’t drawn any attention to it. That was how Harry loved her—quietly, consistently. With notes she didn’t know to look for until she needed them most.

She folded it again with careful fingers, pressed it against her chest just beneath her scarf. She didn’t cry—not really. Just stood there for a moment, eyes shut, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

There were decisions ahead that would come with possibility and risks. But standing in the front hall, coat half-zipped, her child laughing behind her, she knew something with absolute certainty:

Whatever came next, their family would be walking into it together.

And she was no longer afraid.

Spring

Three months later. The snow had melted, the times had changed.

Thea stood in the bathroom again.

She’d been feeling off all week. It was nothing really dramatic—just a lingering nausea in the mornings, a strange fatigue that had her yawning before dinner, a faint sensitivity to smells that made her gag when she opened the fridge and saw the left-over chicken from dinner. She’d chalked it up to something going around; Teddy had brought home three colds from school since winter break, and Niko had a habit of sharing his sneezes with open-mouthed affection.

There wasn’t a reason to feel the hope. Not now, not when peace had finally settled into her like snow on a quiet morning. But the nagging feeling had stayed, curling in her belly like a whisper. That hope was always just there.

Thea was still rubbing her temples when Harry walked into their bedroom, carrying a mug of peppermint tea.

“Still feeling sick?” he asked gently, setting the mug on her nightstand. Thea had been under the covers, trying to let her mind relax.

She nodded, holding onto the blanket as she shrugged. “It’s probably just a bug. I’ve just been so tired.”

Harry hesitated, then gave her a look that was part teasing, part hopeful. For the first time in a while, his eyes had a gleam in them that she found to be optimistically cautious.

“Would it be crazy if I suggested taking a test?”

Thea blinked at him, biting the inside of her lip as she spoke quietly. “Really?”

He shrugged, smiling. “Just to rule it out. Humor me.”

There was a hesitancy about it this time. Not dread—just a deep quiet, like her body already knew the answer and was waiting for her mind to catch up.

She opened the drawer beneath the sink, hand brushing past a half-used box of band-aids and a faded bottle of nail polish. There, near the back, was the last test. She paused, held it in her hand for a moment. The foil wrapper crinkled faintly as she turned it over.

They’d nearly forgotten they still had one.

By now, the ritual was muscle memory. She didn’t overthink it. Just followed the motions, her limbs moving like she was outside her body—automatic, practiced, steady. She took the test, washed her hands, and set it down on the counter, screen faced up, untouched.

The phone timer ticked to life beside it: five minutes.

She exhaled and leaned forward, both palms on the counter, head bowed.

Harry stepped beside her, brushing her hand with his fingers. They stood next to one another in silence, watching the screen like it might explode.

The first line appeared. And then another.

Two.

Thea’s breath hitched, her body stiffening as if trying to resist what her eyes were already telling her. Her hand flew to her mouth, barely stifling the quiet gasp that escaped. Her eyes whipped to Harry’s face, searching for confirmation, for disbelief, for shared understanding.

He was staring at the test like it might vanish, his brow furrowed, mouth slightly open. “Is that…?”

She nodded once, then again, her throat too tight to speak. The tears came fast—not the kind that poured, but the kind that welled so thick and full she couldn’t blink them away. “Harry…”

His eyes lifted to meet hers, wide and shining, as if seeing her for the very first time. He moved slowly, as though afraid he might spook the moment. Like she was something breakable. Like this was something sacred.

Then he wrapped his arms around her, tight and sure, drawing her into his chest. His face pressed into the curve of her neck, and she felt his breath catch. They stood like that for a long time—silent, swaying slightly, the hum of the world around them softening into nothing. It felt like holding something invisible but real. Like they were comforting someone already here.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered, his voice rough and filled with wonder.

She let out a breathy, tear-laced laugh against his shoulder. “I thought I had the flu.”

Harry pulled back just enough to see her face, brushing his knuckles against her damp cheek.

Thea laughed again, chest shaking, heart racing. His hand stayed on her face, thumb stroking just beneath her eye. Her hands were on his ribs, her forehead resting against his. Behind them, on the counter, the test sat in the gentle light of the morning—two clear lines glowing like a secret they could finally keep.

The waiting was over: their garden had suddenly begun to bloom.

Nine Months Later – Autumn

The house was louder now.

Not in a bad way—never that. Just in the way a home grows louder when it’s full of life and happiness and joyful moments that may have been chaotic to some, but necessary to others. When the walls know every laugh, every cry, every set of socked feet thudding down the hall.

It was a crisp October morning. Wind scratched at the windows, and golden leaves danced across the porch as they did every year. The air inside was warm, the scent of bergamot and maple lingering from breakfast and someone’s forgotten apple slice browning on the counter.

In the corner of the living room, the baby stirred, letting out a cry that sounded far too fierce for such a tiny chest to produce. Thea rose slowly from the couch, moving with the practiced sway of a mother whose body remembered the rhythm even when her mind was fogged. She wore leggings, wool socks, and one of Harry’s old university sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Her hair was in a lopsided twist, and she had that early-motherhood glow—equal parts sleep deprivation and sacred softness; her body hurt, but in an aching way that felt natural.

She lifted their newborn daughter from the bassinet with a quiet hum, settling her gently against her shoulder. The way the baby scrunched when lifted made her smile, kissing her soft face as she held her close. The baby calmed almost immediately, cheek squished against Thea’s collarbone, making those tiny, contented grunts that felt like the most private song.

From the hallway, Niko barreled in wearing one rain boot and holding an orange crayon like a sword. “Teddy took my sock! He’s gonna use it as a flag!”

Teddy, already in his school jumper and wearing a makeshift crown made of pipe cleaners and paper leaves, charged past them, waving the sock like a victory banner. “Long live the Sock Kingdom!”

Thea sat back on the couch with a sigh that was equal parts tired and amused. “It’s not even eight-thirty.”

Harry emerged from the kitchen like a man who’d lived three lives in the past hour. His curls were a bit wild from wrangling school bags, his flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he had that look—part joy, part exasperation—that only came from parenthood on a weekday morning.

“Alright, you two,” he said, stepping over a pile of acorns someone had collected and dumped on the rug—for who knows what. “Teddy, backpack. Niko, you need both socks to fight dragons. That’s just science.”

He herded them toward the front door, multitasking like a pro—finding missing mittens, buttering toast, and handing out gentle warnings not to jump from the stairs again. When the chaos calmed momentarily—Teddy put on his own shoes, Niko pulling his arms into his shirt sleeves as he circled the door, ready for primary.

Their daughter had dozed off against her chest, mouth open slightly, one tiny fist curled in the fabric of Thea’s sweatshirt.

“Let me take her,” Harry said softly.

He moved with quiet reverence, unfastening the baby wrap from where it hung on the chair and securing her to his chest. His hands were steady, careful, practiced. When he was done, he gave her the softest bounce, his lips brushing her temple as he began humming a familiar lullaby—half tune, half breath, something only their daughter knew.

Thea leaned back into the cushions, eyes on him.

Harry looked up at her at the same moment. For a second, the noise dulled. The boys were still yelling from the front door, the wind still scraped the windowpanes, the kettle began to whistle again—but between them, it was quiet.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

His eyes asked, You okay?

Hers answered, I am now.

He smiled, soft and crooked. She exhaled, the weight of the morning easing just slightly.

He shifted the baby higher on his chest, wrapping a hand around her tiny back. “She’s got your nose,” he said.

“She’s got your lungs.”

They both laughed quietly. Outside, a gust of wind knocked a small pumpkin off the porch step, and Teddy’s muffled voice called out, “Dad! The pumpkin made a run for it!”

Harry pressed one more kiss to their daughter’s head before heading out to wrangle the boys into the car.

“Let’s go, out to the car.” Harry held the small baby against him, as he prepared to take the boys to class and take the baby with them—giving Thea some time to herself, to shower, to clean the kitchen if she so chose.

Thea watched them as she leaned against the doorframe—her boys in their too-big coats, Harry bent to tie a shoelace, their daughter curled against his chest like she’d always belonged there.

This wasn’t the dream she’d once imagined. It was louder, messier, and constantly in motion.

But it was golden like the leaves outside, fleeting and brilliant. It was mugs left half-full, jackets never hung up, freckles on sleepy cheeks.

It was real. And all she could think as she saw Harry look back at her with a love that she couldn’t have believed was so real, so complete.

All she could think: ours.

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goquokka00 · 4 months ago

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SKZ vs Shark Week (Bangchan ver.)

How would each member of Stray Kids handle you while you're on your period?

WARNING: This is a female reader going through their period. If the topic of a period/anything that has to do with a period makes you uncomfortable, then don't read it. Just remember that there's nothing wrong with a woman's period. It's a perfectly healthy body function :)

THE MOODS Bangchan never fails to notice how your mood always changes whenever you're a few days out from your period. He's an observant man of 7 children, he WILL notice when something is off with you. Specifically when you get more depressed than you usually are.

You don't eat as much, you bed rot more, you never feel like going out, and you constantly look like you're two seconds away from crying. You also wear the same clothes for a few days at a time, because you don't have it in you to change out of them. And so, Bangchan takes it upon himself to love up on you more.

The more depressed you get, the more cuddly he gets in return. He'll hold you, give you kisses, compliment you over and over, all to make sure that you're okay. If his princess is feeling down, then he'll do everything in his power to lift her spirits back up. And nothing...NOTHING will stop him.

THE BLOOD Simply put, your flow actually isn't that bad. Yeah, you bleed for a few days, but it's nothing horrible. The part that's horrible (more so for Bangchan than you) is that you don't wanna cuddle when you're bleeding. While it's not heavy and it's manageable, you don't want to potentially leak on him. It'd be beyond embarrassing.

But Bangchan? He gets pouty and mopey when you tell him that you aren't gonna sit on his lap while he works. He knows it's because you don't want to accidentally leak, but come on! So what if you get blood on him, he'll happily risk the cleanliness of his pants if it means he can have you on his lap. But he also respects your wishes. He respects it with a grain of salt, but...he respects it.

THE PAIN Through your period, you do end up getting a few cramps, but it's nothing horrible. They aren't as bad as some horror stories you've heard of, but they're bad enough to where you're never really comfortable. Sitting or standing or laying down in one position for too long gets to be seriously uncomfortable, and you have to change. The horrible thing is the tender breasts. They just feel so heavy and sore, it's horrible.

That's where Bangchan comes in. He knows that you go through this, and so he pretty much makes it his soul mission to take care of you however you need. You need pain killers? Done. You want him to rub your stomach? Say no more. You need the heated blanket for your chest. He's on it.

There are even times where he'll go out and get you some treats for being such a trooper for dealing with this week of uncomfortableness. And of course, each treat comes with a shower of kisses and "I love you's."

THE PRODUCT Not once has Bangchan ever complained about running to the store to get you pads or tampons or whatever you might need. Why would he? You going through your period means two things; you're healthy, and you're not pregnant. And right now, both are good things.

Also, he has a sister. So of course he's used to the products that came with periods. He doesn't cringe when he sees the used wrappers and wrapped waste for the week. He's used to it.

For you, he's buying the best of the best. The first time you asked him to get you some pads, he had asked an employee about which product was the best, and got you that. Along with a new heated pad, a big heated blanket you could both cuddle under, your favorite snacks and drinks, and chocolate. He isn't skimping for you. He knows that your period is your least favorite time of the month, so he'll do whatever he possibly can to spoil you so you don't suffer as much.

Anything for you.

Hey! Firstly, thank you so much for reading this post, and I really hope you enjoyed! If you did, please like, reblog, or comment so I can see how I'm doing with writing and getting feedback! I hope you have a lovely day! Sleep well, stay in good health, and eat something if you haven't! ❤️❤️❤️

Taglist: @miss-daisy04 @kayleefriedchicken @wolfs-archive @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @wolfs-howling @rose-w-00-d

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mistywaves98 · 8 months ago

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Stalker! Scara and his unsuspecting classmate/friend, you

Just something I had in my head for a while that I just poured out into a post. These lil headcanons don't really flow properly either 😭

¡Warnings!: Suggestive (?), Reader is painfully oblivious, Can be read as yandere scara, Stalking, Taking nonconsensual photos, General creepy behavior!

Stalker! Scara who's had his eyes on you for a long time, longer than you could've imagined all while you're completely oblivious to it. Or maybe he's just that stealthy?

Stalker! Scara whose room is so untidy. Dirty laundry, empty noodle cups and snack wrappers line the floor of his messy man cave. But he still keeps his mini shrine dedicated to you completely clean and flawless.

Stalker! Scara who has an entire wall dedicated to you. The left side is the gallery of pictures he's meticulously cumulated over multiple months while the other is shelves of stuff you've either touched or he sneakily 'borrowed'.

Stalker! Scara who has a collection of the most random things because it has some sort of connection to you. Be it a pen you used to chew the end of or a piece gum you've chewed, or even a tissue you blew your nose in.

Stalker! Scara who works his ass of at a measly part time job in a convenience store near campus just to have money he can spend on you. Coincidentally, it happens to be the same one you frequent a lot.

Stalker! Scara who has most definitely stolen some bills from the register, particularly the ones you had given him to pay for your items one day. Just another addition to his ever-growing collection.

Stalker! Scara who somehow happens to wherever you are on campus, seemingly doing his own thing on his phone. But in reality he's just trying to get perfect angle of your ass as you bend over to pick up something you dropped.

Stalker! Scara who initially joined the photography club out of school obligations but now uses it as an opportunity to enhance his photo-taking skills to get better pictures of you instead of the blurry, barely visible ones he had clumsily taken in the beginning of his little obsession.

Stalker! Scara who's got his hands on every piece of personal information about you that he can find. Be it your birthday, your relationship with your family, your favourite song, a place that you frequent, or maybe even a particular brand of clothes that you buy.

Stalker! Scara who always makes sure to send some sort of gift for you on any remotely special occasion. Sometimes it's a bouquet of your favourite flowers, an item you had been eyeing in the shops for a while or perhaps something more daring like a pair of lacey panties he would die to see you in. Those risky gifts are always sent anonymously, leaving you quite puzzled.

Stalker! Scara who always keeps track of your schedule, having all your planned events on his calendar so he can keep an eye on your every move.

Stalker! Scara who somehow finds himself on every bus that you're taking whenever you're going into town, gaze fixated on you from afar. He can't help but wipe the drool off his chin as his eyes notice the way your breasts and thighs jiggle with every bump in the road.

Should I make pt 2?

#x reader smut #smut #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #genshin impact x reader smut #✧･ﾟ:* meena's memos! ✧･ﾟ:*#scaramouche x reader #yandere scaramouche #scara x reader smut #scara smut #scaramouche x reader smut #scaramouche smut #yandere scaramouche x reader smut #yandere scaramouche x reader

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bakubrattt · 25 days ago

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Sex and Bedtime Stories

-Zayne x Reader

What starts as a cozy stormy movie night between you and Zayne quickly turns into something much steamier. Instead of watching the movie, your arcade plushies get front-row seats to an entirely different show—a slow-burning, passionate reunion of bodies and hearts. As thunder crashes and memories resurface, love and lust take center stage.

word count: 22k

genre/warnings: 18+ explicit content--no minors!--fluff, smut, domestic, childhood flashbacks, Dawnbreaker foreshadowing, multiple orgasms, 69, Zayne likes getting scratched as punishment for hurting you

🩵My Zayne Masterlist🩵A03 Link🩵

Rain poured in heavy sheets outside the floor to ceiling windows of Zayne’s livingroom, turning the world beyond the glass into a blurred watercolor of motion and light. The space around you was dark, lit only by the cool, flickering glow of the flatscreen across the room. Its shifting light danced over the glossy surface of the marble coffee table, where a bowl of popcorn sat surrounded by scattered sweets—soft caramel chews, chocolate wrappers, and the last of the sour candies.

The storm’s voice was constant, a steady patter overhead as it drummed against the chimney cap and flowed in thick rivulets across the tiled rooftop. You could hear it everywhere—in the air vents, along the gutters, slipping like silver fingers over every edge of the house. Rain streamed behind the half-slit blinds, streaking like tears. Beyond the blinds, Zayne’s backyard fence lights glowed faintly, their warm hue distorted through the relentless onslaught of water, casting a hazy amber blur that pulsed with each gust of wind.

Then, there was a sudden flash of white. You froze. Your breath caught in your throat as your whole body went still, every muscle locking down in instinctive preparation. You didn’t even realize you’d reached for him until your fingers were clutching at Zayne’s arm, holding on tight beneath the thick sherpa blanket you shared on the couch. The warmth of him met your grip without hesitation.

He didn’t speak—just curled his hand over the inside of your knee, his palm steady and broad as he gave you a slow, comforting squeeze. The pressure was grounding, his thumb brushing softly along the curve of your leg as he gently pulled you closer into his side, tucking you into the safety of his body like it was second nature.

“Let me go get you my earplugs,” he said, glancing over at you as he picked up the PlayStation controller and paused the movie, barely started, the screen freezing on a frame bathed in cold blues and silvers.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, looking up at him. His face was painted in soft indigo light from the television, every line and angle of him carved in quiet tenderness, “it’s just the anticipation…Makes me a little jumpy, you know?”

KABROOM!!

The thunder ripped through the sky with a deafening boom, sharp and immediate—a sound that didn’t roll so much as crack, like the air itself had split open. You flinched violently, your whole body reacting before your mind could catch up. In a heartbeat, you pressed yourself against Zayne’s arm, burying your face into the warm strength of his shoulder. Your knees squeezed around the outside of his thigh as if you could anchor yourself there, as if you could hide inside the curve of his body until the sky calmed down again.

“Just the anticipation?” He asked knowingly, his voice low and warm with that signature gentleness that always bordered on mischief. He shifted closer, reaching over you with the smooth confidence of someone who knew your every tell. His large hand slid behind you, cradling the space between your shoulder blades, fingers spreading across your spine in a gesture that was part care, part command as he pulled you in.

“If you say so, Miss Hunter,” he whispered warmly into your hair, “now, let the doctor do his job and take care of his favorite patient, please.”

“But I’m fine!” You insisted, squirming a little as he gently coaxed you upright, his touch never forceful, just insistent—unshakably steady.

That knowing curve at the corner of his mouth never faltered. It was affectionate. Endearing. Infuriating. He petted your head with love, brushing your hair back in soft strokes that made your protest feel instantly foolish.

“Says the bravest frightened rabbit to gaslight herself in front of me,” he teased, voice dropping into something softer as he pressed a kiss to your forehead—featherlight, warm. Then he slid the blanket off your shoulders, the fabric whispering down your arms, and began to rise.

Zayne stood with a fluid ruffle of motion, tall and effortlessly graceful even barefoot on the rug. Before you could reach for him again, he tucked the sherpa blanket around you with exaggerated care, hooding it up over your head and wrapping you tightly like some overprotected nesting doll. The warmth enveloped you instantly, his scent still clinging to the thick fabric.

He loomed above you for a moment, his silhouette eclipsing the flickering glow of the paused television, emerald eyes crinkling in fond amusement as he murmured, “stay put, bunny.”

You didn’t argue. You simply watched. He padded across the room toward the gaming corner with quiet ease, his figure fluid in the low light. Then he retrieved something sitting besids the consoles and neatly tubked cords—Mr. Fleecy. The white plush sheep. You recognized him instantly, even from the couch. A gift from the past—won at that neon-lit arcade three years ago, back when you were still stumbling into the rhythm of being Zayne’s. It had taken him four tries and an unreasonable amount of concentration to snag it from the claw machine. You remembered the sound he made when he won—half triumph, half disbelief—and how he’d placed the soft little thing in your hands like it was a medal of honor.

He brought over the stuffed animal to you with a surprising degree of care, as though it were something fragile or precious. There was no trace of irony in his movements—only earnestness as he tucked it next to you, where he once sat.

“Mr. Fleecy will keep you company while I go get you my earplugs,” he said softly, the corners of his mouth lifting with that unshakable gentleness that always made you feel like the safest thing in the room, “okay?”

You looked up at him—his eyes, his lips, the low gleam of the paused TV softening his silhouette—and couldn’t help the smile that curled across your face, “okay…Thanks, Doctor Zayne.”

Without a word, Zayne turned, reaching toward the marble coffee table. His fingers found one of the foiled chocolates nestled inside the small porcelain bowl beside the popcorn—dark brown and blue, a familiar favorite. He turned back to you, unwrapping it in a smooth, practiced motion, and then leaned down and popped it gently into your mouth. Just like that. No warning. No hesitation. A casual act of sweetness, like muscle memory. The way someone might hand a child a reward after a doctor’s visit. The way he used to press peppermints into your palm when you were rushing out the door and had skipped breakfast.

You let out a small laugh, muffled around the chocolate, and chewed down into it as he walked off toward the bedroom. It was funny, really. The memory it stirred. Something about the gesture reminded you of when you were little and doctor visits ended with a lollipop. It brought with it a soft pang of nostalgia you hadn’t expected, paired with the sweetness coating your tongue. Despite the storm crackling outside—despite the way the unpredictable lightning strikes had left your nerves humming—you felt…Comforted. No, more than that. You felt held. There was something oddly intimate about the whole moment—an unspoken closeness that wrapped tighter around you with every subtle kindness Zayne gave. As if the storm had given you permission to lean deeper into him; to seek out the safety he always offered in the quiet, unshakable ways.

When he returned, it was with slow, padded steps and a familiar softness in his hand. The earplugs. Small and blue, you used them before—mostly for concerts, and mostly because of his quiet, insistent concern. You could still hear him, months ago, chiding you at the door before a late-night show with Tara: “At least take these. Please.”

He stood over you now, smiling faintly as he reached for the edge of the sherpa blanket still hooded over your head. He peeled it back with care, fingertips combing through your hair as he swept it behind your ears. His touch lingered longer than it needed to—soft, rhythmic strokes that settled your breath without effort.

You let out a small laugh, heart warm with quiet disbelief. A cardiac surgeon—brilliant, stoic, complex—tucking you in with a plush sheep and a pair of earplugs. And yet somehow, nothing had ever made more sense. Nothing had ever felt more right. Maybe it was silly. But the truth was even sillier: you loved it. You loved being cared for by Zayne. Loved the way he made room for your fragility. Loved how seamlessly he stepped in to soothe it without judgment, only gentleness. It touched something deep inside you—something soft and small and long-buried. Something childlike. It made you feel safe in the kind of way that echoed.

“You make me feel like a little girl sometimes,” you chuckled, your voice hushed beneath the sound of rain against the windows, eyes catching his just as he lifted one of the soft earplugs toward your ear.

His smile deepened at that, soft and amused, as he gently twisted the foam into place with the care of someone who’d done it a hundred times—never rushed, never rough. His fingers brushed your cheek in the process, and he tilted his head with faux offense, “why, was Mr. Fleecy too childish of a choice for a protector while I was gone?”

You grinned and leaned in just a little, dropping your voice to a whisper like it was a secret meant only for him, “between you and I,” you said, eyes gleaming, “I think Mr. Fleecy was more scared than I was…I think we need a real adult, here.”

“Oh, how silly of me,” he said with a mock sigh, matching your tone as he delicately wiggled the second earplug into place. Then, without warning, his hand ruffled through your hair, playful and affectionate, tugging a small laugh from your throat, “my apologies, sweetheart.”

Zayne straightened up and turned toward the far corner of the living room, where the soft glow of the flatscreen lights stretched shadows over your collection of plush toys—an endearing hoard of claw machine victories. You watched him with curious amusement, tucked beneath the sherpa blanket like a wrapped gift, your chin peeking over the edge as your eyes followed his every movement.

“Hm…” Zayne stood there in thought, one hand on his hip, the other pinching at the smooth edge of his freshly shaved chin in exaggerated thoughtfulness. His expression was the perfect blend of faux-serious and internally entertained, “ah.”

You saw him bend slightly at the waist, plucking a plush from the collection. But before you could glimpse what it was, he turned his back to you, hiding it swiftly behind his long frame. You caught only the amused twitch at the corner of his mouth as he peeked over his shoulder and saw the look on your face—narrow-eyed and smiling, utterly suspicious. He then turned fully, finally revealing his choice, and you practically choked.

“Wobbly Eggplant?!” You burst out, collapsing back into the couch as laughter overtook you, your body curling into the cushions as Mr. Fleecy tumbled off your lap in the chaos, “Zayne! What the hell! Are you kidding me?!”

“What?” He said, half-laughing, fully pleased with himself as he returned to the couch, settling beside you with the most exaggerated innocence, “you said I make you feel like a little girl, did you not?” He added, one brow arching as he placed the offending plush onto your lap, “implying, you’d prefer for me to make you feel like a grown woman.”

“No, I know!” You laughed, more flustered now than ever as your voice bubbled out in a breathless stammer, your stomach fluttering with butterflies. You grabbed the ridiculous plushie and smacked it lightly against his thigh, barely able to contain your grin, “I meant—why not Tippy Banana or something?! Wobbly Eggplant?! Seriously?!”

“It was the first one I saw,” he admitted with a soft chuckle, his voice low with amusement. His arm slipped smoothly behind your waist, drawing you in until your body rested snugly against his. With his free hand, he pulled the sherpa blanket over his lap, tucking it around the both of you in a familiar, easy motion, “fitting, though, isn’t it?”

You froze. Oh my god. For a full second, you stared at him, ready to kill him for a pun that dry—but the look on his face made you hesitate. Zayne didn’t seem aware of what he’d just said. His expression was neutral, completely innocent. He was still watching you like he was waiting for a response, and then…Slowly…You watched it dawn on him.

His brows knit slightly. His eyes shifted. He blinked once. And then he realized. The moment it clicked, you burst out laughing at the exact instant his expression turned sheepish.

“…That wasn’t intentional and you know it,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away, flustered in a way that was rare for Zayne. The tips of his ears were pink as he sighed. Maybe even red, “you’re not going to let me live it down, are you?”

“Mmm…” You hummed, pretending to think as your fingers tiptoed teasingly up his lap, “depends…I could have mercy on you, this time.”

“Name your price,” he said, the playfulness in his voice dipping into something lower, something slower, as he guided you closer still. His fingers found the bare edge of your skin beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and sure as they traced over your waist.

Amazing how quickly things could shift between you and Zayne—how banter could dissolve into heat in the space of a breath. It always happened like this. Effortless. Unspoken. Inevitable. A slow smile crept across your lips as your palm flattened over his thigh, your thumb inching upward—just enough to be dangerous.

“Zayne Li,” you murmured, voice laced with amusement, “all six foot one of him.”

He faltered—just for a second. You’d caught him off guard. A candid laugh slipped from his lips, soft and genuine, before he gently took your wrist under the blanket and rubbed his thumb along the inside, grounding you both. A quiet redirection—affectionate, but clear. He was close to letting go. Close to being unraveled by the woman who knew exactly how to touch that switch in him. God, how he loved being craved by you. His gaze lifted slowly from your mouth to your eyes, and the warmth there softened him completely. His eyes shimmered in the low light—tender, steady—banked heat held back only by will and love.

“Behave yourself,” he chided with a smile, voice quiet and sweet, “it’s movie night. I’m all yours afterwards, you know that.”

“I know,” you laughed, quiet and light, as you tucked yourself deeper into the warmth of his side. His arm tightened instantly around you, pulling you in with the firm ease of someone who knew how to hold you just right. The other arm followed, sliding around your frame and locking you in against the clean, masculine scent of his shirt and the fresh trace of his shower.

Your hand curled lightly into the fabric at his chest. It was warm. Steady. Comforting in a way few things ever were, “I just like getting you all flustered—”

KABROOM!!

The thunder struck hard and sudden—louder than the last. Your body jolted reflexively, breath catching in your throat before you could stop it. Zayne moved immediately. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, reassurance before you could even fully exhale.

“It’s okay,” he whispered against your hair, “you’re alright…It’s just your natural startle response.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, your breath shaky as you let it out. His hands moved in tender, rhythmic rubs across your arms and back, soothing every tense muscle without even trying, “I just hate the damn jumps I get.”

“I know,” he said softly, his tone full of the kind of confidence you could anchor to, “they’ll subside a little more each time. That, I can assure you of.”

You let out a nervous little laugh, half-joking, half-hopeful as you snuggled even closer—less out of fear, now, and more because it just felt so good to be close, “what, is that like, a medical fact or something?”

“Actually, yes,” Zayne replied, his voice colored with that quiet pride he always wore when he got to explain something to you. He lifted the blanket a little higher around your shoulders with one hand, while the other fished out the controller, “it’s called parasympathetic activation.”

“Para…” You began, squinting a little in concentration.

“…Sympathetic activation,” he finished for you gently, the correction smooth, never condescending, “when you hear a sudden loud sound like thunder, your body reacts immediately by going into fight-or-flight mode. Your heart races, your muscles tense, your breathing quickens. All of that is controlled by your sympathetic nervous system. It’s the part of your body that prepares you for danger.”

Hou listened, your eyes on him, half of your attention fixed on the way his mouth moved, the way his eyes softened as he watched you take in his words.

“But once your brain realizes that the thunder isn’t actually a threat, just noise, no real danger, the opposite system takes over; the parasympathetic nervous system. It’s your body’s built-in calming mechanism. It slows your heart rate, relaxes your muscles, and tells your body it’s safe again.”

“Hmm…” You smiled up at him, a little quirk to your lips, your chest blooming with quiet affection. The way he explained things—it wasn’t just informative. It was grounding. Warm. Safe, “kind of like you.”

“Hm?” He murmured, voice dipping lower as his head tilted toward yours.

“You calm me down like that,” you said softly, pushing yourself up from his side.

With smooth, unhurried motion, you brought one leg over his lap, straddling him with easy confidence, your limbs tucking in close until you were seated fully atop him. The move caught him just a little off guard—just enough to make him still and attuned. You snuggled into him, your arms winding around his neck, fingers brushing against the soft ends of his hair. The warmth of his body was instant, his presence wrapping around you like a second heartbeat.

“And you make me feel safe…” You whispered into his ear.

“Is that so?” He asked quietly, the words brushing against your hair as his arms slid around your waist and rested gently at your hips. His palms curved against your sides, pulling you into him with a low, instinctive squeeze.

Then he lowered his face into your hair, breathing you in. A kiss—soft, reverent—pressed into your scalp. He didn’t rush it. He just stayed there, nestled in your scent, letting himself exhale into you like he was letting go of everything else in the world.

“Mhmm…” You sighed, your body relaxing completely as you settled into his lap, your full weight melting against his, “you’re my own personal calming system, baby…”

“Do I do a better job than Mr. Fleecy and Wobbly Eggplant?” Zayne murmured against your hair, smiling into the softness.

You let out a breathy laugh, tilting your head back to look at him. Your hands rose to cup his face—warm, beloved, impossibly handsome. His skin was smooth beneath your palms, freshly shaven, and he instantly leaned into your touch like it was instinct. His eyes fluttered half-lidded, his whole body melting into your affection like a sun-drowsy cat, content to bask in the quiet reverence of being touched by you.

“I don’t think any of our plushies can compete with my dear doctor,” you teased, your voice honeyed and slow as your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip.

That single touch made Zayne visibly falter. His breath hitched. His lashes flickered. For the briefest moment, he leaned in closer, his lips parting just slightly—just enough to graze the tip of your thumb with the barest suggestion of a bite. Then he caught himself. He swallowed the urge, exhaling slowly as he reached up and wrapped his hand around yours. His thumb stroked the back of your fingers once before lifting them delicately to his mouth. He kissed your knuckles—tender, devoted, controlled.

“Not even Tippy Banana?” He asked, arching a playful brow as he flicked a glance toward the absurd plushie nestled amongst the collection.

You tilted your head, “hmmmm…”

A pause. A grin.

“Between you and I,” you whispered, as if confessing something scandalous, “I like said doctor’s banana more…”

The effect was instantaneous. His eyes met yours—and you saw it. The faintest crack in his composure. You stroked your fingertips down the line of his jaw, soft as breath, then leaned in, your hips tilting with deliberate slowness. A roll of your pelvis. Just enough to grind down over the heat of his groin, your core pressing into him through the layers between you. Oh, you felt it. That telltale pulse beneath you—deep, full, hungry.

Zayne’s breath caught, and a shaky little sigh escaped him, grazing your knuckles where they lingered. His pupils dilated just enough to darken the green, his brows twitching upward in a fleeting, visible surrender before he fought to regain control. But you felt it in the way his fingers dug into your hip. One part of him begged for more. The other begged you to be kind. And you sat there, perfectly still in your straddle, the storm outside nothing compared to the electricity threading between your bodies.

“This is a bit more than just getting me flustered,” he chided, his voice a low, velvety murmur that threaded straight through your spine. He caught your mischievous hands before they could slide down the plane of his toned chest, fingers curling around your wrists with effortless precision. Then—oh, oh God—he brought them behind your back. His hand enveloped them easily, the warmth of his palm spanning both your wrists as he gently restrained them in place. The restraint wasn’t rough. It didn’t need to be. The control in it was total.

“Don’t you think?” He finished.

That did something to you—deep, low, immediate. The moment Zayne restrained you, something electric snapped to life beneath your skin. It wasn’t the pressure of his grip; it was the authority behind it. That calm dominance wrapped in silk, the kind that didn’t ask—it simply was. Your thighs tingled, pulsed, awakened by the unmistakable sensation of him thickening beneath you—long before you even consciously registered it. His arousal met you through the thin fabric separating your bodies, pressing into the heat of your core like a promise. And still, he looked up at you—eyes half-lidded, calm, unshaken, in control. Even while you were the one on top of him, he made you feel like you were at his mercy.

Fuck. The eye contact alone sent your heart rate climbing, your breath quickening. And from the way his thumb pressed against your wrist—measured and steady—you knew he felt it too. He knew the effect he had on you. He was savoring it.

“Is it?” You breathed, testing the waters, tilting your head in that soft, innocent way that always got to him.

You gave him that pleading look—the one you knew unraveled Zayne every single time. And then you moved. A slow, indulgent roll of your hips, grinding down just enough to feel the friction where you wanted it most. It drew a quiet sigh from him—rough at the edges, strained with restraint. His grip around your wrists tightened slightly, and his free hand found your thigh, fingers digging in like he needed something to hold onto to keep from snapping.

And still, you pushed, “you’re the one restraining me here…On top of you, nonetheless.”

That was when he moved. A sudden thrust of his hips—sharp, controlled, possessive—snapped through your core and sent you sitting upright with a soft gasp, your spine straightening instinctively at the command in the motion. It was decisive. Enough to remind you exactly who you were teasing. Zayne’s heat rippled through your body like a current.

“You’re being quite unruly,” he said, voice low with control, “I’m simply correcting your behavior. And you’re the one who put yourself in this position. Literally.”

“I can’t really help it, now can I?” You murmured with a breathy laugh, your voice gentled with warmth and something deeper—fondness, longing, “you’re hard for me to resist when we get all snuggly together…I start wanting to be all over you. Especially with this stupid storm outside, it’s even harder to resist you.”

Zayne sighed—a long, quiet exhale that melted into a little smile as his grip around your wrists loosened. He let you go with the ease of a man who wasn’t surrendering control, just offering you trust.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he murmured, voice honeyed as he tugged you in again.

His arms wrapped around you, long and warm and unshakably steady, pulling you flush to his chest. You let out a pleased little groan, muffled into the fabric of his shirt as he squeezed you tighter—like he wanted to anchor you to him, keep you there forever. God, his chest. Firm. Toned. Solid against you in a way that felt more protective than possessive—but still undeniably arousing.

“As much as you keep my nervous system calm…” He breathed into your hair, his voice dipping into a whisper, “you tend to…Arouse, certain parts of my body.”

You giggled, quiet and mischievous, like a secret being passed through the darkness between you. Then you turned your face up, brushing your nose to his, and kissed him. Featherlight. Fleeting. A tease of a touch that tasted like affection and implication all at once.

“I know,” you whispered between your smile, “I can feel it…And it’s not helping me very much, either.”

His lips curved as he kissed you back, once, then again—amusement flickering in the shadowed green of his eyes. He looked at you like you were the most precious, most maddening thing he’d ever had the privilege to hold. With a soft exhale, he reached up, brushing a few strands of hair away from your cheek, tucking them behind your ear with a gentleness that made your heart clench.

“Are you saying your personal calming system is failing to do his job right now?” He teased, his voice barely above a murmur.

“I’m saying he desperately needs to switch modes right now,” you murmured against his lips, your voice tinged with mischief and wrapped in heat, “otherwise we’re never gonna get back to watching the movie…”

You giggled—low, warm, helpless—then kissed him. Once. Then again. And again. Each kiss was slow, lingering, unrushed. Like tasting something too good to swallow, like memorizing Zayne through your mouth. Your lips moved over his with affectionate ease, but there was nothing casual about it. Every brush, every breath, every soft parting was soaked in craving and comfort. Your arms around his neck held him close; his hands on your body kept you there, needful even in their gentleness.

Zayne held you like he couldn’t bear the thought of you pulling away. His grip tightened, slowly but deliberately, like he wasn’t sure whether to keep you tenderly in place or pull you closer until there was no space left at all. He kissed you back with restrained hunger—lips soft, but deepening—his body responding faster than his mind was willing to admit. And you felt it. Even this tender affection—this calm, this closeness—was undoing both of you. The thrum between your legs swelled with the weight of wanting, and you could feel the way Zayne’s control faltered just beneath the surface. His kisses might’ve started sweet, but his body betrayed him—the heat blooming under your thighs, the tension rising under your hands, the telltale hardness pressing insistently between you.

Dear God, he was coming undone. And you were too. There was nothing calming about being this close anymore. His presence wasn’t stilling your nerves—it was setting them alight. You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger, melt, until your lungs ached for air and you pulled back only enough to breathe. Your hand moved, sliding down the curve of his chest. The warmth of him radiated through the soft cotton of his shirt, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath growing heavier under your touch. You found his heart, thumping—steady, but elevated—and flattened your palm over it, your thumb stroking lightly as if you could soothe him through skin alone.

He felt you. He felt the subtle arch of your lower back pressing into his touch, the way your spine bowed like instinct, your body tilting up in invitation. One of his hands splayed wide over your back, tracing its shape like he was relearning it by heart. The other…The other slid beneath the sherpa blanket, dipping low along your thigh. The warmth of his hand met your bare skin ubder the hem of your loose shorts, igniting a wave of goosebumps in his wake. You gasped softly into the next kiss as his fingertips grazed the sensitive dip of your leg, his palm spreading, anchoring, as if your thigh belonged beneath his hand.

“You must be so cold,” Zayne breathed against your lips, his voice little more than a whisper—low and laced with knowing.

His hand rose to your face, brushing a few strands of hair gently behind your ear. His touch lingered, fingertips skimming along your cheek like a caress made of silk and intention. Then he moved again, reaching for the blanket behind your waist. With one smooth pull, he tucked it tighter around you, anchoring you against him until there was no space left at all—just warmth, just breath, just him.

“You have goosebumps…” His voice was soft, but the subtext burned.

Zayne wasn’t stupid—and neither were you. That comment, the look in his eyes, the way his hand curved possessively around the shape of your thighs where they spilled across his lap…It wasn’t about the cold. It was his way of acknowledging the heat gathering between you. The tension coiled beneath your skin. The quiet, beautiful fact that both of you were flushed, hungry, aching—and trying so sweetly to pretend otherwise.

“Come closer,” he whispered, voice a slow seduction wrapped in velvet, his lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it barely landed.

His fingertips ghosted upward beneath the hem of your lounging shorts—high, delicate, exploratory. His touch barely skimmed the skin of your inner thigh, but it was enough to leave a trail of sparks in its wake. You could feel your breath catch, your muscles tighten.

“The night is still young,” he murmured against your mouth, his words a slow stroke against your skin, “we have plenty of time to watch the movie later…If you want to keep warm with me beforehand.”

You gasped softly at the press of his lips again—tender, coaxing—while his hand continued its slow journey over the curve of your thigh.

“We can share body heat together…”

“I thought you said—”

“—Never mind what I said,” he interrupted, cutting your protest short with a firmer kiss. His mouth closed over yours with more intent this time—more weight, more want. His hands slid out of your shorts, molding to the curves of your hips, climbing the slope of your back beneath your shirt until his fingers spread between your shoulder blades, warm skin against warm skin. He caged you against him with exquisite tenderness, holding you like a man determined to keep every inch of you close. He let you breathe. His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp even in the dark, glowing with a look that left your pulse stuttering.

“If watching the movie right now means you’ll be cold and wanting,” he murmured, voice molten, “I won’t enjoy it.”

A breath. A pause. His fingers tightened ever so slightly where they gripped you.

“I’ll be thinking about you the entire time…” He mapped large, reverent palms over the arch of your spine, “and then I’ll be cold and wanting, too…”

KABROOM!!

You flinched—but not as badly this time. Not with Zayne wrapped around you. His arms tightened instinctively, drawing you flush to him in one protective, seamless motion. The storm might’ve roared outside, but inside his embrace, it felt a world away. You laughed softly at yourself—at your body’s automatic response, at the faint adrenaline buzz still warming your skin. And at his words earlier, about how it would get easier. How eventually, your nervous system would settle. He’d been right. Though in your heart, you knew it wasn’t biology doing the work—it was Zayne.

Together, you both turned toward the tall windows. Rain traced intricate paths down the glass, moving in glistening rivers that caught the golden glow of the fence lights outside. The world beyond the pane was all blur and motion—an impressionist painting of water and light. You watched in quiet reverence, the hush between you soft as snowfall. But Zayne wasn’t watching the rain anymore. He was watching you. The graceful line of your jaw. The gentle slope of your neck, bare and soft and so close. The delicate pulse there, just under your skin. The faint scent of your shampoo, sweet and warm and feminine, wrapping around him with each inhale. The heat of your body, so close, so unaware of how much he adored every inch of you.

God. You. His beautiful, frightened little rabbit. He could still see it in you, that flicker of vulnerability hiding beneath your strength. It made him want to protect you with everything he had. Without a word, he reached for the edge of the blanket again and pulled it high around your shoulders, tucking you in against him. Enclosing you in warmth. Wrapping you in him. You smiled—soft and content, lips curving unconsciously—as you leaned a little deeper into his hold.

Then you turned. Your gaze drifted to him, and your smile shifted—playful, nostalgic, familiar. The kind of look only you could give him.

“Zaynie,” you whispered, using the nostalgic name that belonged to childhood, to memory, to a version of him only you had ever truly known.

Your fingers found the edge of his collar, toying with it absently, like you had a hundred times before. His breath caught, just slightly, at the sight of your hand on him, and the gentle, reverent way you said his name. God, the effect you had. You saw it—the subtle shift in his eyes, that crack of softness in his emerald gaze. That beautiful, quiet weakness that only surfaced when you touched him like this. When you remembered him like this.

“…You remember that one time when we were kids when we had just become friends,” you murmured, voice low and secretive, “there was that nasty storm at Akso Hospital that kept us all in for a whole week?”

Zayne remembered immediately. The memory didn’t just resurface—it rose, whole and intact, as if no time had passed at all. You were seven. He was twelve. The storm that week had been relentless, flooding the roads and turning the city into a network of isolated islands. The hospital—where you’d been left orphaned not long before—had transformed overnight into a shelter. Stranded patients, staff, and lost children tucked away in spare rooms and waiting areas, while the sky thundered for days on end.

Visitors were asked to stay put. Travel was discouraged. No one came in or out unless it was urgent. Zayne’s parents—two exhausted, overextended surgeons—had made the quiet decision to keep him close. They couldn’t bear the thought of their son alone in an empty house while they worked nonstop shifts. So he was given a cot in the pediatrics wing. A borrowed bed. A corner with a pillow and a blanket, and a world that suddenly felt heavier than it should have for a twelve-year-old boy.

And then there was you. A frightened little girl with trembling hands and tear-glossed eyes. Small, shell-shocked, tucked into a borrowed bed just across the hall. You and Zayne—both young, both displaced, both adrift in the chaos of something no child should have had to understand. It started then. The bond. The gravity. The friendship. You were drawn to him after you got over the initial fear—the quiet, tall boy with a book always in hand, who didn’t say much but always noticed. Who knew where the cafeteria kept the sweets and which nurses gave the lollipops. He became your first real friend.

“Like it was just yesterday,” Zayne said now, his voice low and warm, coated in memory. He reached up and gently pulled the blanket over your head like a hood, the gesture tender, familiar, playful.

You giggled at the motion, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pressed your palm to his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand—calm, grounding.

“You were so frightened that first night,” he murmured, eyes soft as they held yours, “you started sobbing in the middle of the night. It was so loud I came to check on you,” his voice dipped even quieter, like it was a secret he still held close, “all of the doctors and nurses were busy… and the room my parents had me stay at in the pediatrics ward was right across from yours. I got there right away…”

FLASHBACK…

Another thunderclap split the night.

KABROOM!!

The sound tore through the silence like the sky had cracked in two. You shrieked—high-pitched and raw, your voice breaking under the weight of fear. The pounding in your chest was deafening. Every pulse felt like an earthquake in your ribs. Your body curled tighter into itself, a shaking knot of limbs beneath a scratchy hospital blanket. Your small fingers clutched the corners of the thin pillow like it was the only thing tethering you to earth. You pulled it over your head in desperation, trying to shut out the world. But it didn’t help. The storm was too loud. The fluorescent ceiling lights too harsh. The world felt too big.

You couldn’t breathe right. Your lungs took in air in shallow, panicked gasps. The sound of machines—heart monitors, IV drips, distant intercoms—blurred into a static hum in your ears. Footsteps echoed in the hallway just beyond the cracked door. Rushed. Purposeful. Unbothered by the way your world had ended. You were seven years old. No family. No home to return to. Just cold white walls, a wristband with someone else’s handwriting, and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.

Across the hallway, Zayne blinked awake. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the sound—another thunderclap, or something else. He had just started to drift off again when he heard it. The crying. Muffled, but persistent. Real. His body stirred on instinct, the haze of sleep slow to lift. He groaned softly as he sat up, rubbing his eyes until the dark smudges behind his lids cleared. His fingers reached across the pillow, brushing over the worn edges of the book he’d fallen asleep reading—An Illustrated Guide to the Human Body. Something he’d borrowed from one of the nurses who found his interest in medicine endearing. Perched beside it, his wire-rimmed glasses nearly dangling off the blanket. He slipped them on.

The hallway light under his door was bright—too bright for how exhausted he felt. He squinted as he swung his legs over the edge of the cot, his socked feet sliding into hospital-issued slippers. The movement was awkward, slow, groggy. He was only twelve, and the thin pediatric mattress had barely given him any real rest. But something in the sound—your sound—drew him up and out of bed. It wasn’t just crying. It was sobbing. A sound no kid should be making alone.

The hallway outside his room was mostly empty—just pale linoleum and white tile glowing under flickering fluorescent lights. The storm outside made the windows tremble in their panes, casting strange shadows that warped along the corridor floor. He winced at the brightness as he stepped out, his movements clumsy, legs not fully awake.

Zayne didn’t have to go far. Your room was just across from his. And even with the door barely cracked, he could hear you—your tiny voice breaking apart inside the quiet, the sound of your breath hitching as you tried to smother your fear in a borrowed blanket. He stood there for a moment, hand on the doorframe, blinking at the sight of you. Alone. Fragile. Terrified. A little girl swallowed by too much fear, too soon. Something twisted in his chest. He took a breath, then padded inside.

“…Y/n?” Zayne’s voice was tentative—soft, unsure, the sound of a boy who was barely awake and even less certain of what to do, “it’s me. It’s Zayne.”

No answer. You didn’t hear him. You couldn’t. You were buried deep beneath the blankets, wrapped in a trembling cocoon of hospital linen and panic. Your small body was curled into a ball, your arms locked tight around a pillow crushed over your ears, your knees pulled to your chest like you could make yourself disappear if you just folded tightly enough. All you could hear were your own sobs—loud, desperate, relentless—echoing in your ears louder than the storm, louder than the hospital, louder than anything else in the world.

Outside the room, the hospital continued its chaos. Zayne glanced down the corridor one last time—eyes scanning for a nurse, a doctor, someone. But there was no one. Just shadows darting past distant doors, the squeak of shoes on tile, the drone of distant voices echoing from unseen hallways. Monitors beeped behind closed doors. Clipboards shuffled. People moved.

But not for you. You were alone, and the world was too busy to notice. Zayne hesitated for a breath. Then another. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t have the right words. He didn’t know the rules. But he imagined—if he were a doctor, like his mom or dad—what would they do? What would they say?

And then he stepped inside. Quietly. Carefully. Like entering someone else’s dream. The door creaked softly behind him, partially sealing the dark room off from the too-bright hallway. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Everything was washed in grayscale—pale walls, gray-blue bedding, the silhouette of machines blinking softly near your bedside.

“Y/n,” he tried again, a little firmer this time, but still gentle. His voice bounced off the walls and disappeared into the whimpering sobs coming from under the mound of blankets.

He took a slow step closer.

“Hellooo?” he said, pitching his voice with playful curiosity, trying to sound a little lighter, a little less nervous himself, “Y/n? Anyone home in there?”

Still nothing. Just the shaking form of a child curled tight in pain no one else could see. A shape made of sorrow and silence and thunder. Zayne exhaled a quiet, tired sigh. His slippers whispered against the linoleum as he moved slowly toward the bed. He hovered there for a moment, uncertain again, then cautiously knelt at the edge, trying to get a glimpse beneath the heavy layers of pillows and blankets, his hand bracing against the cool metal of the bedframe. You didn’t see him. You didn’t hear him. But he was there. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You left your front door open,” he said gently, his voice light with playfulness as he stepped further into the room. He gestured vaguely toward the hospital door he left cracked, “so, I welcomed myself in…”

The way he said it made it sound like this was just another visit between neighbors, like this sterile white hospital room was your own cozy apartment and not the space you’d been living in for the past few weeks under the hum of medical machines and the quiet shuffle of nurses’ shoes. Technically…It was your home, for now.

“I was falling asleep,” he continued, crossing the room with a slow, meandering kind of grace, “and then I heard you crying…So, like a good neighbor, I came to check up on you…”

His voice trailed off a little, half-murmured as he glanced around your darkened room. The only light came from the faint sliver behond the door, outlining his shape in the gloom. His eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the subtle touches of you scattered throughout the otherwise impersonal space. There was a small jasmine plant on the table near the heater. He smiled faintly when he saw it. He’d brought it for you just a few days ago, a “bravery reward” after you were cleared from the last of your stitches. You had held it like treasure, your little fingers tracing the leaves like you were afraid it might disappear.

Beside it, a familiar foil glint caught his eye—a chocolate wrapper, crinkled and empty. His smile deepened. That had been earlier today. A bribe, technically. If you promised not to run away from the nurse giving you your shot, you’d get a surprise. You’d held out until the very last second, but you didn’t bolt—and so he’d delivered.

Then, there was the book. The one with a stitched spine and painted cover—The Boy and the Library—resting gently beside a pad of scratch paper and a small pile of worn-down crayons. A gift from one of the older nurses, if Zayne remembered right. You’d spent half the afternoon with your tongue poked between your lips as you colored something in deep concentration.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, his voice dipping into something dry and fond as he made his way to your bedside table.

He adjusted his glasses with one hand and leaned closer, squinting at the drawings you’d made earlier. Wobbly shapes in shades of blue and white crowded the page—none of them quite even, but all of them clearly intentional.

His brow furrowed, amused and genuinely curious, “are those…Supposed to be snowballs?”

Zayne picked up the paper carefully, holding it at arm’s length like he was handling something delicate, something important. His brows pinched as he studied the chaotic doodles of blue and white crayon loops, scratching absently at his chin.

“Oh…” He muttered, a quiet little smiles spreading across his face, “they’re seals. I think…”

A chuckle escaped him—soft and uncertain—but there was no mockery in it, only affection. He turned the drawing gently in his hands, trying to orient the squiggly blobs into something like meaning.

“Maybe I can ask my parents to take us to the aquarium when you get discharged,” he added, half to himself, half to you, “they have passes. And kids under ten get in free for their first visit.” He placed the drawing carefully down on the table, “then you can see real seals.”

Something in you noticed a presence. A weight in the room. A shift in the air. You weren’t even sure when it had begun, only that somewhere in the endless noise of your sobs and the ringing pressure in your ears, you could feel something had changed. Someone was there. You didn’t lift your head. You didn’t move. You just stayed curled beneath the blanket, cocooned in heat and tears and damp cotton and hospital antiseptic. Your skin was raw—irritated from rubbing, itchy beneath the healing gauze. Every sniffle scraped your throat. Your breath hiccupped in gasps as you tried to stop crying, tried to pull yourself together the way adults always told you to. But your lungs were tired. Your face was a mess. And you didn’t know how to stop. Your mind assumed it was another nurse, an adult tasked with quieting you down. Someone older. Someone who spoke in soothing tones and pressed the call button when you couldn’t breathe.

“Did you know seals can slow down their heart rate on command?” Zayne asked softly, almost like he was talking to himself. His voice was gentle, but unafraid of your sadness. He didn’t tiptoe around it. He just filled the space beside it.

He pulled the chair beside your little table and sat, not bothering to turn on the overhead light. The soft hallway glow spilled in from the crack of the door, casting gentle outlines of just enough light as he reached for a clean sheet of paper. Your crayons were scattered everywhere, left in a chaotic trail like lightning had struck and you’d dropped everything in a rush to escape. He picked them up one by one, placing each back into the small cardboard box with quiet focus, occasionally examining a few of the more worn-down ones.

“It’s called bradycardia,” he added, his voice threading through the dark like a loft lullaby, “their heartbeat drops so low when they dive, it’s almost like they’re in hibernation. Some of them stay underwater for as much as two hours. Their blood only flows to the most important organs, like the brain and heart.”

You eased the pillow and blanket, just barely. The fabric peeled back in trembling inches, sticking a little to your damp cheeks. The air against your face felt cold after so long buried beneath the heat of your own crying, but it also felt…Clearer. Like your first real breath in hours had finally broken through. Your fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket as you waited—listening, tensing for the next crack of lightning, for another clap of thunder to shake your bones. But it didn’t come. Not yet. The room remained quiet. Dim. The storm still grumbled beyond the windows, but for now, it had pulled back just enough for you to lift your head from the sea of grief you’d been drowning in.

And then, you heard a faint, familiar sound beyond the muffle.

“Everything else just…Slows down,” Zayne’s voice floated gently in the dark, soft enough that it almost faded into the background hum of machines.

He was still seated at the small table, cradled in the spill of light coming from beyond the door. His glasses caught a faint glint as he tilted his head, his voice distant—thoughtful, almost like he was talking to himself more than to you. He stared at the crayons again, the colors now rearranged in their box with quiet precision. After a long pause, he reached for the black one. It wasn’t dramatic or striking. It was dull from use. But something about it seemed to call to him.

“They evolved for it,” he murmured, turning the crayon slowly between his fingers, “collapsible lungs, too. So their ribcages don’t break under the pressure.”

His words soothed like water on overheated skin. They weren’t pointed. They weren’t even meant to fix you. They just were—offered without expectation, drifting through the silence like a lifeline for your trembling thoughts to cling to. Somewhere in the distance, you thought you heard another voice. A soft muffle. It might’ve been out in the hallway. Or on the intercom. Or maybe just another ghost noise in your overstimulated, overtired head. You were exhausted. From crying. From healing. From the invisible weight of what had been taken from you. Ever since the catastrophe, your life had been a loop of medication, monitoring, needles, and long, sterile days marked by careful voices and busy hands. You hadn’t even begun the adoption process yet. Not officially. Not while your records still listed your status as ‘under observation’. But Zayne kept talking.

“And their blood has more hemoglobin than ours does,” he said quietly, lowering his head as he began dragging the black crayon across a fresh piece of paper. His motions were slow, idle—he wasn’t drawing anything in particular. Just lines. Marks. Movements to fill the air, “so, they can hold more oxygen. They’re kind of like…Natural surgeons. Efficient. Focused. And quiet.”

The word surgeon echoed in the air between you, and your mind latched onto it like a lifeline. Zayne. Of course you thought of Zayne. Was that him talking? The boy in glasses who always wore a watch—serious, quiet, unusually graceful for his age. The one who never raised his voice, never interrupted, who moved like he was always thinking about something just a little too big for the room he was in.

And whose parents operated on you. You remembered the woman first. Pretty, with deep green eyes like her son’s and hair drawn into a perfect jet-black bun. She had spoken softly to you after surgery, tucking the blanket beneath your chin as you blinked against the brightness of recovery. Her husband had stood at her side—a strikingly tall, stoic man with a steady voice and the same sharp jawline you sometimes saw mirrored in Zayne’s young profile.

You blinked through the haze still clinging to your face and slowly, cautiously, pushed your head out from the shelter of your blanket cocoon. The pillow slipped back with you as you peeked over it, your breath still catching in soft, uneven drags. There he was. Zayne sat at your little bedside table, hunched slightly in his pajamas, the curve of his back soft in the low light. He wore his glasses, and they slid just slightly down his nose as he bent over the page. In his hand, the black crayon moved with surprising elegance—his grip light but focused, as if he wasn’t just scribbling, but conducting something silent and important.

His hands caught your attention—milk-pale and unmarked, not a scratch or bruise in sight. No scraped knuckles. No ink stains. No playground roughness. Just careful, clean skin. You could tell—this was a boy who followed rules. Who never got in trouble. Who lived inside books more than outside them. It made sense. Everyone whispered that Zayne Li had already skipped two grades.

You swallowed softly.

“Is…” Your voice cracked a little, hoarse from crying, “that what you wanna be when you grow up, Zaynie?”

His hand stilled. Zayne looked up at you slowly, almost like surfacing from deep underwater. For a moment, surprise flitted across his face—then something warmer. His eyes smiled before his mouth did, and the light in them softened as he adjusted his glasses with his fingertips.

“…It is,” he said, the answer falling easily from his lips.

He looked away for a second, almost shy, then back down at the black crayon he absentmindedly toyed with.

“But I’m not sure what kind of surgeon,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur, “I haven’t figured that part out yet. My parents said it’ll come with time.”

Your eyes followed his. The crayon in his hand had stopped moving, but the damage was done. His paper was crowded with harsh, jagged black lines—irregular strokes crisscrossing like cracked ice or shattered obsidian. There was no shape to it, no playfulness. Just something…Stark. Chaotic. The more you stared, the colder it looked.

Zayne blinked down at it like he was seeing it for the first time. His brows drew together slightly, and he frowned—not with anger, but with quiet confusion. Bother. The storm must’ve gotten into his hand. With a low exhale, he quickly swept up the paper and crumpled it in one fluid motion. The sound was loud in the quiet room—sharp and final. He tossed the ball of blackened paper toward the trash bin at his feet. A near miss.

“Um, please ignore that,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was back to soft again—gentle, almost apologetic, “I’m sleepy…These beds aren’t exactly very comfortable, so I guess I haven’t been getting the best sleep.”

“Did I…” You sniffled, your voice wobbling like your breath might give out again, “d-did I wake you up…Just now, Zaynie? I’m…I-I’m sorry…”

Your words came out in fragments, caught between guilt and exhaustion. You watched him move—his silhouette a soft blur in the dim room—as he crossed to the bedside table where a box of tissues sat untouched. He didn’t rush. He didn’t scold.

“It’s alright,” he said with sleepy patience as he plucked the box and brought it over.

He sat down beside you on the edge of the bed, leaving a polite space between your bodies—close enough to reach, but not too close to startle. He yawned into the back of his hand, his eyelids still heavy behind his glasses, and offered you the tissue box without hesitation.

“I don’t have to go back to school until the roads are clear,” he added, a little yawn tugging at his voice, “which means…I can sleep in tomorrow.”

You reached for the tissues with your small, trembling fingers, taking a clumsy wad into your hand. You didn’t think. You just brought it to your face like you always did—forgetting the bandages, the tenderness of healing skin, the ache still raw along your cheek. The sting hit instantly. You gasped. Sharp pain bloomed under your touch, and for a moment it threatened to undo you completely—but before the tears could rise again, Zayne moved. Fast. Instinctive.

He leaned in and gently took the tissues from your hands, blotting your face with the kind of caution only a child built for caregiving could manage. His touch was light—barely pressure at all—just enough to dry the tears, clear the worst of the mess, all without jostling the wounded skin beneath. You sat still for him. He didn’t ask you to. He just…Knew. You were so small in that moment, so heartbreakingly delicate—bandaged and blotchy and trying so hard to be brave. And Zayne felt it. The aching desire to take care of you anchored deep in his chest. A quiet, stubborn kind of protectiveness that settled into his bones like something permanent.

“…Do you want me to read you another bedtime story?” He suggested softly, nodding toward the book still sitting on your table.

You glanced at it—then to the curtains, where lightning flickered behind the pale window fabric. Then up at him. You didn’t say the book was boring and confusing, probably made for kids his age, not yours. That the pictures weren’t very good, or the plot made no sense—something about a boy trapped in a tower that had an endless library. You didn’t want him to stop. You would’ve listened to him talk about anything—surgery, seals, his dislike for his mother’s homemade carrot cake—as long as he stayed right there. As long as he didn’t leave.

“…Y-yeah,” you whispered, a shy, fragile smile touching your lips.

Zayne smiled back, then stood gently, careful not to jostle the bed as he pulled the blanket back over your shoulders with the care of someone three times his age. He tucked it under your arms, smoothing the edge just so, and watched as your eyes fluttered shut before he ever turned a page.

END OF FLASHBACK…

In the present, laughter danced between you. Soft and low at first, then building into a full-bodied warmth that filled the quiet space. You both leaned into it—into the memory, the familiarity, the gentle awe of having known one another so long. That stormy week in childhood had folded into your shared history like a worn page in a well-loved book, and now you were reading it again together, aloud in the hush of Zayne’s dim living room. You took your ear plugs out, no longer feeling a need for them.

Zayne had always been your protector. Even after the chaos. Even after his Evol fractured out of his young control, mere months after the day you met at Akso Hospital. Even when life became messier—more dangerous, more uncertain—he never stopped shielding you. Whether as the quiet boy who chased away your cries, the young cardiac surgeon who now knew your body better than anyone else, or the man whose arms were once again wrapped around you, holding you steady beneath the weight of a storm. He had always been this. Yours.

“You poor thing,” you murmured against his skin, fingers slipping beneath the collar of his shirt, stroking along the strong lines of his chest and up the curve of his neck. You leaned in, nestling closer, voice full of playful guilt and deep affection, “I kept you up so many nights that week…”

Zayne chuckled—low and affectionate, the kind of sound that always made your stomach flutter. His body was warm beneath you—lean muscle and crisp cotton, his scent threading between you like the most familiar comfort in the world. Then his hand found your chin, and with a slow, practiced tenderness, he tilted your face to his. His fingers barely grazed your skin as he pinched gently—more a caress than anything—as if drawing your mouth toward his was something sacred, something slow and deliberate. His lips brushed against yours before the words even made it out, voice quiet, playful, wanting.

“That hasn’t changed,” he murmured against you, his breath warm and teasing as it curled over your lips, “you still keep me up most nights…”

A pause. His eyes searched yours—smoldering with affection, mischief, heat.

“…Albeit, for a different reason, now.”

The movie was long forgotten. Abandoned somewhere between the flicker of a screensaver and the molten glide of Zayne’s lips on yours. Forgotten before his teasing words had melted into breathless promises. Before he pulled you close—closer—and kissed you like he needed to devour every inch of the space that had dared exist between you.

His hand tangled into the back of your scalp, fingers threading through your hair with practiced ease as he drew you into him, mouth parting over yours with reverence and ache. You arched into the pull, your body reacting instinctively to the intensity he suddenly gave you—to the inhalation of your breath, the soft sigh of need he released as he pressed his mouth harder to yours. He always kissed like that when he was full—when his heart overflowed with more than words could hold. When love took root in his chest and twisted into hunger.

Zayne didn’t just kiss you. He claimed you. He poured every ounce of devotion, of yearning, of worship, into the heat of your lips, tasting you like a man who’d been starving for days and had finally come home to something he could never get enough of. God, he was hard beneath you all over again. The thick press of him strained up under the cradle of your weight, pulsing with growing urgency. His hands gripped you—one sliding low to the curve of your waist, the other spreading possessively across your back. He held you like he never wanted to let go. Like his body was imprinting you deeper with every second you didn’t pull away. And you didn’t want to. You couldn’t.

He moaned low into your mouth—just a breath, but it vibrated through your chest and curled down your spine, where it bloomed into a hot flush between your legs. Your body pulsed at the sound, at the feeling of him, at the way his tongue slid against yours with slow, aching precision. You were his drug. His kryptonite. The only thing on earth powerful enough to shatter his control—his carefully built restraint. And he let it happen. He wanted it to happen.

You gasped softly into the next kiss, overwhelmed by the sensation of his need pouring into you like liquid heat. Your skin tingled, goosebumps rising across your arms and thighs, your nipples hardening beneath the fabric of your shirt. You could feel his energy in your bones—like static, like electricity, like a current running from his fingers into your blood.

Your hand fisted his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The other slid to his arm, clutching at the strength in his bicep, feeling the way it tensed and flexed under your palm. Every sigh, every wet, desperate kiss, every slick drag of his lips over yours made you feel alive. Made you feel his.Your breasts pressed fully to his chest, the hard peaks of arousal unmistakable through the fabric—hot, aching proof of just how much you wanted him.

You arched instinctively, body following need, and ground your hips back in a slow, deliberate roll over the hard line of his groin. It wasn’t shy. It was self-indulgent. Intimate. You both moaned—quiet, unfiltered—mouths barely parted as the friction bloomed like a fire between your legs, pulsing with the promise of more. The kiss broke, but only just. You pulled back for air, for balance, for sanity—but even the small space between your lips felt unbearable. Dizzy with heat, you hovered near his mouth, your breath mixing with his as your eyes met.

And God—those eyes. Heavy-lidded. Dark with desire. They burned into you, green and molten, hooded and wrecked. His pupils were wide, his lashes low, and the tips of his ears and the high planes of his cheekbones were flushed pink with heat. He looked drunk. Not on wine or exhaustion—but on you. On your kiss. Your breath. Your body. Zayne always looked like that when you had him like this. Like he was already ruined. And he’d let himself be ruined again and again if it meant keeping you pressed to him like this—panting, pulsing, yours. There was no way in hell he’d let you go now in the name of a movie. And would you have? No. You were just as wrecked, just as needy, just as undone by the feel of him.

“You know,” you whispered breathlessly, a sly smile tugging at your lips as your fingertips dragged up the plane of his body, tracing the unsteady rhythm of his heart, “I think I’m suddenly cold and wanting, now…”

His lips quirked, barely, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. Still blown. Still hot.

“Oh no,” he murmured, the tease in his voice laced with velvet, “I’m afraid we simply can’t have that, now can we?”

He grabbed your hips with decisive ease. And your body answered like it always did. Your hands shot instinctively to his shoulders—not from surprise, but from muscle memory, like a reflex carved by nights and mornings and countless times where Zayne had held you like this before. It was a dance your body had learned long ago, and each time you followed its rhythm, it felt like home.

Gravity shifted beneath you. In one graceful, fluid motion, he lifted you and turned you beneath him, lowering you onto the couch with the practiced strength of someone who knew exactly how to make you fall apart. Your back hit the blanket-soft cushions, hair spilling in waves over the fabric like silk, your chest rising just as he climbed over you, caging you in. That warmth. That weight. The sheer nearness of him. No matter how many times it happened—no matter how many times he pinned you like this—your breath still stuttered. Your tummy still flipped.

Your wrists were already over your head, caught in the gentle prison of his long, elegant fingers, like he knew exactly where to find them without looking. As if he could read the mischief in your bones before you could even act on it. He always knew. And there was nothing rough about the way he held you down. Nothing forceful. But it was dominance, unmistakably. That quiet, commanding authority that only Zayne could carry in the gentlest of gestures. The kind that said, you started it, but he was finishing it. And every time he did…It thrilled you.

You looked up at him—eyes wide, lips parted, surrender written into every inch of your expression—and watched the way he stared back, heavy-lidded and unwavering. You lived for that moment. That quiet shift when control passed from your hands to his. That delicious second when playfulness turned to heat.

“No, we can’t,” you whispered breathlessly, playing along with a grin tugging at your mouth, though your heart was racing.

He leaned down, his face hovering over yours, his body firm and hot above you. You felt his free hand move blindly, reaching for the familiar strap beneath the couch—the one that transformed the cushions into a makeshift bed. He barely looked, his focus still locked on you. And you? You weren’t done teasing. You threw a leg around his waist, hooking him in and shifting your hips with just enough force to knock him off balance. Zayne let out a grunt of surprised laughter as he stumbled forward, catching himself just in time—but not before his face landed right above your chest, his nose brushing the softness of your breasts through the fabric of your shirt. You cackled, triumphant.

“Doctor Zayne,” you gasped through laughter, your fingers already threading into his hair, “that’s inappropriate!”

You glanced toward the edge of the couch with wide, mock-scandalized eyes.

“What’ll the plushies think of us?” You whispered, voice high with fake innocence, “they’re watching!”

Zayne pushed himself up on his palms, the crease of his brows slowly smoothing as his eyes drifted past you, past the curve of your flushed cheeks, and back to the quiet room around you both. He took it in.

The TV still glowed across the room with the icy blue shimmer of the floating screensaver—an endless arctic landscape cast in digital silence, the movie that never stood a chance playing now only in theory. The coffee table sat untouched. The bowl of popcorn remained nearly full. A few chocolate wrappers glinted in the soft flicker of the TV light. Everything was still—like the room had been patiently waiting for you both to return to it. Like the snacks, the screen, the space…Had become a witness to something far more intimate.

His gaze slid downward. Mister Fleecy. Wobbly Eggplant. Both were strewn across the rug and the couch like abandoned witnesses to a crime of passion, their cartoon faces frozen in innocent, lopsided smiles. The light from the TV cast a shifting glow over their little plush bodies, making them look almost alive in the soft dark.

And behind them—the windows. Rain still sheeted down the tall glass, pouring in relentless streaks, streaking over the slats of half-open blinds. Beyond that: the faint blur of outdoor string lights, glowing hazy gold beneath the storm. They swayed ever so slightly in the breeze, illuminating the rain like falling glitter.

Zayne etched it all into memory. Every detail. The quiet rhythm of a moment shared. The laughter. The soft weight of your body beneath his. The way your presence had woven itself into this house like sunlight in winter—warming everything it touched. This wasn’t just his place anymore. It was yours. It was home.

God, how he loved you. How he adored every trace of you left behind in his life. The smiley mugs you rearranged. The faint scent of your shampoo on his pillow. The warmth in the corners of each room where once there had only been sterile quiet. You changed him. You made him full. You made the cold man warm.

Zayne lowered himself to your lips, his expression softening into reverence as he pressed one kiss—sweet and slow. Then another. And on the third—deeper now—you arched, your breasts pressing into the solid weight of his chest, the heat of you seeking more. His hand wrapped firmly over your wrists above your head again, pinning you with the ease of someone who knew just how much you liked surrendering to his strength.

“We promised them a movie,” he breathed, lips brushing yours as he spoke, his voice low and full of affectionate mirth. His other hand trailed up your cheek, cupping the heat there with gentle fingers, stroking softly as his eyes twinkled, “…Didn’t we?”

You barely had time to answer before he pinched your chin with practiced familiarity, guiding your lips back to his in a firmer kiss—deeper now, more claiming. The kind that left you breathless, hanging off the edge of your own heartbeat. He let go, only to press his mouth to the angle of your jaw, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“What will the plushies think of us…” He murmured between kisses, “…If they don’t get what they were promised?”

You sighed beneath him. A long, shaky release of breath as his lips found the tender curve under your jaw, and the warmth of his mouth melted over your skin like slow honey. The sound of it—the soft, indulgent smooch he pressed there—was enough to unravel you. That sound alone made your spine arch and your thighs twitch with want. It wasn’t fair, the way Zayne could make you ache like this. So easily. So thoroughly.

“They’ll think we’re liars,” he murmured with affection as his hands slid beneath your forearms, palms warm and slow as they stroked up along your goosebumped skin. His touch was reverent, tracing the rise of each shiver like he was reading Braille—like your body’s response to him was scripture, “and we simply can’t have that either, my love…”

Your toes curled into the couch cushions, into the tangled sherpa blanket beneath you. The heat of him, the weight of him above you—it was like being blanketed in fire and silk at once. You tilted your head back, surrendering completely, neck exposed in that wordless plea he always pulled from you. And oh—the moment the tip of his tongue greeted the side of your throat, right where your vocal cords trembled beneath the skin—You whimpered. He smiled into your pulse, feeling the flutter of it under his lips.

“We have to keep the guests entertained,” he went on, deepening the tease, continuing the fantasy with that low, velvety edge in his voice—the kind that made your chest tighten and your legs shift restlessly beneath him. His fingers drifted slowly down your arms, trailing over your elbows as he sank further over you. His lips descended with him, kissing down the gentle slope of your neck, trailing heat with every breath. You could hear it now—need in his exhale, in the tension coiled in his body, the way each kiss lingered a second longer than the last, “don’t you want to be a good hostess?”

You didn’t know why—how—it worked so easily on you. It was ridiculous. Plushies. Imagined guests. His teasing stories. But somehow, Zayne could turn anything—anything—into seduction. And you couldn’t resist it. You were utterly powerless to the way his imagination wove into his touch, the way his voice threaded through your mind like velvet, like sin. Your cheeks were hot. Your body flushed. Your heart stammered.

“Y-yeah…” you whispered, the sound trembling from your throat, lost in the warmth of his mouth as it trailed lower, as his hands lowered and gripped the cushion around your body like he needed to anchor himself or risk losing control.

“Are you going to be a good hostess for them, Y/n?”

The way he said your name…God. It was sugar on his tongue. Silk. Worship. He kissed you like your skin was his only source of air. Like he couldn’t not taste you. Then he rolled his hips—slow, grinding up into the cradle of your heat with desperate precision—and the shock of pleasure knocked another breathless sound out of you, your eyes fluttering toward the ceiling like a prayer.

“Y-yes,” you gasped, nodding like you couldn’t think of anything else, like there was nothing else.

You pressed back against him, grinding in answer, your spine stretching in a sinuous line of tension. One leg rose high, curling around the strong plane of his back, drawing him in with everything you had.

He reached back with one strong hand and caught your calf behind him—his palm closing around the curve of your leg with quiet authority—and pressed it down into the cushions, pinning it open, wide, stretched over the length of the couch’s extended frame. The movement was slow. Unapologetic. He didn’t ask permission. He just claimed space. Claimed you.

And God—you couldn’t look away from him. Face to face now. So close your noses almost brushed. So close you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek, taste the edge of him still on your lips. His body caged you in completely, one arm braced beside your head, the other curling around the back of your skull, cradling it like you were the most precious thing he’d ever laid hands on.

You looked up at him—and the sight of your own expression reflected in his eyes stole the breath from your lungs. You were undone. That look on your face—the one Zayne knew too well—wide-eyed, lips parted, flushed and trembling, helpless in the thick haze of need. It was the way you always looked when you were too far gone to play anymore. Too far gone to tease. Pleading without a word. Needing him in your bones. Submissive, his little snow bunny ready to be lovingly devoured by your arctic wolf.

And Zayne? He looked wrecked. His gaze indeed devoured you—clouded and dark, flickering between your lips and your eyes like he couldn’t decide where to lose himself first. He stared at you like he was trying to memorize you. Like he could see all the way through your skin, past your pulse, into your soul. And he didn’t just see it. He possessed it.

Then his lips hovered over yours—barely there—as he exhaled, breath hot and feather-light, and whispered the words that broke your mind open, “and are you going to be a good girl for me?”

That. Did. It. The words settled into you like a spell, like something sacred and sinful all at once. You didn’t even hesitate. You nodded—eager, small, trembling. Every inch of defiance melted from your spine. You were completely, blissfully submissive. Captured. Caught. Held in the warmth of his body and the fire of his gaze. You were burning up beneath him. You were his.

“I’m gonna be a good girl for you…” You whispered, breath shaky, voice so soft it nearly caught in your throat. It left your lips before you even realized you’d spoken—pure instinct, pure surrender, heat prickling up your neck like the words themselves had flayed you open.

And then he kissed you. Harder now. Needier. His mouth crushed against yours like you were the air he needed to breathe, and God, you gave it to him. You kissed him back like you couldn’t get enough—fingers clinging to his back, balling his shirt up in desperate handfuls, needing more, needing him. And Zayne…He was breathing like that again. That sound he made when he was holding himself back by a thread. That sound he made when he was dying for you.

His chest pressed flush to yours, rising and falling fast, lips trailing over yours, over your cheek, over your jaw, like he was trying to consume every piece of you all at once. His hands squeezed—your wrist, your side, the back of your neck—holding you there, grounding himself with the shape of you beneath him. Like love that had nowhere else to go but through you.

“Are you still cold?” He asked softly, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath shared between you in the shadow of your kiss.

He didn’t wait for your answer. His hands moved to the hem of his shirt, lifting the fabric in one smooth pull over his head, revealing the pale, sculpted lines of his chest, the rise and fall of his breath already heavy with desire. As the shirt hit the couch, he caught a glimpse of your eyes—and God, the look you gave him.

That needy, ravenous gaze. Like you wanted to taste his soul. Your hands were on him in an instant. Palming over the firm muscle of his chest, the strong column of his throat. You could feel his pulse jumping under your touch, the way your fingers alone made him tremble. You watched it—watched the way he flushed deeper, the way his lips parted around the sigh you drew from him.

“I’m freezing,” you whispered, breathless, and dragged his mouth back to yours like a crash of waves.

He groaned into you. Zayne kissed you hard—so hard it stole your breath. His hand dove beneath the hem of your shirt, spreading wide across your ribs, heat radiating from his palm as he pushed the fabric up, up, up. Your back arched into his touch, offering yourself to him, body pliant beneath the fire he stoked in you.

Then his lips found the soft under-curve your breast. No bra. Just skin. Just you. And he kissed you there like it was sacred—slow, open-mouthed devotion pressed into the tender dip beneath your breast before he peeled the shirt over your head entirely. You helped him, pulling your arms free and tossing the fabric away, all without taking your eyes off him.

“Keep me warm,” you begged softly, arms winding around his shoulders, one hand sliding into the midnight dark of his hair. You melted into his skin, into the heat of him, touching anything you could reach—his neck, his shoulders, his back.

“Warmer, baby, I’m—ohh—” You gasped as his lips closed around your nipple.

Zayne moaned into you, the sound low and rich, rumbling deep in his chest as he sucked you in—slow, thorough, almost painfully gentle in how he savored you. His tongue flicked over your stiff peak, teasing with rhythmic circles, every motion designed to undo you.

You arched into his mouth with a soft cry, your heels digging helplessly into the cushions, seeking purchase, grounding yourself in the growing heat that pulsed between your legs. He sucked again—deeper this time. Slower. His lips pulled off you with a soft, wet pop that made your stomach flip, made your thighs twitch. The sounds—God, the sounds alone. His lips. His breath. The hungry smacks and hums of satisfaction as he tasted you.

“Is this warm enough for you?” He breathed, his mouth hovering over your slick nipple, his breath scalding against your damp skin.

The ripple it sent through your nerves was instant. You could barely speak. You didn’t need to. Your body answered for you, trembling with want as you pulled him closer still, utterly undone. You trembled as his mouth drew tighter around your nipple, lips wet and hot and hungry. Your skin puckered beneath the pull of him—so sensitive it ached. You gasped, hips twitching, thighs clenching, your breath a stuttered prayer.

“N-no…” You whimpered, voice breaking on the need, a hand sliding up his hair, threading into the soft black at his crown. You clutched him tighter into you, holding his face to your chest like you needed his mouth there to survive, “I want more…”

Zayne’s response was a low, reverent sigh—half-possessive, half-adoring.

“Needy girl…” he murmured, the words brushing against your damp skin like silk and fire. His hand moved with purpose, gripping your other breast in a firm squeeze before giving a single, hungry pop that made you jolt against him, “my needy, greedy girl…”

God, greedy didn’t even scratch the surface. But between the two of you—it wasn’t really you who was insatiable. It was him. Zayne could never quite get enough of you. He didn’t just kiss you. He devoured you. He didn’t just touch you. He worshipped you. His hands roamed your body like a man mapping the lines of his own soul—every caress slow, sure, unrelenting. He held you like you were his air. Kissed you like he could live off your breath alone.

And you? You ached for it. You thrived on it. You wanted to be consumed by his love, crushed into his chest, reduced to nothing but trembles and sighs beneath the weight of his reverence. You wanted to submit to it, to feed the raw hunger in his eyes until you were boneless and undone, a fragile little thing cradled in the iron steadiness of Zayne’s hold.

Your body couldn’t wait anymore. While he lavished one breast, then the other—tongue swirling, lips smacking with slow indulgence until both were flushed and aching—you slid a hand down between your bodies, skin shivering as your fingers moved with growing urgency. You slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. Then lower—past the heat-swollen press of your panties—until your fingertips found it. The slick. You were soaked.

Your breath caught in your throat as you pressed your fingers to your swollen clit, rubbing slow circles for even a second of relief, the pleasure blooming up your spine like lightning. You gasped softly—and Zayne heard it. He caught the sound, lips pressing around your tortured nipple with a muffled kiss just as he reached down and grabbed your wrist. Firm. Wordless. He pulled your hand up from between your legs. And then, slowly, he raised it before his eyes.

The dim, cool light from the TV flickered over your skin—just enough to reveal the glisten coating your fingers. Wet. Shining. Proof of your desire laid bare between you. Your lips parted, caught in breathless anticipation. Zayne looked at your hand…Then at you. And God, the look in his eyes. That sharp, scolding heat. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The slow shake of his head. The flash of control in his gaze. The way his hand still wrapped tight around your wrist, lifting your slick fingers like he was about to punish you with pleasure…It was enough to make your core clench with anticipation.

“Your impatience is insulting,” he whispered, pushing your finger past his lips.

Oh God. Your heart just about stopped. You gasped—silent, stunned—your body frozen beneath him as your wide eyes locked onto the vision before you: Zayne sucking your arousal from your own fingers. His mouth wrapped around them with unhurried precision, his tongue licking slow and deliberate, like he wanted you to feel every humid flick, every stroke of heat, every bit of his mouth claiming the taste of you.

You damn near fainted. Your skin flushed in waves. Hot. Throbbing. Mortified. Horny. Your breath caught in your throat, and your thighs instinctively clenched inward—knees digging into his hips like your body was trying to trap itself from combusting entirely. He felt it.

“Then stop torturing me,” you whined softly, desperate, fingers shaking as you reached down with your free hand.

You slid it between your bodies, down the hard ridges of his abs. Down his long, muscled torso until you found it—the hot, heavy weight beneath his sweats. You cupped him. Wrapped your fingers around the thick girth of him. God, the way he twitched at your touch. The way he pulsed above your palm, swollen and rock-hard, straining for more. And that look he gave you—Brows pinching. Lips parting. Like you’d just snatched the breath from his lungs.

His eyes fluttered half-lidded in surrender as his forehead dropped to your collarbone. You felt it—the full-body tremor that rippled through him. That one second of sheer, unguarded vulnerability Zayne would never dream of giving to anyone else. But he gave it to you. You kissed his temple, lips brushing his hair as you cradled the back of his head with gentleness, even as your grip on his cock grew needier. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, your fingers sliding with reverence and hunger as you breathed into the softness of his raven strands. He whimpered. Quiet. Helpless. Each squeeze of your hand was a plea, a promise, a prayer. You could feel the heat of his breath pouring down your neck, feel the rise and fall of his chest hitching in time with yours.

You whispered into the soft strands of his hair, the scent of his shampoo—clean, familiar, his—folding around your senses, “I want you so fucking bad, Zayne—”

That was all it took. It snapped the last thread of restraint in him. Zayne moved without hesitation. No warning. No pause. Just a rush of pure, unleashed want. He shoved your hand aside, seized your mouth in a kiss so hot and immediate it made you gasp into him. His lips were demanding—wet, forceful, hungry—as his hands tore at the waistband of his sweats and briefs, shoving them down with an urgency that made your heart leap.

You fumbled just as frantically with your own clothes. Shorts. Panties. Fabric tugged down your legs, kicked aside, forgotten. Your kiss turned clumsy in the scramble—teeth clashing, lips dragging, breaths stuttering. But neither of you cared. You only wanted skin. And then you found it. Bare. Hot. Your hands were everywhere—his back, his ribs, his chest—touching with reverence and greed as he rose onto his knees and maneuvered lower. He was searching—reaching—for the place between your thighs. Needing to see you. Taste you. Open you. But before he could lower himself to worship, you surged forward.

You caught his broad shoulders in your hands and flipped him with a force that startled even him. His eyes flared, breath caught—but God, the look of thrilled surprise on his face. He didn’t resist. He just fell. You turned and straddled him in an instant, crawling over him on all fours, your knee lifting to mount the couch where his body sprawled in heat. His hand was already there—gripping your shin, guiding you into place with that silent strength, his touch reverent but insistent. The couch dipped under your shared weight, and he fumbled quickly for a decorative pillow, shoving it under his head, still watching you, still ready.

Then Zayne moved. He slid down just enough to wedge his shoulders beneath your thighs, his arms hooking under you in a way that pinned you above his chest. His large palms gripped your ass without hesitation, spreading you open like he’d been waiting for this moment for hours, not seconds. The moan that left your throat when his lips smacked a kiss to your slick heat—firm, wet, perfect—was nothing short of primal. Your spine arched, body twitching from the pleasure that rolled through you on contact, your fingers flying to his thighs h to steady yourself.

“Come here,” he sighed, voice husky against your dripping skin.

Then he pulled. His arms locked around your thighs and yanked you back—anchored you directly over his mouth like he couldn’t bear another second of you not being there. His grip was unrelenting, his mouth already moving, already open and wet and consuming.

“Don’t be coy now…” He murmured against your core, voice low, electric, edged with dark delight.

Your jaw dropped with a gasp—a soundless, broken thing—as that feeling returned. That overwhelming sensation that never failed to strike you like lightning, even now, even after all the times Zayne had worshipped you like this. It never dulled. It never normalized. It was always like the first time. The first time your body melted on his tongue. The first time his mouth baptized you in bliss.

You shuddered as his tongue dragged a long, aching swipe from the swollen bud of your clit to the fluttering edge of your entrance—slow, unrelenting, as though savoring every glossy inch. Your thighs trembled around the firm breadth of his shoulders, your breath leaving you in one long, stuttering exhale over the solid wall of his abs below you. God. It was divine. The way he craved you. The way he consumed you like your body was sacred scripture.

And all the while—his cock lay hard and flushed against his stomach, heavy and proud, nestled in the taut ridges of his lower abdomen, framed by the sharp lines of his pelvis. So beautiful. So obscene in its longing. It pulsed visibly, every throb a silent plea for you. You reached for it with trembling fingers, wrapping your hand around the thick shaft like it was second nature, like this was where your hand belonged. A hot flush bloomed in your cheeks as you leaned forward, sweeping all your hair over one shoulder to bare your neck, your spine, the full bow of your want.

You were drooling. Mouth wet. Tongue aching to taste. Body desperate to give him the same pleasure he was pouring into you with every worshipful flick of his tongue. You flattened your tongue to the base and licked—slow, long, savoring—dragging it up his length in one indulgent stroke. You palmed his cock to your mouth, and oh—the twitch you felt, the shudder that rippled up through him like you’d lit him on fire from the inside.

Zayne whimpered. It cracked loose from his throat before he muffled it against your clit, sealing his mouth over you again in a firmer, wetter kiss—like he needed the taste of your reaction to survive his own. And just like that, you were a mess. Your hips rolled instinctively, searching for friction against his mouth. Your lashes fluttered. His abs clenched. Your moan was met with the soft slap of your lips enveloping the head of his cock in a slow, silken kiss. The chain reaction between your bodies was hypnotic. Each of you tuning to the other’s pleasure with the precision of instinct. Every breath was mirrored. Every tremor shared.

Then—You opened your eyes. And you remembered. The plushies. Mister Fleecy. Wobbly Eggplant. They sat exactly where you’d left them—strewn along the rug, the couch. Their stitched-on smiles and beady, cartoony eyes beaming straight at you. Witnessing you. Live. Mouth full of Zayne’s cock. Body shivering under the relentless indulgence of his tongue.

The shock that hit you was electric—hot, shameful, thrilling. Like being watched. Exposed. And somehow, impossibly, more turned on than you were seconds ago. You couldn’t explain it. And you didn’t care. Because you were already gone—already pushing the velvety head of his cock deeper into your mouth, lips plush and wet as they closed around him in an indulgent pop.

Zayne let out another sound—low, aching, drenched in need—muffled entirely between your soaked, swollen lips as his tongue moved with precision. He bent his knee and pushed his hips up slightly, chasing the pressure of your mouth, but his focus—his obsession—was still between your legs.

He squeezed his fingertips into the plush curve of your folds, prying you open with reverent force, holding you apart as if to witness you properly. The cool air touched your exposed clit—bare now, out from under its little hood—and just as the tremble hit your thighs—Slap. His tongue met you with a sudden, deliberate lash. You moaned—loud—your pleasure flooding back down to him, vibrating straight into the throbbing head of his cock still wet between your lips.

He felt it. All of it. And he loved it. You sealed your mouth around him again, cheeks hollowing as you sucked him deeper, drawing a hot, tight groan from the base of his gut. Your hand worked his length in tandem, stroking down the thick shaft, smearing your spit until his cock glistened—slick and flushed and twitching. You were greedy for him. Not just with hunger—but with need. With this ache to please him. To match his devotion lick for lick, moan for moan.

Your ass arched instinctively in his hands, chasing the drag of his tongue as he moved against you with absolute focus. Zayne was eating you out like a man starved, like his salvation lived in your taste and he had no intention of coming up for air. Every suck, every wet flick of his tongue against your clit was deliberate. He moved with the slow, sinfully patient rhythm of a man who worshipped your pleasure. Who lived to feel you fall apart in his mouth.

“You’re divine,” he exhaled huskily, hotly, lips trailing from your folds, “you’re absolutely divine…”

He lapped at your clit with thick, indulgent strokes; faster, then he buried his mouth against you with a hungry groan, tongue moving in tight, messy circles that made your entire body jump. You bounced in his grip, your hips fluttering in his hands as he pulled you down tighter onto his mouth. God, the heat, the dampness, the plush smother of his lips—he was making a meal of you, groaning into your cunt like he wanted to drown in it.

Your mouth responded with urgency. You sucked him harder, faster, the taste of him dizzying as your hand pumped his shaft with needy rhythm. Then you popped off, gasping for air as you twisted your grip noisily over the smear of his flushed head.

“I feel the same about you and this pretty cock,” your lips curled as you sucked him into your mouth again with hunger.

Your jaw ached with how much you wanted to please him—how good it felt to take him deep, to make him moan for you. Saliva slicked your lips, coated his cock, dripped messily between you. Until—Too much. You’d almost forgotten how well-endowed he was. You gagged suddenly, the depth catching you off guard. Your stomach clenched with the reflex, and you tore your mouth off him with a gasp, a thin string of spit connecting your lips to the flushed, twitching head of his cock still angled toward your face. You panted for breath, lips swollen and shining.

“Easy, darling,” Zayne murmured against your core, voice low and tender and wrecked with love.

Between each word, he kissed you—soft, wet smooches to your clit like he was calming it. Like he could kiss you through the overstimulation.

“Thumb in fist,” he whispered, voice soothing and dark with knowing, “don’t try taking it all…”

Right. You almost forgot. You breathed deep, centering yourself, and slipped your fingers around your thumb—curling them into a tight fist, just like Zayne had taught you. A pressure point trick, he’d said. A distraction for the vagus nerve. It helped quiet the gag reflex. You took another breath. Then you sank back down. Slowly, deliberately, swallowing him deeper, while your other hand twisted along the parts of him your throat couldn’t claim. The slick weight of him filled your mouth, heavy and hot and perfect, your lips stretching around the velvet girth of him as you sucked.

“Pace yourself,” Zayne uttered hoarsely from below, voice cracked and rich with barely-contained need. His hips jerked upward, twitching beneath you despite himself. His restraint was unraveling, thread by trembling thread, even as his mouth pressed another smooch into your soaked folds—wet, greedy, worshipful, “good girl…Such a good girl, my love…”

God. The way he praised you. Your moan vibrated around his cock, a muffled whimper that echoed back through him, and it destroyed him. His tongue stuttered at first, and then deepened—sliding slick between your folds with a pace that grew fast, uncoordinated, desperate. Zayne was lost in it now. In you. Every lap of his tongue was soaked in the kind of hunger that made your thighs shake. You felt his hands on your hips, guiding your grinding against his mouth—pulling you down onto his tongue, his nose, his breath, his heat. His mouth was relentless now, not gentle, not patient. Passionate. Shameless. He wasn’t teasing you. He was devouring you. And he was panting.

Oh God—he was breathing hard, each exhale fanning over your slick skin like heat lightning. You could feel how close he was to coming undone. He was panting into your cunt like he was on the verge of climax just from the taste of you, just from the feel of your pleasure trembling through his tongue. It made your mind spin. It was so hot. So unbearably good. Every time you moved against him, every time your clit grazed his tongue in friction with your grinding, the coil inside you wound tighter. Deeper. Harder. His tongue moved opposite to your rhythm, creating a perfect storm of stimulation. One stroke. One drag. One inhale. You were going to explode.

“I’m gonna cum, Zayne!” The words tumbled out in a gasp as your mouth slipped wetly off his cock, lips glistening, chest heaving. You didn’t stop your hand—couldn’t—your slick grip continued stroking him, faster, noisier, desperate to keep pleasuring him through the chaos building inside you, “I’m gonna cum! Yes! God, yes!”

You tried to take him back fully into your mouth, tried to suck him through your own breaking point, but the pleasure ripped through you too fast. Too big. Too much.

You popped off him again with a sharp cry of his name, your voice trembling with the sharp edge of bliss as your body pitched forward and then slammed back against his mouth. And oh, God. The orgasm hit you like an explosion. A full-body detonation—hot, electric, dizzying—rolling through your limbs in crashing waves. Your clit throbbed wildly against the slapping drag of his tongue, so sensitive, so impossibly stimulated you could hardly breathe. You gasped, moaned, whined his name like it was all you knew. Your free hand scrabbled for purchase on his thigh, your knees threatening to collapse, hips twitching with each tremor of pleasure ripping through you.

Zayne held you there. His arms locked around your hips like iron, anchoring your body down against the fervent press of his face. He smothered himself in you—moaning low, like your orgasm was the most sacred thing he’d ever tasted. He licked you through it, every pulse, every flutter, every shudder that tightened and rolled over his tongue. He loved it. He breathed it. He kissed your pleasure like prayer.

Only when your body started twitching—sensitive now, trembling from overstimulation—did he relent. His lips left your clit with a slow, reverent drag and traveled to your inner thighs, laying soft, open-mouthed kisses against the flushed skin as you tried to catch your breath. You were a mess. Hot. Trembling. Still pulsing with aftershocks as you came down in a haze of bliss. But it wasn’t over for you. Not even close.

You reached down with shaking hands and took him back into your mouth, still wild, still hungry. Your breath came hot and broken as you sucked him deep—your tongue lapping at his shaft like he was your only source of oxygen. You wanted him to feel what he gave you. You wanted him to lose it in your mouth. You were greedy now. Mindless. But Zayne was hanging on by a thread. He panted, hips jerking against your mouth as your tongue swept over the sensitive head again. His thighs flexed, his abs clenched, and you could hear the way his composure frayed with every stroke of your lips.

“No more,” he breathed, voice tight, wrecked, his hands sliding to your hips in warning. He tapped once. Twice. Desperate, “you’ll make me finish…!”

You ignored him. Completely. Instead, you took a deep, slow suck of him—your mouth hot and velvety as it sealed around his length, dragging back with a wet slurp that pulled a strangled, broken sound from Zayne’s throat. His fingers gripped tighter into your skin, sinking into the swell of your hips with a desperate squeeze.

“Stop being so greedy…!” He huffed, breath hitching, the edge of control fraying in his voice.

He leaned forward just enough to nip at your ass, his teeth grazing the soft flesh in a desperate warning. You jumped with a giggle that vibrated over his cock, making him twitch so hard it nearly made you laugh again.

“Otherwise you’ll have to wait for me to recover,” he muttered, trying to sound stern, failing miserably with the flush of arousal coloring his cheeks, “and we both know how impatient you—”

“—Fine!” you cut him off, laughing breathlessly as you finally let him slip from your lips with a wet pop, his cock falling against his abdomen—shiny, flushed, and twitching with every beat of his heart.

You reached for your discarded shirt, swiping it across your mouth and fingers with a rough wipe. But instead of dismounting like a so-called good girl, you straddled him with that familiar glint in your eyes and wiggled your hips down over the perfect seat of his face. A slow, bratty grind.

“Then you can keep eating my pussy,” you purred, your hands finding his chest—palming the warm muscle there before giving one of his nipples a playful little pinch, watching the twitch of pleasurable surprise that jolted through him beneath you, “I’ll just be greedy in another way.”

You knew what that did to him. Of course Zayne was more than okay with that. He was made for that. If satisfying you meant he had to hold back his own climax, if he had to lie there and let you use his mouth until your body melted into bliss—he welcomed it. No—he thrived on it. He took it as a privilege. A sacred offering. A kind of worship that filled him fuller than orgasm ever could. And sure enough…

“Mhmm…” He hummed beneath you, the sound low and approving, “with pleasure…”

His hands wrapped around your thighs, his grip firm as he guided your weight down, shifting you until your slick heat was spread perfectly over his mouth. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t tease. He dove in. Your jaw fell open as the first lap of his tongue swept across your soaked folds—slow, dragging, reverent. He licked you like a man granted the first taste of heaven. His mouth sealed over you like he wanted to get drunk on your afterglow, your slick, your sensitivity.

You gasped, body jerking in response. Too much. Too good. You were still trembling from your last orgasm, your thighs slick, skin flushed, sensitive—and now his tongue was coaxing you all over again, lighting your nerves back on fire with every tender swirl, every purposeful flick. You gripped his scarred forearms for anchor, melting into the strength of him, the unshakable steadiness that held you together while he unraveled you again.

You rocked—slow, instinctive, chasing his rhythm as your hips moved against his mouth. His hands tightened, guiding your motion, his tongue leading your body like a dance. You followed. You let yourself melt into it, your back arching, nipples hardening, breath catching in your throat.

“Zayne…” You sighed his name like a breathless benediction, your voice laced with awe and arousal as you looked down through your lashes, “oh, God!”

The sight of him between your thighs made your stomach twist with heat—his mouth buried beneath you, tongue stretching up from behind to sweep in long, flattened strokes over your clit. Each lick made your core jolt. Made your thighs twitch. Made your breath hitch. You could feel the devotion in every lap of his tongue, in every hum of satisfaction that purred from deep in his throat as he tasted you like you were ambrosia. His hands roamed your thighs—broad palms sliding over flushed, trembling skin—while his nose nuzzled deeper, his mouth moving in steady, sultry rhythm. His cock sat heavy and neglected against his abdomen, still thick, still hard as stone, flushed a dark pink and glistening at the tip. He hadn’t touched himself once. And yet…He was panting. Starving. Not for his own release—but for yours.

“I-I think you’re the greedy one, baby…” You breathed, watching the sheer zeal in his every movement, the unrestrained hunger that pulsed through the way he breathed you in, “God, eat me up, just like that…!”

You reached for his hands. Pulled them up your body, guiding them to your chest, where your nipples ached for touch. You placed his palms over your breasts, and Zayne let out a groan—low, unrestrained—as his fingers curled instinctively around the soft weight of you. He squeezed. You gasped. Zayne was unlike any man. His lust didn’t live in your appearance—it lived in your need. It lived in the way your body responded to his touch, the way your mouth fell open for him, the way your voice trembled when you begged. He didn’t worship the shell of you. He worshipped the soul of you. The emotion. The pleasure. The way you wanted him. The way you melted for him.

“Honey, don’t stop…” You whimpered, your breath catching on the crest of a moan as his tongue pressed deeper, firmer. The strokes were unrelenting now—wide drags that left your clit buzzing, your core clenching, your limbs trembling under the growing pressure.

He pinched your nipples—just enough. Just the right amount of sting to crack your composure. You gasped, the sound spilling from your lips raw and broken as your body jolted from the shock of pleasure that blossomed through your limbs, tingling and hot and addictive.

“P-please,” you stuttered, your hips beginning to buck in tiny, frantic thrusts, your body chasing every motion of his tongue, desperate for more.

You looked down again—looked past the flushed peaks of your breasts, past your stomach still fluttering with each breath—and there he was. His chin entirely slicked. Face buried. Mouth worshipping. Tongue lapping over your clit with rhythmic purpose, so devoted, so maddeningly focused, that you felt the next climax begin to build—the sparks already flickering behind your eyelids.

“Zayne!” You cried out, your fingers flying to his scarred hands, clutching tight as you arched into him.

You were unraveling. Panting. Moaning. Clutching his fingers tighter into your breasts like they were your only tether to earth. Your head tipped back as your breath shuddered out of you, mouth parted, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. Your eyes rolled to the ceiling in helpless surrender, unable to look anywhere but up—up, as if the pleasure was lifting you out of your body entirely.

Each breath you took stoked the fire higher. Each flick of his tongue wound your core tighter. You were climbing. Climbing. Tension snapped through every muscle, inch by aching inch, your entire body curling inward as your insides cinched tighter and tighter toward breaking. One twitch. Two. Three. Then—snap.

“Damn it, Zayne!” you cried out, his name pouring from your throat like a psalm, bursting past your lips in a rush of gasping, shaking, feeling, “I’m cumming again!”

Your thighs clamped around his ears, but it didn’t matter. The sounds that followed were unstoppable. A symphony of your unraveling. A squeal. A moan. A choked gasp. A series of soft, whimpering cries, each one a different note of the same song—your ecstasy, played out like an aria right there in his living room. And Zayne—God, Zayne—drank in every note. He didn’t stop until he had everything. Until your thighs were quaking, your breaths reduced to hiccuping sobs of pleasure, your entire body limp and pulsing and done. Only then did he relent. Only then, at the edge of his own restraint, did he release you from his tongue’s final kiss.

Your limbs were useless—your knees jelly, your chest rising in uneven breaths—as he eased you back, gently guiding your trembling body down with reverent hands. He took your hands in his. Lifted you. Moved with you. And carefully, lovingly, flipped you onto your back, lowering you onto the couch like you were something sacred. Something holy. A gift too fragile to be mishandled even now.

Zayne’s face was flushed, drenched with your slick, glowing with satisfaction as he reached for a discarded shirt and wiped himself clean—slow, breath shaky, heart pounding just as hard as yours. Then he climbed over you. Eager. Unsteady with need. He nestled himself between your thighs, his body slotting into yours like a perfect, natural fit—like your trembling limbs had always been meant to cradle him. And then he kissed you. Messy. Deep. Hungry. And you tasted yourself on his tongue, felt your own saltiness between your lips as he devoured you slowly. Your scent was on him. Your heat was in him. He smelled like you. He tasted like you.

“I want to be inside of you,” he whispered against your lips—his voice husky, urgent, thick with emotion. The heat of it spilled into your mouth, tangled in the kiss you couldn’t stop chasing.

His fingers buried into your hair like he couldn’t let go. Like he wouldn’t. You pulled him down harder. Fistfuls of his hair, of his jaw, his shoulder—you didn’t care. Anything you could hold. Anything to drag him deeper into you. To fuse his body to yours. To disappear into him until you didn’t know where your skin ended and his began.

“Just…” He exhaled, shifting his hips with slow precision, aligning himself with a tremble, “…Be one with you.”

And then, your breath caught. So did his. Your nails curled into the meat of his shoulder as he pushed forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Stretching you open with a slick, gliding pressure that left you gasping into his kiss. His cock slipped deeper, deeper, parting your insides with aching tenderness until your walls wrapped tight around the thick, pulsing heat of him. You both whimpered at once. Mouths still clinging to each other. Breaths stuttering. Bodies curling inward.

You clutched at him. Clung. Your thighs trembled before they locked around his waist—pulling him in until there was no space left. No air. No separation. Until his cock was buried to the hilt, thick and throbbing and perfect, your legs wrapped tight, your core stretching to accommodate every inch. And then—Stillness.

You both froze, locked together, nothing moving but the pulse between your bodies where you were joined. His chest pressed to yours, hearts pounding against one another, thumping in desperate harmony. You exhaled together. The same breath. The same ache. You didn’t even register the crack of lightning as it split the sky behind the glass. Didn’t hear the downpour on the windows. The storm was nothing—gone—not when Zayne was inside you like this. Not when he overtook every sense, every cell, every thought in your body. You didn’t feel the room. The blanket. The couch.

You only felt him. The heat of his skin. The rhythm of his breath. The sacred weight of him, filling you, fusing with you like you were never meant to be two separate beings at all. Just one. No end. No beginning. Just love. He pulled back from your kiss just enough to look at you—really look at you—his lips flushed, his breath warm across your face. And then you saw it. His eyes. Endless green. Unfathomable depth. And pure, unshielded emotion. That was your universe. Your world. Your everything—right there in your hands, on top of you, inside of you. His gaze poured into yours, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your soul.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words shaped against your lips, warm and trembling, as his thumb swept gently over the flushed heat of your cheek. His gaze was so deeply fixed into yours, pupils blown wide and glassy with emotion, as if he’d completely lost himself in you and had no desire to find the way back, “more than life itself…”

And then he kissed you again—slow and consuming, the kind of kiss that didn’t just press mouths together but pulled souls into collision. His hips moved with it, drawing back until only the aching tip of him stretched you, just to slide back in with devastating depth. The plunge made you gasp into his mouth, your spine arching to meet him with a soft cry, your legs cinching tighter around his waist, locking him in, as if your body feared he’d leave before your heart could catch up. Your hands found the breadth of his back, fingers digging in with instinct, clinging to the solid muscle of him like he was your anchor and you were already adrift.

“I love you,” you breathed, the words shaking into his kiss, trembling with everything you couldn’t say fast enough, “s-so damn much—”

He thrust again, cutting your words short with a kiss that stole your breath, and everything else—your thoughts, your sense of time, the storm outside, even your name. All of it vanished in the heat between you, in the sweet stretch of him inside you, in the wet slick of skin against skin and the pressure building unbearably in your chest. There was no room for anything but him. Just Zayne—above you, inside you, around you—his breath tangled with yours, his rhythm deep and sure, each movement rocking you to your core like he was remapping your body with his. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t do anything but feel, the haze of arousal thick in your chest, blinding in your mind, drowning you both in waves of pleasure and unbearable tenderness.

Your breath started to shake. Your moans blurred into whimpers. You blinked against the sting behind your eyes, but it was no use. The weight of it—the emotion, the connection, the need—spilled out of you in hot, quiet tears before you could stop them. A sob cracked from your throat, soft and sudden, and Zayne felt it the second it left you. He didn’t stop moving. He didn’t speak. He just held you tighter, his lips brushing your temple, his rhythm a steady, grounding heartbeat, like he was trying to love you through every fracture in your soul and rebuild you with his body.

You felt it before you saw it—the faintest upward curve of his lips as he pressed a kiss into the damp trail of tears rolling toward your hairline. A smile not of amusement, but of something quieter, deeper—tenderness. Worship.

“Don’t hold back,” he whispered, the words kissed into your skin like a blessing.

You nodded, trembling, your breath catching as your lungs finally surrendered the air you’d been holding. As if that single exhale gave your body permission to fall completely apart for him. Zayne moved with you, through you, into you—his kisses slow and unhurried as they grazed along your temple, your cheek, the curve of your jaw. He rocked into you with purpose, every thrust a deep, sinfully slow plunge, the smothering weight of his pelvis rolling down against yours as you met him halfway with a hungry grind. You squeezed around him—God, you clutched him—with every slow press of his cock inside, the walls of your body rippling with the unbearable fullness he gave you.

But it wasn’t just your body he filled. It was everything. Your heart, your soul, every empty place in you that had ever longed to be seen was now bursting, overflowing with the heat of him, the love of him, the steady, breath-stealing rhythm of him making you feel like you were the only person that had ever existed in his universe.

A moan escaped your lips—raw, airy, helpless—when he ground harder, the thick slide of skin on skin igniting a rush of heat through your limbs. You reached for him instinctively, your hands finding the tight, sculpted muscle of his back, your nails pressing into his shoulder blades as if you needed something to anchor yourself in the rising tide of pleasure. You didn’t just hold him. You dug in.

Zayne shuddered above you, a sharp breath escaping him as he felt the rake of your nails dragging down his back in a trail of heat and sting. His rhythm faltered—just for a breath—before he responded with a harder thrust, his body answering yours with a sudden urgency. Faster. Deeper. Needier. His eyes found yours—clouded, hooded with heat, pupils dark and drowning. He looked wrecked, lost again in the folds of you, his brow twitching with each tight clench of your body around him. You were coming undone beneath him, your lips parted in silent cries, your lashes fluttering, your brows knitted in exquisite tension as your nails marked him with slow, burning precision.

Zayne let you. He wanted you to. He always let you. There was something in it that quieted the guilt that never fully left him. Something in the sting of your nails that he welcomed—invited—for the two times his Evol had failed him, the two times his power had slipped, the two times you bore the aftermath of what he couldn’t control. But this? This was control. This was love and ache and healing all knotted together in the friction of your bodies. It was you taking back your power with your hands on his skin. It was him surrendering, giving it all over, taking every plea, every scratch, every moan like penance. And it broke something loose in him.

With a sudden, sharp inhale, Zayne’s hips snapped forward, his thrusts picking up with raw fervor, chasing something deeper now—not just your pleasure, but his need to give it, to prove it. That you were safe. That you were cherished. That he would love you through the pain he once caused until the only thing you remembered was this. You. Him. Together. Sacred. And burning.

“God, you’re so good!” Your voice tore from your throat like a cry of surrender, high and breathless, as your neck arched back against the cushion, jaw slack, spine lifting. Your nails gripped desperately into the slick, shifting muscles of his back—his body rolling above you in fierce rhythm, sweat-slicked and searing, “Zayne, it feels so good! More! That feels—! O-oh, baby!”

He winced at your volume, his jaw tightening, but his hips never faltered. If anything, he moved harder. Faster. His thrusts snapped forward with brutal rhythm, each one driving deeper, heavier, more possessive. His pelvis smacked into yours with wet slaps, growing louder and louder in the humid air between your tangled bodies, echoing through the storm-muted room. Your skin clung to his. Sweat glistened between your breasts. Every breath he exhaled came ragged and hot by your ear.

“Show me how good it feels,” he rasped between thrusts, voice barely coherent through the heat clouding his mind, “let me feel it…”

You pried your eyes open, lashes fluttering through the haze, your gaze finding him—God, finding him there, above you, inside of you, wrecked for you. His brows were furrowed, his teeth clenched, the bridge of his nose wrinkled in exquisite tension as his whole body bucked into yours. He looked like a man in freefall, chasing the very essence of you, and you gave it to him willingly—every breath, every moan, every trembling inch.

You brought your hands to his back. And slowly, deliberately, you dragged your nails down his dripping skin. Inch by inch. Scratch by slow, deep, shaking scratch. You felt the way his muscles twitched beneath your touch, felt the long lines welt beneath your fingertips, each one painting a streak of heat across his sweat-drenched back. He shuddered above you, hard, his hips snapping into you with a savage grind that made your mouth fall open around a strangled moan.

“Yes!” He encouraged you, pain and pleasure laced in his breathless voice, “make me hurt, make me feel—Shit!”

You watched him through it—watched the pain flicker behind his clenched eyes, watched how he welcomed it, how he ached for it. He wanted to take it from you. Take everything. Your pain, your pleasure, your grief and desire. All of it. All of you. And you gave it. Every line you carved. Every sound you made. You clutched him like your body had forgotten how to exist without his—wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your legs tight around his waist, as if to keep him in your very core. As if to lock him inside your soul. Because that’s what it felt like. Like he was reaching so deep inside of you, you could feel him in your chest. Your lungs. Your mind.

Every time his cock slammed into you, it wasn’t just pleasure—it was a wildfire. A consuming, mind-erasing, reality-shattering euphoria that left you speechless, trembling, undone. And Zayne felt it too. His expression was unguarded, open, devoted, the way he looked down at you through his own haze of heat and emotion—like you were the center of the earth and he was willing to fall through the crust to reach you.

He pounded into you with a rhythm that was no longer controlled, voice low, husky, desperate, “you look so beautiful taking me…!”

It was hungry. Needy. Each thrust lifted your hips off the cushions, your body bouncing beneath him, your lips parted in a cry you couldn’t finish because the next one was already forming. You were melting beneath him, soaked, swollen, possessed by him. Your brain was hot. Your skin was on fire. Your breath ragged. And all you could do—all—was cling to Zayne and ride the wave until it destroyed you both.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whined tightly as heat boiled up your throat. Your fingers clawed at the expanse of his back, desperate for something to anchor you as your body bowed like a drawn bowstring, trembling and taut. Every muscle in you was pulled tight with unbearable tension, until it snapped—shattering you into convulsions of molten heat and quivering release, “oh my God, Zayne!”

He held you through it, arms a cage around your writhing form, his hands sinking possessively into your backside as you came undone. The storm of your climax soaked him in waves—slick heat spilling across his groin, his thighs, the ridges of his stomach, until his entire lower half was dripping in the proof of your euphoria. He groaned—low, guttural, reverent—not in protest, but in awe, as though he could drown in the sensation of your pleasure and gladly lose himself there.

“Cum with me,” he rasped against your ear, voice hoarse with urgency, his breath stuttering like he was falling, no—plummeting—with you.

And then he did. Your name escaped him like a sacred thing, a broken moan cast into the dark as his body surrendered. He buried himself in you with a desperate final thrust, hips trembling as he spilled into the trembling clutch of your walls, the silken suction milking every drop from him. His release came in thick, searing pulses, rope after rope of molten heat that painted you deep, until the only thing between you was the sound of wetness and breathlessness and the fragile tremble of limbs.

His forehead dropped to yours, a soft, shuddering moan leaking from his lips and into yours, raw with pleasure, with devotion. His entire body quaked, caught in the aftershocks of bliss as your essence still clung to his skin, his thighs, his cock, slick and decadent. Zayne collapsed atop you like a felled star—spent, trembling, and gloriously undone. His weight pressed you into the couch, a delicious kind of smothering you welcomed with open arms, wrapping yourself around him like he was the very air you breathed. His heart thundered against your chest, a wild, erratic rhythm you could feel through every inch of skin that still pulsed with afterglow. And yet, after a lingering moment of heavy silence and shared breath, he rolled gently to the side, just enough to let you inhale fully again, though his arms never left you. He pulled you close instead, cradling you to the bare heat of his chest like you were precious and breakable.

Both of you panted softly into the stillness, the sound of your mingled breaths the only thing in the quiet dark. Your hand, still unsteady, slid over his slick chest—warm and damp with the heat you’d made together. His skin fluttered under your touch, his heart galloping beneath your palm, and your lips found his shoulder, pressing a soft, reverent kiss into the flushed dampness there. Zayne responded in kind, bowing his head to kiss the crown of your hair. Again. And again. As if the act grounded him, as if he needed to taste your nearness to know this was real.

“Are you okay?” He asked, voice a low whisper frayed at the edges with exhaustion and tenderness. His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up into his. His gaze searched you—drowsy, concerned, warm, like sunlight through sleep-heavy lashes.

You gave him a tired smile and a nod, your arm curling around his back as your fingers ghosted over a welt you’d left behind. He winced—just slightly—and you grimaced.

“Sorry,” you murmured, “sorry, sweetie…Are you okay?”

He caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your bruised knuckles.

“I’m excellent,” he whispered, and it wasn’t just a reassurance. It was truth, spoken with the kind of adoration that made your chest ache.

A soft laugh trembled from your throat—soundless, breathy—as you leaned in to kiss him gently. It wasn’t urgent now. Just grateful. Sacred. You lingered there in the hush between heartbeats, tasting the echo of his sigh as your lips met again and again. Time seemed to slow around you, the silence becoming a cocoon.

Eventually, he helped you sit, moving with that same care he always did when you were fragile and spent. You winced as the shift reminded your body what had just passed between you, and without a word, he tucked a soft shirt beneath your core to catch the warmth still leaking from you. His touch was steady, despite the shake in his limbs. Zayne wrapped you in the dry side of the blanket, dabbing your flushed face with the edge of the fabric like he was tending to something precious.

He got up, only briefly, his naked and glistening silhouette framed in the dim light of the television. From your abandoned movie-night table, he returned with a piece of candy and unwrapped it carefully before pressing it to your lips. You let it melt on your tongue, sweetness blooming over the taste of him still lingering. He took one for himself, then reached for your water, lifting it to your lips like a ritual before drinking from his own.

Without needing to be asked, he busied himself gathering the scattered plushies that had been flung in the throes of your passion. He bent to pick them up, his back painted with countless red traces of your nails—marks carved with devotion, not violence. They caught the flicker of the screen like rose-colored signatures. You watched him with a strange fullness in your chest, your heart aching in the most exquisite way. There was no language for this kind of love. It wasn’t tidy or simple. It was messy and unspoken, scrawled in scratch marks and flushed cheeks and the soft sound of plastic crinkling as he straightened a plush and set it just right.

“Zaynie,” you called softly, your voice laced with a sleepy smile.

He turned, eyes already warm as they found yours.

“Will you read me a bedtime story tonight?”

There was a pause—only a breath’s worth—before the corner of his mouth curved and he crossed the room in easy steps, settling beside you again with the kind of smile that only ever belonged to you.

“Of course,” he murmured, brushing a stray hair from your temple before he kissed you.

283 notes · View notes

big-ooof · 18 days ago

Text

Tuesday Night Confession

non-idol!jungwon x f!reader

After years of lingering tension, one drunken college night changed everything between you and Jungwon— a best friend turned almost-lover who confessed his feelings just once before disappearing from your life. Now, years later, he’s back. Fresh off a broken engagement and unexpectedly reunited with you at Sunoo’s birthday party, old sparks ignite fast.

note: sexual content 18+

Jungwon always said our high school library after dark felt like a place suspended between the world you had to exist in and the one where you could just breathe.

It was quiet. Not dead quiet, you can hear pens scratching paper, the hum of ancient lights. You sat across from him at a wooden table that has probably seen more panic than any actual librarian ever did.

“You’re highlighting the whole page again,” he murmured without looking up.

You froze mid-stroke. “No I’m not.”

“You are,” he said, finally lifting his head. His bangs were slightly curled from how often he ran his hand through them when he studied. He was wearing that zip-up hoodie he always left in your locker, sleeves pushed to his elbows.

“It’s all important,” you muttered defensively, trying not to smile.

“Then none of it is,” he replied, grinning.

You stuck your tongue out at him, and he snorted before tossing a sour candy across the table. It bounced once, twice, and rolled into your open palm. “Peace offering,” he said.

“You interrupted my study flow.”

“It’s not a flow if your highlighter’s dry.”

You rolled your eyes and popped the candy in your mouth anyway. You two had always been like this. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

You called it friendship, because naming it anything else felt like cracking open a window during a storm, it might blow the whole thing over. So instead, you existed in the space between glances that lingered a second too long, between knees that brushed under the table and hands that almost held yours before pulling back.

You were writing flashcards when his voice broke the quiet again. “You thinking of going far for college?”

You blinked. “Random.”

“Just wondering. You’re always talking about getting out of this city.”

You leaned back in your chair, pen tapping against your notebook. “I don’t know,” you said. “Sometimes I do. But then I think about all the people I’d miss.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Then: “I’d miss you, too.”

Your heart stuttered. “Too? Are you assuming I’d miss you?”

He smiled, slow and small. “Wouldn’t you?”

And there it was again, that feeling. Like standing on the edge of something, toes curled just over the drop, waiting to see if he’d jump first. You looked down at your notes instead. “Maybe.”

It was nearly 11pm by the time you both packed up. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Jungwon held the door open for you, his backpack slung over one shoulder. The air outside was crisp, the streetlights throwing pale halos across the pavement. You walked side by side down the quiet block. His hand brushed yours once. Then again. You never moved away.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You turned your head. “Hm?”

He was staring up at the sky, lips parted like he wanted to say something. Something important, but then he just exhaled. “Nothing.”

You nodded, even though part of you wanted to stop, to ask. But you didn’t. Instead, you reached into your hoodie pocket and slid your fingers across the candy wrapper he’d given you earlier. And you smiled to yourself.

You didn’t know it then, but you’d both keep walking like that for years: hearts half-open, always almost saying it. And it would all come undone on a Tuesday night in a different city. But for now, you were just two kids walking home under streetlights, neither of you brave enough to say: I already love you.

You didn't go far for college. You also didn't need to go out tonight. You had a paper due in 36 hours, two loads of laundry still wet in the dorm washers, and the start of a sore throat brewing behind your sinuses. But your friends begged. It was Tuesday, trivia night, and Jungwon was going. That was enough to get you out of the house.

He was already at the booth when you arrived. Wearing a white tee, silver chain, drink in hand, eyes bright in the low glow of the bar’s purple neon sign. He grinned when he saw you.

“Late,” he teased.

“You’re early.”

“I missed you,” he said, like it was obvious. You didn’t let that sit too long. Just slid into the booth beside him and grabbed the empty glass pushed your way.

Two rounds in, your friend dared Jungwon to say something he’d never admitted out loud. He stared into his drink for a beat too long. You weren’t sure he even heard the question until he leaned close, so close his shoulder brushed yours, his voice cutting through the noise like it was meant only for you.

“You ever think we should’ve tried it?”

You blinked. “Tried… what?”

“You. Me.”

You laughed—quick, nervous. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m drunk and honest.”

You felt your mouth go dry. He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring ahead, lips parted like he hadn’t even registered what he said. Or maybe he had, and he was scared to take it back. You could’ve said something. You should’ve.

Instead, you stared at him. At the curve of his mouth, the slope of his neck, the way his fingers tapped nervously on the rim of his glass.

You leaned in. “You wanna get out of here?”

You stumbled into his room tangled together, the door half-closed, shoes abandoned in the dark. His lips were on yours before you could think, before either of you had time to regret. It was messy. Hungry. Years of tension detonating in one drunken night. Your back hit his mattress and he hovered over you, breathing hard.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. You didn’t. You kissed him harder.

He kissed down your neck like he’d dreamed about it, one hand gripping your thigh, the other fumbling with the hem of your top. He pulled it off with a soft curse under his breath, eyes dark when he looked down at you.

“God, you’re…” He didn’t finish. Just leaned in again, slower this time.

His mouth found your breast, warm and wet. You arched into him, nails raking lightly down his back. You helped each other out of your clothes in pieces. His jeans first. Then yours. He kissed your stomach. Then your thighs. Then lower.

“You sure?” he asked again, voice rough.

You nodded. “Please.”

And when he finally pushed into you, it was slow, like he didn’t want to hurt you, didn’t want to rush, even though his hands were trembling.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel like…”

You tightened around him, legs wrapped around his waist. “Don’t stop.”

He kissed you, desperate, tender, everything at once. It wasn’t just sex. You knew that even with the alcohol, even in the blur of bodies and breath. It was something deeper. Older. Like your bodies were finally catching up to the truth your hearts had been whispering for years.

He came with your name in his mouth, hips stuttering against you. You followed seconds later, gasping his name into the crook of his neck.

You woke up tangled in his sheets, your head heavy and heart heavier. Jungwon was already up, sitting at his desk, staring at his phone. He looked up when you stirred, but not for long.

“Hey,” he said. Soft. Casual… too casual.

You sat up, your throat tight. “Hey.”

Neither of you mentioned the night before. He handed you water. You pretended to check the time. He asked if you wanted to grab breakfast. You said you had class. And that was that.

You didn’t know what scared you more: that maybe it didn’t mean anything to him. Or that it did.

After that night, you didn’t speak for three days. You texted once.

you: hey, did you want to talk?

You watched the bubble appear, then disappear. He never sent anything back.

By the next week, you told yourself it was a one-time thing. You had kissed, touched, and fallen into each other like the world would end by morning, but it hadn’t. The sun came up. You both woke up. And neither of you had the courage to stay in the dream. He didn’t avoid you. Not really.

He still sat near you in lecture. Still laughed when you answered something dumb in class. Still showed up at Sunoo’s party two weeks later and waved from across the room. But he didn’t ask to walk you home. Didn’t text at night anymore. Didn’t look at you like he wanted to pick up where you left off.

And you didn’t ask why.

He went abroad three months later, for a semester. A last-minute decision, he said. You said goodbye in a group chat like everyone else. Waved at the airport with the others. Smiled when he hugged you. He didn’t say anything extra. Didn’t look at you like he was holding something back.

Still, you watched his plane disappear from the terminal window, your hands cold in your pockets, wishing you’d said something. “I miss you,” maybe. Or, “I wanted that night to mean more.” Or even just, “Don’t leave before I figure out how to ask if you felt it too.” But you just went home.

While abroad, Jungwon never sent pictures. Not to you, anyway. Sunoo said he looked “free” over there. Wandering open-air markets, getting too much soju with new friends, dyeing his hair and cutting it short. You watched his stories sometimes. Muted the audio.

One night, you got a call at 3:27 a.m. — no caller ID. You answered, groggy.

“Hello?”

Silence… Then a voice you hadn’t heard in weeks. “It wasn’t nothing.”

Your heart jumped. “Jungwon?”

“That night. I thought about it all week. I still do.”

“You’re drunk,” you whispered.

He laughed bitterly. “I am.” More silence. “I think I fucked up.”

You sat up in bed. “Then come back.”

The line went dead. He never brought it up again.

He came back in the spring. With someone else. She was quiet. Pretty. A year below you. She wore soft perfume and knew all his favorite restaurants. He held her hand at Sunoo’s grad dinner. She kissed his cheek in photos.

He never looked at you the way he did that night in the bar again. But sometimes, you’d catch him glancing. Quick. Sharp. Like a heartbeat he didn’t mean to feel. And you’d pretend you didn’t notice. You didn’t have a fight. No dramatic falling out. Just the slow burn of two people who never quite got brave enough.

He graduated and moved back to the city. You stayed behind for grad school. You got serious with someone else. Broke up. Got over it.

Time passed. Jungwon had proposed to someone and you promised yourself you’d stop checking up on him on social media. It was when you met up with Sunoo to plan for his upcoming birthday that you found out Jungwon called off the engagement.

You didn’t know he’d be there at Sunoo's birthday party. You walked in, holding a gift bag and trying to balance two cupcakes in one hand, and there he was. Same eyes. A little older. A little softer around the edges. He looked up and saw you.

And for the first time in years, you saw something unspoken rise to the surface again. This time you didn’t look away.

Jungwon’s POV

He almost didn’t go. Sunoo’s texts were persistent, borderline unhinged, full of emojis and promises of strawberry soju, and “at least pretend you love me, hyung.” But parties weren’t his thing anymore. Not since quietly calling off the engagement six months ago. It felt less like a breakup and more like quietly putting down something he was never meant to carry. He stood in front of his closet, staring at his reflection like it might give him a sign. Black shirt. Chain. The same one he wore that night. His fingers grazed it like muscle memory. He recalled what he said: “You ever think we should’ve tried it?” His own voice haunted him. He didn’t meant to say it then. Didn’t even remembered saying it the next morning. But your eyes told him you did. And your body… the way you pulled him close. The way you whispered “please”. He thought about that night more than he’d admit. About your skin. Your sighs. The way you looked up at him like he was something precious. And how he’d ruined it by pretending it hadn’t happened at all. He wasn’t proud of who he’d been. Running. Avoiding. Pretending like silence was easier than honesty. He’d told himself he didn’t deserve you. But lately, he wasn’t sure if that was true. Maybe he was just afraid. Sunoo’s party was already loud when he arrived. Warm lights. Music from the kitchen speaker. Laughter spilling out of every room. Jungwon made it twenty minutes before he thought about leaving. And then— he saw you. Time didn’t slow down. It cracked. You walked in, cupcakes in one hand, your hair tucked behind one ear like you always used to. Same eyes. Same way you bit the inside of your cheek when nervous. Jungwon forgot how to breathe. You looked up. Met his gaze. Held it. Not a flinch. Not a blink. Shit. You were even more beautiful than he remembered. And tonight… he wasn’t going to run.

The room was full, but they were the only ones breathing.

Your stomach dropped the second you saw him. Not because you weren’t prepared, but because you were. You had thought about this. What you’d say. How you’d act. Whether you’d pretend not to care or let the fire in your chest burn wild.

Jungwon looked… different. Not unrecognizable, just older. Sharper jaw. Tired eyes. Black button-up rolled to his forearms. He hadn’t shaved. But the way he looked at you, like a breath caught in his throat, was the same. You didn’t look away.

Sunoo screamed when he saw you. Literally. He flung himself into your arms like you hadn’t just seen him two weeks ago for coffee. You let yourself laugh, if only to avoid the weight of the stare still anchored across the room.

“You look hot,” Sunoo said shamelessly. “Someone’s gonna fall in love with you tonight.”

You lifted a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Manifesting.”

“For me or for him?” you asked, and tilted your head just enough for Sunoo to follow your gaze.

He stopped bouncing. Blinked. Then: “…Both?”

You rolled your eyes.

You didn’t talk to Jungwon right away. You floated through the party. Took shots with Heeseung. Laughed too loud at a drinking game you didn’t want to play. Pretended not to notice that Jungwon stood at the edge of every room you entered. But you felt him. God, you felt him. Every time your eyes drifted to him, he was already looking. Every time you got too close to someone else, his jaw tensed.

Until— you passed him on the way to the bathroom. He touched your wrist. Just lightly. Just enough. “Can we talk?”

Your throat tightened. “Now?”

He nodded.

So you followed him down the hallway, past coats and old memories, into Sunoo’s guest room. The one with the broken lamp and the unmade bed. He closed the door behind you.

Silence. Then, “you look good,” he said softly.

You didn’t reply.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he continued.

“Would you have come if you did?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

That startled you. Enough to meet his eyes. “You’re the one who disappeared, Jungwon.”

“I know.”

“You slept with me, said something real, and then pretended none of it happened.”

“I know.”

You swallowed. “So why now?”

He stepped closer. You didn’t move. “Because I never stopped thinking about you.”

Your breath caught.

He exhaled shakily. “I called off the engagement because I couldn’t do it. Not with someone I didn’t see a future with. Not when I couldn’t stop seeing you in it instead.”

You blinked hard. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I do.”

Silence stretched. Too taut. Too full.

And then you said: “Then show me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Jungwon kissed you like he was making up for everything he never said.

Your back hit the door before you could say another word, his hands already cradling your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheek like you’d vanish if he let go. His lips were rough, not from aggression, but restraint. Like he’d wanted this for too long and wasn’t sure how long you’d let him have it.

You tugged him closer. He groaned into your mouth, like the sound had been hiding in his chest for years. “I missed you,” he whispered against your lips.

“Then don’t stop,” you breathed back.

Clothes disappeared in pieces. First his shirt, you dragged it up and over his head, fingers brushing the warm expanse of his chest, his lean stomach flexing as you touched him. His skin was hot, flushed, and you traced every part you didn’t get to memorize the first time.

He unzipped your dress slowly, reverently. Eyes locked on yours.

“Can I?” he asked, hands trembling where they gripped the fabric.

“Yes,” you said. “Please.”

He kissed down your shoulder as he pulled it off, letting it fall to the floor. His hands found your waist, sliding over your curves with aching gentleness.

“You’re even more beautiful now,” he whispered. “Fucking perfect.”

You pushed him back toward the bed. He went willingly.

The moment you straddled his lap, everything blurred. You kissed like you were trying to crawl inside each other, to remember how it felt to be known so deeply your name felt like safety. You rolled your hips over his, grinding through the fabric between you. He hissed.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, breathless.

“You deserve it.”

He smiled. Then flipped you, gentle but firm, pinning you beneath him.

“Say it again,” he murmured against your neck.

“You deserve it?”

“No.” He kissed down your collarbone. “That you missed me.”

You arched as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it softly. “I missed you,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulder. “I missed you so much.”

“Fuck,” he growled.

When he slid down your body, kissing his way lower, you tangled your fingers in his hair. He looked up from between your thighs, eyes dark, lips swollen.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You,” you whispered. “Just you.”

He didn’t hesitate. His tongue met your heat like he’d been dreaming about it. Slow at first, savoring every response, the way you gasped, trembled, clutched at the sheets. He sucked your clit gently, then harder, fingers gripping your thighs as he devoured you.

“You taste so good,” he moaned. “So fucking sweet.”

Your thighs trembled. You were so close it hurt. “Jungwon—” He slid two fingers inside you, curling just right, and you broke. “Fuck—Jungwon—”

He held you through it, mouth never leaving you, like he wanted to swallow your moans. When he kissed you again, you could taste yourself on his tongue.

“I need you,” you whispered, desperate.

“You have me,” he said. “You always have.”

He lined up at your entrance, watching your face as he pushed in slowly. Deeper, deeper, until you were full, your back arching off the bed. You both moaned.

“God, you’re so tight,” he breathed, forehead resting against yours. “Fucking perfect.”

He moved slowly at first, deep, deliberate thrusts that made your breath hitch. His name left your lips over and over like a prayer.

“Faster,” you gasped. “Don’t hold back.”

He didn’t. His pace snapped into something desperate. Hands gripping your hips. Skin slapping. Heat building. Sweat slicking your bodies together as he fucked you like he was trying to burn the memory into his bones.

You wrapped your legs around him, dragged your nails down his back, kissed him like you were starved. “Gonna cum,” he whispered against your ear. “Want you to cum with me.”

“I’m close,” you gasped.

He reached between you, rubbing tight circles over your clit, eyes never leaving yours. “Let go for me. Please.”

You shattered. Body convulsing. Hands clutching. Moans muffled in his neck as you pulsed around him. He followed instantly, cursing as he spilled inside you, thrusting deep once, twice, then collapsing over you with a shudder.

You lay there, tangled in limbs and breathless silence. Then he whispered, lips brushing your temple: “This time… I’m not walking away.”

You didn’t answer right away. But your fingers found his. Interlaced. And you didn’t let go.

The room was quiet. Not in a hollow, awkward way, more like the quiet after a long breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The window cracked slightly, early sun bleeding through cheap blinds and pooling on the guest bed sheets like honey.

You stirred first. Jungwon’s arm was slung across your waist, bare skin against bare skin. He was still asleep, lips parted, hair messy, lashes casting shadows under his eyes.

He looked… soft. You hated that you let your fingers reach up to trace the edge of his jaw. Hated it more that he leaned into the touch, even asleep.

“You’re staring,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You stilled. “No, I’m not.”

He cracked one eye open. Smiled lazily. “You are.”

You tried to pull away, but he held you tighter. “Can we stay like this?” he asked, lips brushing your shoulder. “Just for a little while?”

“You’re not gonna run this time?”

He shook his head slowly. Serious now. “I ran for too long.”

Silence.

“I meant it, you know,” he said softly. “That night at the bar. I was drunk, but not that drunk. I knew exactly what I was saying.”

“You said you liked me.”

He nodded. “I still do. Always have.”

Your heart clenched. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Because I didn’t know how to be honest with myself, let alone with you. And because if I fucked it up… I didn’t know if I could come back from it.”

You looked at him. “You still might.”

He smiled, sad and sincere. “But at least I’d rather try than keep wondering what we could’ve been.”

You looked away, suddenly shy. “So… what now?”

He tilted your chin to face him. “Now, we figure it out. Together.”

You didn’t leave the room until almost noon. Sunoo raised both brows when he saw you walk out in Jungwon’s shirt, your cheeks flushed, hair messy. He held up his coffee like a silent toast and said nothing.

Jungwon caught your hand when you tried to escape out the front door. “Come back to mine,” he murmured. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

“You can cook?”

“I can burn eggs, and I’ll look hot doing it.”

You laughed, a full and real. And you let him pull you toward the future neither of you were brave enough to imagine before now.

Jungwon’s apartment wasn’t what you expected. Smaller. Warmer. Lived-in in the quiet, careful way he always was. Shelves lined with dog-eared books, mismatched mugs, a vinyl player in the corner still mid-song. You slipped off your shoes at the door and suddenly felt like you were seventeen again, stepping into a boy’s world too carefully arranged to touch.

But this time, it was him who touched you first. He pressed you against the inside of the door before it even closed all the way. Hands under your thighs, lips at your throat, like he'd held back long enough.

“Still want me?” he murmured, voice low.

You nodded breathlessly. “Yeah.”

“Like this?” He pushed your back to the wall, ground his hips into you, his cock already hard through his jeans. You gasped, fingers clutching his shirt.

“Fuck, Jungwon—”

“Say it.”

“I want you. I still want you.”

He groaned like that undid him. He carried you— stumbled, really, to his bed. The sheets were messy from earlier. You didn’t care. He laid you down and peeled your clothes off like you were a gift he finally let himself unwrap.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this again,” he said, staring down at you, naked and aching for him.

“Then don’t make me wait,” you whispered.

He undressed quickly, jaw clenched, eyes never leaving yours. He was harder this time, rougher, more desperate, but every move was laced with reverence, like he still couldn’t believe you were here.

When he slid into you, he hissed through his teeth. “God, you feel like heaven.”

You moaned his name, head tilted back, nails digging into his arms as he rocked into you slow and deep.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your skin. “You’ve always been mine.” He moved faster. The bed creaked. Your body sang. “Let me see you fall apart,” he said. “I want to watch you cum.”

He brought his fingers between your bodies, stroked tight, perfect circles over your clit. It didn’t take long.

“Jungwon—”

“Cum for me, baby. Let go.”

You shattered. Loud. Wild. Shameless. He followed right after, burying himself deep with a strangled groan, then collapsed over you, both of you panting, trembling, wrecked.

You lay there in silence. His fingers traced shapes on your stomach. Your eyes stayed on the ceiling.

Then you asked: “Why were you going to marry her?”

He stilled. “Because it made sense.”

“But it didn’t feel right?” You cautiously asked.

“Not once,” he admitted. “She was nice. Easy. But I couldn’t picture my life with her… not really.”

“But you still proposed.”

“I think I was trying to prove I’d moved on.”

You didn’t respond.

“The thing is,” he continued, “I kept picturing you when I imagined the future. Even when I tried not to. It was always your laugh. Your voice. Your name in my mouth.”

He looked at you then. “You ruined me for anyone else.”

You swallowed hard. “Good.”

He smiled. “You want to stay?”

You rolled over on top of him. “Only if you burn the eggs tomorrow.”

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #enhypen smut #jungwon x reader #jungwon smut #jungwon x y/n #yang jungwon #jungwon x you #enhypen jungwon #jungwon x yn

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emrich · 1 year ago

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Maximizing Efficiency: Emrich Packaging Equipment's Horizontal Flow Wrapper Revolutionizes Product Packaging

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#horizontal flow wrapper #flow wrapper

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prettydaisygirl · 29 days ago

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hi lovely🥰 was hoping you could more write Rafe zombie au smut 🤭🤭 I am such a fan of your writing

Hello, my love! Thank you so much for requesting <3 I'm always ready for zombie AU smut. Honestly I feel like the two of them might need it more than we do sometimes lmao! Hope you enjoy :)

Us and Them (zombie au): Chapter Ten

Rafe Cameron x fem!reader who fuck in a sleeping bag to stay warm ✿ 1.5k words

cw: NSFW 18+, fem reader, zombie apocalypse, mention of food poisoning, fingering (f), unprotected p in v, they fuck in a sleeping bag that's it that's the plot

rafe cameron masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

You fucking hate being cold.

Even before the dead started rising and eating people, there was something about the cold that made you weary. It’s worse now. Cold means freezing, cold means being slow and aching, cold means death.

“Jesus Christ.” Rafe swears as he follows you through the small gap in the barn door, closing it with a creak once the both of you are inside.

You’re tired of the cold, you’re tired of being on the road, and you’re fucking tired of having to sleep on the ground in random barns and sheds in the middle of nowhere. The midwest sucks.

You’re going to Kansas. Or at least, you think that’s where you’re going, that’s what Rafe says. He hoards the map, so you can’t check. He says his family has a house, but he’s vague about why he wants to go there and not the other three homes his family seems to have owned. You’re assuming you’ll find out when you get there, you follow him regardless because you love him. Well, and because you don’t really have a choice.

You shake a bit, arms wrapped around yourself to try and conserve heat. Now that you’re inside, mostly out of the wind, things are a little better. It’s cold, far colder than it should be this far into Spring.

“Fuck, I thought we were past this,” You complain, stretching your fingers slowly. They’re swollen and red, and they tingle and sting at your movements as blood flow slowly returns to the digits.

Rafe sets his pack down and gets to work, as he always does. He doesn’t start a fire, not that you think he really could with the wind coming in through the cracks in the wood. He gets the sleeping bag out of your pack, and puts the rest of your belongings in front of the door along with anything else he can find to barricade it. He digs through his bag, pulling out two granola bars and offering one to you. You take it with aching fingers.

You eat slowly. Your stomach is still a bit rotten from a bout of food poisoning you’d had last week after eating from a bad can of fruit. You should’ve thought to stop when the color looked a bit strange, but you were so hungry you didn’t. You were down for three days, Rafe caring for you while you sprawled on the floor of some old tool shed.

You toss the wrapper aside, moving to climb into the sleeping bag. The two of you don’t have any extra blankets, the unnecessary weight and space could cause too many problems. It’s nights like these when you miss the Before the most. You miss your bed with too many pillows and blankets, you thought you might be swallowed by them all.

Rafe climbs into the sleeping bag next to you. You find yourself trying to hide your smile as he tugs you into his chest, slotting his leg between your own and wrapping an arm around your back. It’s rare that Rafe lets himself sleep next to you, especially on the road.

“You’re freezin’, baby…” His voice is gruff, his stubble scratching at the skin of your cheek as he guides your face into his neck. His hands move up and down your skin, creating friction to generate some heat against you. It works a little. You curl even further into him, and you can feel him shiver when your cold nose touches his neck.

You slip your fingers under his shirt. As your skin comes into contact with his, he hisses, and you moan softly.

“Goddamn…” Rafe curses under his breath as you slide them up to his chest. His whole body tenses when you try to slide them into his armpits. He grabs your wrists and pulls your hands away.

“No. Nu-uh.”

“But Rafe, it’s warm there!” You try to argue but the hard look on his face doesn’t budge.

“I can warm you up better with my dick than my goddamn armpits.” Rafe grunts, and his words already have the beginnings of heat and pleasure bubbling in your gut. He reaches down between the two of you, slipping his hand inside your pants with no hesitation. His fingers are cold, not as cold as yours, but the temperature difference has your head spinning. No wonder he’d reacted so quickly to your fingers in his armpits.

You can hear the slick fabric of the sleeping bag shift with every movement of Rafe’s arm, his fingers sliding down to push inside you, the middle and ring. He scissors and curls them slowly. You let out a quiet whine.

“You feelin’ warmer, baby?” He asks, tongue darting out to brush along the shell of your ear and you tremble again, nodding at his words.

“Y-Yeah,” You say, sliding your hands back under his shirt to rest between the two of you, warming them up. You let your forehead rest against Rafe’s shoulders, one leg moving to hike over his hip. You can feel his dick through his pants, poking against your thigh.

The palm of his hand presses against your clit as he flexes and pumps his fingers in and out of you. You press a kiss to the side of his neck and he hums softly, turning to kiss your lips too. It’s an awkward angle but you love it, continuing to kiss him until your lips stay parted from the pleasure of his fingers.

He smirks a bit, licking at your open mouth until you turn your head, eyes squeezing shut as you feel his fingers go just deep enough to hit that spot inside you.

“Rafe.” You try to say, but he chases you, connecting your lips again just before his fingers slide out of you. He tugs at your pants and underwear, pulling them down. You bend your legs to help him slide them off, and he tosses them aside. His own pants and underwear are next, and he settles himself above you, his knee encouraging your thighs apart.

“I’ve missed you,” You whisper, your body sufficiently warm by this point. You bend your knees as much as you can while Rafe aligns his hips with yours.

“I’ve missed you too,” He says, and slides a few inches into you with a low grunt. His hips rock a few times until he’s fully sheathed inside. His hands grip at your thighs, grasping at the flesh. “Y’good?”

“I’m good,” You tell him, hands sliding up his back. “You can move.”

It’s a little awkward, trapped within the confines of the sleeping bag. He’s not rough, but he isn’t slow. You can feel his soft pants against your neck and your little ‘uh uh uh’s feel loud in the empty barn. Your walls clench around him, the pleasant stretch of him satisfying the ache inside you that never seems to fade anymore.

“Rafe,” You moan his name and he nips at your neck. “Go faster.”

He doesn’t. He pauses, pulling back to look at you with raised brows and a bit of a teasing look. “Oh yeah?”

“Don’t tease me,” You start to pout and Rafe chuckles, lowering his lips to kiss you again.

This time he listens. His pace slows, but he snaps his hips into yours roughly. Your eyes roll back, each thrust allowing the head of him to press so far into you that you feel breathless.

“Fuck,” Rafe finally has to speed up, your walls clenching around him as the both of you feel yourselves getting closer to reaching your peaks.

“‘m gonna come,” You whimper, and Rafe presses fully into you, grinding his hips into your own, his pelvis brushing your clit. He ruts a bit back and forth, barely moving but the sensation is enough to bring you over the edge. You can feel your toes curl, and you cry out his name.

Rafe pulls out, humping against you twice before finishing against your stomach. He wipes it off, and you scrunch your nose at him.

“Oh, fuck off,” He says, grabbing you around the waist and moving you both onto your sides again. “Go to sleep. You’re warm enough now, righ’?”

“I’m warm enough.” You can’t help but smile despite his attitude. You know it’s all show anyway, he doesn’t like to get sappy. “I love you.”

His face softens just a bit and he raises a hand to brush against your cheek before pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. He pulls back, tugging you into his chest. “I love you too.”

Rafe can feel you shift again.

“Was that the hand you just used to wipe up your jizz?”

“Jesus Chr- Just go to fucking sleep.”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

#daisy's writings #rafe cameron #rafe cameron zombie au #rafe cameron au #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x fem!reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe smut #rafe fic #rafe x you #obx rafe cameron #outerbanks rafe

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urmum-lovesme · 4 months ago

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Angel Baby - Rafe Cameron x Kook!reader P15

pairing: Best Friend!Rafe Cameron x Kook!Best-Friend!reader

summary: Rafe and Reader have known each other since kindergarten, always side by side, the king and princess of Figure 8. So why now does he start feeling different towards her, when all she's ever been is his best friend?

a/n: After all this time... the day has finally come.

warnings: mentions of trauma/ptsd, mentions of s/a, drinking, smoking, bad father son dynamic, mentions of passed mother, making out, panic attack.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was late in the afternoon, the sun setting lazily through the windows, casting a golden glow over the room. The scent of Chinese takeout filled the air, and the sound of casual chatter and laughter bounced off the walls of Topper’s living room, the space was a little disorganised, with empty cans and wrappers scattered around. A large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall was showing the game, though no one was really paying attention to it, Topper and Kelce were passing a joint between the two of them, the smoky haze rising into the room. The four of them were sprawled across the room in a relaxed mess, Topper had claimed the armchair in the corner, feet up on the coffee table, while Kelce was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a half-finished bag of chips. Rafe was lounging on the couch, his legs stretched out, and Y/n was beside him, leaning against the armrest with a smile. The evening was winding down, the laughter and chatter flowing smoothly in the room. Everyone had gathered around on the floor now, a few beers in hand, as the familiar buzz settled in. The music played low in the background, mixing with the sound of ice clinking in glasses. Topper, who’d been leaning back lazily on the couch, now suddenly straightened up with a playful grin.

"You know what we need? A game,"

Kelce perked up at the suggestion. "Truth or dare?" he said with a laugh, throwing a half-empty bottle of beer into the air and catching it.

"Yeah, let’s do it," he said, a mischievous glint flickering in his expression. Rafe leaned forward, intrigued, he raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

"Are we really doing this?"

"You bet we are," Topper said, his smirk spreading wider. "It’s been too long and I know you’re all way too competitive to say no."

"I’m in, whatever. Let’s get this over with."

Boys will be boys I guess...

Y/n rolled her eyes dramatically, but a smile tugged at her lips. She turned her gaze to Kelce, giving him a look.

"Alright, you’re first," Topper said, pointing to Kelce, "Truth or dare?"

Kelce looked around, clearly weighing his options. “Dare,” he said confidently, with a grin. Y/n’s eyes lit up with mischief,

"Alright, Kels, I’ve got one for you," she said, the playful tone evident in her voice. "I dare you to take a shirtless mirror pic, then post it on your main with the caption 'Feeling cute, might delete later.'"

The group looked at each other before Topper broke out in a loud cackle, waiting to see if Kelce would actually go through with it. Kelce groaned and ran a hand over his hair.

"That’s... that’s gotta be the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever dared me to do."

Rafe leaned forward, grinning, "Come on man, it’s just one post. You’ll live."

"Alright, fine"

After a moment of hesitation, Kelce sighed dramatically. He pushed himself up off the floor, walking over to the mirror near his front door. Y/n leaned over on the floor slightly to see the boy through the doorway. He lifted his t-shirt and placed the cotton fabric between his teeth, hands on his phone as he took the picture. Y/n started giggling loudly and Topper couldn't help but lean over to where she was, curious of what she was seeing. The moment his eyes landed on Kelce’s reflection in the mirror, he laughed loudly, hand coming to rest on his stomach. Kelce groaned again as he walked back to them muttering under his breath, he held up the phone to them, showing how he pressed the ‘post now’ button. The room burst into laughter, and even Kelce couldn’t help but shake his head,

"Happy now?"

“You’re so sexy Kels” Y/n teased as she winked at him.

"Best thing I’ve seen all year," Topper said, leaning back with a satisfied grin. "You’ve been humbled."

This shit's gold

As the game of truth or dare continued, the mood was light, filled with laughter and playful teasing. Shots had been taken by everyone now, and the alcohol was starting to make everyone feel a bit bolder, their embarrassment slipping away with each round. Truths from 'worst hook up' to 'best hook up' were thrown around, and dares of prank calls all merged together as they wiped away tears from the corners of their eyes. The guys were watching intently as it moved onto Rafe's turn.

"Alright, Rafe, truth or dare?" Topper asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Dare"

Topper nodded as he continued "Alright so-" he said, looking at the boy, but was suddenly cut off when Kelce slammed his beer bottle down onto the table and blurted out loudly.

"We dare you to kiss Y/n."

What-

The room went quiet for a moment. Even though everyone had been playing lightheartedly, the sudden tension was unmistakable. Y/n's eyes widened slightly, her heart skipped a beat, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She could feel the weight of Rafe’s eyes on her, that familiar spark in his gaze making her stomach flutter. Kelce smirked, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“And if you forfeit,” he added, dragging out the words with a slow, teasing lilt,

“you have to call your dad and tell him you wrecked your Rover.”

Seriously?

Topper watched the two guys who were not intensely staring at each other, eyebrows raising a little at the harshness of the punishment, yet he didn't say anything; he wasn't going to deny that he had been waiting for something like this and after all, he was a little tipsy so who was he to state his opinion. Rafe rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply through his nose as he leaned back slightly.

“Seriously?” he muttered, shooting Kelce a look that was equal parts annoyed and unimpressed. Kelce just grinned, shrugging.

“Rules are rules Cameron, you wanna be a bitch about it...?”

Asshole

Rafe let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, waiting, expecting, but the only gaze that mattered was hers. He glanced at Y/N, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes- something hesitant. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable, and that alone made Kelce’s little dare piss him off even more.

This is a bad idea

Y/N swallowed, her heart hammering against her ribs. The tension between them, the unspoken things lingering in the space they carefully tiptoed around, had just been shoved into the spotlight. And now, there was no easy way out. Rafe took a slow breath, his gaze locked on hers. He could see it- the slight apprehension in her eyes, the way she held herself still, like she wasn’t sure what to expect. That tiny hesitation, almost imperceptible to anyone else, was enough to make his decision for him.

So at the last second, he shifted course.

Instead of capturing her lips, he leaned in just slightly to the side, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek. His lips were warm against her skin, his breath fanning gently over her temple as he pulled back. The moment was fleeting, but it sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine all the same.

The guys immediately groaned in disappointment.

"What was that, man?"

Kelce scoffed, laughing as he looked at the brunette boy wide eyed. Y/n blinked, a little taken aback by how fast her heart was beating, her hand instinctively coming up to touch her cheek where his lips had been, before pulling her hand away quickly, however from the corner of her eye she realised that Topper had seen the action. The warmth lingered on her skin, and she couldn’t help but push down a smile. Rafe pulled back, looking completely unfazed by the reactions. Without missing a beat, he shrugged.

"What? You didn’t specify where."

The guys erupted into more groans and playful complaints, Topper calling him an "asshole" under his breath, but Y/n was still processing the moment. She looked at Rafe, her smile soft but teasing.

"Guess that works"

She said, her voice carrying a hint of laughter to cover the sudden rush of emotions she was trying to sort through. Rafe just smiled back, before leaning back against the sofa, speaking out eager to move on.

"Alright, next question"

Even though the boys were devising their next challenge, Y/n was still feeling that lingering warmth from his kiss. As their voices became a distant blurr, the game continued, her mind wandered back to that moment, trying to focus on something- anything- else. Laughter drew her from her daydream, Topper shifting in his space on the floor as Y/n’s turn came.

“Truth or dare Y/n”

She hesitated for just a moment, the tense energy in the room swirling around her. Her eyes flicked from Rafe to the others, and then, with a small smile, she said,

“Dare.”

Kelce let out a low whistle as the guys exchanged glances, clearly pleased by her choice. Topper leaned forward, his eyes eager. “So I think-” he started, but Kelce cut him off once more,

“I dare you to kiss Rafe- on the lips.”

Again are they being for real right now?

The moment the words left his mouth, her brows drew down into a small frown, the two boys sitting opposite them looking between Y/n and Rafe, their faces a mix of emotions. As the dare was thrown out, Rafe rolled his eyes again, leaning back into the bottom couch,

"Are you guys being for real?" he muttered, his voice laced with disbelief.

"What is this, high school?"

I'm friends with literal children

Y/n felt her cheeks heat up, the weight of the dare pressing on her. She glanced at Rafe, then at Topper and Kelce, who were giggling like schoolboys. The idea of kissing Rafe made her stomach swirl, and she wasn’t sure why it felt more intense than it should. The lingering thoughts of what had happened on halloween flashed through her mind, and she hated it. She didn’t want to back out, but her body was already tensing, fighting the unease. Topper and Kelce, already a little more drunk than them, having just downed another two shots of tequila, egged her on.

"C'mon, Y/n," Kelce teased, "Don't be a pussy."

"We know you want to. . ." Topper added on, eyebrows raising up and down suggestively.

The girl hesitated, but before she could even think of what to do next, she found herself moving a little closer to Rafe, instinctively shifting toward him. Her heart rate quickened as her face was just a breath away from his. Her hand rested against his shoulder and she could almost feel the warmth of his skin from under the fabric, the tension building between them. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks as looked down to her, hand which was resting against the couch behind them curling into a fist slightly. And then, like a weight settling in the pit of her stomach, an unwelcome thought crept in- shadows of the past flickering at the edges of her mind. The memory of him, of what he did, tightened around her chest like a vice. It was sudden, uninvited, pulling her back and before she could stop herself, she froze.

I can't-

Rafe noticed immediately. He saw the way her shoulders stiffened, the subtle shift in her eyes as if she was lost in thought. His gaze softened, a subtle shift in his expression as he realised her dissociated expression. He pulled his head back slightly, suddenly clearing his throat, his gaze flicking to his phone on the couch behind them as he picked it up. He muttered, his voice low and urgent.

"My dad just messaged me. I need to head out."

I know lying is bad but-

Topper and Kelce groaned in unison, slumping back dramatically onto the couch, non the wiser of the made up excuse. "Ah, man, you’re no fun," Kelce whined, clearly disappointed, Topper’s hand came out patting him on the back as he rested his head on the couch behind them as well. Rafe stood up from where he was sitting, phone still tight in his grip, glancing back at the group, his hand still holding his phone. He looked at Y/n, catching her eye with a slight hesitation before speaking up. He asked, his voice soft, but laced with that familiar edge of concern.

"Do you need a lift home?"

Y/n felt her stomach twist. The attention suddenly on her made her cheeks heat, and she quickly averted her gaze, staring down at her hands instead. She didn’t trust her voice not to waver, so instead, she just gave a small nod, barely perceptible, before shifting slightly in her seat.

Jesus, what is wrong with you?

Rafe watched her for a second longer, then gave a quick nod in return. He turned to the two guys on the couch, who were now passing a joint between them again, already leaning back in a flurry of laughter. With an easy grin, albeit slightly forced, he clapped each of them on the back.

"Catch you later"

Y/n, feeling a little awkward as she watched Rafe walk out of the room, she soon heard the front door shutting. She stood up and made her way toward the door, turning to Topper with a small smile.

"Thanks for inviting us Top" she said, moving in for a brief hug as the boy wrapped his arms around her, giving her a grin that spoke volumes about his carefree nature.

"Yeah, yeah," Kelce laughed as he watched the two next to him, his voice a little slurred from the drinks.

"We know you guys are gonna make out in the car now, so whatever."

Y/n rolled her eyes at him, giving him one last look before turning and heading out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rafe settled into the driver’s seat, exhaling slowly as he pulled out his phone. The dim glow of the screen illuminated his face, and as he glanced at his notifications and his jaw tensed slightly, the message from his dad was a lie to get him out of there but now, well it wasn't a lie at all..

Dad : What do you mean you don't know where you put those papers?

Dad : I’ve got more important things to deal with than your screw-ups sort yourself out Rafe don't make me tell you again.

Rafe scoffed under his breath, his grip tightening around the phone. He should’ve expected nothing less. But just as he was about to lock the screen, his eyes caught the last line of the message.

Dad : your mother’s anniversary is tomorrow

. . .

A muscle in Rafe’s jaw twitched. His fingers curled around the phone so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t crack under the pressure. Of course, he would throw that in at the end, like an afterthought. Like it wasn’t the one day that still made his chest ache, that still made the anger bubble up so easily, as though he hasn’t been dreading the day for weeks now. His knuckles whitened as he shoved the phone into the cup-holder, leaning back against the headrest with a sharp exhale. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to push down the frustration clawing at his chest.

But it was no use.

Because now, all he could think about was tomorrow.

Y/n could see Rafe already in the car waiting for her, the night air felt cool against her skin, and she pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, her thoughts swirling. As she approached his car, guilt bubbled up inside her. She'd been terrified when Rafe leaned in, when their faces had been so close. The thought of kissing him had sent her into a spiral- she was ashamed of how she’d hesitated, how she'd pulled back. She hadn’t meant to, but her body had reacted before her mind could catch up.

Rafe caught her eye as she approached, and she immediately dropped her gaze, feeling exposed. She couldn't bring herself to look at him fully. He must have sensed something in her as she climbed in, trying to focus on anything but the overwhelming guilt. Rafe started the car and shifted it into drive, the sound breaking the silence that had settled in the air. He didn’t push her to speak, though. He didn’t really want to speak anyways, not after those messages. He just let the hum of the engine fill the space.

Y/n wrapped her arms around herself, staring out of the window, a quiet battle going on inside her. She knew she shouldn’t have frozen like that.

Is he mad at me?

Does he think I’m scared of him?

She could feel Rafe’s presence beside her, he’d been so calm and understanding since everything had happened, but now he seemed uncomfortable. He wasn’t looking at her, his eyes locked on the road ahead, but she could see the frustration there- felt it in the stiffness of his shoulders, the way his thumb tapped restlessly against the leather of the wheel. Rafe didn't say anything for a while, but he could feel Y/n glancing at him.

“What?”

He suddenly snapped out, breaking the silence. Y/n blinked at his sudden outburst, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

What?

“Oh- umm, sorry, it’s nothing,”

She mumbled, shaking her head, retreating into herself. She could feel the tension rolling off him, thick and suffocating, and she didn’t want to make it worse. Rafe let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head as he tightened his grip on the wheel.

C'mon she's not done anything wrong

His patience was thinner than usual, stretched by the weight of his father’s messages and the lingering frustration in his chest. He wasn’t mad at her- he wasn’t- but everything about tonight felt like a mess, and now she was looking at him like he was the one making it worse.

“Yeah, well, doesn’t seem like nothing,”

He muttered under his breath, his voice taut. Y/n frowned, shifting uncomfortably. She could feel it brewing- whatever storm was building inside him, whatever was making his shoulders tense and his words clipped.

“I don’t know why you’re mad at me right now,” she finally said, her voice quiet,

“I’m sorry I didn’t want to kiss you- I just-”

“Well I didn’t want to fucking kiss you either.”

The words hit like a slap, ringing out louder than anything else in the car. Y/n’s brows raised slightly at his words, she just stared at him for a second, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she nodded, barely perceptible, before turning her head back toward the window.

Right

Why the fuck did you say that what’s wrong with you-

Rafe pulled the car to a stop outside her house, the engine cutting out with a low hum. The headlights illuminated the dark road in front of them, but the air inside the car felt heavier than the night outside. Y/n, quietly unbuckled her seatbelt and swung open the door before Rafe could say anything. He hadn’t expected her to just get out like that, but as she moved, he could feel the space between them widening and he suddenly blurted out.

“Y/n, please—”

I can't do this again-

She turned to face him, her eyes soft yet guarded. She was already halfway out the door ready to shut it, her fingers gripping the frame. She wasn’t sure what to say to him either, but the frustration and confusion had built up too much inside her.

“I didn’t kiss you, Rafe,” she started, her voice wavering just slightly, “because- because when you got close to me it-... it’s just hard for me.”

She sighed, hand coming up to scratch her cheek slightly, feeling slightly uneasy under his heavy gaze. She didn’t know how to explain it, how to put into words the way it felt when someone was too close- when all she could think about was the way she couldn’t escape. Her body would freeze, memories she didn’t want resurfacing. It didn’t happen all the time but when it did it felt like someone throwing a bucket of ice water over her.

“I know it’s stupid,” she added quickly, shaking her head, “but sometimes... I just freeze when people get too close because- because of what happened. It’s not about you, it’s just... I can’t help it.”

Her voice cracked slightly, and she wiped her face with the back of her hand, trying to push away the lingering tension.

“So, yeah...”

Rafe watched her as she stood there, her hand still resting on the car door. His mind raced, words tumbling around in his head, but he needed to say something. He couldn’t leave things like this.

You're such a dick, you're such a asshole I can't believe you said that to-

“I— I know you freeze up,” he started, his voice softer now, more hesitant.

Oh?

“I realised it and that’s why I pulled away. I… didn’t want to make you feel worse.”

She looked at him then, her gaze locking onto his eyes. His words hung in the air, and for a moment, then Rafe continued, shaking his head slightly, his tone apologetic.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier,” his fingers picked at the skin on his thumb as he spoke,

“It was rude, and I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

“It’s okay”

No it's not

Y/n looked down at the ground for a moment, shaking her head as if to brush off his words. Rafe nodded, but it didn’t feel like enough. There was an awkward silence between them, the weight of their conversation lingering in the space. He cleared his throat, trying to fill the silence, but the tension still felt thick. She finally sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips as she started to take a step back from the car door.

“I’m gonna go in now…”

She said quietly, her words soft but final. Rafe nodded, his hands tightening around the steering wheel as he sat back in his seat. He replied, but the word felt heavy on his tongue, as if he didn’t quite know how to let go.

“Right”

“Have a good night, Rafe,” she said, offering him a smile.

“Yeah, you-” he started, his voice being cut off as the door clicked shut, “-too.”

It felt weird, being so distant after being so close for the past few weeks. Rafe watched as the girl walked up to her front door, opening it, glancing back at his car one last time before pushing it closed behind her. As he stared at the lights switching on in the window on the second floor, only one thing floated around in his mind.

Kelce, fuck you man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sky was thick with heavy, grey clouds rolling in slowly, swallowing the last traces of blue. The air felt dense and humid, like the entire town was holding its breath, waiting for the downpour of storm Audra which had been looming for the past few days. A breeze rustled through the café’s outdoor seating area, yet the air was sticky, carrying the faint scent of rain on the horizon.

Y/n sat at a small table with Kelce and his girlfriend, the condensation from her iced coffee dripping onto the napkin beneath it. The usual buzz of the town carried on around them- clinking silverware, low conversations. Y/n had gone into town to collect something her mom had ordered when Kelce suggested she meet with him and Phoebe, now he’d stepped inside to grab the girl a blueberry muffin, leaving Y/n alone with his girlfriend. She liked Phoebe, she wasn’t like most of the other snobby Kook girls. The girl sitting opposite her studied her for a moment before leaning in slightly, a knowing look crossing her face.

“So… Kelce told me what happened yesterday” she began, her voice light but curious.

“What’s up with you and Rafe?”

Big mouth

Y/n nearly choked on her iced coffee, shifting in her seat, she said quickly, placing teh glass back down onto its plate. Phoebe raised a brow, clearly unconvinced.

“Nothing”

“Oh? I just thought—”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

Wow, that was bitchy

Y/n cut in, sharper than she meant to. A brief silence fell between them before she sighed, shaking her head slightly she raised her hand rubbing her forehead.

“Sorry. That was rude.”

“It’s okay don’t worry” the blonde girl reassured her, mixing her iced matcha, waving a hand dismissively after. “I get it, you don’t wanna talk about it.” But then, after a pause, she tilted her head slightly, her voice turning softer.

“You know, a lot of girls would kill for a guy to look at them the way Rafe looks at you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told.” Y/n let out a short, almost nervous laugh, shaking her head.

“So… what are you waiting for?”

I... I don't know

Kelce’s girlfriend smirked. Y/n hesitated, swirling her straw around in her drink before she admitted, eyes down on the caramel coloured liquid in the glass.

“I’m just… scared”

“Why?” Phoebe asked, genuinely curious. “You don’t think he’d reject you, do you? I mean, he’d have to be an total idiot.”

Y/n let out a small breath, smile pulling at the corner of her lips, glancing down at the table once more, hand coming out to fidget with the white napkin in front of her. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” she muttered.

“We’ve kind of already… almost… like-”

“—OH MY GOD”

Jesus-

Kelce’s girlfriend gasped loudly, eyes widening as she slapped her hands over her mouth in shock, leaning forward excitedly whispering out.

“SHUT UP! Almost? Like what—?”

Y/n’s own eye’s widened in surprise at the girl's sudden reaction but before could say anything else, she caught sight of Kelce returning, his hand balancing a white plate with a muffin perched on top. Panicked, she kicked Phoebe under the table, making the girl wince but go silent. Kelce narrowed his eyes at them as he set the plate down in front of the blonde. He asked suspiciously, looking between the two girls.

“What’s going on?”

His girlfriend barely hesitated before shrugging innocently. “Oh, you know, girl problems.”

“Riiight”

Thank fuck for that

He drawled, sipping his drink as he studied them, Kelce gave them both a look, clearly not buying it, but eventually, he let it go. Y/n just shook her head, exhaling softly as she reached for her coffee again, pretending to be invested in anything other than the amused smile on Kelce’s girlfriend’s face. Kelce leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head as he lazily glanced around.

“So, is Rafe coming as well?”

At that, Phoebe, mid-bite into her muffin, suddenly choked, sputtering out a laugh as she tried to swallow. Kelce reacted immediately, patting her back with a mix of amusement and concern, brows drawn down a little at her weird behaviour.

“Babe, chill. What is going on with you today?” He paused, then continued, “are you on your period or something?”

She shot him a glare before slapping his arm, making him wince. “Ouch!” He rubbed the spot dramatically, pouting.

“Alright, alright—sorry, sorry.”

Y/n shook her head at their antics, a small smile playing on her lips before she reached for her phone. Her fingers hovered over the screen as she checked her notifications. Nothing. Not a single text from Rafe all morning, and it was already creeping into the afternoon. Her stomach twisted slightly, but she ignored it, slipping her phone back onto the table.

Is he still mad at me for yesterday?

“Yeah, um… I don’t think he’s coming. Sorry, Kels.”

Kelce shrugged, waving it off. Y/n exhaled softly, absentmindedly stirring the ice in her coffee with the straw. The quiet chatter around them was interrupted by a sudden, high-pitched squeal from a table nearby. She glanced over at the sound, her gaze landing on a little boy sitting on his mother’s lap. His hair a little tousled, and he beamed happily as he held a cookie in both hands. His mother, blonde, had her arms wrapped around him, pressing a playful kiss to his cheek as he giggled against her shoulder. Y/n’s breath hitched slightly as something clicked.

Her stomach dropped.

It’s June’s anniversary…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wind howled against the windows, rattling them in their frames as the storm outside picked up. Y/n sat on the edge of her bed, debating whether she should shower now or wait until the storm passed. She hated storms in the OBX- how unpredictable they were, how they made the whole house feel just a little too empty when she was alone. Her parents were out of town on a business trip, again, meaning she was completely by herself. Normally she didn’t mind, but nights like these- when the sky was dark and heavy, and the rain came down in thick sheets- it made the house feel too big, too quiet.

With a sigh, she flopped onto her bed instead, stretching out on her stomach, her phone in her hand. The screen lit up as she swiped to her messages, her fingers hesitating before tapping on Rafe’s contact. She stared at the empty message bar for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. The rain was coming down heavier now, pounding against the roof in a steady rhythm that only made the anxious energy in her chest worse.

She started typing.

Hey, are you okay?

She deleted it immediately and she tried again.

I know you probably don’t want to talk

Another immediate delete.

With a frustrated groan, she threw her phone onto the bed and buried her face into her pillow. After a moment of her head laying against the soft silk material, she pushed herself up, shaking off the feeling.

Shower?

That would clear her head. She grabbed some clothes and headed to the bathroom, trying to ignore the way the thunder rumbled in the distance. Y/n stood in the bathroom, the soft hum of the vent mixing with the distant rumble of thunder outside. Steam curled through the air, fogging up the mirror as the hot water poured from the showerhead. She gripped the edge of the sink, staring down at the swirling patterns of condensation on the counter, her mind torn.

Maybe I should just call him

Just to check

Just to make he’s okay

Her fingers twitched at her side, turning back to look at the phone she’d left on her bed. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head at herself. Overthinking wasn’t going to get her anywhere anyways. With that, she turned away, shutting the bathroom door behind her before stepping into the shower, letting the warm water wash over her, drowning out her thoughts.

A sharp knock at the door made Y/n freeze, her heart lurching into her throat.

Then came the doorbell, ringing through the house, making her pulse quicken.

She had just stepped out of the shower, her hair damp, a towel wrapped tightly around her, water droplets still lingering on her skin. The storm still raged outside, wind howling against the windows, rain lashing at the glass. Who the hell would be coming to see her at 22:38 in the middle of a storm?

A flicker of unease crept up her spine.

Slipping her feet into her Ugg slippers, she hesitated for only a second before heading to the spare cupboard, her fingers closing around the handle of her brother’s old baseball bat. If this was some psycho showing up at her door in the middle of a storm, she wasn’t about to answer unarmed. Another knock- this time a little more urgent, Y/n swallowed, gripping the bat tightly as she crept to the door. She pressed her eye against the peephole, her body coiled with tension.

And then- just like that- all the tension drained from her body.

Her grip on the bat loosened, her shoulders lowering as she exhaled, leaning the bat against the wall beside her. But as relief settled, her brows furrowed.

What the hell?

Y/n swung the door open, and there he was.

Rafe stood in the rain, completely soaked through, his clothes clinging to him, droplets running down his face. He didn’t have a jacket, not even a hoodie to shield himself from the storm. The sight of him made her stomach twist.

“Rafe?”

Her voice was full of concern. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her, his expression unreadable, his eyes a little lost, a little distant- until they slowly dragged over her. That’s when she realised,

The towel-

Heat rushed to her face as she quickly stepped aside, opening the door wider as her hand gripped onto the towel wrapped around her. She prayed to whatever higher power that it didn’t suddenly fall off her.

“Come in,” she said, voice softer, “you’re gonna catch a cold.”

He didn’t say anything- just stepped inside, water dripping onto the floor as he did. He was still looking at her, and the weight of his gaze made her self-conscious as she fidgeted on the spot before she suddenly blurted out, arms crossing over herself protectively.

“Right well, uh—I need to get changed. Come on, let me get you a towel first.”

Rafe just nodded, his silence making her uneasy. She led him to her bedroom, the warmth of her house a stark contrast to the storm outside. As she grabbed a fresh towel from her drawer and glanced at him. He was standing in the middle of her room, water pooling slightly at his sock clad feet, his jaw tight. She handed him the towel, then quickly grabbed her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom to change. Her mind was racing.

What is he doing here?

By the time she came back, dressed in a comfy oversized T-shirt and soft cotton shorts, Rafe was sitting on the edge of her bed, rubbing the towel over his damp hair. He still looked tense, his movements slow, almost absent-minded. Y/n hesitated for a second before walking closer, arms crossing as she studied him with worry.

“Are you okay?”

Rafe just nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. She sat down next to him slowly, close but not too close. The only sound was the rain hammering against the windows, the occasional crack of thunder in the distance. He was staring down at the towel in his hands, gripping it tightly.

And then- his shoulders started to shake.

Fuck-

Y/n felt her chest tighten when she saw he was crying. His shoulders trembled, his grip tightening on the towel in his hands before one of them came up to cover his face. He let out a shaky breath, mumbling, over and over again, like he couldn’t stop himself.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

“Rafe…”

She breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. Without thinking, she moved, standing in front of him and reaching out, her hand brushing over his back in slow, gentle strokes. He tensed at first, sucking in a sharp breath, but then something in him gave way. Before she could say anything else, he reached for her, his arms wrapping around her waist as he pulled her in close. He buried his face into her stomach, his body shaking against hers, and she felt the damp heat of his tears seeping through her t-shirt. Her heart ached at the way he clung to her.

“… it’s okay, Rafey…”

She murmured, her fingers threading through his wet hair, brushing over his scalp in soft, soothing motions. He gripped the fabric of her t-shirt in his fists, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. His breathing was ragged, uneven, and she could feel his heartbeat racing against her. Y/n didn’t say anything else.

She just held him and let him cry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The storm still raged outside, but inside, everything was quiet. The only sound was their breathing, slow and steady, the occasional rumble of thunder rolling in the distance. They lay in her bed now, the weight of earlier still lingering but no longer suffocating. Rafe’s head rested on her shoulder, his body warm beside hers, his arm draped loosely over her waist. He had stopped crying a while ago, but his grip on her hadn’t loosened much- almost as if he needed to feel she was still there. Y/n let her fingers trail absentmindedly over his arm, her gaze fixed on the ceiling above them.

“Do you remember that one time we all went to the fair?” she murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“And your mom spent almost fifty dollars trying to win you that stupid stuffed shark.”

You remember..?

Rafe let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head against her shoulder, “She was convinced I needed it.”

“You did,” Y/n teased. “You were so upset when you couldn’t get it yourself.”

“I was not upset.”

“Rafey, you were like- on the verge of tears and I’m pretty sure you were pouting.”

He huffed, but there was amusement in his eyes as he shifted slightly, getting more comfortable. He liked this- talking about his mum, remembering the good things.

And he liked that Y/n wanted to remember with him, no one else did.

Wheezie and Sarah never understood, maybe they were too young when she passed, and his dad- he certainly never spoke of her. Her name never passed his lips. A beat of silence passed before he exhaled, his voice quieter now.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you the other day… I just—”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Y/n cut in gently.

“I get it, I know what it’s like, Rafe. It’s okay.”

He shifted his head then, resting it against the pillow next to her’s, as he looked at the girl. His blue eyes softened, taking in every detail- the way her lips were slightly parted, the curve of her nose, the dip of her cupids bow, the way her hair framed her face, the way she was content to simply just lay here with him.

She’s so beautiful

He listened as she kept talking about his mom, about small things others would have seen as irrelevant- her laugh, the way she would hum while she cooked, the way she used to fuss over her like Y/n was her own child. He nodded along, holding onto every word that left her lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rafe must’ve been around ten, all scraped knees and sun-kissed hair, sitting at the kitchen island while his mom chopped strawberries humming softly to herself. The scent of fresh fruit filled the air, mingling with whatever candle she had burning on the windowsill. He started, dragging out the word as he propped his chin on his palm.

“Mooooooom”

“What is it baby?”

June hummed, not looking up from her cutting board. He hesitated as he picked at the crumbs on the counter, still trying to work out his thoughts.

“How do you know when you like a girl?”

That made her pause. She turned to him then, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Oh?” she teased, leaning against the counter.

“And who’s got my boy all flustered, hmm?”

Rafe groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Mom.”

She laughed, that warm, soft sound which felt like a hug. “Alright, alright,” she said, ruffling his hair before perching on the stool next to him, looking to her son.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

He glanced at the floor, fighting a blush and his hands played with the string on his hoodie. “I dunno. She’s just... cool. And Funny. And she doesn’t get mad when I mess up her stuff—” He trailed off, feeling self-conscious.

“Sometimes... when she smiles at me, my stomach does this weird thing?”

“That sounds like a little crush to me, sweetheart.”

June’s smile softened. She reached out, brushing his hair back gently, the way she always did when he got worked up over something. Rafe squinted up at her.

“But what if she doesn’t like me back?”

The blonde woman tilted her head, thoughtful. “Well, that’s the tricky part about feelings, baby. You never really know unless you ask.” She booped his nose, making him scrunch it up.

“But if she makes you feel all warm inside, like you swallowed the sun, then I’d say that’s a pretty special feeling to have.”

Rafe thought about that, rolling the words around in his mind. Swallowed the sun. Yeah. That’s exactly what it felt like. He frowned, still a little unsure, but his mum's words were like a balm to his nerves. She leaned closer, a sly grin creeping up her face as she spoke in a hushes whisper.

“So, do I know this special girl?”

“No! No, you don’t,”

He replied quickly, a little too quickly his heart stuttered. Rafe shifted uncomfortably, his face burning, and he quickly shook his head. June raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by his reaction.

“Hmm, alright then.”

But Rafe could see the twinkle in her eye. She knew. And he wasn’t ready to admit it just yet—not even to his mum. So he kept his secret, tucked away deep where no one could find it. Not even her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lying beside Y/n now, listening to her talk about his mom, Rafe swallowed past the lump in his throat. He turned his head away from her slightly, looking at the ceiling illuminated by the dim light.

Still feels like swallowing the sun.

Y/n sat up slowly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she watched him. The tension in the room had melted, but there was still a softness between them that hadn't been there before. She stretched a little and pulled her oversized t-shirt up her shoulder as it had slipped off.

“How about I make you a raspberry tea… ?”

Rafe nodded slowly, a hint of a smile on his lips. She stood up, slipping her slippers on, and moved toward the door of her bedroom.

"Okay, I'll bring it upstairs in a minute—"

"-Y/n, wait."

Huh, I thought he enjoyed the raspberry tea last time-

She froze, turning back towards him. Rafe was standing, walking toward her now, pushing his lightly damp hair out of his face. His eyes were fixed on her, and she caught the way his gaze softened as he took in the natural beauty of her face, unmade up and fresh from the shower. There was something raw in the way he looked at her that made her heart race a little. The boy stopped right in front of her, still unsure, his voice barely a whisper.

"I just... I-"

She raised an eyebrow, confusion flickering across her face, "Is it the tea? Do you not want raspberry? I’ve got other kind of tea, you know. I think maybe you'd like-"

"-No!"

Jesus take it down a notch-

He quickly shook his head, a little too forcefully, "I mean, no, it’s not the tea."

Rafe shook his head, his hands slightly trembling. His eyes locked on her, and his voice caught in his throat before he finally spoke,

"When my mom, well, before my mom died, I— I know I was still really young, but she told me that I could be impulsive sometimes, I mean she wasn’t wrong. Anyways um- she said that, uh... I needed to find someone who could... ground me when I'm... when I'm not; whatever, that's not the point."

What is going on. . .?

He paused for a moment, as if trying to steady himself, hand coming up again to push his hair out of his face before continuing, the words almost tumbling out.

"And when she passed, we did the reading of the will she... she left us all letters, and I-"

His voice cracked slightly, and he took a shaky breath. Y/n’s heart clenched seeing how emotional he was getting, she could tell his hands were trembling slightly by his sides and it gave away his nervousness.

"Rafe, it's okay," she whispered softly, stepping closer to him, her hand hovering as though she wanted to reach out but didn’t want to crowd him.

"Breathe."

I am, I am-

"No, I need- I just need to tell you this."

His jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut in frustration, as if fighting to push back the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

"I need to get this out, Y/n."

"I'm not going anywhere, it’s okay take your time."

She nodded gently, her expression softening as she looked up to the boy. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his eyes as though to clear away the tension, and when he opened them again, he started more slowly, his voice steadier but still raw.

"She left Wheezie this book," he said quietly, "and she left Sarah a... I mean, this doesn’t really matter, it-" He cut himself off, his breath hitching again.

"She left me something too."

Rafe's hand trembled as it went to his pocket, and he pulled out a small, delicate silver ring. The diamond in the centre gleamed even in the dim light of the room, its edges catching the light in a way that made Y/n’s heart race. Her eyes widened, and she felt a lump form in her throat as she stared at it.

What is... what is going on-

Rafe held it up between them, the weight of the moment settling between them like a tangible presence. Y/n’s heart began to thud in her chest, and her mouth went dry. She wasn’t sure what to say- her emotions were tangled, swirling around in confusion. Rafe’s eyes now flickered between the ring in his hand and her face, his fingers absently toying with the silver band, as though trying to figure out what to say next. His voice was thick with emotion when he spoke again, the words tumbling out in a rush, raw and vulnerable.

“She wrote in my letter that when the time is right, I’d know who to give it to,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the ring once more. His fingers tightened around it, as though it were both a comfort and a burden.

"And I... I’ve been such an ass to you."

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat as she whispered his name, her voice barely audible as she shook her head to him, the weight of what he was saying starting to come down onto her.

Please don't-

“No, no, no—” he rushed out, shaking his head vigorously. “I’ve been a dick. I pushed you away, and I—" He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching in frustration.

"If I’d never pushed you away that day at the hut... you... you wouldn’t have gone through any of this. None of this would’ve happened. You would’ve been with me on Halloween. It would’ve been us, in a matching costume.”

He stopped, his words hanging in the air as he looked up at her. His heart nearly stopped when he saw her eyes- wet with silent tears, the faint shimmer of them threatening to break him. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, the dryness almost unbearable.

��When I was younger...” he continued, his voice cracking slightly as he stared down at the ring again, his hands now trembling, “I didn’t know what my mum meant in that letter. I read it over and over, trying to understand, but I just... I didn’t get it.” He paused, biting down on the inside of his cheek, his voice quieter now.

“But now… now I know what she meant.”

I'm gonna be sick

His eyes finally met hers again, her face streaked with tears. Without thinking, his hand reached out toward her, his fingers brushing against her cheek gently, the touch almost tentative. "I-" he said, the words tumbling out with a weight that seemed to shift the world around them.

"I love you Y/n… more than I’ve ever loved anyone. More than I even thought I could love someone."

She stiffened as the boy’s words passed his lips. His voice faltered, then hardened, as if the vulnerability of what he was saying left him raw, bare; there was no going back now.

Oh my god-

“And it’s terrifying. Because you’re fuckin’- you’re my best friend, and I’m so scared of fucking this up, but I can’t not say it anymore.”

His chest heaved as he took a shaky breath, the pressure of the moment threatening to break him. Y/n’s legs felt weak, she felt like they were about to give out at any moment now.

“I think she knew... before I did. She knew who I’d be giving this ring to. And I—" He stopped, his voice cracking again, and he took another breath, his eyes shining with emotion.

"I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time pretending I didn’t feel this way. I wish I’d realized it earlier. Because Y/n all I want is you. I love you. It’s always been you.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, both of their hearts pounding in their chests as the weight of his confession settled between them. The confession that had been festering for weeks, for months- year’s even. Tears streamed down face, her breath coming in shaky gasps as she looked at the ring held between his fingers. Her whole body was trembling, overwhelmed with emotion, and she couldn’t even begin to process what was happening.

She’d been waiting for this moment, her whole life, it seemed, and now that it was here, she didn’t know what to say.

Please say something-

The words felt stuck in her chest, her heart racing as she tried to make sense of it all. Rafe, watching her with intense eyes, gently lifted her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. With a careful movement, he slid the silver band onto her finger. The diamond caught the light as it settled, and she couldn’t help but let out a sob, her other hand coming up to cover her mouth. It fit perfectly, like it had always been meant to be there, and the weight of everything she’d been holding in finally broke free.

"I—" She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat, and she cried harder, unable to contain the emotions flooding through her.

"I love you, Rafe, I—"

I love you too angel

Rafe’s eyes softened, and he gently cupped her face, wiping away a tear with his thumb.

"I’ve loved you since we were kids,"

She whispered through the sobs making her body tremble, her voice trembling. His forehead pressed against hers, the closeness of their bodies grounding her in the moment.

"Since you came up to me when I was under the tree in my princess dress..."

She let out a small, happy, yet bittersweet sob at the memory, her hand shakily reaching up to touch the ring with her other hand, needing to feel it under her own fingers to ensure it wasn’t just an illusion her mind had conjured. Rafe just stared at her with so much love in his eyes, his expression so tender it nearly made her rumble. His gaze dropped to her lips for a moment, his breath quickening as he fought to keep himself together. She lifted her hand to wipe away more tears, her fingers brushing over her cheek, and then brought it to his. Her thumb traced along the curve of his jaw as she gazed at him with a deep, soul-baring look in her eyes.

"I love you, I—" She choked on her words, overwhelmed by the truth she was finally allowing herself to say.

"God, I don’t even know how to... It’s always been you. In every life I could’ve lived, it’s been you. I don’t- I don’t ever want anyone else."

The room felt impossibly small around them, the air thick with the weight of everything unspoken finally being said. Rafe leaned in closer, his breath mingling with hers as they were inches apart now. She could feel his warmth on her skin, the heat of his lips just within reach, but neither of them moved. She whispered, barley audible,

"You have my heart… you... you have my soul Rafe."

She could feel his heart racing against hers, their chests so close together, the two of them connected in a way that was deeper than words could express. Y/N’s chest tightened as she searched his face, her fingers trembling as they lingered on his cheek, a silent plea in her eyes. She had waited for this for years, waiting for him to see her the way she’d always seen him. All those years of unspoken feelings, of longing, of keeping their distance… and now, standing here, so close, she couldn’t believe this moment was real. Rafe finally closed the gap, his breath a warm whisper against her lips.

For a moment, everything else disappeared.

He leaned in slowly, his lips brushing against hers ever so gently at first, testing the waters like he couldn’t believe it either.

It was soft.

So soft, as if they were both afraid to ruin it.

But it wasn’t tentative- it was the culmination of everything they’d both held inside for ages. Their lips moved together, almost shy at first, as if the kiss itself was a question.

Then, slowly, he deepened it, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her neck, his fingers sliding to the nape of her neck. She melted into him, pressing closer, and it was as if every cell in her body recognised his touch, finally in the way it had always been meant to be.

The kiss grew more urgent, a desperate need filling the space between them, an understanding that this was the moment they’d both been waiting for. She parted her lips, and he followed her, his tongue meeting hers with a passion that sent a spark shooting through her spine. He tasted like warmth, like everything she had ever wanted, and she couldn’t hold back anymore. She kissed him with everything she had, hands wrapping around his shoulders pulling him closer, every moment of longing, every stolen glance, every bit of the love she had kept locked inside was now let go of.

Rafe's hands moved to her waist, pulling the girl into him, his body pressed against hers in a way that made her breath catch. There was nothing else- just him- just the fire between them that had been simmering for so long.

Y/N tangled her fingers in his hair now, tugging him closer eagerly, and he responded in kind, his kiss growing more desperate, more consuming, teeth clashing as if they couldn’t get enough. Their lips colliding with a fierce urgency that only years of unspoken yearning could fuel. Their bodies pressed together, the heat between them mounting, hands roaming in frantic discovery. Rafe’s grip tightened on her waist, pulling her even closer, and Y/N's fingers tangled in his hair, other slipping over his t-shirt, fisting it in her hand, tugging him deeper into the kiss. Every second felt like it was tearing down the walls they’d built up over the years. He moved with a kind of fluidity, and as they stumbled toward the bed, his hands slid beneath the back of her T-shirt, sending a shiver across her skin as his fingers traced the soft, exposed curve of her back

But then, suddenly, it was too much.

Too much heat. Too much closeness.

Y/N’s chest tightened, the weight of his touch becoming suffocating in the most visceral way; her pulse pounded in her ears, and something inside her snapped. Panic flooded her, the sudden intensity of the moment triggering a flood of memories she wasn't prepared for.

Stop stop stop-

Rough hand's over her body which she had tried to forget. She pulled back violently, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. Her eyes were wide, glassy with shock, and she shoved him back, her hands pushing hard against his chest.

"Wait-"

She gasped, the word barely making it past her lips. She pressed her palm against her chest, feeling the rapid, erratic thudding of her heart, as though it might burst out of her chest at any second. Rafe’s eyes went wide with concern, his mouth still half-open in shock at the sudden shift.

“Hey, hey what— what’s wrong?”

He asked, but his voice felt miles away, muffled by the rush of panic that swarmed her mind.

She was trembling, her whole body on edge as she stumbled back, her calves hit the end of her bed causing her to sit back onto the bed; her eyes unfocused as she tried to breathe. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t push the heavy weight from her chest. Her fingers clawed at her skin as if trying to tear away the suffocating feeling that enveloped her. The room was closing in, the air too thick, too hot. The panic built like a tidal wave, each breath more shallow than the last, until it felt like she might drown in it. She shook her head, frantic, eyes darting to the side.

"I—I can’t breathe"

She gasped, her voice coming out choked, feeling dizzy. Her hand trembled as she reached for her chest, pressing it over her heart in an attempt to steady herself, but it only made things worse. It felt like her chest was being crushed, like the walls were closing in, suffocating her. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, drowning out everything else, and her breath came faster, more desperate. She was drowning in her own fear. Her fingers curled into a fist against her chest, and she bit her lip to try to hold back the sobs threatening to break free. Rafe reached for her gently, his voice filled with concern.

“Y/N… hey, look at me. You’re safe. You’re safe, just breathe angel-”

But it didn’t matter.

It felt like everything was spinning out of control. The room was spinning, the walls pressing in on her, and all she could feel was the tight, suffocating panic taking over, she shook her head erratically.

“No, I— I can’t. Please, I can’t…”

Her voice trembled as she finally looked at him, her eyes wide and frantic, tears streaming down her face as she tried to speak, but no words came out. She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t make sense of it herself. It was like a flood of memories had come crashing back in, and she couldn’t hold onto reality.

The feeling of his hands, so warm on her body, had triggered something she wasn’t ready for-something from the past, something that she couldn't control. Rafe’s heart ached at the sight of her so broken, his hands hovering around her as if afraid to touch her the wrong way. “Y/N,” he whispered again, his voice low, trembling with emotion. He crouched down in front of her, his hands came out to rest on her knees but he stopped himself, instead coming out to rest on the mattress next to her.

“You’re okay. I’m right here. Just breathe with me, okay? You’re safe.”

She shook her head again, a sob catching in her throat, her chest constricted painfully, the air growing even more elusive. Rafe hesitated but pushed the doubt aside as his skin touched against hers, hands were gentle but insistent, resting softly on her arms, guiding her attention back to him as he rubbed slowly circles on her arm with her thumb.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice steady but filled with love and fear, “breathe with me. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

She could barely focus on him, but slowly his voice cut through the chaos in her mind. She stared at him, her chest still heaving, tears streaming down her face. He kept his hands steady on her, grounding her, as he gently coaxed her to focus on him. In between hyperventilating breaths, she whispered,

“I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

And as she said it, another sob broke free, wracking her body as she trembled, shaking from head to toe.

Rafe didn’t move away, he simply leaned in, wrapping his arms around her gently, pulling her close but not too tight, and her arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders.

I've got you

His hands slid up to her waist, his grip firm but patient, and before she could process it, he was shifting. With effortless strength, he pushed himself up from his crouch, lifting her just enough to move. Then, he sat back onto the edge of the bed, bringing her with him. Her breath hitched as her legs instinctively parted, knees settling on either side of his thighs as she straddled him. Her fingers fisted into the fabric of his t-shirt, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the room. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her uneven breaths hot against his skin as she fought to steady herself.

Rafe exhaled slowly, his arms wrapping around her, one hand pressing against the small of her back, the other slipping over her hair. She let out a shuddering breath, her body still trembling against his. His grip tightened just a fraction, his lips grazing her temple in the softest reassurance.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

“I’ve got you. I’m right here with you, okay? You’re okay.”

She nodded, still trembling, but slowly, the pressure on her chest began to lift as she focused on his voice, his warmth. It didn’t go away all at once, but the panic started to ebb, little by little, until she could breathe steadily again. Her body shook with the aftershocks of the storm, but she was slowly finding her way back to herself.

Rafe stayed holding her, whispering softly to her, his hands stroking her back calmingly. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, his warmth wrapping around her like a protective cocoon. She felt the steady thrum of his heart beneath her ear and allowed herself to truly lean into it, absorbing the comfort of his presence.

“I don’t know why it… why that happened,” she whispered after a long silence, her voice a fragile, hesitant tremor.

“I just—I'm sorry.”

Rafe’s grip tightened, pulling her closer as if he could erase the memory, his thumb traced shapes on her back, slow and soothing.

“There’s nothing to apologise for,”

He said, his voice firm but gentle. She pulled back from the crook of his neck, head still resting on his shoulder angled just enough to meet his gaze. Her heart skipped at the tenderness she found there- no judgment, simply understanding. She reached up, her fingers trembling as they ran over his cheek, feeling the rough stubble beneath her fingertips.

“Thank you,” she murmured, the words heavy with meaning, “...for being patient with me.”

Rafe’s gaze softened, and he leaned into her touch, his own hand coming up to run over her forearm, palm pressed against her skin. He spoke eyes never leaving hers.

“You don't have to thank me for that,” his voice low and steady as he moved forward slightly, nose brushing against the skin of her cheek as she sat up slightly. “I’ll always be patient with you.”

In that moment, the air around them seemed to shift. She looked at Rafe, as he searched her eye's for unspoken words. His thumb moved over her cheek, wiping away a single tear that had slipped down, and his smile was everything she needed to see as he murmured, his voice brimming with nothing but pure affection.

“I love you angel. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

"You will. . .?"

"S'just you and me."

She knew it was true. They didn’t need to rush anymore, there was no more pressure, no ticking clock telling them what to do.

You're my Angel baby

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

taglist: @evermorx89 @bellaed1t @user381953 @lovemanheim @loves0phelia @yourcrackleflame @kundaquarius @matthewswifeyy @pillowprincess4him @lilithblackkk @sunny1616 @slut-4-gojo @louxmcl @stelleduarte @p0gue420 @maybanksgirl69 @godharryz @sinnerrsworld @rafe-cameronswife @chillgal135 @moneybaby07 @mrsdrewstarkeyy

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minhosbitterriver · 10 months ago

Text

────* ˚ ✦ CAUGHT IN THE ACT ( stray kids )

❛ The reactions of each member of Stray Kids' Hyung line when they're caught kissing you by another member.

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 )

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.0k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 32 mins

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This was honestly so much fun to write! Reblogs and feedbacks are always appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Getting caught kissing, established relationship for every member, let me know if I missed anything!

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )

HYUNG LINE | MAKNAE LINE

방찬 ── BANG CHAN.

You stepped into the familiar recording studio, the dim lights casting a soft glow on the walls adorned with musical equipment and notes scribbled in haste. A paper bag filled with snacks and drinks dangled from your hand, its weight a comforting reminder of your routine visits. Your smile radiates warmth as your eyes meet Chan's, who sat hunched over the mixing console. His gaze lifted, revealing a flicker of gratitude despite the heavy shadows of exhaustion under his eyes.

He returned your smile, a faint but genuine curve of his lips that spoke volumes about his weariness. You chose silence, understanding the unspoken need for peace in this creative sanctuary. With gentle steps, you crossed the room, your presence a soothing balm to his fatigue. Leaning down, you placed a tender kiss on his head, a simple gesture of affection that momentarily lifted the burden from his shoulders.

Reaching into the bag, you retrieved a pack of chips and a bottle, offering them to Chan with a reassuring touch. He accepted them gratefully, his fingers brushing against yours in a brief but intimate exchange. You then settled into your usual spot on the leather couch behind him, its familiar creases and scent a comfort in this shared space. With your phone in hand, you prepared to keep yourself entertained, a quiet guardian of his creative process. The studio's ambient hum and the soft rustle of snack wrappers became the soundtrack to this intimate moment, a testament to the silent support that flowed between you.

This had become your usual routine—a cherished ritual that intertwined your lives with comforting regularity. Every other day, you would find yourself here, in the sanctuary of the recording studio, offering your quiet companionship while he immersed himself in his work. Your role was not merely to be present but to eventually coax him away from his intense focus, ensuring he returned home with you for the rest he so desperately needed.

Tonight was no different. You nestled into the familiar embrace of the leather couch, your fingers idly scrolling through social media, a soft glow from your phone illuminating your face. The ambient sounds of the studio enveloped you, a symphony of creativity and dedication. The rhythmic tapping of buttons, the soft click of switches, and the occasional hum of equipment blended into a soothing background noise.

Every now and then, a sigh of frustration would escape Chan's lips, a testament to his tireless pursuit of perfection. You glanced up occasionally, observing the furrow of his brow, the determination etched in his features. His passion was palpable, filling the room with an electric energy that made your heart swell with pride and tenderness.

Despite the ambient hum and your digital distraction, you were attuned to his every move, ready to step in when the time came. The silent understanding between you both was a testament to the deep bond you shared—a bond forged in these moments of mutual support and quiet companionship. This was your routine, a beautiful dance of dedication and care, ensuring that amidst the whirlwind of his creative storm, he found a safe harbor in your presence.

Eventually, Chan wheeled around in his chair, his gaze locking onto you as you lay sprawled across the couch, indulging in a handful of sour gummies. His eyes softened, the weariness momentarily giving way to a tender appreciation for your presence. For a brief moment, he remained still, simply observing you with a small, tired smile.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he lifted himself from his seat, the soft creak of the chair punctuating the silence. Each step he took toward you seemed to carry the weight of his exhaustion, yet there was a lightness in his eyes as he approached. Without warning, he let his body drape over yours, the suddenness of it eliciting a startled yelp from your lips.

His warmth enveloped you, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the sweet tang of the gummies you were eating. You quickly dissolved into giggles at his playful actions, your arms instinctively wrapping around his torso in a protective embrace. His presence was a comforting weight, grounding you both in this shared moment of intimacy.

The world outside the studio walls faded away, leaving just the two of you cocooned in a bubble of tranquility. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours, a rhythmic reminder of his presence. Your fingers traced gentle patterns on his back, offering silent reassurance as he melted into your embrace. This was your sanctuary, a haven where exhaustion and stress gave way to love and connection, a beautifully ordinary moment made extraordinary by the simple act of being together.

“Break time?” you asked softly, your voice a gentle melody in the quiet room. Chan responded with a low grunt, his exhaustion evident in the simplicity of his reply. A light giggle escaped your lips, the sound a soft, comforting echo in the studio.

Reaching up, your fingers threaded through the strands of his hair, finding their way to the back of his head. With practiced ease, you began to scratch gently, your touch tender and soothing. Almost immediately, a contented hum rumbled from his chest, a sound that spoke of deep appreciation and relief.

His eyes fluttered closed, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting away under your gentle ministrations. You could feel the subtle shifts in his posture, each exhalation a testament to the comfort he found in your presence. This simple act, a small gesture of care, held a profound intimacy that words could not capture.

The room seemed to cocoon you both, the dim light casting soft shadows that danced along the walls. Each scratch of your fingers was a lullaby, a tender reminder of the bond you shared. In this moment, amidst the ambient hum of the studio and the quiet hum of his contentment, time seemed to slow, allowing you to savor the tranquility of your connection.

His breathing deepened, a silent testament to the trust he placed in you, and you continued your gentle caress, your heart swelling with affection. This was your sanctuary, a place where words were unnecessary, and the simple act of touch spoke volumes.

After a while, you were almost surprised to hear him speak. His voice broke the silence, soft and drowsy, since you had been convinced he had fallen asleep on top of you.

His breathing had slowed, and his weight had settled comfortably against you, creating a warm, enveloping cocoon. The gentle rise and fall of his chest against yours had lulled you into a tranquil state, where the world outside seemed a distant memory.

“Good day today?” he murmured, his words a tender vibration against your skin. The question carried a quiet intimacy, a bridge between the waking world and the serene bubble you both inhabited.

You blinked, the unexpectedness of his voice pulling you from your reverie. A smile curled at your lips as you looked down at him, your fingers stilling momentarily in his hair. The soft light from the studio cast a gentle glow on his face, highlighting the subtle lines of fatigue that framed his eyes.

“It was alright,” you answered with a weak shrug, your eyes remaining fixed on the ceiling. The subtle patterns in the plaster seemed to shift and dance as you reveled in the closeness between the two of you, his warmth a comforting presence against your body.

As you lay there, you felt the weight of the day begin to lift, the quiet intimacy of the moment creating a sanctuary from the world outside. The soft rise and fall of his breathing against you was a soothing rhythm, grounding you in the present.

“I mostly kept to myself today,” you continued, your voice a soft murmur in the tranquil room. “It just felt like such a long day for some reason.”

Your words hung in the air, a quiet confession that carried the weariness of the hours you had endured. Each moment of solitude, each minute that had dragged on, seemed to dissipate now in the comforting embrace of his presence.

Chan shifted, adjusting his position to place his weight on his forearms, which were now on either side of your head. This allowed him to lean back slightly, creating just enough space to gaze down at your face. The closeness of his presence, combined with the tenderness in his eyes, sent a flutter through your heart.

The dim light of the studio cast gentle shadows across his features, softening the lines of exhaustion and highlighting the quiet strength in his expression. His gaze held a mixture of empathy and understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the weariness you both shared.

“It really did feel like an unnecessarily long day for me, too,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble that resonated in the small space between you. The words carried a weight of shared experience, a bond forged through mutual understanding and silent support.

His eyes traced the contours of your face, lingering on the subtle nuances of your expression. You could feel the connection between you deepening, each unspoken thought and emotion passing effortlessly between you. His proximity, the warmth of his body, and the gentle cadence of his words created a cocoon of intimacy that enveloped you both.

As you looked up at him, you could see the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, a mirror to your own feelings. The shared acknowledgment of the day's trials brought a sense of comfort, a reminder that you were not alone in your struggles.

The room seemed to fade into the background, the ambient sounds of the studio becoming a distant hum. All that mattered in this moment was the quiet exchange between you, a sanctuary of understanding and support. His presence, so close and so tender, was a balm to the fatigue that had weighed heavily on you both throughout the day.

You reached up, your fingers gently brushing against his cheek, a silent gesture of reassurance and affection. His eyes softened even further, and a small, grateful smile played at the corners of his lips. In this moment, the long day seemed to fade away, replaced by the warmth of your connection and the promise of shared solace.

The hand that had been tenderly scratching his hair now shifted to cup his cheek, your fingers tracing the delicate curve of his jaw. The touch was gentle, filled with a warmth that only deepened the connection between you. Chan immediately leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as he savored the contact, a soft smile gracing his lips.

His skin felt warm against your palm, and you could sense the quiet gratitude in the way he pressed closer, finding comfort in the simple gesture. The room around you seemed to hold its breath, the ambient hum of the studio fading into the background as the moment stretched between you.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Chan leaned down, his breath mingling with yours in the intimate space. His eyes met yours for a fleeting second, a silent exchange of affection and understanding, before he pressed a gentle kiss onto your forehead. The contact was tender, imbued with a sweetness that made your heart swell.

As his lips brushed your skin, your eyes fluttered closed, the world around you dissolving into a haze of warmth and closeness. The kiss lingered, a silent promise of care and support that wrapped around you like a comforting embrace. You could feel the soft exhalation of his breath, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the unspoken words that filled the space between you.

Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into an eternity of quiet connection. Your senses were heightened, every detail of the moment imprinted in your memory—the gentle pressure of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the soothing cadence of his presence. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated intimacy, a sanctuary of love and understanding that transcended the weariness of the day.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes opened slowly, meeting yours with a gaze that spoke volumes. There was a softness there, a tenderness that mirrored your own feelings, and in that shared look, you found a renewed sense of strength and comfort. The weight of the day seemed to lift, replaced by the warmth of his presence and the promise of more moments like this, filled with love and quiet understanding.

“I missed you so much,” he murmured, his voice a gentle whisper that seemed to reverberate through the quiet studio. He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, seeking solace in the warmth and familiarity of your embrace. His breath, warm and steady, brushed against your skin, sending a shiver of tenderness down your spine.

You could feel the sincerity in his words, each syllable carrying the weight of his longing and affection. The closeness of his body against yours, the way he nestled into you as if finding his way home, spoke volumes about the depth of his feelings. It was a quiet confession, one that wrapped around your heart and made it swell with love.

“All I could do was watch the time until you finally joined me here,” he continued, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to melt into the air around you. His words painted a vivid picture of his anticipation, the minutes and hours stretching out endlessly as he waited for the moment you would walk through the door.

The imagery of his longing played in your mind, each tick of the clock echoing his silent wish for your presence. You imagined him glancing at the time, his thoughts drifting to you with each passing minute, the studio filled with the hum of his work yet missing the comforting presence that only you could bring.

Your hand moved to gently stroke his hair, your fingers weaving through the soft strands as you offered silent reassurance. The tactile connection was a balm to both your souls, a physical manifestation of the love that flowed between you. His body relaxed further into yours, the tension of the day gradually melting away as he found peace in your embrace.

The room around you seemed to fade into the background, the dim light casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls. It was as if the world had shrunk to encompass only the two of you, a cocoon of intimacy where time moved at its own pace. The rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart against yours, created a symphony of togetherness that filled the space with warmth and connection.

As you held him, your heart echoed his sentiments. The hours apart had felt like a lifetime, each moment tinged with the anticipation of being reunited. Now, in the quiet sanctity of the studio, you reveled in the simple joy of being close, of sharing the same breath and heartbeat. This was your haven, a place where love and longing intertwined, creating a tapestry of moments that were as beautiful as they were fleeting.

A blush crept onto your cheeks, a rosy bloom spreading warmth through your skin as his words settled in your heart. Your smile widened, a reflection of the joy and affection that welled up within you. As Chan leaned back to face you once more, his eyes met yours with a gaze that spoke of longing and love.

Without hesitation, you leaned up to capture his lips in a kiss, the movement swift and eager. The initial touch was tender, a sweet brush of connection, but almost unconsciously, you found yourself deepening the kiss. The world around you seemed to blur, the boundaries of the studio fading into insignificance as you lost yourself in the moment.

Chan responded with equal passion, his lips moving against yours in a dance of fervor and intimacy. Each kiss, each caress, was a silent declaration of the emotions that words could not fully convey. The heat of the kiss ignited a spark that spread through your veins, a fiery rush of desire and affection that left you breathless.

As your lips melded together, you could feel his fingers busying themselves, threading through your hair with gentle yet deliberate movements. The sensation sent shivers down your spine, each touch a soothing balm and an electric thrill all at once. His fingertips traced patterns along your scalp, weaving through the strands of your hair in a tender, almost reverent manner.

The kiss deepened further, your senses heightening with every passing second. You could taste the lingering sweetness of his breath, feel the warmth of his skin, and hear the faint rustle of clothing as you both shifted closer. The world outside ceased to exist, the only reality the intoxicating blend of your shared breaths and the soft hum of the studio in the background.

Time seemed to stretch, each moment expanding to hold the fullness of your connection. Your heart raced, its beat a rhythmic echo of the passion that thrummed between you. The kiss was a symphony of emotions, a harmonious blend of love, desire, and an unspoken promise of togetherness.

Just as the kiss began to deepen, an unexpected sound shattered the moment—the door creaking open with an almost comical slowness. The intrusion was abrupt, and both of you were startled from your intimate cocoon. Chan, reacting instinctively, tried to detach himself from you with haste, his sudden movement sending him rolling off the couch.

The transition was less than graceful; he landed rather harshly on the floor beside you, the impact eliciting a low groan from him. He grimaced, immediately starting to rub his lower back in an attempt to soothe the jolt of pain from the fall. The couch, once a haven of warmth and affection, now stood empty and slightly disheveled, a testament to the sudden disruption.

Your eyes shifted to the doorway, where Jisung stood frozen for a split second, his own eyes wide with shock at the scene before him. The surprise in his expression was fleeting, quickly giving way to a playful smirk. His eyebrows wiggled suggestively as he leaned casually against the doorframe, his gaze dancing with mischievous amusement.

The contrast between the intense moment you had shared and the lightheartedness of Jisung's entrance was jarring. As the initial surprise subsided, the atmosphere shifted from one of intimate connection to one of awkward hilarity. The room, now filled with the soft chuckles of Jisung and the embarrassed, lingering blush on your cheeks, felt distinctly different.

You and Chan exchanged glances, your faces flushed with a mix of embarrassment and amusement. Chan’s attempt to regain composure while still rubbing his sore back added to the scene’s comedic effect. In the midst of the disruption, the warmth of the moment seemed to dissipate, replaced by the easy camaraderie of Jisung’s teasing presence.

“I can come back later,” Jisung said, his voice carrying an unmistakable hint of playful suggestion. The words lingered in the air, charged with an amused undertone that made it clear he was fully aware of the scene he had just interrupted.

You responded with an exaggerated roll of your eyes, a playful gesture that contrasted sharply with the initial embarrassment. Your smile, though slightly flushed, held a warmth of shared amusement. The gesture was both a dismissal of the teasing and a silent acknowledgment of the lighthearted banter Jisung was introducing.

Chan, still seated on the floor, let out a soft scoff, the sound a mixture of mild frustration and reluctant humor. His expression, though slightly exasperated, softened as he met Jisung’s teasing gaze. The contrast between the seriousness of the moment and the levity Jisung brought was palpable, and Chan’s reaction spoke to the blend of embarrassment and begrudging acceptance of the interruption.

“Did you need something?” Chan inquired, his voice a mixture of curiosity and residual embarrassment as he pushed himself up from the floor. With a slight wince and a careful stretch, he made his way back to his chair, resettling into the spot he had vacated moments before.

Jisung stepped into the studio, his presence marked by the purposeful stride and the iPad clutched in his hand. He took a seat in one of the empty chairs, his movements deliberate and focused, a contrast to the playful banter that had just filled the room. The iPad, held like a cherished artifact, seemed to hum with the promise of creative endeavor.

“Yeah,” Jisung began, his tone shifting from teasing to serious. The change was palpable, and the lightness that had accompanied his entrance melted away, replaced by a more earnest demeanor. He glanced down at the device in his hands, the weight of his words evident in the subtle tension of his posture.

“I just finished writing this song,” he continued, his voice laced with a hint of frustration. “I thought I might ask you for some feedback.” His gaze met Chan’s with a mix of anticipation and concern. “I’m struggling to find the melody for it, though.”

The request hung in the air, a testament to Jisung’s dedication and the challenge he faced. The room, once charged with the intimacy of your earlier exchange, now buzzed with the promise of collaboration and the earnest pursuit of creative refinement. Chan’s expression shifted to one of thoughtful consideration, his earlier amusement giving way to the focused attention that Jisung’s request deserved.

As Chan prepared to listen, the studio seemed to take on a new energy, one of shared purpose and artistic exploration. The casual comfort of the space, with its soft lighting and the scattered remnants of your earlier moment, now became a haven for the exchange of creative ideas and constructive feedback.

이민호 ── LEE MINHO.

The only sounds that punctuated the tranquil evening were the soft clinks of ceramic and glass as they met and departed in gentle harmony. Minho's hands moved deftly in the soapy water, each dish emerging clean from the frothy embrace of the sink. He would pass the polished plates and gleaming utensils to you with practiced ease, and you would then guide them through a final rinse, the clear water cascading over them like a delicate waterfall.

This rhythmic dance of choreographed movements unfolded in a serene cocoon of silence, where each clink and splash became a soothing symphony of domestic tranquility. The dim light from the overhead fixture cast a warm, golden glow, illuminating the quiet intimacy of the moment.

You leaned closer, resting your head lightly upon Minho’s shoulder, finding solace in the gentle rise and fall of his breaths. The simple act of watching him, so absorbed in his task, filled you with a deep sense of contentment. The harmony of your shared routine seemed to weave a thread of comfort through the evening, binding you both in a quiet, unspoken connection.

Minho had prepared a sumptuous feast, each dish a testament to his culinary prowess. The table was adorned with a vibrant spread of delectable creations, each plate a masterpiece in its own right. As the meal began, the room was alive with a symphony of laughter and lively chatter, the air thick with the aroma of spices and savory delights. The members gathered around, their faces illuminated by the warm light of the overhead lamp, their voices weaving a tapestry of animated conversations.

But now, as the final morsels were savored and the last sips of wine enjoyed, a tranquil silence had settled over the room. The clamor of exuberant laughter had given way to a peaceful hush, the once-bustling table now a haven of contented quiet. The lingering scents of the meal mingled with the soft hum of satisfaction, creating an atmosphere of serene afterglow. Everyone leaned back in their chairs, basking in the lingering warmth of good food and even better company.

The plan had been simple and straightforward: you would take on the task of washing the dishes while Minho, who had diligently prepared the meal, would enjoy a well-deserved rest. Yet Minho, with his unwavering determination, had other ideas. His refusal to let you tackle the chore alone was as steadfast as it was endearing.

With a warm, insistent smile, Minho proposed that you both share the task, transforming the mundane chore into a collaborative effort. His eyes sparkled with a mix of stubbornness and affection, a look that left little room for argument. Despite your initial reluctance and the mild exasperation that accompanied it, you found yourself yielding to his gentle insistence.

The prospect of working side by side, immersed in the rhythmic clinks of plates and the soothing warmth of soapy water, began to take on a new charm. Minho’s determination to be your partner in this small yet significant task softened your resistance, allowing you to embrace the shared experience with a touch of reluctant but genuine fondness.

As Minho passed you the final cup he had washed, the delicate glass cool and smooth in your hands, he turned his attention to rinsing his own hands. The kitchen was bathed in a soft, amber glow from the overhead light, casting gentle shadows that danced across the room. He dried his hands with a kitchen towel, the fabric absorbing the last traces of moisture with a quiet efficiency.

Watching you with a tender gaze, his sharp features softened into an expression of serene affection. The contrast of his usual intensity with this gentle demeanor created a moment of profound intimacy. As you felt the lightest brush of his lips on the crown of your head, a shy smile unfurled on your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the warmth and closeness between you.

After you had finished rinsing the last cup, Minho reached out, offering you the towel he had used. The gesture, simple yet laden with care, spoke volumes of his desire to share this small, endearing ritual. His touch lingered with a quiet intimacy, as if the act of handing you the towel was another way of weaving a thread of connection into the fabric of your shared evening.

"Dinner was delicious, as always, my love," you murmured with a contented sigh, letting the kitchen towel slip from your fingers and fall gently to the floor. You moved closer, enfolding him in a tender embrace. Your arms wrapped around his lean torso, drawing him into the warmth of your affection.

Resting your chin on his chest, you tilted your head upwards to gaze at him with adoration. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek provided a soothing backdrop to your heartfelt gratitude. "Thank you," you whispered softly, your voice a tender caress against the quiet of the evening. In that moment, the simple act of holding each other spoke volumes, a silent testament to the depth of your shared love and appreciation.

A playful twinkle sparkled in his eyes as he looked at you, his smile radiating warmth and affection. His fingers, gentle and reassuring, wove through your hair with a tender touch, as if savoring the moment of closeness.

"I’m glad you enjoyed the meal," he murmured, his voice a soft caress against the quiet. The sincerity of his words was mirrored in the affectionate way he stroked your hair, his touch both soothing and intimate. In that shared, tranquil moment, his gaze and gentle gestures spoke volumes about the care and joy he found in seeing you content.

What began as a fleeting, tender kiss on your cheek had swiftly transformed into a fervent embrace of lips. The gentle touch of his lips ignited a spark, leading to a passionate kiss where your tongues engaged in their well-practiced dance, exploring and intertwining with a fluid grace.

His hands cradled your face with an exquisite tenderness, as though he feared that any more pressure might shatter the delicate connection between you. The way his fingers caressed your cheeks, with such gentle reverence, conveyed a deep sense of reverence and care. Each touch seemed to convey an unspoken promise, a silent pledge to cherish and protect the fragile beauty of the moment.

“Oh—!” A sudden, startled yelp pierced the air, shattering the intimate bubble that had enveloped you and Minho. Heads whipped around in unison to find Yongbok standing at the kitchen entrance, his expression a mix of surprise and awkward hesitation.

He lingered at the threshold, caught between the decision to either step into the room or retreat to the safety of the living room. His stance, poised mid-step with uncertainty written across his face, underscored the unexpected intrusion into what had been a moment of tender privacy.

"Ah," Minho exhaled with a playful whine, his head tilting to the side as if weighed down by exaggerated exasperation. He squeezed his eyes shut, the corners of his mouth curving into a mock frown that was both endearing and dramatic.

"I can’t seem to have a moment of solitude in here," he lamented, his tone laced with a humorous undertone. The theatrics of his gesture and the melodramatic sigh added a layer of lightheartedness to the interruption, making his feigned annoyance all the more charming.

A deep blush colored Yongbok’s cheeks as he bowed his head slightly, offering a silent apology that spoke volumes. His embarrassment was palpable, yet he moved with a purposeful grace, stepping into the kitchen with a mix of shyness and determination.

He made a beeline for the freezer, his movements quick and somewhat furtive. With a swift motion, he retrieved a brand new tub of ice cream, the cool container a stark contrast to the warmth of his cheeks. As he slipped back toward the door, his voice broke through the quiet with an embarrassed yet earnest, “Sorry!” His hasty retreat, accompanied by the muffled sound of the freezer closing, left a lingering trace of his red-faced mortification.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the unfolding scene, the sound a soft ripple of amusement in the otherwise quiet room. Your hands gently rested on Minho’s biceps, feeling the subtle strength beneath his shirt as you turned to face him once more.

Minho was already gazing at you with a look that combined mischief and amusement, his eyes sparkling with a playful light that drew you in. The sight of his tender, yet mischievous expression made your heart flutter, an involuntary blush creeping across your cheeks. The warmth of your blush contrasted with the coolness of the evening, adding a delightful layer to the already enchanting moment.

“Should I escort everyone who doesn’t reside here out?” Minho mused aloud, his index finger tapping thoughtfully against his chin. The gesture was deliberate, a small ritual of contemplation as he considered the crowded scene around him.

He sighed softly, his gaze drifting towards you with a mix of longing and humor. “I’d really appreciate a moment of solitude with my lover,” he continued, his voice tinged with playful exasperation. The desire for privacy was clear in his words, a heartfelt wish for a brief respite from the throng of people that seemed to encircle you both.

Your cheeks flushed deeper at his remark, the warmth of your blush spreading as you playfully slapped his chest with a gentle, teasing motion. “No, I actually enjoy having them here,” you replied, your voice carrying a soft, affectionate tone.

Minho’s reaction was swift and dramatic—he pouted, a look of mock offense crossing his features. His expression was almost comically wounded, adding a layer of endearing charm to his demeanor. “You love them here, too,” he retorted, his voice tinged with a hint of playful reproach. “We don’t get many chances to spend time like this, surrounded by everyone we care about.” His words carried a mix of sincerity and affection, highlighting the rare and cherished moments of togetherness amidst the lively company.

Though Minho recognized the truth in your words, he couldn’t resist the dramatic flair of throwing his head back in an exaggerated display of exasperation. The gesture was both theatrical and endearing, a playful prelude to the amused smile that soon graced his lips as he turned back to face you.

With a gentle peck on your forehead, his affection was palpable and tender, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes. Minho then shifted slightly, subtly encouraging you to step back and make room for him to maneuver. Together, you both ventured back into the living room, where the lively banter of the other members filled the air. Their animated debate over which movie to watch created a backdrop of joyful chaos, adding a touch of familiar, comfortable noise to the evening’s unfolding scenes.

서창빈 ── SEO CHANGBIN.

As you stepped into the familiar confines of the gym, the echo of your footsteps reverberated through the empty space. The dim lighting cast a soft glow on the rows of pristine equipment, all neatly aligned yet untouched, giving the place an almost ethereal quality. It was a sanctuary of solitude, the usual clamor replaced by a serene silence, the gym technically closed to the public. But Changbin, with his special privileges, had always been an exception.

Changbin's eyes sparkled with curiosity as he turned to you, a playful smile dancing on his lips. "What are you going to be working on today?" he inquired, his voice gentle yet brimming with enthusiasm.

You took a moment, savoring the tranquility, before taking a swift sip from your water bottle. "Today, I’ll focus on my arms and chest," you replied, your voice steady and resolute. "But I’m starting with cardio."

Changbin nodded, his expression one of approval and understanding. Leaning in, he pressed a tender kiss onto your cheek, the warmth of his lips lingering like a delicate whisper. He then gently nudged you towards the treadmill, his touch both encouraging and affectionate. "Today's leg day for me," he declared with a soft chuckle, his eyes glinting with determination.

As you began your workout, the rhythmic hum of the treadmill filled the air, blending seamlessly with the soft rustle of your movements. The gym, though silent and still, seemed to come alive with the shared energy and quiet companionship, a testament to the unspoken bond you and Changbin cherished.

Just like that, you both found yourselves immersed in your own worlds, each movement and breath synchronizing with the rhythm of your workouts. The gym seemed to fade away, leaving only the steady cadence of your heartbeats and the pulsating energy of your exertion.

Your large headphones enveloped your ears, cocooning you in a bubble of high-energy music. Each song, meticulously selected for its invigorating beat, propelled you forward, every stride on the treadmill matching the tempo of the powerful tunes. The music was your fuel, igniting your determination and driving you through each passing minute.

Meanwhile, Changbin was equally engrossed in his routine, his focus unwavering as he pushed through the burn of leg day. The clang of weights and the soft thud of his movements created a rhythm of their own, a testament to his dedication and strength.

When the thirty minutes finally elapsed, you both reconvened, seeking each other's presence for a much-needed respite. Your breath came in shallow pants, the exertion evident in the slight sheen of sweat glistening on your skin. The treadmill had tested your endurance, leaving you flushed and glowing with the heat of your efforts.

Changbin, too, bore the marks of his intense workout. His face was flushed, and beads of perspiration trickled down his temples. He lifted his water bottle, tilting it back to down a generous portion of the cool liquid, the refreshing sensation bringing a momentary relief from the heat.

As you caught your breath, the shared silence was comforting, a mutual understanding that needed no words. The gym, still hushed and serene, felt like a haven where both of you could push your limits and find solace in each other’s presence.

"I was watching you while you were running," Changbin remarked after wiping his mouth, his tone carrying a playful edge that made you smirk. His dark eyes sparkled with a mix of admiration and mischief as he continued, "You look so good, it’s not even remotely funny or fair."

You couldn't help but scoff, rolling your eyes at him, but the warmth in his gaze made it impossible to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. Stepping closer to your boyfriend, you felt a surge of affection. The scent of his cologne mingled with the fresh, clean aroma of the gym, creating an intimate bubble around you both.

In one swift motion, you captured his lips with yours, the kiss light and teasing. You giggled, delighting in the surprised look on his face as you pulled away before he had a chance to react. His pout was adorable, a mixture of mock annoyance and genuine desire.

Not one to be outdone, Changbin leaned down, closing the distance between you. His lips found yours again, this time more firmly, conveying a deeper passion and a hint of possessiveness. The kiss was a promise, a silent affirmation of his feelings, and you responded in kind, melting into the moment.

The gym, with its quiet solitude and dim lighting, faded into the background. All that mattered was the connection between you two, the electricity in the air as your lips met and parted. It was a stolen moment of tenderness and playfulness, a testament to the unique bond you shared.

As you should have expected, Changbin wasted no time in reaching up to cradle your face, his fingers tender yet firm against your skin. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and his intent was clear: he wanted to deepen the kiss, to lose himself in the moment with you.

The world seemed to fade away as his lips moved against yours, each touch a testament to his longing. However, before the kiss could escalate, a sudden, sharp sound shattered the tranquility. The door banged open with a loud thud, startling you both apart, your hearts pounding not just from the exertion but from the abrupt interruption.

You and Changbin turned simultaneously, eyes wide with surprise and a hint of annoyance, to find Jeongin standing by the door. His expression was a mixture of embarrassment and amusement, a sheepish smile spreading across his face as he took in the scene.

"I'm sorry," Jeongin began, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I didn't know you guys would need some time—"

He hesitated, glancing between you and Changbin, the awkwardness of the situation apparent. The silence stretched for a moment, thick with unspoken words and the remnants of the interrupted kiss.

Jeongin's smile turned a bit more genuine as he added, "I can give you five minutes to finish, though."

The jab had you cackling, the sound echoing through the gym. Changbin, however, feigned offense, playfully yelling, "Hey! I can last a hell of a lot longer than some measly five minutes!" He huffed dramatically, his pout exaggerated to drive home the point. Jeongin laughed, shaking his head slightly, amused by the spectacle.

"What are you even doing here?" Changbin asked after a beat of silence, curiosity piqued.

Jeongin cocked his head to the side, his expression almost puzzled. "You…we agreed I’d meet you here tonight to work out…" His words trailed off, the memory slowly dawning on him as he spoke.

As if struck by sudden realization, Changbin gasped theatrically, slapping his palm against his forehead. "That’s right! I’m sorry, come in." His apology was earnest, his eyes reflecting a mixture of guilt and amusement.

"Oh, I’d rather not be a third wheel, thank you very much," Jeongin teased, a playful glint in his eyes. You rolled your eyes at him, unable to suppress a smile. The banter was light-hearted, a testament to the easy camaraderie between you all.

Changbin, on the other hand, wasn't about to let his friend off the hook that easily. "Oh, no you don’t!" he called out, his voice booming through the gym. He rushed forward, grabbing Jeongin by the shirt as he attempted to leave, pulling him back into the gym with surprising strength.

Jeongin's protests were half-hearted, more amused than anything else. The scene was almost comical, the gym’s solemnity broken by your laughter and the playful antics of your friends. It was a moment of shared joy, a reminder of the bonds that held you together even in the most mundane of settings.

황현진 ── HWANG HYUNJIN.

You whine softly, your voice barely above a whisper, as you press your hand against Hyunjin's forehead to push him away. His persistence is unwavering, though, and he keeps returning with puckered lips and mischievous eyes that sparkle with playful intent. The soft glow of the television casts a warm hue over the room, illuminating his features and accentuating the twinkle in his eyes.

For quite some time now, Hyunjin had been trying to capture your lips with his own, his attempts at stealing kisses becoming increasingly daring. Yet, your focus remained steadfast on the movie playing on the screen. The film’s storyline had finally ensnared your attention, and for once, you wanted to see it through without distractions. You couldn't help but feel a bit guilty, knowing how much Hyunjin craved these intimate moments, but the timing just didn't feel right.

Besides, the living room of the apartment he shared with his roommate, Changbin, didn’t seem like the ideal setting for such affection. The thought of indulging in romantic gestures here, even with the knowledge that Changbin was away at the gym, felt unsettling. The echo of his presence lingered in the air, and the mere idea of it dulled the allure of Hyunjin's advances. The movie provided a convenient shield, a reason to resist the pull of his playful charm, as you both sat close yet worlds apart on the couch.

"Come on," Hyunjin complained, his voice tinged with a playful whine as he pouted, his lips forming a perfect, exaggerated curve. The sight of him like this, with his bottom lip jutting out and his eyes wide with mock disappointment, sent a ripple of amusement through you. Unable to suppress a giggle, you found his expression irresistibly adorable, a stark contrast to his usual confident demeanor.

"Just a little bit, and then I'll leave you alone," he pleaded, his tone a mixture of enticement and surrender. His persistence was endearing, a testament to his desire for your attention and affection. You sighed theatrically, rolling your eyes with feigned exasperation at his dramatic antics, yet a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. Hyunjin's charm was a force to be reckoned with, and even in moments like these, he knew exactly how to push your buttons.

"The movie is almost done," you stated, glancing at the television screen and pointing with the remote in your hand. The film's climax was nearing, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and relief. "Once the movie is done, I'm all yours — fair?" Your words hung in the air, a promise of undivided attention once the credits rolled.

Hyunjin huffed in playful defeat, his breath escaping in a soft, theatrical exhale. With a resigned nod, he agreed, then settled himself comfortably on the couch, laying his head on your lap while his feet dangled off the armrest. The weight of his head on your thighs felt familiar and comforting. A chuckle escaped your lips as you unpaused the movie, your fingers instinctively weaving through his long, silken hair, the strands slipping like liquid gold between your fingertips.

There was something endearing about Hyunjin's behavior, how he could be so clingy and needy despite his usual claims of not being a fan of physical affection. It amused you endlessly, this dichotomy of his personality, and you couldn't help but smile at the contrast. His presence was a delightful distraction, one that added a layer of warmth and intimacy to the moment.

As the movie continued to play, you found yourself getting drawn back into the plot, though not without the occasional commentary meant to elicit laughter from Hyunjin. Your whispered remarks and shared giggles created a cozy cocoon of companionship, the outside world fading away as you reveled in the simple pleasure of being together. Each touch, each laugh, each whispered word added another stitch to the tapestry of your shared moments, weaving a bond that felt unbreakable.

When the movie finally came to an end, you barely had a moment to register the closing credits before Hyunjin practically launched himself at you, his lithe form straddling your lap with an impish grin lighting up his face. His eyes sparkled with a playful mischief, and without warning, he began to pepper your face and neck with a flurry of kisses. Each feather-light touch sent delightful shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but giggle loudly, the sound filling the room with infectious joy.

Despite your best efforts to push him away, your attempts were half-hearted at best, your resolve weakened by the sheer delight of his affectionate onslaught. Hyunjin, ever the tease, quickly caught your wrists in his grasp, pinning them securely to his lap. His grip was firm yet gentle, and his eyes danced with laughter as he resumed his barrage of kisses. The sensation of his lips against your skin, warm and insistent, left you breathless and giddy.

You wriggled and squirmed beneath him, your laughter rising in pitch as you became a squealing, giggling mess. The room seemed to blur around you, the only clarity being the closeness of Hyunjin, the feel of his body pressed against yours, and the sound of his laughter mingling with your own. His kisses were relentless, each one a playful declaration of his affection, and no amount of squirming seemed to deter him.

In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only you and Hyunjin, caught in a whirlwind of shared laughter and tender kisses. Your attempts at defense were futile, each wriggle and squeal only serving to encourage him further. Yet, beneath the playful struggle, there was a profound sense of happiness, a blissful contentment that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

Lost in your own bubble of joy and affection, neither of you noticed when Changbin returned from the gym. He stood silently by the doorway, his phone poised in front of his face, capturing the endearing chaos unfolding before him. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he recorded the scene, amused by the playful display of intimacy.

It was only when you turned your head and caught sight of him that a startled yelp escaped your lips. The sound jolted Hyunjin from his revelry, his expression shifting from delight to confusion. "Hey! What are you doing? Are you filming?" you asked with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. The sudden shift in your tone finally alerted Hyunjin to his roommate’s presence.

Changbin’s boisterous laughter erupted, filling the space with a rich, hearty sound. He quickly turned off his phone and shoved it into his pocket, but not before Hyunjin had leapt from your lap, his face a mix of mock outrage and concern. “That’s an invasion of privacy!” Hyunjin declared with exaggerated drama, his voice ringing through the room.

Your laughter mingled with Changbin’s as you shot Hyunjin a teasing look. “Baby, we’re in the living room. This is not a private space for you to be saying that.” Hyunjin’s face fell into a pout, his lower lip jutting out as he glanced at you.

“Whose side are you on, huh?” he asked, a playful edge to his tone.

Changbin, clearly entertained by the bickering, shook his head with a chuckle as he turned and made his way towards his bedroom. His amusement lingered in the air, a lighthearted reminder of the everyday warmth and camaraderie that filled the apartment. The door closed softly behind him, leaving you and Hyunjin to continue your playful exchange, the echo of laughter still dancing in the room.

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oatmealwrites · 6 months ago

Text

Initiation

nsfw [FRAT JJK AU] CHOSO X F! READER

Hematology Student! Frat Brother! Jealous! Choso x Grad Student! Reader

Synopsis: It's Yuji's pledge initiation and you've been dragged out to the JJK function to celebrate the fact he's a full member now. Of course the main reason you want to go is to see the one man completely off limits: Yuji's brother Choso. With alcohol flowing and music playing, maybe he'll admit the only reason he comes to these parties is the off chance you show up

NSFWWW (porn with plot LMAO, mdni) Roomate Suguru, slutty Satoru, mentions of alcohol, oral [m receiving], oral [f receiving], female anatomy, she/her pronouns, p in v, unprotected, creampie, aftercare, yuji is a cockblock, helpless pining, jealously, established relationship at the end

this is a LONG ass fic but I had wayyy to much fun writing it hehehe [i wanna keep doing fics like this in the future too]

Word count: 12.8 k (LET ME COOK OK)

Masterlist

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Papers scattered, Red Bulls empty, and lofi playing in the background, it’s one of the rare evenings Suguru joins you at the shared kitchen table to study for an exam. Silently, you pass snacks and drinks to each other, only looking up from your content material to stretch the ache building in your back muscles. On any other Thursday night Suguru would leave you, his roommate, alone in the shared apartment for a ‘chapter meeting’ and return late in the night to continue his studies alone in his room while you stayed in the same position hunched over the wood table for hours on end.

A comfortable silence lingers between the two of you, each too focused on your separate exams to make small talk, but enjoying the atmosphere of not studying alone. It’s a routine that occurs several times a week, and one of the rare occasions you’re actually productive. Eventually the lofi playing on the tv in the living room hits an ad roll and you both take it as a moment to break from the material.

“God this exam is going to be the end of me… remind me why I chose oncology as my specialization again?”

“Pretty sure it was just because Satoru persuaded you to stay in the same med field as him-”

He kicks your shin from under the table and laughs with as much emotion as he could muster given the 3rd hour of review you’ve begun. You weren’t in the same field as Suguru, hell not even the same school of study within the university, but that didn’t stop you from spending hours together reviewing material in a shared state of depression.

“Speaking of which- Satoru’s on his way over.”

Suguru scrolls through his phone mindlessly and pushes back from the table to clear some of the empty snack wrappers that littered the kitchen. You lean back in your chair and frown at him, “Huh? I thought your stupid chapter thing was cancelled.”

He takes a moment to step back from the running sink and flicks some water at you with a smirk, “Ok it’s not stupid, it’s called loyalty to a frat.”

“Yea more like cult-”

He splashes you again, laughing at the way you shriek and desperately try to protect your notes from the potential water damage.

“Ok Ok fine, frat. But why is he coming here anyways?”

Suguru dries his hand on the cheap kitchen towel you bought together when you both moved in and slides his phone off the counter to check his messages again; his other hand runs through the long dark hair he’s let hang freely down.

“Hmm, not sure. He said he’d be here in 10 minutes roughly an hour ago… so that means-”

There’s a quick courtesy knock at the door before the sound of the spare key turning the lock clicks and the wood swings open. Satoru saunters in, no backpack with him, and shuts the door before pulling out a chair, throwing his coat somewhere on the floor, and sitting like he is a third unannounced roommate.

“Hey~”

Suguru opens the fridge and slides him a canned soft drink before walking around to sit back in his original spot.

You don’t mind him, but you do mind the fact this small 15 minute study break could very well turn into a 90 minute one if he plans on staying a while.

“Hey, what are you doing here? No exams to cram for?”

He slides off the sunglasses covering his eyes, even though it’s 6pm, and rests his chin in his hand, letting strands of milky white hair swing idly.

“Nah, not into all that stuff-,” Suguru and you exchange a tired look, “I’m actually here to collect my vice president.”

Suguru sighs and leans his head to the side, making no effort to hide the exhaustion on his face, “Seriously, Satoru? What do you need me for? Chapter’s cancelled this week to prep for the pledges’ final initiation.”

“That’s why I need you! Nanami is holding the frat treasury hostage as we speak– without your override we won’t be able to pay the downpayment on the rental house.”

There’s a twitch in your eyebrow at the conversation. Nearly all your friends were involved with Greek Life in some sort of way, but the frat JJK was infamous for their extravagant parties. Most likely the white haired man’s fault for his expensive taste in renting out a house for each function- finding it easier to simply pay the damages and cleaning fees than actually take care of the property.

“I’ll go with you to Haibara’s, but that’s it Satoru.”

You snap back into the conversation between your roommate and his best friend for the last few sentences, “Suguru and I planned on a delivery order while we studied. Do you wanna come back here with your bag afterwards and join us?”

Satoru breaks the pleading look on his face and turns to you with an airy laugh, “I already said exams aren’t really my thing, I don’t really like trying that hard. Besides,” he puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “I’ll probably be borrowing him for a few hours anyways~”

Suguru shakes his head and stands up to head over to the coat rack and flip through the jackets before sliding on his winter coat. Satoru follows suit and stands up but doesn’t leave the table’s edge; instead he admires your burnt out state. Hair sloppily thrown back, one of Suguru’s undergrad sweatshirts, comfy pants that are nearing 4 years old, and skincare done but no makeup applied.

“You should come.”

“What?”

Satoru makes no move towards his jacket and stays looking at you, “You should come to this party once I get Nanami to approve the budget.”

You stay motionless for a few seconds, already knowing your answer of ‘no’ before the sentence can form on your tongue.

“That’s not her vibe Satoru, you know that,” Suguru wraps a dark scarf around his neck and tosses the puffer jacket towards his friend.

“Still, it would be good to get you out of the house.”

A small ‘V’ is formed by the scrunching of your eyebrows as you watch the man now finally shimmy the coat he threw on the floor back onto his shoulders.

“I do leave the house for your information. I actually go to class and regularly study at the library in addition to meeting with my thesis professor.”

Satoru lifts his hands and rolls his eyes dramatically, “Oh my, what a great social life you got there. At this rate I’m sure the space between your thighs has grown cobwebs.”

“Hey!”

“Satoru-” Suguru warns his friend with a slight shove.

He raises his hands in defense but turns back to you, “ok my bad, rude wording. But still, you need some stress relief,” he snaps his fingers, “or sex relief.”

Suguru smacks him again while Satoru is too busy laughing at his own joke before pulling up the zipper on his jacket. You stand and turn to the fridge, trying to avoid letting the truthfulness of the commnet get under your skin. You’ve gone on dates before, mostly with assholes who never get a second one, but it’s not like you were actively trying to stay single, just no one caught your eye.

Ok that’s a lie.

In all honesty nearly every member of that stupid frat was painfully attractive, but the one you couldn’t help thinking about was the only one totally off limits: your best friend Yuji’s older brother.

God even thinking about him was enough to make you lose focus as you dug around in the fridge for another energy drink. Dark hair pulled back, a scar? No, birthmark? Tattoo? Across this bridge of his nose, and a body you’re sure is sculpted from marble. To top it off he never once made you feel uncomfortable or objectified like half the members of the frat did when they flirted at parties. Nope, he was a total gentleman who always put his brothers first and never asked for anything in return.

Suguru brings his index finger under his chin in a silent thought while Satoru rubs the spot on his arm where he was just punched.

“Come to think of it, when was the last time you brought someone home?”

An apple from the refrigerator flies towards both of them, but Satoru catches it with ease and begins to howl with laughter. Suguru laughs a little, though less mockingly than his friend, “you know I wouldn’t mind having to give you a noise complaint once in a while.”

“BOTH OF YOU-!”

The two men continue their laughter and torment, making your frustration only grow inexplicably bigger as you watch.

“Alright well,” Satoru wipes a tear from his eye and opens the door to slide the spare key back under the welcome mat, “Wish us luck on getting this party approved! See ya later babe~”

Suguru gives him one last push before waving off and shutting the door behind him while you sit alone at the kitchen table now listening to the subtle lofi continuing to play in the background. It’s lonelier but not unfamiliar as you collect your papers and organize them into your backpack, unable to focus in the apartment anymore.

It would be impossible to face Yuji at this moment, too caught up in the terrible thoughts about his brother infesting your brain. Instead you slide out your phone and click on Megumi’s contact before hitting ‘dial’. There’s a dial tone that rings three times before a gruff voice mumbles out a short ‘hello?’.

“Hey it’s me! Wanna go to the campus library?”

*******

A few days go by and most evenings are spent alone in the apartment with Suguru being dragged by Satoru to finalize purchases for the now approved function. Nanami and Haibara gave the green light on the rental house, but it left a majority of the budget unable to cover the steep alcohol costs. Not that any of it would deter Satoru of course: being heir to his family’s extremely successful private hospital left him swiping his metal black credit card without a second glance at the final price, purchasing enough alcohol to stock an entire bar.

This Wednesday night is like many of the others you’ve had this semester so far, sitting in the campus library with Megumi and Toge reviewing projects, editing thesis papers, and cramming content before exams. The three of you work silently, sipping on to-go coffee cups and listening to music playing in your respective headphones. Occasionally a ‘ping’ from Toge texting you memes causes a slight break to giggle at his antics, but they’re short lived and the three of you continue working again.

“Hey guys!” “See? I told you they would be here!”

Yuji and Nobara stroll up, dressed casually and without any backpacks in tow. The three of you at the table exchange a quick glance before sliding chairs over and making room for them to sit.

“You have to come Y/N,” Yuji whines while shaking your arm back and forth in a pleading manner, “You literally never attend the functions.”

Any attempt to continue reviewing your lecture notes is thrown out the window by now as Yuji continues to shake your arm with vigor.

“Yuuuji. Why do you want me to come to this one so badly?”

“It’s my first party as no longer a pledge! I can finally get drunk with no one to drive home and no repercussions. You. Have. To. Come.”

He shakes your shoulders now with each word while Megumi shrugs his shoulders at Nobara who is attempting the same conversation on him.

“You’re on attendance probation for missing too many social events Megumi, you have to attend.”

“I don’t even wanna be in this frat anyways, wouldn’t probation be beneficial to me?”

Toge leans across the table, already deciding he was indeed going to the party and carpooling with Yuta to the function; he gives Megumi a confused look silently before Nobara explains.

“His dad is a legacy member, so he was basically born to be in the frat,” she turns to Megumi, “It’s also highly unlikely you’ll ever be kicked out too- with that idiot Satoru as your big, he’d never let you drop.”

Megumi rolls his eyes and huffs, looking at you in exhaustion and longing to continue studying already. Yuji continues shaking you until you’re able to pry his hand off your shoulders for a moment, a small headache forming from the yelling.

“Ok ok, shush please! I don’t wanna get kicked out.”

He dulls his whines to whimper.

“I’ll go ok? But who else is even going to be there?”

Yuji breaks into a grin and Nobara nudges Megumi to indicate he has to come too, otherwise he’d be the only person not attending.

“It’s the pres and vice pres of course, Nanamin, Haibara, Shoko, Todo, Choso, -”

The list of names grows but you stop listening after Choso’s name is mentioned, the sound of it bringing your heartrate up immediately.

“Choso..?”

“Huh? Oh yea,” Yuji pauses and grins, “He’s always been set on staying sober during my pledge time with me, so now he can finally get shitfaced with us!”

It’s the type of thing you’re not surprised to hear, Choso being so supportive of his brother and even voluntarily having mediocre Friday nights just to keep him company. He’s been to your apartment a handful of times before, studying for medical exams with Suguru and Satoru when they took shared courses in Hematology, his own specialization. He never came over empty-handed, bringing energy drinks and snacks, and even staying after to clean up any mess they had made.

Every time you would come back from the library or leave your room and see him sitting at your kitchen table like he belonged there, like it was the most natural sight to see, it was enough to make you a stumbling idiot. The scent of his cologne would linger in the air hours after he left, and despite being so collected, he would always text you when he inevitably left something behind. It started out as a pencil case, then a scarf, and now even his sweatshirts had all been left accidentally and only returned when he would call you the next day and offer you coffee in exchange for the forgotten items.

It’s bad. So fucked up to even think of him like this. This is Yuji’s half brother and now full frat brother– pull yourself together.

Yuji continues talking but the only thing running through your mind is the image of Choso’s hair when he lets it down in concentration, the image of his biceps flexing as he slings his heavy backpack on his shoulders and waves you goodbye, or the way his thighs strain against the fabric of his jeans-

“Is that plan ok with you?”

You blink and snap back to reality, now noticing everyone staring at you expectedly and waiting for your response. Yuji points to his phone, open to a message from Suguru aimed at you, “Suguru told me to let you know he wants your help setting up the house on Friday since you’re coming.”

“You already told him?”

Yuji blinks, “Yea I told the group chat…”

A sigh escapes your lips and any excuse now to bail at the last second has dissipated. “...alright.”

****

Steam rolls out of the bathroom door and you use the edge of your robe to swipe away the fog of the mirror,feeling fresh after a grueling ‘everything shower.’ Suguru grunts a small, “finally” before ushering you out of the room so he can piss.

Stepping out into the living room and pivoting into your room, music can be heard in the kitchen, likely Satoru’s doing to fill the silence while he works on packaging liquor bottles and decorations into cardboard boxes.

Skincare, haircare, and lotion on, you rummage through your closet for clothes. On your bed sits a variety of party outfits, though all holding very different vibes. Jeans and cropped shirt were a bit too basic given the ‘initiation’ Yuji kept talking about, and the mini dress seemed too formal considering it was technically still a frat party.

You shuffle through a variety of tops until you settle on black opaque tights under a black miniskirt and an off-the-shoulder tight long sleeve top. The outfit is slutty enough for a frat party but cute enough for a first date if you wanted to recycle the look in the future.

Taking your makeup bag off your dresser and stepping into the living room, you notice the sound of running water from the bathroom.

“Hey! I thought you were just gonna take a piss!”

Suguru can’t hear you or the knocks on the door, but Satoru wolfishly laughs from behind you. Cutting your losses, you place the makeup bag on the kitchen table and slide a few boxes over to make room for you to spread out. Without looking at Satoru and using the compact mirror that came with your blush, you begin applying products.

“I didn’t know you cleaned up this good Y/N.”

“That’s because you never actually see me outside of this apartment,” you grumble, now pressing powder to set your foundation.

Satoru shrugs and continues filling boxes with an array of liquor bottles, but lowers the volume on his phone to make the conversation easier, “Well if I had known, I would’ve made some moves on you sooner.”

You roll your eyes at his exaggerated smile and now focus on applying eyeliner without skimming the surface of your cornea. Before Satoru can thickly lay on another pick up line, Suguru steps out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and snuggly tied just below the ‘V’ line of his pelvis.

You don’t bother looking up, having seen this sight a million times before, and instead you raise your eyebrows dramatically to apply a thin layer of mascara on your bottom lashes. Suguru whistles at your appearance and steps into his room to throw on a t-shirt and jeans while Satoru slides the last few bottles into the final box.

You click your compact shut and zip up your makeup bag, satisfied with your look, and slide your lipgloss into your purse to reapply later. Suguru enters the room and counts the boxes, silently working out in his brain how this would all fit in an Uber with the three of you.

Satoru saunters up next to you and shrugs with a slight wink, “Well if you want those cobwebs cleared out for you I don’t mind helping. Take a quick ride to the party~?”

“That’s my roommate, asshole.”

Suguru nudges him in the rib cage and slides the remaining decorations of strobe lights and speakers into an oversized IKEA bag, waiting for Satoru to help. The white haired man laughs and shrugs with a light ‘worth trying’ mumble before Suguru shoves him again.

You slide on a pair of chunky docs and sling your purse over your shoulder before grabbing Suguru’s phone from the table.

“Hey– Uber’s here.”

The three of you lift as many boxes as your strength allows and make your way down to the apartment lobby to load them into the trunk of the SUV. It takes 2 trips up and down with all three of you carrying boxes until the back is completely filled and the driver looks between you uneasily. Suguru shrugs and sends a few messages to the other brothers while the driver pulls out of the apartment complex and heads towards the rental house; glass bottles clinking with every turn.

You’re squished between Suguru and Satoru, giving a slight nudge to the flirtatious man on your right.

“Hmm? Can’t keep your hands off me already?”

“Ugh, just make sure to tip this guy extra once the ride is over ok?”

Satoru nods and smirks into a shit eating grin, “Of course~ now is there any tip you were hoping to get too-?”

“She’s. My. Roommate. Asshole.”

You laugh lightly and sink into your seat, pulling out your phone and messaging the small group chat with Yuji, Megumi, Toge, Maki, and Nobara that you were going to be setting up the house soon.

******

The rental is huge, fitting the extravagant nature of the man who protested so badly to have it and confirming that Nanami’s hesitation for the budget was completely valid. Boxes filled with alcohol sit on the marble kitchen island while Yuta and Toge work filling coolers with ice and assorted beer bottles and Maki and Nobara stock the freezer with handles of vodka and tequila.

You let out a whistle and do a quick 360 in the room, taking in how the boys have already shoved the sofa and loveseats closer to each other to make room for the pong table Megumi and Yuji were setting up. The house is an open concept with the entire first floor connected except for the staircase leading up to the second floor bedrooms and bathroom.

“Alright, speakers are set up and lights are all working– are the drinks nearly finished?”

“Yep,” Maki shuts the freezer door and turns to Nanami with a thumbs up, “All done!”

Satoru claps his hands and looks around the crowd, “Alright remember– no normies unless we actually know them OR they can name at least 5 brothers. Keep the ratio good, yea?”

The group mumbles a response and breaks up to complete the last few touches, Haibara dims the lights and Suguru sets up his music playlist to the speakers, already queuing a few songs that Shoko recommends him to play. A group of you decide to take a few pre-game shots to loosen up and then split to finish up preparations before anyone arrives.

You walk up to Yuji and help arrange the red solo cups in a pyramid formation on the folding table, “Where’s your brother?”

“Hm? Oh! Choso and Todo are picking up Maki’s sister and a few others. Should be here shortly.”

Yuji is buzzing with energy, excited to get the night started as more pledges begin to trickle in and assist with the final preparations. After a while Haibara officially cuts the overhead lights and turns on the ambient strobes while Suguru increases the volume on the speakers; after another 30 minutes the house is fairly packed with everyone now dancing and drinking. Enough alcohol is coursing through your veins to feel relaxed and warm, but not enough to make you irrational.

You grab a drink from the kitchen and admire the party, giggling with Nobara as Yuji is already borderline shiftfaced and yapping Megumi’s ear off despite the speaker next to them deafening every word.

“Should we stop them?”

“Nah,” Nobara laughs into her drink and points at Todo who’s walking over to the two of them, “I think it’s about to get good.”

“My brother! How can you claim you’re officially a brother when you are unable to win a single game of pong?”

Yuji turns to him confused and Megumi takes this as his opportunity to escape with Nobara following after him and laughing hysterically.

“What does pong have to do with being brothers…?”

“My best friend–” A single tear threatens to fall from Todo’s eye as he grasps a metal chain necklace longingly, “If you can’t increase your skills to win a single game we can’t possibly stay friends. A brother of mine would never be complacent with their mediocre skills!”

Whatever energy Todo emits is enough for Yuji to yell out his passion for improving in beer pong and the two take to the folding table to begin a game. Yuji misses the first few shots, but sinks two in after a few turns and evens the game.

“Geez, they’re really going at it huh?”

The voice is deep and rumbles loud enough through the music to immediately indicate it’s Choso’s. He stands tall next to you, giving you a slight smile and dragging his eyes up and down your outfit before coughing lightly and turning his attention back to the game.

“Oh yea.. Ha! They really are quite passionate.”

There’s a comfortable silence as you stand side by side and watch the game unfold, giggling at their dramatic reactions and downing the liquid in the cups when their adversary sinks one.

“I’d want to go in there and help him but…” Choso scratches the back of his head awkwardly, the dark hair cascading down instead of being pulled back into his usual hairstyle, “It’s a rite of passage I suppose for this frat.”

You have to physically peel your eyes off the man to avoid staring any further, his hair sexily falling around his face, dark piercings in his ears reflecting the strobing lights, and the powerful body standing idly and awkwardly at your side. The conversation isn’t out of place or forced; the nature of it makes you regret not coming to more functions if it meant you could've been this close to him the entire time.

He looks into his cup and takes a big drink before continuing, wincing slightly from the burn of alcohol, “You know I’m actually glad you came– I know you usually don’t go to these sorts of things.”

A blush warms your cheeks and you look at him for a moment before sheepishly laughing, “Ah yea... Usually school takes up so much of my time. I’m surprised you noticed considering how busy frat life and med school can be.”

“-Of course I noticed!”

He looks around awkwardly and shivers slightly at his outburst before attempting to save face, “I mean you’re one of Yuji’s best friends… he always mentions how bummed he is that you aren’t around..”

You blink and swallow thickly, “right…” of course Yuji would be the one actually wondering why you didn’t show up, “I feel bad about letting him down.”

Turning back to the game of pong, you miss the way Choso cringes hard at himself, completely unable to rephrase the sentence into admitting how he was actually the one who would look for you at every party and stand in a corner moping when he realized you didn’t show, waiting until his brother was ready to go home. Instead, he downs the rest of his beverage and turns back to you, “Would you like a drink? I can grab us another and then we can continue the conversation–?”

You turn back to him and look at your own empty cup, it’s a bad idea to continue but you don’t want the conversation to end just yet. Even if Yuji is standing right in front of you both, and can plainly see the way you're hopelessly staring into his brother's eyes, you didn’t want this moment to end.

“Yea, I’d like that.”

Choso smiles lightly at the opportunity and takes the plastic cup from your hands, “Something sweet but not too sugary, right?”

Your insides melt when you nod and he walks off into the kitchen while your eyes stay focused on his ass for just a moment too long to be casual.

“Hey~ enjoying the party pretty?”

An arm is slung around your shoulders and the mix of cologne and tequila sunrise is enough of a scent indicator to know it’s Satoru who’s gripping you so close.

A sigh leaves your lips but you don’t make an effort to move, watching Yuji miss his shot while Todo scrambles to try and pry the ping pong ball from where it rolled under the couch.

“Sure, it’s actually kinda fun.”

“Kinda?”

“I’m not giving your ego anything else besides that,” you shrug his arm off and he feigns a wound from the action before laughing and taking a sip of his own drink.

“Talk to anybody yet hmm? My offer of stress relief still stands if you strike out– I’ll keep the door open for ya if you ask nicely~”

You roll your eyes and arms cross at your chest, you deadpan at him, “Seriously, Satoru?”

He shrugs and raises his hands up in defense, “It’s just a casual offer, for real. Suguru is your roommate and we’re friends– I’m not trying to make things awkward.”

“You already are.”

You and Satoru swing to see Choso carrying two red cups tightly, with his fingers bending the plastic, and approaching with an unamused scowl. Satoru lets out a low whistle and chuckles to himself before leaning into your ear, “Alright you got your relief plan sorted out.. Guess I’ll look elsewhere.”

He stands up and gives a nod to Choso before turning over his shoulder and waving off, yelling Suguru’s name to skip the current song.

Choso watches the man walk off until he disappears into the crowd before he slips a cup into your hand and looks at you concerned, “You alright?”

You take the drink and smile lightly at him, noting the way his shoulders are tense and eyebrows are knit together, “Yea, I’m alright. Thanks.”

He breathes slightly before his eyes shoot open wide and he brings his hands up apologetically, “I hope I didn’t misread that then… if you are interested in Satoru I completely understand,” he looks back at Yuji’s game now speaking quieter, “Don’t let me ruin your plans.”

It takes a few blinks before you sink into the exact meaning he was hinting at and you instantly raise your hands in defense and embarrassment, “NO!”

A few people look in your direction and you pull Choso down closer by the fabric of his band t-shirt, his height towering over you regardless, “I mean.. Trust me, I don’t like Satoru like that. We’re buddies.. Not romantic at all.”

He examines you for a moment and looks back into the crowd nervously where Satoru had walked off, “But physically?”

You lock eyes with him and your lips widen in slight shock before you gently shake your head, “No. Nothing like that.”

He holds your gaze for another moment before smiling gently and standing back up, he takes a sip of his drink, “I’m glad. I was worried I made myself look like an ass there for a minute.”

“You never could.”

He glances back at you with a pink dust on his cheeks, looking into the liquid of his cup once again and releasing a shallow breath of relief. There’s an unspoken tension building between the both of you, though you can’t tell if it’s all in your head or in your pants.

The familiar heartbeat feeling pulsing in your panties and you opt for downing half your drink and watching the stupid exchange of ping pong balls instead. Choso rocks idly and shimmies from side to side to let people continue past him, making no effort to move from the spot by your side despite the lull in the conversation.

He takes another long sip, some alcohol dripping down from the corner of his mouth and trailing down his neck eroticaly; you watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, consumed in the way he looks. Choso wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and takes a deep breath with a pitiful smile on his face when he turns to you.

“You know I couldn’t help but worry. I know you don’t always come to these parties, and I was worried that my one shot to have you alone was already taken by someone else.”

His eyes are focused on only you and his voice is raw with a rare vulnerability, his cheeks dusted pink with embarrassment and heat from the alcohol. Your heart rate picks up exponentially and you stare at him openly, not even caring if Yuji can see the way you look at his brother.

Before you can issue a response, Nobara scuffles past the back of Choso effectively knocking him forward and spilling the remainder of his drink all over your shirt. Nobara offers a short ‘shit’ before getting pulled through the crowd by Maki towards the beer cooler on the patio.

Choso’s eyes are wider than you’ve ever seen and his eyebrows furrow as if he could cry from frustration and disappointment. His hands twitch as he quickly drops the empty cup and carefully approaches you, worrying this would be the moment you yell at him to leave you alone and never speak to you again.

“I-I’m so sorry… Y/N.. I didn’t..”

The words die in his throat as he watches you look down at your shirt in surprise and slight disgust at the sticky feeling of alcohol coating your chest. You place your drink on a nearby table and pull the fabric from your stomach to examine the damage.

“It’s alright! Really…” you bite the inside flesh of your cheek with your molars and gnaw on it, wondering how to get the stain out.

Choso gently steps closer and reaches out to take your hands gently, “Here– let’s go to the bathroom. Let me help,” he looks at you with pleading eyes, “Please.”

You nod once and he leads the way to the stairs, gently slipping between bodies to clear a path for you to step through and ascend the stairs. Leading you down the hallway, he enters the second door on the left into an empty bathroom and shuts the door promptly behind you.

His hands rush for the faucet while you dig around on the linen shelf to pass him a washcloth; he tests the water’s temperature before raising the cloth to your shirt.

“It’s not too hot right? Not burning at all?”

“No, I’m alright.”

You’re leaning against the counter, feeling the vibration of the bass from the music playing beneath you shake the marble countertop. Choso’s touch is gentle, though his hands shake from nerves and the acute drunken state he’s in; his face is full of self-loathing.

“Choso.”

He’s kneeling down in front of your torso delicately working on the stain and tilts his head up longingly as soon as his name leaves your lips, “Yes?”

Tongue running over your bottom lip for a moment, you place your hand on his to stop his actions and get his full attention, your own mind still reeling.

“Why did you want to get me alone then?”

He blinks and looks back down at the fabric of your shirt gripping the folds slightly, “Oh.. that?” He looks dejectedly at the stain and frowns harder.

With a sigh of defeat he keeps his head down for a moment, “I thought I was being so obvious…

I offered to study at Suguru’s apartment because I thought maybe you’d be home, and always stayed sober with Yuji during his pledge phase just in case you called one night and needed a ride…” he releases your shirt and closes his eyes, “I always wanted to get a moment alone with you to tell you how I felt– but I fucked it all up didn’t I?”

His face is contorted in frustration and self-deprecation; nearly acting in a trance you gently lift your hands to cup his face and pull his attention back to you. He looks back up into your eyes longingly and full of vulnerability, he says nothing as you pull him to his feet and look between his eyes and then his lips.

Not wasting a single second you slide your hands from his cheeks to wrap around the base of his neck and pull his lips in to meet yours. Choso doesn’t waste a single second either, sighing lightly through his nose and bringing his hands to the plush of your waist. His fingers dig imprints into the flesh on the back of your hips while his thumbs press lightly into the bones of your pelvis.

His lips are nearly glued to yours, tilting his head to the right to allow the kiss to deepen and increase the force he pushes behind it. Your hands tangle in his hair, gently pulling at the raven strands and scratching his scalp while occasional gasps escape his mouth. Moans escape between the both of you, drowned out to the rest of the party from the music, but nearly deafening to the two of you.

With one more tug of his hair, his tongue gently swipes your bottom lip and without a moment of hesitation you part to allow access. The action has some lip gloss rub off on the flesh of his upper lip, though Choso takes no moment to stop, instead he lifts his left hand to tilt your head further to the side and push his tongue into your mouth.

The muscle is warm and tastes like a light beer; he takes his time to swipe it along the tip of your own tongue before pushing it deeper. You groan his name and try to pull him even closer to you if it were possible, sighing as he swaps between messy open mouth kisses and closed ones that allow your lips to mold into one.

With another push of his tongue in your mouth you taste the beer once again but also the sensation of something cold and metal. It takes you a minute to figure out what you’re feeling, the cool orb rolling against your tongue and occasionally clinking onto your teeth when he pulls back.

Taking a slight breath, he dips his head down in the crook of your neck and breathes deeply while whispering your name, enjoying the moment before he begins to bite and suck along the flesh. You sigh at the feeling and can feel your senses overloading, the heartbeat in your ribs and panties, the scent of his cologne, and the hot tongue running down your neck being cooled by the little piercing in the middle.

“You didn't.. Aahh,” you swallow lightly, “didn’t tell me you have… a tongue piercing…”

Choso groans a response but doesn’t pay attention, nipping at a particular spot just beneath your jaw where his nose tickles the flesh under your ear, “right.. Here?”

His lips suck onto the flesh and his teeth pinch the skin while you squirm beneath him in pleasure; his hand leaves your head and hips to now push you firmly against the counter to keep you still. Choso’s actions are relentless, running his tongue flat across the flesh and letting the metal piercing cool the spot before he continues bullying it.

“It’s gonna nnngh, leave a mark-”

“-Good.”

Choso remains buried in the corner of your neck but he lifts his lips from the angry purple bruise to speak, “I’m tired of the way everyone stares at you all the time– fuck even Maki and Shoko looked you up and down a few times tonight.”

You run a hand through his hair and pull at the scalp to lift his face to you. His pupils are blown wide with desire so dark it seems the iris is pure black and his shoulder sag with every pant he takes to catch his breath. Despite it, the timid and awkward demeanor remains hidden for a moment, “I want people to know who you’re here with.”

He leans down to kiss the purple hickey, “Not Suguru.” kiss.

His lips trail to the pulse point on the opposite side, “Not Satoru.” kiss.

Lips hover right above yours a moment before he connects them, “Me.”

You push him back gently and Choso’s facade nearly breaks when he thinks you’re trying to make distance and tell him he’s got the wrong idea. Instead, you spin to push him flush against the counter and drag his face back to meet yours in another kiss.

Instinctively his hands rest on your waist as if they were made for him and he attaches his lips against yours like second nature. Sighs escape him every time your nails gently scratch his scalp and tug at his hair and when you drop your arms lower there’s nearly a whine in disappointment.

Instead, you run your hands flat down the front of his chest, feeling the swell of his chest rise with each breath and trail down to gently feel the outline of his abdomen muscles with the pads of your fingers. Airy breaths escape more frequently, as Choso fights the urge to escalate things even further.

With a featherlight touch and without ever breaking contact from his lips, you skim the hem of his shirt and gently graze the flesh underneath. Choso feels like his body is on fire at every touch you make and his grip on your hips intensifies, the heartbeat in his ears louder than the music blaring from outside the bathroom.

His abs flex subconsciously with your touch, and you can’t help the arousal growing in between your thighs as he begins to grind into you. Back arched to keep the angle of his tongue exploring your mouth, your hands dip back down to his navel and run through the course happy trail leading into his jeans. With gentle precision, your fingers dip just the tiniest bit lower to skim the seam of the denim and lightly play with the brass buckle of his belt.

Choso pulls his mouth from yours before grabbing your hands in his own to pause your efforts, panting in between each word. “Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you…”

His eyes are sincere and there’s never been a moment in your life you’ve been more sure of than this, “I’m sure Choso. I want to do this with you.”

He continues breathing until his lungs steady out again before running a hand through his hair with a frustrated look on his face, cheeks still red and puffed from the intimacy of the situation.

“Yea but… Look don’t get me wrong I want this to happen more than anything,” he pauses and scans your face before continuing, “and I know I’m gonna hate myself for stopping here but.. I don’t want something just casual or physical with you. I think… I think it would kill me if you only saw me as a one night stand when you’re so much more to me.”

His hands sweat as they hold yours, and his eyes search yours for any sign of reciprocity, and the whole situation is so sweet you could cry. After so many assholes and douchebags, his words are enough to make your knees weak from only kissing.

You remove your hands from his and before his eyes could portray the heartbreak about to happen from the action, you pull him back in to meet your lips, “I want the same thing Choso. I do.”

He pulls away to see your face, but you connect your lips again between each sentence, “I almost feel bad for all the times I invited Yuji out to things because it meant I could see you.”

Choso lets out a chuckle of relief and connects your mouths again with longing before you pull back to continue, “I want this.” Kiss.

“I want you, Choso.” Kiss.

“All of you… and not just for tonight.”

He swallows thickly and his Adam's apple bobs again, pupils still blown out as you kiss his lips one last time before sinking just a bit lower onto the plush bath mat. Your hands fiddle with his belt again, and this time he doesn’t stop you, letting you slide it out of the loops of his jeans and toss it onto the floor without care. Chaste kisses go down his navel, your nose tickling the hair that pokes out right about the seam of his boxers before sinking down just a bit further.

His hands grip the countertop with enough force his knuckles turn white from the pressure, “ohh fuck Y/N.”

Your fingers trail just a bit lower, spreading the fabric of the zipper fly open and letting his erection push out into the air, only restrained by the thin material of his boxers. He stares at you intently, watching the way you trace the outline of the small liquid patch of precum forming as his hips twitch in anticipation.

You meet his gaze and drink in his disheveled and eager appearance before facing his erection again. Placing a few chaste kisses to the tip of his cock that’s now pushing past the fly of his boxers, he sucks in a wince and jerks his hips forward subconsciously in search of some sort of friction.

After a few more kisses, you look back up to him with a nod and raise your fingers to the elastic of the band and seam of his jeans. Hooking your fingers under the fabric and pinching it with your thumbs, you tug it down maybe 3 inches before his hands stop yours one last time.

“Wait– I uhh..” his hands shake nervously, “I just haven’t shaved in a minute… I’ve not exactly been sleeping with anybody recently.”

You blink and grin up at him, kissing his knuckles gently and then shooing his hands away to tug the materials down juuuust a bit further. His happy trail dissolves into a bit more hair, but nothing unruly, and the ‘V’ line of his pelvis connects to several protruding veins that all lead down to the base of his cock.

Despite the steamy atmosphere, Choso winces at the change in temperature and jerks his hips forward again; this time the flushed red tip connects freely to the corner of your mouth and smudges any remainder of your lipgloss.

His dick is long with a few prominent veins tracing alongside the under border of the shaft that disappear behind a small tuft of dark hair at the base. Not necessarily thick, but heavy enough in your hand you can’t help but wonder how’d it’d feel inside you. Pearls of precum drip from the slit at his tip and the ghost of your breath against the skin is enough to have him nearly begging for something anything.

Opening your mouth, you guide his cock to your tongue laying flat and lick a few long stripes along the shaft before focusing on the tip. The action is enough for Choso’s hand to lose balance for a moment and send a few soap bottles on the counter scattering onto the floor in a string of curses.

You pay no mind, licking a few more strokes to lubricate his dick before sucking in your cheeks to build enough saliva to spit onto his cock. It’s messy and wet and when you finally inch him into your mouth and stroke the base you can’t reach, he’s buckling at the knees.

“Oh shittt…. Yea,” his hands run into your hair, pulling any loose strands away from your face and allowing him an unobstructed view, “J-Just like that… fuck baby”

Your thighs squirm at his praise, feeling yourself grow embarrassingly wet just from the way your name begins to slip from his lips like a prayer. Slight tugs on your hair earn grunts from your throat, and the vibration makes Choso twitch with each bob of your head.

A dull ache in your jaw, you alternate between taking him in your mouth with hollow cheeks and tight suction to using both your hands to jerk him off while your tongue laps at the tip of his cock. The skin is fresh and salty precum coats your taste buds while your nose is tickled by the strands of his pubic hair that linger at the base.

“S-Shit.. I’m gonna-”

Choso holds your head steady while he lightly thrusts into your mouth, not too deep to gag you, but enough to cause a few tears to prick at the corner of your eyes. You purse your lips to give him just a bit more contact, “Fuck.. Y/N.. I’m…”

“Choso? You in there?”

There’s a knock at the door followed by Yuji’s slurred voice, “You’ve been gone for while… everything ok?”

You pause for a moment and look up at Choso, who’s released his grip on your hair and resorted to covering his mouth with his palms. Taking the opportunity, you resume your actions, bobbing along his shaft, kisses and licks to his tip, and the occasional graze of his balls when you jerk his shaft to the same rhythm as your lips.

His hips jerk and his face shows the most worried and sex-drunk expression you’ve ever seen. Lips quivering and trying to remain silent while his body betrays him and grunts and flinches with immediate response to each of your touches.

“Hello..?”

The handle to the bathroom jerks slightly, now immediately known to the both of you how it wasn’t locked.

“Wait!”

The door stops and remains shut, Yuji hums in attentiveness at the response, “Ah so you are in there! Hurry up– I need a new pong partner bro!”

Choso watches the door in horror and resorts to biting the knuckle of his right index finger to avoid moaning out your name.

God he really was the worst brother huh? Here Choso was, getting the best head of his life from the girl of his dreams, aka his brother’s best friend, at a party which was THROWN FOR HIS BROTHER.

“I-I’m not…ughh… feeling too well..”

Choso shivers and hunches forward in pleasure, beads of sweat dripping down the side of his face while his eyebrows contort in pure ecstasy.

He was going to cum. He was going to cum in the mouth of the woman he’s been helplessly in love with, who is the one girl completely off limits, with his brother unknowingly listening to it on the other side of the door.

“Oh really? Hmmm, just pull trigger and meet me downstairs– ‘kay?”

Choso barely lasts the extra second of seeing Yuji’s shadow under the door disappear before his hips jerk from your grasp and cums. Hard. It’s messy, not quite in your mouth, but also not aiming for your face; insteads pools of it make it onto your tongue with others now clinging onto the apples of your cheeks and strands of your hair.

“Ohhh shit–”

He helps you pump him a few more times to ensure it’s all out while you swallow the load in your mouth and wipe at the remnants on your face. The stars eventually pass and his hips stop twitching in slight overstimulation as the weight of everything clarifies in front of him.

Immediately he takes your hands and raises you to your feet, helping to clean your hair with the forgotten washrag from the stain earlier. Gently, he wipes everything away, careful to not mess up any makeup, before sighing at the sight of your bruised and red knees.

“You didn’t have to swallow you know…” he blushes but keeps looking at you, “your knees-!”

You tilt his head back to face yours and connect your lips to his. Any flavor of lipgloss is replaced by the taste of his own cum when his tongue slides into your mouth again without any hesitation. Your tongue flicks against the metal orb a few times before pulling back and wiping a stray line of saliva from the corner of your mouth.

“That was… fuck Y/N,” he keeps panting before you nudge him slightly in the shoulder.

“Well, aren't you going to chase after Yuji now?”

“Why would I?”

You blink in a slight shock at his immediate reaction, never seeing him prioritize anything besides his brother’s happiness. He looks at you as if you had asked something ridiculous, though he doesn’t hold any ounce of condescension on his face.

“I just figured–”

“ –Figured I would walk away from the beautiful girl in front of me to go play beer pong?”

You shrug into a blush and dig your chin down slightly at the embarrassment of hearing the question out loud. Choso chuckles and lifts your chin to kiss you again, “No I think I’d like to stay by you if that’s alright. Though the thought of Yuji potentially hearing us will haunt my brain for years to come.”

You chuckle and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss you again while his hands find solace at their home on your hips.

“Let me reciprocate, okay? I wanna make you feel good too.”

A shiver runs down your spine and your back arches involuntarily at the anticipation; nipples hardening into the fabric of your bra from the thought. Choso’s hands wander further down to the swell of your ass and give a light squeeze before resting on the flesh under your thighs.

“Jump for me.”

Obeying the short command, you give a slight hop and allow him to rest his forearms under your thighs with the palm of his hands gripping onto each cheek of your ass. His biceps flex from the weight, though he holds you as if you were only as heavy as a housecat, shifting your weight in his arms but never struggling to maneuver. At eye level he nudges you with his chin for one more kiss before spinning and letting you open the door of the bathroom.

With a short peer down the hallway, he makes a quick break for one of the bedrooms and this time remembers to actually lock the door behind him. Gently, he places you on the edge of the queen size bed sitting on the left side of the room, kissing you once again before stepping back watching you kick off your doc mary-janes and unties the laces of his own boots.

Music is still blaring off in the distance, though noticeably quieter, and Choso flicks on a dim floor lamp in the corner for some light. He steps between your thighs and runs a hand through your hair with a slight tug before sinking to his own knees at the foot of the bed.

He plays with the hem of your skit absentmindedly and kneads the flesh of your thighs before looking up and swallowing, “Can I?”

A simple nod is all he needs to hoist up the edge of your skirt to pool around your waist and scoff in frustration at the opaque tights now in his way. Shifting his hands from your waist, he takes some of the tension from the fabric around your pussy in between his fingers and rips it open.

“Hey-!”

“It’s in the way..” he whines quietly with no ounce of actual remorse in his voice.

He takes the fabric and rips it further, exposing the dark purple lacy panties covering what he was so desperately searching for. A dark patch stains the fabric from your helpless desire and whimpers escape your lips above him when he drags a single finger up and down the material in awe.

“All this– for me?”

“Shut up..”

Your face burns in embarrassment but Choso doesn't care, gripping the fabric and pushing it to the left to expose half of your sopping cunt. He shudders at the sight and immediately places a few kisses to flesh, addicted to the way you squirm with each contact. Though he grows frustrated quickly and tugs at the rest of your tights, keeping your panties caged on.

“Stupid fucking–”

“Choso.”

He looks up, impatient, while you lean onto your back to shimmy the elastic band of the tights down to your thighs and lett Choso drag the material down your legs and throw them to the floor.

“See? You didn’t need to rip them.”

“Hah.. sorry baby.”

There isn’t a chance to react to the pet name he’s begun calling you before he takes a moment to admire the way his favorite color looked when it decorated your pussy, and drags it down your ankles to join your tights on the floor.

Instinctively your thighs move to shut, but his hand splay them back out to expose your cunt further. A shiver running down his back and a new erection growing in his half-worn boxers, he leans down to admire it further.

“Stop staring. It’s embarrassing…”

You’re mumbling with your attention turned anywhere else in the room as your cheeks burned.

Embarrassing? How could this be embarrassing?

Choso looks up at you and then back down, “How could this ever be…? This is the pussy I’ve been dreaming about for months, and you’re going to say it’s embarrassing?”

He takes a moment to let his tongue lay flat and lick a long stripe up the core of your cunt, “This is the only thing I can ever think about…”

The warmth of his tongue makes you wither from the sensation and the cold metal ball in the center causes your spine to arch from the contrast. Taking a few more licks he pushes your back onto the bed and makes space for him to now also lay on the comforter, hanging half off the mattress and humping against the box spring while he makes out with your pussy without shame.

His tongue drinks up your arousal without hesitation and his tongue dips into your core while his hands wrap around the underside of your thighs to keep them open for him. The piercing bumps into the spongy interior of your pussy while his nose grinds against your clit, his head rocking into your cunt at a steady rhythm.

You groan his name and grab a fistful of his hair and tug hard while he moans in response. After a few more licks he kisses your clit, “Alright.. That should be good…”

Wearily, you look up and watch as he sucks his index and middle fingers in his mouth before he spits down onto your cunt and sinks a finger inside. Throwing your head back from the slight stretch, he watches the way his finger disappears into your pussy, “Shit.. fucking tight as hell baby.”

Choso thrusts his finger in and out and in and out before returning his lips to your clit and sucking on it.

“Oh my.. Nnghh...”

His other hand holds your hip steady before increasing the pace of his finger and pulling back from your clit slightly. Choso watches your face as he sinks his middle finger into your cunt as well to ensure there’s no sign of pain before thrusting his hand harder.

“Fuck!”

That unexplainable feeling builds in your gut and your hips rock to meet his lips in more friction to chase that high even quicker. Choso notices and twists and bends his fingers from within you, eager to find that one spot while leaning back down to suck at your clit again.

With one more bend of his fingers he can feel it, the spongy rough patch that nearly feels like a citrus peel, and as soon his fingertips graze it, your back arches even more. Grinding down his fingers, his name leaves your lips like a mantra.

“Choso… FUCK.. yea, like that– haa.. Yea that..”

He grinds his hips along the mattress to get some sort of friction while his fingers increase the pace, committing to memory every single sound and taste. Your eyes are screwed shut in focus and shamelessly groaning out as you chase your high.

That knot in your gut forms and gets exponentially tighter before inevitably snapping. The feeling leaves you twitching against his lips and hand, riding out the pleasure and whimpering at the inevitable overstimulation when his mouth refuses to part from your cunt.

“God,” he pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his tongue instead, “taste so fucking good. What the hell.”

You claw his hair to part from your thighs but he makes no effort to move, the muscles bulging in his skin, refusing to move from their position as he drinks in every drop of your orgasm. The piercing tickles you as his tongue continues to flick inside you, only pulling back for air and to admire the fucked out face you’re now making.

Completely pussy-drunk he pulls himself back from your thighs and licks at the sheen of your cum still resting on his lips before climbing over you and connecting your mouths. The taste of your own orgasm would cause pause any other time, but Choso is kissing you with so much want and desire it makes your mind go fuzzy.

“Feeling ok? Sorry if I got carried away,” he nuzzles down into the crook of your neck on the side without the hickey, “just wanted to do that for a while now…”

Wearily, you pet the strands of his hair before Choso sits up and takes the hem of your shirt in his hands and pushes the fabric over your head and off the side of the bed. He admires the pretty lace of the matching purple bra and skims over your hard nipples with the pads of his fingers, the black nail polish glowing in the dim light as he pinches the nerves.

After a few open kisses to the swell of your breasts and leaving a few marks along the way, he shimmies your skirt off and tosses it to the ground. With a pout you sit up and wrap your fingers along the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head, pausing when his chest is revealed.

Abs sculpted from stone and a variety of small scars along his ribs from stories you’d like to hear one day are enough to make you nearly drool while you stare. It’s the ultimate sleeper build that he’s kept hidden behind baggy t-shirts for way too long.

“Ok I think I get it now when you said it’s embarrassing.”

Choso looks to the side and gently smiles, his ears dusted pink before you lean up to run light kisses along the mark across his face and trail down to his cheek and navel.

“So pretty.”

“Don’t you mean handsome?”

“That too.”

He smiles and meets your lips again while your hands go back down to his jeans and attempt to push them down before reaching back and unclasping your own bra. Immediately, he dips down to wrap his tongue around your left nipple, running the piercing over the nub while his hand kneads the fatty flesh of your other breast in his fingers. After a few additional licks and bruises are added around the left tit for good measure, he swaps and pays equal attention to the other one.

He’s in heaven. Silently thanking the gods above for this opportunity and wondering if maybe in a past life he had been a hero of some sort to deserve this experience with you.

After a moment you push him back and tug his pants and boxers back down the rest of the way, giggling when his foot gets caught in the material and ‘interrupts the mood’ as he calls it.

“Ah wait.”

Choso pauses from his position of gently pushing you flat against the bed beneath him, wondering if this was too far for your first evening as a… couple? The idea is more than enough to make his cock twitch in anticipation. Fuck, even being called your ‘boyfriend’ could make him bust on the spot.

“Do you have a condom?”

Choso’s eyes meet yours and he looks back to his jeans, wondering if his wallet would have one or not but ultimately deciding there’s no chance he would actually carry one with him. To be fair, the goal of this party was to ask you on a date without the company of Yuji or Suguru, so to get this far is a miracle in his book.

“No.. I don’t”

You gnaw your lip and look between the both of you, his long hair tickling your cheeks from the proximity and the tip of his cock occasionally kissing the entrance to your cunt with every twitch. Fuck.

“We don’t have to–”

“Buy me the morning after pill?”

Choso sputters at your response, eyes nearly falling out of his skull, the first time he gets to sleep with you, he gets to hit it raw?

Ok he must’ve been a knight or a king to get this kind of treatment.

“Y-Yea, of course.”

You pull him down for another kiss and admire the way his hands now shake in anticipation and worry; nearly the same face he made before cumming earlier. It’s a fair assumption considering Choso is convinced he may bust after maybe three strokes.

The humiliation would kill him, so he swallows and glides the tip of his cock up and down the folds of your cunt a few times. Getting some of the lubrication from your earlier orgasm, he also spits into his hand and coats the shaft to make it smoother.

With a tap on your clit for good measure, he lines up with your entrance and slowly sinks inch by inch inside. The feeling is a stretching burn that doesn’t hurt but needs a moment of getting used to while Choso cages you underneath and whispers patient soft praises into your ears.

After a moment he finally bottoms out and the hair from his pubes tickles your clit as he fills you to the hilt. A breath of relief at the sensation while Choso releases a breath of focus, his hair sticking to his forehead in slight sweat.

His knee pushes up on the bed and opens your thighs wider before he begins to slide in and out, mumbling nonsense with each stroke. The missionary position befits his immediate possessive nature, giving him a perfect view of your face and a decent angle to watch the way his cock disappears into your cunt with each thrust.

You pull on his strands and kiss him, licking the metal orb on his tongue before admiring the way his abdomen flexes with each movement.

“Oh fuck-”

It’s hard to tell who’s talking in between both of your incoherent babbling, your mind growing fuzzy from the stretch of his cock and smack of his pelvis on your clit, and his brain going completely pussy-drunk and murmuring a string of sappy promises of how happy he is to finally have you to himself.

Tilting his head to the side, you dig your canines into his neck in an attempt to mark him in the same way he had done previously.

“Shit.. ahh”

His hips rock unevenly so you increase the suction and dig your teeth once more before a particularly rocky thrust has you biting down harder than you intend. A slight metallic taste of iron coats your tongue and you immediately pull back and apologize for breaking the skin.

“N-No… shit..ahhh baby.. Do it again…please”

Choso keeps his neck open for you to continue sucking on, stuttering with his words and hips at the sensation of his warm blood gently trickling down his flesh. Wordlessly, you move down to another spot and bite down, though not enough to tear the skin and Choso whimpers pathetically from above you.

“Wait actually–” he pulls back and gently pulls out, hissing at the lack of contact before sitting on the bed next to you and pulling you to straddle him, “I’m gonna cum too fast like that… haaa, you can just ride me, ok? Ride me however you want, baby.”

Sinking back down and sighing in relief when he’s finally kissing your cervix with his cock again, his hands lift to play with your tits while you grind against him. Hands on his shoulders and focused on achieving an orgasm, you rub down especially hard on his slight bush for the friction against your clit.

Choso admires the way your chest bounces with each movement and settles his hands on your hips, helping you fuck him senseless.

“Haaa.. you know it’s funny” Choso pants in between bounces, “I always wanted to give you a ride home…”

You laugh and shove his shoulder slightly, falling forward and grinding the tip of his cock against that spongy patch inside your pussy again. Immediately your hips falter and your shoulders slump forward while Choso wastes no time in sliding back down on the bed and planting his feet firmly. Grabbing your hips, he flexes his thighs to meet your thrusts and push further into that spot with his dick with more even force.

“Yea that’s it.. Just fucking use me okay?”

Your thrusts are uneven as your hips twitch with every thrust, feeling that familiar sensation building inside once again. Every thrust has your face contorting with pleasure and Choso can feel himself also ready to finally let go and cum; having been trying to think of anything else to make himself hold out just a little bit longer.

After a few more strokes, your face is warped in pleasure while he continues thrusting from underneath to drag out the orgasm. Twitching with spinal convulsions from the intensity, Choso watches in awe as he fucks you through the overstimulation and watches the creamy ring from your cum form around the base of his cock. He takes his fingers and pushes it back onto his shaft as more lubrication,taking any remainder on his fingertip to his lips and sucking it off.

You fall in a slump on his chest and he plants his feet firmly onto the mattress, fucking up a few more times before erratically grinding into your pussy and reciting your name over and over again while hot streams of cum fill your cunt.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N-”

The sensation is filling and warm while his hips jerk up a few more times to ride through his orgasm and ensure no drop of his cum is left. His arms are wrapped up and around your while both of your bodies stick to together from the sweat and fluids.

“Haaa,” Choso lets out a half laugh and pushes some hair out of your face before leaning up to kiss you again.”

“That was great.”

“Mmmm, yea,” he pecks your cheek again, the intimacy of the situation becoming not just sexually, but emotionally raw as well, “Let’s do it again?”

You look over at him with a fucked out expression, your hair a complete mess and makeup poorly smudged.

“I mean not now! Haha,” he slides out from your cunt and sighs from the loss of contact as his erection deflates back down to flaccidity. “I think I’m empty.”

You nod and roll off his body but stay intertwined with his limbs as you lay next to him, silently wondering what the fuck the plan was now. Tracing his jaw with your fingers absentmindedly and skimming the mark across his face, you notice the way his eyes never leave yours and his head leans into your every touch.

“Oh that’s right–” Choso looks at you with realization and an embarrassed smile on his face, “Can I take you out sometime?“

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yea…?”

You laugh and lean forward to kiss him and Choso immediately meets you in the middle as if he was constantly waiting for the next time your lips would meet his.

“I’d like that. Get breakfast tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

His voice is too excited and he instantly backtracks in a poor attempt to act casual, “Oh tomorrow? Yea… yea I should be free.”

“You’re such a dork, you know that?”

He kisses the hand you use to flick his forehead and smiles up at you before biting one of your fingers idly, “But aren’t I…. your dork now?”

You sit up in the bed and lean down to kiss him, “Yea, you are,” before shimmying off the bed and wobbling around to find the remnants of your clothes and shoes.

Choso watches from the edge of the mattress, an obvious pout on his face at the loss of contact from your body.

“I just need to pee ok? I am NOT about to get a UTI before exams.”

Choso huffs in defeat and stands up to sort his clothes from your own, wincing in weak remorse when you throw your ripped tights into the bedroom trash can.

“I’ll join you in a moment.”

You step out of the bedroom and wobble your way down the hallway, not bothering to relock the door, while Choso slides on his boxers and jeans in one pull. He moves around the floor in search of his shirt when footsteps quickly approach the bedroom and Yuji swings the door open.

“Oh there you are!”

Choso is frozen solid standing in a room torn apart that reeks of sex while being covered in sweat and remnants of cum.

“I just saw Y/N walking sooo funny to the bathroom and flipping me off,” he laughs and covers his abdomen, “She totally just got fucked-”

There’s a silence between the two men.

“Hey where are your clothes?”

“Uhhhh…”

Choso stands half-naked with his shirt not even around his neck as Yuji quickly begins putting dots together and stares at his brother in complete shock. Before another word can be issued between them Todo appears and smacks Yuji’s back.

“My best friend, why are you interrupting your brother at this moment?”

“He’s,” Yuji points out, still in complete shock at Choso, “He’s banging my friend!”

Choso winces but Todo just crosses his arms and sighs in disappointment, “Allow him to relish in the feeling of finally getting the person who he desires the most.”

“Yea but she’s my-”

“If I had the opportunity with Takada or YOU had the opportunity with Megan Thee Stallion or Megumi.. Would you want HIM to burst into the room?”

Choso has no idea how this idiotic comparison is somehow making Yuji ok with the idea of him sleeping and now dating you, but he isn’t about to ruin the opportunity.

“No… I wouldn’t”

“See? You’re growing up nicely. But!” Todo returns his hand to Yuji’s shoulders and guides him out of the room, “You still have training to do until then… you need to beat me at flip cup now!”

Choso waits half a moment before sighing in relief but knows when Yuji’s sober he’ll have to come clean in a better way; he slides his shirt back over his head and scurries out to the bathroom. A quick courtesy knock before he swings it open and shuts it, before standing behind your figure washing your hands. His hands wrap around your waist while he places small kisses on your shoulder.

“Choooosooo”

“Hmmm?”

“You left a million hickies!”

He giggles and laughs into your shoulder before mumbling ‘good’ and spinning you around to face him.

“Everyone will notice.”

“That’s the point.”

You roll your eyes playfully and then look back down at your shirt, still uncomfortable from the sensation of the now cold and sticky fabric.

“It’s kinda gross…”

“So wear mine.”

You look back up at him as he effortlessly slips his own shirt off and tugs at you to do the same, though his eyes linger on the swell of your tits long enough for you to swat him away playfully. It’s an oversized band t-shirt that nearly falls to the same length as your skirt and smells just like his cologne.

“I might never return it.”

“I’ll give you a million of them if you promise to always wear them,” he kisses your lips, “especially around Suguru and Satoru.“

“Hmm? Jealous?”

He chuckles and keeps his hands planted on your hips, “How could I not be? Those two get to see you all the time while I have to pretend to leave shit at your apartment as an excuse.”

Your heart tugs at his confession and you push the hair falling into his face back for a moment before it cascades back down to its original spot, “You know you can see me whenever you want to as well now?”

He smiles wide and plants a few more pecks onto your flesh, the awkward and emotional side of him creeping back in.

“Wait, you’re gonna be shirtless now?”

“Yea, I don’t really mind if it means you’re comfortable.”

“But everyone is gonna see the hickies I left on you.”

Choso smiles and pivots to admire his back in the mirror, “Hey don’t forget the scratches– ow!”

You shove him lightly and laugh before opening the bathroom door and making room for him to step out after you.

“Can I stay at your place tonight? I don’t really want the first thing I do when I wake up to be to explain to Yuji about all of this.”

“Yea, that’s fine.. Was there something else you were thinking of doing when you first wake up?”

He follows you to the edge of the stairs, the music getting louder and louder, “I have a few things in mind, but–” his eyes trail down to his own doc marten boots and your mary-jane ones, “I want the first thing Suguru and Satoru see when they get to the apartment to be my shoes next to yours.”

OMGGG a really long one shot and my first NSFW on this app hehehe

hope you liked it! I'm gonna make a list of holiday topics and try to grind them out despite it being halfway through the month already whoops -> Choso's would be a part 2 to this one :)

reblogs/likes/comments all appreciated <3

-oatmeal

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