#and some said ‘listening to this is hard’

[miange1]

I NEED MORE OF UR OLDER MEN.

please do a boyfriends dad where reader(male ofc) accidentally made a sexual relationship with his boyfriends dad because his bf couldn't satisfy him sexually?

COME ON YOU KNOW YOU LIKE..— drabble

pairing: boyfriends dad x male reader

tw: cheating, older man x younger male, "lana" mindset, feminization, reader is described as feminine, crushing, teasing, hinting, obliviousness, being bored during sex, breeding kink, frotting/grinding, hairy kink(if that makes sense), jerking off to pics, HEAVYYY daddy kink(i cringed too don't kill me brah)

note: i love these types. i never proofread

boyfriends dad, who when you first met him already had eyes for you. the way your soft hand wrapped around his, shaking it and trying to be polite. but he saw it, saw the way you stood still and the way you avoided eye contact with him no matter how hard he tried to look at you. "its..it's nice to meet you sir." it was sure as hell nice to meet you too

boyfriends dad, who adores it when you come over. always suggests that you stay over instead of his son staying over at yours. his eyes were always on you. he'd always ask you to reach high places just to see that sliver of skin, purposely dropping things so you could bend over in front of him. your eyes would have that look, like you knew what he was doing but you feigned innocence.

boyfriends dad, who found your Instagram quickly enough. scrolling along the photos that you would post, whether it be your face, outfits, food. he was always looking at them when he had some time alone. he couldn't help himself, sooner or later cum would be all over his screen and he'd have to wipe it off. no shame to his actions.

boyfriends dad, who was a little nosey. just a little bit. he had overheard a phone call a while back, you were talking to your friend and seemed distressed and even disappointed. "i dunno, he just can't..pleasure me like i thought he would." oh? really?

boyfriends dad, who would take advantage of times you two would have alone. sometimes he would give subtle touches, those subtle touches would turn into not so subtle accidents. unlike his son, he could make you squirm and writhe with a few touches. unlike his son, he could have you moaning for real on his dick. unlike his son, he could have you cumming with just his hand.

boyfriends dad, who fucked you like an everyday schedule that just couldn't wait any longer. he'd have you bent over every surface he could get you on. kitchen counter, bathroom sink, couch, your boyfriends bed. shit, if he could compare this to the first hole he fucked this would be much better.

boyfriends dad, who could never stop talking and grunting while he fucked you. he wanted you to know you were his, even if on the outside you weren't, you surely were on the inside. "don't act all wimpy, take this dick like a man— 'less you a lil' girl, hm?" "daddy's got you addicted, don't he? mhm, ain't even gotta tell me with your words i can already see." "shh, shh, ain't none of that cryin'. big boys don't cry." "goood boy, suckin' me in so good."

boyfriends dad, absolutely loved to watch you come crawling back to him after you said you wouldn't. you'd try so hard to be a good boyfriend, try to force yourself to like the way your boyfriend fucked you, but you just couldn't do it. it was so difficult, you had to jerk yourself off beforehand. you just missed it so badly. missed his big hands gripping at the soft skin of your waist, missed the way his chest hair tickled your back when he leant down to go deeper, you missed it all.

boyfriends dad, who would rub it in your face each time you'd come back to him. saying things like you couldn't resist him, and he was right. fucking right. you'd have to give him head as an apology, listen to him degrade you like some side bitch. "fuck..look at ya, chokin' on this dick like you ain't beg me for it." he would thrust his hips the moment you'd get used to it for a second, seeing the way you could only gargle and whimper as a response.

boyfriends dad, who was just as obsessed with your body as you were of his. he paid attention to every little detail, every little twitch and wiggle so he would memorize it and get it right(unlike someone he knew). watch your tummy fill up and bloat with his cum each and every time he plunged in deep so he could feel the relief of cumming inside like he was getting you filled of his damn kids.

boyfriends dad, who would wish you goodbye and watch you kiss his son on the cheek like you didn't just taste his cum in your mouth. like you didn't want him more than anything in this world.

[jkwrites-m]

Daddy Kookie (2)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, idol au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 6.4k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, smut, angst, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, unintentional parental neglect, resentment, fighting, boundaries, guilt, burnout, anxiety, confessions, reunions, slapping, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, explicit: PRAISING, kissing, missionary, tension, pillow talk, unprotected sex

A/N: here’s what was originally the ending of part one but for some reason i can’t post that many blocks 😒 so here’s the “part 2”.

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

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═══════

I found Namjoon in the hotel gym that night.

He was alone, earbuds in, pacing the far side of the room with a water bottle tucked under one arm, muttering rehearsal notes to himself like he always did before a show. I stood in the doorway for a solid minute before I said anything.

He saw me in the mirror first.

Pulled out one earbud.

“You alright?” he asked.

“No.”

He nodded once and didn’t press me.

Just set down his bottle and motioned toward the bench press like, sit.

I sat.

And for a while, neither of us said a word.

“I met with her this morning,” I said finally, my voice rough from not speaking since the show.

Namjoon didn’t ask who.

He just waited.

“I asked for an hour. She gave me exactly that.”

I rubbed my hands together. My legs were bouncing, and I couldn’t stop.

“I thought I was ready to see her. But I wasn’t.”

Still, Namjoon said nothing.

“She has a daughter.”

His brows lifted just slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“She’s mine,” I added. “Her name is Eun Ae.”

That got him.

Namjoon blinked slowly and sat down on the bench across from me. “You’re a dad?”

I nodded. “I didn’t know. I- God, hyung, I blocked her. She tried to tell me and I just… I disappeared.”

He sighed but didn’t scold me.

I think that made it worse.

“She raised her alone,” I said. “Worked. Went to school. Everything. No help. And I was here, living my dream while she was raising my kid and barely surviving.”

“You didn’t know,” Namjoon said carefully.

“I should’ve.”

“That’s true.”

I buried my face in my hands. “She’s giving me one chance. Tomorrow. At the zoo. I get to meet her - meet my daughter - for the first time and I don’t even know how to breathe around the thought of it.”

He let me sit in the silence for a beat.

Then: “What are you most scared of?”

“That she’ll hate me.”

Namjoon’s gaze softened.

“That she’ll ask me where I’ve been,” I whispered, “and I won’t know how to answer.”

“You don’t have to have all the answers,” he said. “You just have to show up. That’s what matters now.”

“I want to be in her life,” I said. “I want to earn it. I want to be someone she can count on. Not someone she has to recover from.”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “That’s a good place to start.”

“And Y/N…” My voice cracked. “I still love her.”

“I know.”

“I don’t expect her to forgive me. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I want her to see that I’m not the same kid who left.”

“You’re not,” he said.

I looked up at him. “What if I ruin it again?”

“Then you don’t,” Namjoon said. “You show up. You listen. You apologize. You be present. And if they don’t let you in, you keep showing up until they do- or until they tell you to stop. Either way, you stay honest.”

I nodded, swallowing hard.

“Thanks, hyung.”

He gave a tired smile. “Get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

I didn’t sleep much.

But I dreamed of a little girl with my eyes.

And Y/N beside her.

═══════

It was her idea to wear her tiger hoodie.

“Because we’re going to the zoo,” she said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

I tied her shoelaces twice- her feet wouldn’t stop bouncing- then stood up and stared at her for a moment too long.

“Mama?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you nervous?”

A pause.

“No,” I said. “I’m just thinking.”

It wasn’t a lie. I was thinking. About everything.

About how I swore he’d never meet her. About how easily I’d broken that rule yesterday. About how I’d watched his hands tremble when I said the word daughter.

He didn’t cry, not fully.

But he looked like someone who had finally understood what it meant to break something that couldn’t be fixed.

I kept that image close as I buckled her into her booster seat and drove to the zoo.

He was already waiting by the entrance.

Sunglasses. Mask. Hoodie. Head tucked down.

It should’ve made him look anonymous.

It didn’t.

Even behind all that, he looked unmistakably like him.

And when Eun Ae saw him, she didn’t pause.

She ran.

Full-speed. Straight up to him like she’d known him her whole life.

“Hi!” she chirped. “I’m Eun Ae. Are you the friend Mama said we’re meeting?”

He knelt down slowly.

I watched his fingers shake as he pulled the mask down from his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m… I’m Jungkook.”

“That’s a funny name,” she giggled. “Can I call you Mr. Kookie?”

He let out a short, stunned laugh.

“Sure,” he said, clearing his throat. “You can call me that.”

She grabbed his hand like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

Like this hadn’t been six years coming.

I followed a few steps behind them, unsure what to do with my arms, my heart, my breath.

They moved together easily.

Too easily.

He matched her pace. Let her pick which exhibits to visit. Lifted her onto his shoulders to see the giraffes. Bought her a pretzel and wiped the cheese off her face without hesitation. They laughed at the same things. Tilted their heads the same way when they were curious. Chewed the straw of their drinks when they were thinking.

They were mirrors.

And I was the frame- holding it all together, barely.

At the tiger enclosure, Eun Ae pressed her palms to the glass and gasped.

“They’re so cool!” she shouted. “I want one!”

“They’re a little big for a pet,” Jungkook said, crouching next to her.

“I’d teach it tricks.”

“I bet you would.”

There was a pause. Then she asked the question I’d been dreading.

“Did you know my mom when she was my age?”

Jungkook blinked.

I tensed.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I did.”

“Was she weird like me?”

“She was perfect,” he said. “Exactly like you.”

She grinned. “So… super weird?”

He laughed, and I heard something in it that sounded like mourning.

Later, while she climbed a small jungle gym near the café, I sat beside him on the bench.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched her, eyes full of things I didn’t want to name.

“She’s incredible,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“You already said that.”

“I’ll say it again,” he said. “As many times as you need.”

We sat in silence for a long time.

Then I heard my voice say something I hadn’t planned.

“You’re good with her.”

He turned to me, surprised.

“She doesn’t know who you are,” I added. “But she likes you.”

“I’m glad.”

“She’s never had… that. A male figure. Anyone to play like that with.”

He looked away. “That’s my fault.”

I didn’t correct him.

He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled something out.

A little stuffed tiger.

“I bought this on the way here,” he said, holding it up. “I didn’t know if I’d get to give it to her.”

She ran back to us just then, sweaty and smiling.

Jungkook knelt again and held out the tiger.

“For you.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Thanks, Mr. Kookie!”

She hugged him. No hesitation.

He closed his eyes like the moment hurt in a way he needed.

═══════

That night, after Eun Ae was tucked into bed, I sat on the couch with a blanket around my shoulders and my phone pressed to my ear.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Like the kind of quiet that presses in on your skin and makes your thoughts louder than they should be.

“She hugged him,” I whispered.

My best friend on the other end of the line didn’t speak. She waited. She always did.

“She hugged him like she’d known him her whole life. Like he hadn’t missed anything. Like he hadn’t disappeared.”

I wiped under my eyes with the edge of my sleeve.

“And he was… good with her. Gentle. Patient. Funny. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to meet her. Like he already loved her.”

“You sound surprised,” my friend said.

“I am,” I confessed. “I don’t want to be. But I am.”

There was a pause.

“You still love him,” she said.

I closed my eyes.

“Don’t,” I said softly. “Please.”

“Y/N-”

“I can’t afford to love him,” I whispered. “Not again. Not after what he did.”

The words came out raw and wet and cracked.

“I spent years hating him,” I said. “Years trying to forget the way he looked at me, the way he kissed me, the way he made me believe in things that never came true. And today, I watched him hold our daughter’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, and I…This could’ve been real. This life. This moment. All of it. If he had just… stayed.”

I swallowed the sob that threatened.

“I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel hate. I felt… sad. And full. And furious. And terrified. All at once.”

“You’re allowed to feel all of that.”

“I know. But it doesn’t make it easier.”

She didn’t say anything for a while.

Then: “Do you think he still loves you?”

I laughed. Quiet and bitter. “He says he does.”

“And do you believe him?”

I looked out the window. The city lights blinked back like stars caught in a snow globe.

“I believe he thinks he does,” I said. “But I don’t know if he loves me- who I am now. Not the girl he left behind.”

“You don’t have to decide anything now.”

“I don’t want to decide anything,” I said. “I just want to breathe again.”

I hung up after that.

Tucked my phone under the blanket and rested my head on the arm of the couch. My eyes closed. My chest ached. I felt heavy and hollow and full of fire all at the same time.

And then I heard it.

A shuffle.

A creak of the hallway floorboard.

I turned.

Jungkook stood there, just outside the door frame, his hand against the wall like he needed it to hold himself up.

He hadn’t knocked.

He hadn’t said a word.

He just looked at me like he’d walked straight into the center of a storm he hadn’t seen coming.

“You heard all that,” I said, my voice flat.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly. “I was bringing back the little drawing she made. She left it in my jacket pocket. I was going to knock. I just… heard you.”

I sat up slowly.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

He didn’t budge.

“Y/N,” he said softly, voice shaking. “I love you. Not just the girl I left. Not some idea. You. Right now. All of it.”

And then he crossed the room.

Without another word, he bent down and kissed me.

Soft and sure and shaking all at once.

And for one second - just one - I kissed him back.

It was like breathing again for the first time in years. Like lightning. Like a heartbeat I didn’t know I missed.

But then I pulled back.

And I slapped him.

Hard.

He didn’t even flinch.

“You can’t just do that,” I said, my voice rising. “You don’t get to walk in here, say I love you, and kiss me like it erases what you did.”

“I know,” he said, eyes shining. “I know it doesn’t fix anything. I just needed you to know it’s real.”

A long silence stretched between us.

He finally set the folded piece of paper on the table.

It was a crayon drawing. Stick figures. A tiger. The word “KOOKIE” spelled backwards across the top.

“I’ll go,” he said, stepping back. “But… thank you. For today.”

He turned and walked out before I could say a word.

And I sat there, hands shaking, heart a mess, trying not to chase after him.

Because no matter how much I wanted to…

I didn’t know if I could survive loving him again.

═══════

I didn’t mean to kiss her.

I meant to leave.

I meant to say those words and walk away like a man who’d learned his lesson. Who knew better now.

But when I looked at her- sitting on that couch, eyes full of grief and strength- I forgot what I was supposed to do.

And when her lips touched mine back… for that brief, burning second, I thought maybe I wasn’t too late.

But then she slapped me.

And she was right to.

I walked out shortly after. The drawing Eun Ae made was still on the table. The door shut behind me like punctuation on a sentence I’d rewritten too many times in my head.

I didn’t go to my room.

I went to Namjoon’s.

He was still up, writing in a leather-bound notebook like always. When he opened the door and saw my face, he didn’t ask. Just moved aside to let me in.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands gripping the hem of my hoodie.

“She still hates me,” I said.

Namjoon didn’t reply. Just waited.

“I heard her talking to someone. On the phone. After the zoo.” I exhaled shakily. “She said it could’ve been real. The life. The moment. If I had just stayed.”

My voice cracked.

“She’s right,” I said. “It could’ve been. I destroyed everything.”

Namjoon sat in the chair across from me, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t destroy everything.”

“I kissed her,” I admitted.

That got a raised eyebrow.

“She kissed me back. For a second. Then she slapped me.”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. “You probably deserved it.”

“I definitely deserved it.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my thighs, head in my hands.

“She thinks I’m just showing up now because of Eun Ae. But it’s not that. I was going to try before I even knew. I swear. I just… I still love her. That never went away.”

“I know,” Namjoon said. “We all do.”

“She said she doesn’t know if I love who she is now. Not the girl I left behind.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” I said immediately. “She’s stronger. Sharper. She’s everything I wish I’d grown up fast enough to deserve.”

Namjoon nodded slowly.

“Then show her,” he said. “Not with words. You’ve said enough. Do something.”

“Like what?”

“Think,” he said. “What did she love? What mattered to her?”

I blinked.

“Wildflowers,” I said. “She always picked the ugly ones growing out of sidewalk cracks. Said they were survivors.”

Namjoon smiled. “Then that’s where you start.”

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat.

“I’m going to show up,” I said. “Every day. Until she tells me not to. Or until she believes me.”

“Good,” Namjoon said. “And Jungkook?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not a piece of shit. You were a scared kid who made a selfish mistake. Now you’re a man who has to own it.”

I nodded again.

I wasn’t running anymore.

Tomorrow, I’d bring her flowers.

Not roses.

Not something expensive or flashy.

Just wildflowers.

The ones that survive.

═══════

He didn’t text the next morning.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t knock.

But when I opened the door to take out the trash, there was a bouquet of wildflowers on the step.

No note.

No explanation.

Just color.

Simple and honest.

I stared at them for a long time before I brought them inside.

I didn’t put them in a vase.

Not yet.

Eun Ae noticed them instantly.

“Oooh, are those for you?”

“Yeah,” I said, almost under my breath.

“From Mr. Kookie?”

I froze.

She giggled. “He smells like sunshine.”

I blinked. “What?”

“His hoodie. It smelled like sunshine. And gum.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

She took one of the smaller stems from the bouquet and tucked it behind my ear before skipping off to play.

═══════

The next day, he didn’t bring flowers.

He brought her a book.

One of those thick picture books with a glittery cover and a dragon on the front. She shrieked like she’d won the lottery. He handed it to her without a word and let her read to him, even though she kept skipping pages and making up half the story.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t correct her.

He just smiled like it was the best thing he’d ever heard.

I watched from the kitchen, trying not to feel anything.

Trying to stay steady.

Trying not to remember the way his hand had felt on my cheek when he kissed me.

And the sting of my own palm after.

═══════

The third day, he showed up with both- flowers for me, a new stuffed animal (a bunny this time) for her, and takeout from my favorite noodle place.

He didn’t ask to stay.

Just handed it over, bowed, and walked away.

I didn’t stop him.

But I didn’t close the door right away either.

═══════

The fourth day, he didn’t come.

And I hated how I noticed.

How the absence felt like a missing rhythm in my day. A skipped beat.

I told myself it was good. Smart. Necessary.

That space was healthy.

But then he texted.

Jungkook: Didn’t want to crowd you today. Just… wanted you to know I’m here.

I didn’t reply.

But I stared at that message for a long time.

═══════

The fifth day, he came by again. This time he asked if we wanted to go for ice cream.

Eun Ae screamed like he’d asked her to Disneyland.

I tried to say no.

I did.

But my mouth betrayed me.

“Okay,” I said. “Just an hour.”

He didn’t smile like he won.

He smiled like it hurt to be that grateful.

We walked to the corner shop with her bouncing between us. He let her pick his flavor. She made him get bubblegum. He pretended to like it. I knew he didn’t.

He caught me watching him.

And didn’t look away.

That night, after she was in bed, I sat on the same couch, stared at the same wall, and whispered into the dark:

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

And I meant it.

I wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

But I also wasn’t closing the door anymore.

Not all the way.

═══════

I should’ve known it was too good to last.

The morning started perfect.

Too perfect.

Jungkook showed up with matching zoo t-shirts he found online. One for him, one for Eun Ae. Hers said “Mini Tiger.” His said “Big Tiger.”

She laughed for five straight minutes and made him wear it out in public.

I rolled my eyes and told him he was shameless.

He just grinned and handed me a coffee with two extra espresso shots- exactly the way I liked it.

“Trying to bribe me?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

I didn’t smile.

But my fingers brushed his on accident when I took the cup.

And I didn’t pull away.

We took Eun Ae to the botanical gardens. Let her feed koi fish and run across wooden bridges with her stuffed tiger tucked under one arm. Jungkook stayed close the entire time. Carrying her backpack, tying her shoe when it came undone, wiping ice cream off her face.

It almost looked like a family. 

Almost.

We sat on the grass to rest before lunch, and she ran over to the koi pond like it was a different world.

“She’s so comfortable with you,” I said, trying not to let it sound like an accusation.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I want her to be.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then he looked at me and said something that should’ve been sweet.

But it wasn’t.

“She’s just like you, you know.”

I blinked.

“She’s strong and stubborn and always needs to be right. She even talks with her hands like you do- ”

“Don’t,” I said, sharper than I meant to.

He froze. “What?”

“Don’t compare us like that.”

“I wasn’t- I meant it as a good thing-”

“She’s not a mirror, Jungkook,” I snapped. “She’s a person. Her own person.”

“I know that,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like- ”

“You weren’t around. You don’t know what she’s like. You’ve seen her for what? A week? You don’t get to analyze her like you raised her.”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

And I saw something shift in his eyes.

Something small and hurt.

Then a tiny voice interrupted us.

“I’m sorry,” Eun Ae whispered.

We both turned.

She was standing by the fish pond again, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” she sniffled. “I’ll be good.”

“No,” I said quickly, moving toward her. “Baby, no. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She clung to me like her little heart might explode.

I scooped her up and pressed her to my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice thick. “I’m not mad at you. I promise. You didn’t do anything.”

She looked over my shoulder at Jungkook. “Are you mad too?”

He shook his head, eyes glassy. “No, sweetheart. Never.”

“I just wanted to have a nice day,” she mumbled.

My throat tightened.

“I know,” I whispered.

We sat on the bench together for a long time after that.

No one said much.

═══════

Eun Ae fell asleep in the car on the way home, and Jungkook carried her inside like muscle memory. He tucked her into bed without needing directions, covered her with her favorite blanket, and kissed the crown of her head before stepping back like it hurt to walk away.

Neither of us said much after that.

He left for the venue early that night to prep for their final concert.

I stood in the hallway after he left, hand pressed against the door, heart aching like it was made of split seams and bad timing.

I didn’t cry.

But I wanted to.

Because I knew this was what I did.

Push away before I could be left again.

═══════

The stadium vibrated under my feet.

Screams rolled like thunder across the roof, and I could feel the beat of the music reverberating through the concrete backstage walls.

It was the final night of BTS’s residency.

Everything was fire.

Everything was electric.

Everything was right- except me.

I stood at the main comms table with a headset snug against my ears, spitting rapid-fire cues to the light techs, the camera ops, and the runners, my voice a metronome of control.

“Camera C, pan stage right. Cue smoke burst. Light rig alpha, wait two seconds on drop- no, two seconds, not four-”

My tone was clipped. My spine straight.

On the outside, I looked like I had it together.

But I could feel it.

The crack behind my ribs. The pulse behind my eyes. The way I flinched every time his voice cut through the speakers.

Every note he sang.

Every lyric he poured his soul into.

It hurt.

I told myself I didn’t care.

I told myself I was over it.

But every time the lights shifted and his silhouette appeared, I remembered the way he’d looked when he kissed me and the way he’d stayed when I slapped him.

I remembered how his voice broke when he said, “I love you. Right now. All of it.”

I remembered the way he meant it.

And I remembered how much that terrified me.

“Y/N?” someone called in my ear. “Spotlight three needs confirmation. We’re doing the slow solo bridge in thirty.”

I blinked, the fog in my head thick.

“Copy that,” I said quickly. “Cue in thirty. Confirm on bridge.”

I watched the monitors as he stepped up to the center of the stage.

Alone.

Golden lights haloed around him. Fans screamed his name from every direction.

And he sang.

Not just to them.

I knew that voice.

I knew when it was for the crowd…

…and when it was for me.

My hands curled into fists at my sides.

Stop it.

Don’t romanticize this.

Don’t soften.

But I did.

I always did.

Every time his voice cracked. Every time he hit a note like it cost him a piece of himself.

He looked straight into the lens during the final chorus- the one that streamed to every screen in the arena.

It was almost too direct.

Too intentional.

And in that moment, I knew.

He wasn’t singing to a sea of strangers.

He was singing to me.

The cue ended. The screen faded to black. Lights cut. Screams exploded.

My heart thudded harder than the bass.

I turned away from the monitor and pulled off my headset.

I needed air.

The crew backstage was already preparing for encore. The guys were offstage hydrating, catching their breath, prepping for the last two songs.

I slipped through a side door and stepped out into the shadowed corridor by the loading dock. It was cold. Quiet. The noise of the crowd muffled by thick walls.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

I didn’t want this to hurt.

But it did.

I didn’t want to care.

But I did.

And worst of all?

I didn’t want to want him.

But God, I did.

═══════

The cheers were still echoing in my bones.

My shirt clung to my back, soaked through with sweat. My hair was dripping. My lungs were still catching up.

But all I could think about was her.

I didn’t see her once during the show. Not backstage. Not in the wings. Not even in the flashes of tech crew darting through shadows.

But I felt her.

Like gravity.

Like silence.

Like a missing beat in the rhythm I couldn’t get right.

I sat alone in the dressing room while the rest of the guys laughed and recapped their favorite fan chants. Jimin had his feet on the table, Taehyung was dancing shirtless with a can of soda, and Jin was complaining about the confetti in his hair.

But I couldn’t join them.

I couldn’t even smile.

My hands trembled as I unlaced my boots. My knees bounced restlessly. My throat was dry, but I couldn’t drink anything.

Because all I could hear was her voice.

“You don’t know what she’s like.”

“You weren’t around.”

“You don’t get to analyze her like you raised her.”

She was right.

Every word.

I’d tried so hard to connect, I didn’t realize I was stepping on landmines she’d spent years trying to bury.

I messed it up.

Again.

“Yo,” Namjoon said, stepping into the room and tossing me a towel. “You good?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“You’re lying.”

I sighed. “I know.”

He sat down across from me, cracking open a bottle of water and sliding one my way.

“She didn’t talk to me tonight,” I said.

“You talk to her?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then maybe she’s waiting.”

“Or maybe she’s done.”

Namjoon didn’t say anything to that. He just leaned back and looked at me with those eyes that saw way too much.

“Do you regret it?” he asked.

I blinked. “Regret what?”

“Kissing her.”

I hesitated.

“No,” I said. “Not for a second.”

“She kissed you back.”

“Just for a second.”

“But she did,” he said. “And that means something.”

“Does it?”

He nodded. “It means she hasn’t closed the door. She’s just scared to open it.”

I stared at the floor.

“I don’t want to scare her,” I whispered. “I just want to show her that I’m not that kid anymore. That I’m not running. That I’m here. I’m here.”

Namjoon leaned forward. “Then tell her. Really tell her. Not to fix things. Not to beg. Just to say it. Say what you didn’t back then.”

I nodded slowly.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” I said. 

“Then tonight’s your last chance.”

“I don’t know if she’ll open the door.”

“Then knock anyway.”

I looked up.

“I’m scared,” I admitted. “If she sends me away, I don’t know if I’ll recover.”

“She won’t send you away,” he said. “Not if you’re honest. Not if you’re real.”

I took a deep breath.

I was real.

I was terrified.

But I was real.

═══════

I didn’t ask what he was doing here.

I didn’t ask why he looked like he hadn’t slept in days or why his fingers were twitching at his sides like they didn’t know how to be still.

I just watched as he stepped inside my apartment, slowly, like the floor might vanish beneath him and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

He stood there for a long time.

Like he couldn’t find the words.

Like if he said the wrong thing, I’d vanish.

I leaned against the wall and waited.

He finally looked up.

“I didn’t know how to leave this city without seeing you again.”

I didn’t reply.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he said. “Not your forgiveness. Not a second chance. Not some happy ending I don’t deserve. I just… I need you to know.”

His voice cracked.

“I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

My breath caught.

“I didn’t leave because I stopped. I left because I was scared. And young. And stupid. And then I was ashamed. So ashamed I couldn’t even look at myself. So I blocked you. I shut you out. Because every time I thought of you, I remembered what I threw away.”

My throat burned.

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he said. “And you raised our daughter without me. You built a life, a home, a future- and I wasn’t there. I missed her first words. Her first steps. Her birthdays. I missed everything.”

Tears welled in his eyes.

“I don’t deserve to be her dad. I don’t deserve to even stand in this hallway. But I’m here. And if there’s even the smallest piece of you that believes I could be more than what I was-”

He stopped.

Swallowed hard.

“-then I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”

The silence that followed felt like thunder.

And then I whispered, “You don’t get to walk back in and say the right thing and expect it to fix the past.”

“I know,” he said, hoarse.

“But…”

He looked up.

“But you said the right thing anyway.”

And then I stepped toward him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

Until I reached for him.

And he broke.

His hands cupped my face like I was something fragile, like I was glass, like he wasn’t sure if I’d let him keep holding me.

And when he kissed me- this time- I didn’t slap him.

I kissed him back.

Hard. Messy. Real.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t soft.

It was years of ache and regret and longing that had nowhere else to go.

His hoodie came off, tossed aside like it was nothing, and mine followed, sliding to the floor in a forgotten heap.

Hands found skin like they were remembering. His fingers traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, like he was mapping me again, reclaiming territory he’d lost. 

My back hit the hallway wall, the cold plaster a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressing against mine. He kissed down my neck, his breath hot and ragged, and whispered, 

“I missed you so much. I missed this. I missed you.”

I moaned into his mouth, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. We stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding layers like they were shackles, breathless and desperate. 

The bed creaked beneath us as he lowered me onto it, his weight hovering above me, his eyes searching mine like he needed permission.

“This okay?” he asked, barely above a whisper, his voice raw with need and uncertainty. I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest, but he needed more. 

“Say it.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. His lips found mine again, hungry and demanding, but his hands were gentle, reverent, like he was worshipping me. He kissed his way down my body, pausing at my breasts, his tongue tracing the curve of my nipples, his lips murmuring praises against my skin. 

“God, I missed these. So fucking beautiful.”

I arched into his touch, my breath hitching as his hands slid down my thighs, his fingers brushing the edge of my panties. He hooked them with a single finger, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. 

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Always were.”

He kissed his way back up, his lips brushing mine before trailing down my neck, his hands roaming over my body like he was memorizing every inch. 

“I’ve thought about this every day,” he confessed, his breath hot against my ear. “Every. Fucking. Day.”

I reached for him, my hands tracing the lean muscles of his back, the ink of his tattoo sleeve, the piercings that glinted under the dim light. He was solid and real, and I couldn’t stop touching him, like I needed to prove he was here, that this was real.

He shifted above me, his eyes dark with need, and I felt him, hard and insistent against my thigh. 

“I need you,” he growled, his voice rough, his hands gripping my hips. “Now.”

I nodded, my heart racing, my body aching for him. He didn’t waste another second. He entered me slowly, his eyes locked on mine, his breath catching as he filled me completely. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, his forehead resting against mine. “You feel so good.”

He began to move, slow and deliberate, his hips rocking into mine, his hands gripping my thighs like he was anchoring himself to me. 

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and demanding, and I obeyed, my eyes meeting his, holding his gaze as he thrust deeper, harder.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his lips brushing mine with each movement. “So perfect.”

His words sent shivers down my spine, his praise fueling the fire burning between us. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, meeting his thrusts with my own, our bodies moving in perfect sync. 

“Jungkook,” I gasped, my nails digging into his back, my voice breaking as pleasure coiled tight in my core.

He growled, his pace quickening, his hands gripping my hips tighter, his control slipping. “Cum for me, baby. Let me feel it.”

His words were my undoing. My walls clenched around him, my body trembling as my orgasm crashed over me, waves of pleasure washing through me, my breath catching in a sharp cry. “Jungkook!”

He whispered into my neck, his lips brushing my skin, his voice hoarse and desperate. “I love you. I love you so much.”

His words were a balm, a salve to wounds I didn’t realize were still raw. I clung to him, my fingers digging into his back, my body still trembling as he followed me over the edge, his thrusts becoming frantic, his breath ragged against my skin. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his voice breaking as he came, his body shuddering above me, his release a sharp, primal sound.

He collapsed onto me, his weight heavy but comforting, his breath hot against my neck. For a moment, we just lay there, our hearts pounding in unison, our bodies still joined, the silence thick with unspoken emotions.

He brushed my hair back and kissed my forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere this time,” he said, voice trembling.

I didn’t answer.

But I didn’t ask him to leave either.

And that was enough.

For now.

═══════

I woke up to the sound of his breathing.

Slow. Steady.

It filled the room like the soft hum of a song I hadn’t heard in years.

For a moment, I didn’t open my eyes.

I just listened.

Soaked in the weight of him next to me. The warmth of his arm draped around my waist. The rise and fall of his chest behind my back. His hand, large and gentle, resting against my ribs like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.

The light was pale through the blinds. Morning had barely begun.

But the ache in my chest already knew it was time.

I turned over slowly.

He was already awake.

Watching me.

Not smiling. Not saying anything.

Just looking.

Like this was the first morning of his life that made sense.

I searched his face for hesitation.

There wasn’t any.

Just quiet awe.

And something softer than I knew what to do with.

“You didn’t sleep,” I whispered.

“Didn’t want to.”

I blinked. “Why not?”

He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek.

“Didn’t want to miss this.”

My throat tightened.

I looked away.

“You’re leaving today.”

It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. “My flight’s in four hours.”

I swallowed.

“Will you tell her?”

He nodded again. “I want to. When you’re ready.”

“I don’t know when that’ll be.”

“I’ll wait.”

I looked back at him.

He meant it.

“I don’t know what this is,” I said softly.

“Me neither,” he replied. “But I want to find out.”

Silence stretched between us like thread.

“Can I see you before I go?” he asked.

“You’re seeing me now.”

He smiled. Just barely. “After I pack. Before the airport.”

I didn’t say yes.

But I didn’t say no.

He leaned in and kissed me once- just once- like he didn’t want to ask for more than I could give.

Then he pulled back, exhaled, and whispered:

“I’m so in love with you.”

I didn’t say it back.

But I didn’t need to.

Because he pressed his forehead to mine, closed his eyes, and stayed there for a long time.

And when he finally pulled away, when he slipped out of bed and gathered his things, I watched him with something heavy and quiet in my chest.

Not fear.

Not anger.

Something like hope.

And when Eun Ae woke an hour later and asked where Mr. Kookie was, I smiled, just a little, and said:

“He’s not gone. Not really.”

Because for the first time in years…

I believed it.

═══════

Post A/N: dont hate me 😭 there’s still so much to their story

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 06/24/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @elithenium @asyr97 @heyinwluv85s @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @granataepfelchen @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @blubird592 @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @mellyyyyyyx @yu-justme @bangtaniess @xmiaacxio @emmie2308 @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @dragonflygurl4 @taetaecatboy @somehowukook @iiamnotsure @lavender2ari @busanbby-jjk @prilnextdoor23 @ecomidnight @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94 @songbyeonkim

[cressidagrey]

Money, Money, Money

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Felicity runs Oscar’s life. Oh, and she also handles all the money. 

Warnings and Notes: Some more context for the Silverstone chapter, also some insight into Piastri family dynamics in this verse. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

1: Chris Piastri

Chris had been patient. He’d waited through the contract drama, the Alpine mess, the quiet chaos that was the lead-up to McLaren’s announcement. He’d even stayed calm when Oscar casually dropped that they’d officially moved to a farmhouse—because, quote, “Felicity liked the light.”

But now he was looking at the numbers.

And blinking.

Hard.

"You’re going to be making how much next year?"

Oscar leant back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Depends on bonuses. But yeah. That’s the base.”

Chris whistled low. “Jesus Christ. That’s… real money.”

Oscar grinned. “Told you the sim rig was a good investment.”

Chris didn’t laugh. He was still holding the contract summary printout Oscar handed him ten minutes ago.

He tapped the top corner. “Okay. So you’ve got this. Great. Now who’s handling it?”

Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “Felicity.”

Chris’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “Still no financial advisor?”

“She’s more than capable.”

“And no prenup,” Chris added flatly. “Still.”

“You’re still upset abou that,” Oscar said drily.

“I’m upset you refused to,” Chris replied. “I asked you. I begged you to be smart. You were eighteen. And you married the first girl you ever kissed. You always brush it off.”

“I’m not brushing it off. I’m making a choice.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Chris snapped. “You married at eighteen. You had a child at nineteen. And you still refuse to take any precautions to protect the career we all sacrificed for.”

Oscar didn’t move. But something in his posture shifted—straightened. “What do you want me to say, Dad? That you were right? That we were reckless and dumb and ruined my future?”

Chris exhaled harshly. “I never said you ruined anything.”

“No,” Oscar said, “but you’ve never really believed us either. About anything.”

Chris blinked. “Excuse me?”

Oscar’s voice was low, but steady. “You’ve never believed us when we said Bee was planned. When we said we knew what we were doing. When we said we didn’t need help. You think we were just two stupid teenagers who got in over our heads and now you’re waiting for the fallout.”

Chris scoffed. “Right. The planned baby at nineteen.”

Oscar’s face shuttered. “Yes. Planned.”

“You can keep saying that, Oscar,” Chris said, “but you and I both know it wasn’t the timing you had in mind. You threw your entire career trajectory off-course. No nineteen-year-old plans a baby, Oscar. That’s not how this works.”

Oscar looked like he’s been slapped. “You think we’re stupid.”

“I think you were young.” Chris fired back. “And I think she got pregnant and you felt like you had no choice—”

“Don’t you dare,” Oscar snapped.

The air cracks.

Chris didn’t back down. “You were barely in junior formula. You were already under pressure. And instead of focusing on that, you were raising a kid in a rental flat with hand-me-down furniture and no job security— You were nineteen. No one knows what they’re doing at nineteen.”

“Maybe not,” Oscar said. “But we knew what we wanted.”

“And I spent six and a half million dollars making sure you got where you are,” Chris fired back. “So excuse me if I want you to think.”

Oscar went still. The words hung between them like a slap.

Chris pressed on, voice harder now. “I spent years calling sponsors, working second jobs, selling off anything we didn’t need just to keep you on the track. Your mother gave up every holiday to stretch the travel budget. And now you’re handing your entire financial future to the girl you married at eighteen and won’t even sign a piece of paper to protect yourself if it goes wrong.”

Oscar spoke slowly. Cold. “She is not just some girl.”

“I know that,” Chris said, finally sounding frustrated. “I know she’s brilliant and capable and—impressive. I know she kept you standing when things got ugly. But this isn’t about how resourceful Felicity is, Oscar. It’s about you.”

“I pay for my life,” Oscar said quietly. “Every grocery bill, every flight, every coat Bee’s ever worn—we paid for that ourselves. We’ve never asked you for help outside of racing.”

“You rushed into a marriage, a baby, and now you’ve wrapped your entire life around a girl who pawned designer handbags instead of calling us for help.”

Oscar’s fists clenched. “You think that was a bad thing?”

“I think it was pride,” Chris said, suddenly cold. “On both your parts. She didn’t want to come with her tail between her legs after her family cut her off. And you— you didn’t want to admit you were in over your head.” 

Oscar took a slow breath. “We didn’t want you to feel obligated.”

Chris’s jaw tightened. “I was obligated. I spent millions of dollars getting you to F1. Do you think I did that so you could let your teenage wife manage your future out of a color-coded spreadsheet?” Chris rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not the point anyway.”

“No,” Oscar said. “The point is that you don’t trust me. Or her.”

“That’s not true,” Chris said.

“Isn’t it?” Oscar challenges. “You think she married me for the money I might have. You think we had Bee by accident. You think I’m sleepwalking through life and one day I’ll wake up broke and bitter and you’ll have to pick up the pieces.”

Chris’s mouth was a thin line. He didn’t answer.

Oscar took a breath. His voice softened—just a little. “I know what you gave me. I know I wouldn’t be here without you. But I’m not a teenager anymore. And I don’t need you to manage me. I need you to believe me.”

***

Nicole was sitting at the dining table with a glass of red wine and her reading glasses perched low on her nose, sorting through forms.

Chris stood in the doorway, visibly agitated.

Nicole didn’t look up. “If this is about Felicity again, I’m pouring myself another glass of wine.”

Chris sighed. “You could at least pretend to take my side.”

Nicole set down the pen and looks at him over the rims of her glasses. “I divorced you, not because you were wrong all the time, but because you’re so annoying when you think you’re right.”

Chris threw his hands up. “Nicole. Please. Just talk to Oscar. He listens to you.”

“Because I don’t condescend to him,” she said pointedly. “I treat him like the grown man he is.”

Chris ran a hand through his hair. “He’s married without a prenup. He’s letting her manage millions. What happens if something goes wrong? What happens if she changes—”

“She’s not going to change,” Nicole cut in.

“You don’t know that.”

“Felicity manages my pension, Chris.”

He blinked. “What?”

“She took a look at it last year,” Nicole says casually. “Pointed out I had a dead fund and fees I didn’t need. Reinvested the whole thing in an afternoon.”

Chris stared at her. “You let your daughter-in-law manage your retirement?”

“She’s smarter than both of us combined,” Nicole said, tone sharp now. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

“She was eighteen when they got married,” Chris muttered.

“And runs a household better than most people twice her age,” Nicole replied. “Felicity could run a Fortune 500 company if she wanted. She just happens to be more interested in upcycling cabinets and taking care of Bee.”

Chris scowled. “She plays housewife, Nicole. And Oscar lets her.”

“She chooses housewife,” Nicole corrected. “Big difference. And it’s not because she can’t do more—it’s because she already did. She literally got a PhD this year because she was bored, Chris. You remember what she gave up. I do. She had that whole trust fund, the estate in Singapore —until she told her parents she wasn’t giving up the boy.”

Chris exhaled again, tight and heavy.

Nicole softened—just a little. “  get it. You put everything into Oscar. You burned yourself down to build him a ramp. But our boy fell in love, and the girl he chose? She wasn’t a mistake. She was the best decision he ever made.”

“I just want him to be protected,” Chris said, quieter now.

“He is,” Nicole said. “And if anything happens, you better believe Felicity already has a five-tab spreadsheet, three binders, and a financial nuke pointed at the problem. Don’t confuse softness for weakness. She’s not fragile, Chris. She’s focused.”

Chris was quiet for a long time.

Finally, he muttered, “I still think he should’ve signed a prenup.”

Nicole sighs. “Yeah, well. I think you should’ve watered the lemon tree before it died, but we all have regrets.”

Chris stared at her. “That’s not remotely the same.”

Nicole sipped her tea. “Isn’t it?”

2: Mark Webber

Mark Webber had long since stopped pretending that Oscar Piastri ran his own life.

Oh, he showed up on time. Did the briefings. Signed the contracts. Knew the car and the data and the long-run pace.

But when it came to logistics, taxes, insurance, estate planning, or remembering that the electrical system in their farmhouse was still running on pre-war wiring—Oscar did what every sensible man should do.

He said, “Let me ask my wife.”

Mark had found it funny at first. A bit sweet. The overachieving childhood sweetheart turned stay-at-home-wife. Until he realized, somewhere between Oscar’s seamless contract transitions and the fact that his tax filings were always submitted early and perfectly formatted, that Felicity Piastri wasn’t playing house.

She was running an empire.

Quietly. From the kitchen. Usually with flour on her cheek.

Mark had seen it up close too many times now. 

She was the one who tracked Oscar’s schedule in a calendar that put race engineers to shame.

 She was the one who had his income split across diversified portfolios before McLaren ever offered him a multi-year deal. 

And she was the one who’d once casually texted Mark a five-point list of everything he needed to fix in his personal retirement plan—because she’d overheard him complain about capital gains tax while making Bee a peanut butter sandwich.

He’d actually followed all five points.

So when he found himself holding a financial summary from his advisor, confused about a line item labeled “Australia – Deferred Liability: TBD,” there was only one person he thought to call.

The phone rang twice.

“Hi Mark,” came Felicity’s voice, crisp and warm as ever. “What did you mess up this time?”

Mark chuckled. “Got a minute?”

“Always. What’s the line item?”

He read it out. She hummed. “Deferred liability’s probably from your property sale in 2019—was that still in NSW?”

“Yeah. You remember that?”

“I remember everything. What’s the advisor’s email? I’ll send you the reference table.”

Mark rubbed his forehead. “Do I need to start paying you?”

“You couldn’t afford me,” she said cheerfully. “Besides, I’m already managing Oscar’s empire and Nicole’s pension. I’m full up.”

Mark snorted. “Jesus Christ. Does Oscar know you’re moonlighting as my financial therapist?”

“Oh, he knows,” she said breezily. “He told me to invoice you last time.”

Mark chuckled. “He still pretending he understands half of what you do?”

“He stopped pretending after I explained capital gains to him using Bee’s sticker chart,” she replied. “Now he just signs what I give him and asks if we can afford more smoked almonds.”

Mark shook his head, grinning. “He’s a lucky little bastard.”

“He knows. Oh, and by the way,” Felicity added, “tell your guy to check your international tax treaty allocations. You’re probably being double taxed on passive income through your EU holdings.”

Mark paused. “Have I ever told you you’re a menace?”

“Only every time you call me.”

And then she hung up.

Mark stared at his phone, then looked at the spreadsheet again.

There was a reason he always CC’d her on Oscar’s contract reviews. The girl could spot a hidden clause faster than most team lawyers.

He wasn’t just impressed anymore. He was a little scared.

People in the paddock liked to talk about Oscar’s talent. His calm. His racecraft. His future.

But Mark?

Mark knew the real secret to Oscar’s success wore denim dungarees, knew how to budget a household down to the cent, and had personally scared two marketing execs into submission using nothing but polite email phrasing and a well-timed spreadsheet.

In Mark Webber’s not so humble opinion: 

Felicity Piastri was the best investment Oscar had ever made.

3: Lando Norris

Oscar was still in his race suit, slouched halfway off a physio ball, towel draped around his neck. His hair was damp. 

He was scrolling on his phone one-handed, the other absentmindedly rubbing at his shoulder. Across from him, Lando was sitting upside-down in a beanbag chair like he was part of a modern art installation, frowning at his iPad and muttering numbers under his breath.

He squinted, then sat up properly. “Hey,” he said, pointing vaguely. “Do you use Capex?”

Oscar didn’t look up. “For what?”

“Investments. Advisors. Tax strategy stuff.” Lando waved the iPad like it’s obvious. “Zak’s been on about it. Wants us to think about long-term wealth management. Something about portfolio diversity and 'future-proofing our legacy.'"

Oscar hummed noncommittally. “Nah, I don’t use Capex.”

Lando raised a brow. “Okay, so who do you use?”

Oscar finally looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Like—who’s your guy?” Lando asked, a little impatient now. “Everyone’s got someone. I’ve got Simon. Charles got his brother and that weird Swiss dude. You’ve got, what, Mark handling yours?”

Oscar blinked. “I don’t have a guy.”

“You don’t—?” Lando cut himself off, leans forward. “Wait. You don’t have a financial advisor?”

Oscar shrugged. “Nope.”

Lando just stared at him. “Oscar.”

Oscar stretched his legs out. “What?”

“You’re a Formula 1 driver. You make… a lot of money. You don’t have anyone managing it?”

“I do,” Oscar said, reaching for his water bottle. “Felicity.”

Lando blinked. “Felicity who?”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “My wife, Lando. Felicity my wife,” Oscar confirmed cheerfully, like he wasn’t casually setting fire to Lando’s entire concept of financial management. “She’s good at it. Better than me. She likes spreadsheets and interest rates. It makes her happy.”

Lando’s mouth opened. Closes. “No. No. That doesn’t count.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Why not?”

“Because—because she’s your wife! That’s like saying, ‘Oh yeah, my daughter handles the catering.’ It’s—It’s nepotism!”

Oscar laughed. “She’s not taking a salary, mate. She’s running our life.”

“That’s worse!” Lando flailed his hands. “You’re telling me you trust her with everything? Like, she just… handles it?”

“Yes,” Oscar said simply. “She’s good at it.”

“She’s good at—what, managing millions?”

“Actually, yeah.” He looked mildly offended on Felicity’s behalf. “She started with nothing. Budgeted down to the cent when we were nineteen and pretty much broke with a newborn because we didn’t want to depend on my parents. She made our tax spreadsheet color-coded and terrifying. She played the stock market while Bee was teething. Said it calmed her down. I was too busy trying to figure out why Bee would only fall asleep if I sang Let it be from the Beatles.”

Lando squinted. “...She has a spreadsheet?”

“She has seven.”

“And you’re just—fine with it?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said, no hesitation. “She’s always been smarter with money than me. Back when I was on a feeder series budget and Bee was in nappies, she made every cent stretch. She bought me a secondhand coffee machine when I was surviving on two hours of sleep and bad instant. She used our first proper bonus to start a fund she literally called ‘Future Stuff That Matters.’ She pays for every single house reno out of portfolio gains. I don’t ask anymore—I just send her the contract info and go race.”

Lando looked at him like he’d just confessed to free-climbing a skyscraper. “You don’t even check your paychecks?”

“I check they’ve gone in,” Oscar said. “But otherwise, I forward everything to her. Contracts, bonus details, travel reimbursements. She’s got this whole color-coded system.”

“Okay, but like—" Lando ran a hand through his hair, clearly spiraling—"there’s not even a backup guy? Like, a tax consultant? A wealth planner? An app? A spreadsheet?”

“She has all three. She showed me once. The spreadsheet had tabs called Future Stuff That Matters and Oscar’s Idiotic Tech Purchases."

Lando blinked.

"There's a colour-coded section just for sim rig accessories," Oscar added, helpfully.

“She made you a budget category for sim rig accessories?”

“I exceeded it last year. I got a warning.” Oscar grinned. “I send her the contracts, she handles the rest. I don’t even know what our heating bill is. I just get warm in winter and assume it’s paid.”

Lando collapses back into the beanbag. “You are so weirdly married.”

“I’m extremely married,” Oscar agrees. “To someone who built an emergency fund, planned our retirement, and still re-grouted the kitchen herself last month.”

There’s a pause.

Then: “You’re insane.”

Oscar smiled. “I’m stress-free.”

Another beat.

Then Lando muttered, “Do you think she’d take me on as a client?”

Oscar burst out laughing.

4: Tom Stallard

Tom had been on the phone with his mortgage broker for twenty minutes and was losing the will to live.

“No, I said I do have the updated P60, but your online portal is down,” he said through gritted teeth. “No, I’m not uploading it again through Safari, I’m using Chrome. Why does that matter?”

He ended the call with a sigh, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “I have a master’s in engineering from Cambridge and this is the most complicated thing I’ve ever done.”

A quiet voice behind him said, “Everything alright?”

Tom turned to find Oscar, cooling off post-sim, cradling a water bottle and looking vaguely concerned.

“Oh, yeah,” Tom said, deadpan. “Just losing a slow war with mortgage applications. Spreadsheets, interest rates, new build tax. Very sexy stuff.”

Oscar hummed. “Felicity would love it.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “She likes mortgage paperwork?”

“She likes paperwork in general,” Oscar said with a small smile. “Spreadsheets. Forecasting. Financial plans.”

Tom chuckled. “Yeah, well, maybe I should hire her. At this rate my family is going to end up living in our car.”

Oscar tilted his head. “She’d probably help. She’s scary good with money.”

“Really?” Tom asked, vaguely curious. “She handle the household stuff?”

Oscar blinked. “No, I mean she handles everything. My salary, bonuses, investments, Bee’s custodial account, tax optimization. All of it.”

Tom paused. “Wait—wait, you don’t do any of that?”

Oscar shook his head. “She’s better at it. Has a system. Color-coded folders. Charts. She built a whole model to project how many years I could race before retiring without touching the principal. I think it includes inflation and… milk prices?”

Tom blinked. “You’re telling me your wife handles your entire financial portfolio.”

Oscar shrugged. “It just makes sense. She’s meticulous. She used to do it all while Bee was napping and we were living on a single paycheque and pawned handbags.”

Tom sat back, stunned. “Mate, I have a financial advisor and a mortgage consultant and I still don’t know what I’m doing. You’re telling me your wife just—does it all?”

Oscar gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah. She’s good at it. And she enjoys it. I just sign things and ask her if we can afford new garden furniture.”

Tom looked at him for a beat.

Then said, deadpan, “I think I hate you.”

Oscar grinned. “She runs my retirement planning. I’m sorted for three recessions and a space war.”

Tom groaned. “Don’t tell me that. I just cried over a fixed rate of 5.3%.”

***

Tom hadn’t meant to bring it up again. Really, he hadn’t.

He’d only stopped by to drop off a folder Oscar left behind at the McLaren HQ. A quick in-and-out. No fuss. No existential crisis over adult responsibilities.

But then he made the mistake of saying, “I still haven’t figured out that mortgage stuff, by the way.”

And now he was in the Piastri kitchen.

Holding a cup of tea.

Watching Felicity Piastri, in a linen apron with a bee embroidered on the hem, pull up an amortization schedule like she was about to perform surgery on it.

“Alright,” she said, tapping at her laptop with a practiced efficiency that made his stomach clench. “Fixed rate of 5.3%, 25-year term, first-time buyer exemption, and a deferred LMI?”

Tom blinked. “Yes?”

“Okay, well, first of all, they’re charging you too much on your escrow buffer. That’s negotiable. And you can knock 0.2% off your rate if you bundle with their associated home insurance policy.”

“I—what?”

Felicity didn’t look up. “You haven’t consolidated your super, have you?”

“I—no?”

She made a soft tsk sound, clicked twice, and then turned the screen toward him. “I’ve made you a comparison sheet. These two lenders are offering better packages with less red tape. The third one has a better early exit policy in case you want to upgrade later. You’re a high-income, low-debt client, Tom. You should be getting treated like it.”

Tom stared at the screen, then at her.

“I have never felt so financially inadequate in my life,” he muttered.

Felicity gave him a bright smile. “That’s okay. Most people feel that way after twenty minutes with me.”

Oscar wandered in, holding Bee upside down by the ankles. “She fix it yet?”

“She rebuilt it,” Tom said faintly. “She bullied my mortgage into submission.”

Felicity rolled her eyes. “I simply pointed out that he’s not a charity case and shouldn’t be paying interest like one.”

Bee giggled from where she dangled. “Mama makes the numbers scared.”

Oscar dropped her gently onto the couch. “That she does.”

Tom stood up, cradling the printed spreadsheet like it was a sacred text. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”

Felicity handed him a small foil-wrapped bundle. “Banana bread. No walnuts.”

Tom looked at it. Then back at her. “You’re incredible.”

She beamed. “I know.”

5: Zak Brown

Zak liked to think of himself as a forward thinker. Risk-aware, but not risk-averse. Smart with money. Not shy about opportunity.

Which is why, after a particularly positive investor call and a lunch meeting with a tech-startup founder, he cornered Oscar Piastri in the McLaren break room, armed with a protein shake and a golden nugget of advice.

“Listen,” Zak said, leaning on the counter while Oscar poked through the fruit bowl like he wasn’t paid seven figures to do much cooler things. “If you haven’t already, you should really look into green robotics. Smart manufacturing meets sustainability. It’s going to explode in two years. Get in now.”

Oscar paused. “Green robotics?”

“Yeah. Startups, mostly. Private equity entry points. Could be a good addition to your portfolio.”

Oscar nodded slowly. “Right. Sounds interesting. I’ll check with Felicity.”

Zak blinked. “Your agent?”

“No,” Oscar said casually. “Felicity. My wife.”

Zak frowned. “As in… she checks it?”

“She handles all my finances,” Oscar replied, grabbing a banana. “She’ll know if it fits with the rest of the portfolio.”

Zak stared. “Wait—you don’t have a financial advisor?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused. “I have Felicity.”

“No, I mean like… a firm. A professional. Someone who manages your money.”

“I do. Felicity.”

Zak was now blinking very slowly. “You’re telling me your wife manages your finances.”

Oscar peeled the banana. “Yeah. Has for years.”

Zak struggled for a moment. “Like… salary? Bonuses?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Investments?”

“All of it.”

Zak straightened. “How much do you even know about your own portfolio?”

Oscar chewed thoughtfully. “Um… it’s green? Ethically aligned? We don’t do oil, fast fashion, or surveillance tech. And I think there’s a clause about chocolate companies with bad labor practices. Felicity added that after Bee got obsessed with cocoa beans.”

Zak made a small, stunned noise. “You don’t… manage your own money?”

Oscar shrugged. “I mean, it’s our money. She just handles it. She’s better at it. She has these terrifying spreadsheets.”

“She’s not licensed.”

“Nope,” Oscar said, smiling. “She’s just brilliant.”

Zak stared at him for a long beat.

“You make seven figures,” he said slowly. “You’re one of the most promising drivers of your generation. And you’re telling me that you’ve outsourced your entire financial future to your wife.”

“Yes,” Oscar said. “She has a whole system. Reinvested dividends, ethical ETFs, a growth fund, a rainy day fund, and this weird little stash labeled ‘Oscar’s Panic Button’ that I’m not allowed to ask about.”

Zak’s voice rose slightly. “And you’re okay with that?”

Oscar blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re a public figure!”

Oscar finished his banana. “So? I’d trust her with everything if I was a postman.”

Zak leaned heavily on the counter. “And what did she say about green robotics?”

Oscar tilted his head. “She had ethical concerns. Something about the AI lab's hiring practices and a conflict with a union group in Denmark.”

Zak exhaled. “Jesus Christ.”

Oscar grinned. “Yeah. She’s good.”

+1: Oscar Piastri

Oscar had long since stopped questioning where the money went. 

Not because he didn’t care—he did. He cared a lot, actually. 

But because sometime between their first apartment and the farmhouse, he’d realized something fundamental: Felicity knew what they needed before he did. 

And more than that, she knew why. 

There had been a time—back when he was nineteen, with a newborn and a contract that barely covered rent—when every cent mattered. 

And Felicity had stretched them with a kind of brilliance that made survival look like strategy. She’d budgeted nappies down to the cent. She’d thrifted furniture, sewed her own curtains, and somehow still found a way to buy Oscar a coffee machine when he couldn’t function without caffeine and 2-hour sleep blocks. 

Even then, he knew: if there was anyone he trusted with his life—or his bank account—it was her. That trust never changed. 

The first time he got a real bonus—something large, something meaningful—he handed it over without hesitation. “Use it for whatever you want,” he’d said, tired and sunburnt and half-delirious after a weekend in Spa. 

She didn’t blink. Just tucked it away and said, “I’ve got a plan.” That plan, as it turned out, involved savings accounts, index funds, and a meticulous spreadsheet labeled Future Stuff That Matters. 

Over time, their finances shifted. Grew. Stabilized. But Oscar never took that control back—not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to. 

Felicity didn’t spend for status. She didn’t buy expensive handbags or flashy watches. 

She bought insulation for the attic because she wanted Bee to stay warm in winter. She bought antique light fixtures from a man named Jerry on Facebook Marketplace because “they had character.” She bought sandpaper and primer and tile grout and then used it herself. 

She handled taxes. Investments. Long-term planning. She set aside money for Bee’s education, Oscar’s retirement, and an annual holiday they still hadn’t taken. 

And she never once acted like it was hers alone—just theirs, and safe in her hands. 

Oscar loved that about her. That she didn’t treat money like power. She treated it like possibility. 

And while the outside world saw him as the Formula 1 driver, the rising star, the man with the million-dollar contracts—he knew better. 

Knew that the reason he could focus on racing at all was because Felicity kept the rest of their world running so seamlessly behind the scenes.

Once, early in their marriage, he’d jokingly called her his CFO. She’d rolled her eyes. “I’m your wife.” But honestly, she was both. Because when his paycheck came in, he barely looked at it anymore. 

He just handed it over, kissed her cheek, and said, “Tell me if we can afford a new front porch.” Felicity always smiled. 

Always kissed him back. And somehow always replied, “Already ordered the wood. Bee helped me pick the stain.”

Felicity didn’t treat money like power.

She treated it like possibility.

And Oscar had learned to see it the same way—not in numbers, but in what it meant: security. Choice. Freedom. A future where his wife could say yes to things for herself. Where Bee would never grow up thinking that survival had to look like sacrifice.

And when people—Zak, Lando, even his own father—asked how he could trust one person with all of it?

Oscar just smiled.

Because that one person had been holding their entire life together since she was nineteen, tired, and holding a baby on her hip with a spreadsheet open on her lap.

She was the safest bet he’d ever made.

[darkbluekies]

Countryside getaway

Yandere!mafia oc x reader

Summary: Silas has decided that the two of you should spend some time together, far away from his world, and you get to experience each other's real sides. No fear, no worries.

Warnings: mentions of crimes, mentions of murder, Silas dirty minded humor, but overall a softer oneshot

Word count: 2.3k

No one knows where you're going. Not even you. He has one hand on the steeringwheel, the other one holds your thigh. 

He's wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tattoos on his arms.

“Keep your eyes on the road, map reader, or we'll never get there”, Silas says, giving you a teasing look.

“You have a GPS”, you mutter and turn your head more comfortably against the pillow.

“My GPS does not have your voice.”

“I don't even know where we're going.”

“You don't have to. Just read the directions.”

“How much further do we have to go? We've been sitting here for hours …”

“I did not know I had brought a child with me. I've planned something romantic and you're just complaining.” He caresses your thigh with his thumb, chuckling. “One more hour, little thing. That good enough for you?”

You groan and hide your face in the pillow and he laughs. He's different like this, when he's not surrounded by his men. When he's not in that space. Here, in his sports car with just the two of you, he's different. Softer. Human. It loosens your walls too.

“So whiny”, he chuckles. “Slept bad?”

“Don't kid”, you mutter and make yourself comfortable against the pillow again.

“Maybe we both need this. I need a break and you need to be able to sleep. Can't do that at home, can you?”

No, you can't. Not when he comes home in the middle of the night, bloody and roughed up. At home, you wake to every little sound with your heart beating in your chest.

“You know”, Silas starts, “its important to do this. To get away. Especially in my industry. Otherwise you get consumed.”

“Will SIC be able to handle things?”

“He has no choice.”

“Are you really okay to go by yourself? You’re recognizable.”

“Darling, they can't do anything. Thankfully, the law is strict and as long as there is no evidence connecting me to something they can't actually take me. They can suspect me, but never catch me. I'm fine.” He smirks, glancing at you. “Why? You're worried?”

You give him a glare and turn your head out the window.

“I'll break that facade down, Y/N”, he smiles and leans back in his seat. “We have four days all to ourselves. And I'll make the most of it.” His smirk deepens. “With no one around … I can take you just however I want to, whenever. And if I'm not wrong, SIC said that the house is remote. You can be as loud as you want.”

You slap his shoulder.

“Ouch, I'm driving here”, he chuckles. “Mind your hands?”

“Focus on your driving then.”

“How can I when you're sitting right here?”

His free hand on your thigh squeezes ever so slightly. You stare at him, contemplating opening the door and throwing yourself out on the highway.

The car has since long ago pulled in on a gravel road with no cars. Red flowers cover the fields around you, and for a second you're sure he has orchestrated it. 

The house is smaller than Silas's house back in the city, less modern. 

“Jump out, little thing”, he says as he unbuckles himself. “We're here.”

You stretch, legs wobbly from hours of sitting down. Silas unlocks the trunk and carries your bags inside. You stand in the middle of the gravel driveway, looking around and listening to the absolute lack of noise.

“Are you coming or what?” Silas asks from the front door. “Don't be slow or I'll carry you too. No gentler than these bags.”

You hurry after him. He smirks.

It's not hard finding the bedroom. A note lay in the bedding. Silas picks it up and scoffs at the familiar handwriting.

“Be nice to the bed, it's old, you break if you pay for it — SIC.”

“That son of a bitch”, Silas chuckles and turns to you, showing the note. “Seems like he read my mind.”

“You are kind of predictable”, you say.

Silas starts to walk towards you, backing you up against the nearest wall, wearing a soft smirk. “Me? Predictable? If I was predictable I wouldn't be a crime organization leader, my dumb little Y/N.”

You shrug. “I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, you’re good at saying things.” His hand sneaks up to your jaw. “How about you put your poor mouth to other uses for once? I know a pair of lips that would die to meet them.”

His cheesiness makes you scoff out a small smile, enough for him to close the distance. Ever since you’ve forced him to start using lip balm, his mouth is soft when it moves against yours. You sigh out and he swallows the sound in a greedy inhale. He holds you close, one hand on your back, the other on your jaw. 

“Silas, you’ll bruise my lips”, you chuckle and try to turn your head away. 

“Let me”, he breathes and directs you right back to his mouth. 

And he does. He doesn’t half-ass things. He pulls back with proudness in his eyes. 

“Let’s go shopping now.”

“Shopping?”

“We need food. Can’t just live off each other, unfortunately.”

He grabs your hand and leads you back out to the black sports car and you’re once again put on map reader duty to find the nearest grocery store. You can’t remember the last time you’ve actually grocery shopped with him. Normally, he sends out someone to buy things, and if he can’t trust anyone, he sends SIC. Just because Silas can’t be arrested, doesn’t mean he’s a hundred percent safe. 

“Alright”, he mutters and grabs a cart. “Let’s pretend to be a normal couple.”

You can’t help but chuckle and he gives you a quick look. 

“Let’s get this shitshow on the road, let’s go”, he mutters and nods at you to follow. “Don’t start running around or I’ll place you in the cart like a three year old. Okay, what do we need?”

“You need steak”, you joke. 

“Damn right I do, but I get my steak from high quality butchers, I’ll get sick if I get it from a grocery store.”

“Aw, is your little tummy sensitive?” you ask, making sure it sounds more like “wittle”.

“Y/N, I’m warning you.”

His warning isn’t serious. Not now. Not like this. It only maks you smile. 

“Are you going to be a brat all vacation just because you think I won’t do anything?” Silas asks behind you, pushing the cart into your back. “I did tell you we are remote, didn’t I?”

“Don't touch me or I'll scream.”

“Oh, you'll scream alright.”

“Silas!”

He chuckles, eyes softening. “I couldn't help it. You played that into my hands a bit too good to pass up on.”

“You’re so childish. Maybe you should tone it down on the threatening part if you don’t want more people staring at you. You don’t need to give them a reason to recognise you.”

Silas scoffs, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. He enjoys this side of you way too much. He can only enjoy it in situations like this, far away from his world. When you're not scared of him.

“What's the budget?” you ask him.

“What?” 

“The budget? You said to pretend to be a normal couple. Normal couples don't have your credit card.”

Silas groans audibly.

“I'm not compromising my money”, he says. “Stop messing around, grab what you want.”

You handle the actual shopping part while he pushes the cart behind you. People glance at him, if not for recognising him, then for his tattoos, but he pretends to be unaware. 

“Little thing.”

“Hm?”

“Grab those.”

You follow where he nods. Chips. They fall into the cart. So do a lot of other things Silas usually doesn't buy.

“Might as well go for it now that SIC can't bully me”, he shrugs. 

The cashier seems to recognise Silas, but she doesn't say anything. Silas is polite and wishes her a good day, as if he wasn't who she thought he was, before turning to you and grabbing the plastic bags.

Back at the house, he puts everything into the fridge and starts to cook right away. 

“You’re not allowed to help”, he says and taps your forehead. “I want to actually eat tonight.”

“I can cook”, you insist. 

“Yeah. Sure. How about you go and set the table while I handle the knives and the stove?”

“Fine.”

You do as you’re told, searching the drawers for cutlery and plates. He glances at you from time to time and can’t help but smile. Maybe this was what he wanted all along? To play family.

“It’s not often we get to do this”, he says as he plates the food. “Domestic things, I mean. Should enjoy it while we can. Oh, I saw a pool out in the backyard, by the way. I think we should try it out after dinner. I brought alcohol from back home.”

“Drinking and swimming doesn’t sound very safe.”

“Then you’ll just have to rescue me. They didn’t teach you life guard duty in swimming class?”

“Yes, but they didn’t prepare me to drag a man that weighs enough to crush a car.”

“So my workouts are working?” His grin widens as he takes a sip of his water. “Thank you, Y/N.”

Conversation die out for a moment, but Silas won’t let the night pass. 

“So?” he says. “Don’t you have something to say?”

“What?” you ask. 

“We don’t often get to just talk. Spew something out. Anything.”

You think for a moment. You usually have a lot of thoughts, but when put on the spot all seem to vanish. 

“I like the food.”

Silas laughs. Actually laughs. You haven’t hard a genuine, carefree laugh from him in a long time. His back eyes curl into half moons. 

“What?” you ask. “What is it?”

“You can say a million things and that’s what you choose to say?” he says. “That the food is good? I didn’t think I cooked that good food, enough for that to be the only thing you think of.”

“You put me on the spot, I just said the first thing that came to mind!”

“Try again, then.”

“Well … I … could really go for some alcohol right now.”

Silas smiles and rises from his chair. He disappears out of the room and returns with two bottles. One brandy, one red wine.

“Okay, your majesty”, he says. “Which fancies your taste buds?”

“Wine, probably. Fits better with dinner. You'll get brandy, I suspect?”

“You know me well.” He opens both bottles and pours. “I'm responsible for you, so it's my duty to make sure you don't get absolutely decked.”

“I thought I was the one that had to make sure you didn't fall face down in the pool?”

“Yeah, but let's be realistic for a second. I can hold my alcohol … you? Please.”

“Rude.”

“It is not rude if I'm stating facts, you just want to deny your incapable alcohol consumption.”

You take a sip of your wine and glare at him.

Silas jokingly suggests you both skinny dip. You shoot down the idea. He's a predator, taking your whole arm if you foolishly give him a finger. You'd like your body working for your getaway.

You're not sure what prompts him, the alcohol or his childishness, to jump into the pool like a bomb. Water splashes everywhere, both on your dry form and your towels, and he breaks the surface with a wide grin. He pushes his black hair back and swims over to the edge. His tattoos warp under the water.

“I’m wet now”, you say in a ‘matter of fact’ tone. 

He looks up at you, squinting one eye full of water shut. “Yeah? Jump in then.”

You decide to get in slowly, but he has other plans. His hand grips your wrist and pulls you into the pool. You yelp, but never have a second to worry about inhaling water, because he holds you.

“So much drama for nothing”, Silas chuckles and wipes water out of your eyes. "I've got you.”

His tattooed arms half hug you, half cradle you as he sways back and forth in the water.

“Today”, you start, hesitant, “when we were at the grocery store, and people looked at you, and what you said before that … I started to think about something just now.”

“What?” he asks softly.

“What do I do if you're taken? Or killed?”

“That will never happen.”

“But what if it does?”

Silas sighs, arms around you tightening slightly.

“If I ever were to never come back home for whatever reasons”, he started slowly, “then SIC would follow the instructions I’ve told him.”

“What are those?”

“To get you far away from everything and everyone and keep you safe. You'd get a cute little house on the coast where you could live peacefully. You'd have my dog, and how many bodyguards it takes to replace me. SIC would be there too. He’d check up on you.”

“That sounds pretty lonely.”

“What? Are you planning to become the Great Gatsby after I disappear?”

He caresses your face with a wet hand.

“I have money put away for you in case anything happens”, he promises and rolls his eyes. “And I might have made a deal with the devil to get you new papers in case something happens.”

“Who?”

“The parasite I'm unfortunately to call brother.”

“Ares?”

“Don't say his name. Let's drop this now. I don't want to think about it. Especially since it won't happen.”

The entire wine bottle is empty once the two of you get out of the pool and head to bed. Silas wears a dark Grey hoodie and sweatpants, insisting you wear comfy clothes too. He thinks it is better for cuddles. You're wrapped in his hoodie covered arms, face pressed to his chest. You'll be damned if you try to get out of his arms any time before morning hours.

Somehow, you wish this little getaway could last forever. Life would be easier that way. Silas sighs out, unbeknownst thinking the exact same thing. 

[tackedtothewall]

[Image description:

Tweet from J.J. McCullough "I notice a lot of people who didn't pay much attention in high school are now trying to recon their laziness into ideological theories about 'what we were never taught.'"

Above quote-tweeted by Larry Cebula*:

"YOUR HISTORY TEACHER NEVER TOLD YOU-

"*me, checks lecture notes* I definitely told you.

"YOUR TEXTBOOK LEFT OUT-

"Me: it is on page 37 and again on 54.

"HISTORIANS NEVER ADMIT-

"Me: We have an annual conference on this. Will you just admit already that you slept through class?"

/end ID ]

*Dr. Cebula is a Professor of History at Eastern Washington University and an Assistant Digital Archivist at the Washington State Archives.

Thing one: As a queer public historian, we get really really tired of being treated like we're hiding shit from you, especially when our entire job is to Share History With You!

I mean. You know your neurodivergent friends who will infodump on you at the drop of a hat? That's historians with history. We will tell you everything and more than you want to know.

Thing two: Dr. Cebula teaches at the college level. I recognize that this is a different experience from high school. High school history (especially in U.S. public schools) are really constrained by the standardized tests, textbooks*, and school boards of the state/region in which you grew up.

Not to mention, in most high schools - and even most college freshman history classes - you're trying to cover hundreds of years in a really short period of time. Stuff gets left out. That's partly by design, partly the nature of the beast.

*There's a whole separate rant on textbooks that we won't get into.

(that said, if you are in college read the goddamned syllabus and fucking show up for class. And if you find these things hard, reach out to the office of disability services/the prof/someone for help.

So I say to all of you:

Don't fall for the clickbait titles. Don't blame your exhausted, well-meaning, underpaid public school teachers or the historians who are trying to get books out there but are also overworked, under-resourced, and trying to stay employed in an increasingly precariousness climate.

Historians want to share what we learn! The books are out there! Read books and listen to podcasts by historians (trained historians, not just journalists and hobbyists, some of both please)!

Visit your local museums and pay attention! Be polite to the people who are working there because they probably deal with endless assholes!

TL;DR: History classes vary wildly; historians are generally nerds who infodump; please read our books/consume our media/come to our museums

[sincerelyneo]

death by a thousand cuts | l.hc

“but if the story’s over, why am i still writing pages?”

💿now playing: death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift

❯ summary: If you get more than one love in a lifetime, why does your heart still beat for the boy who wrecked you completely?

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: angst, second chance, cheating trope, smut.

❯ words: 9.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, cheating (booo), exes, toxic relationship, a therapy joke, lots of angst, swearing, heartbreak, a whole lotta hurt, drinking, insecurities, jealousy, arguing, heavy petting, protected sex, nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), i can’t lie this is just 9k words of heartache and sex lol.

an: this fic will not be for everyone!! i do not condone cheating in any way, you’re a loser if you cheat. i just felt like writing something heart achey, and this is my favourite taylor swift song that inspires cheating fics whenever i listen to it.

“Give me that!”

Yeji snatches the phone out of your hand with the kind of urgency only a best friend possesses—the kind forged after too many years of watching you do the stupidest things when it comes to boys. Her eyes flare the moment she spots the familiar username. 

@ haechanahceah

“Oh my god. You’re kidding.” Her thumb hovers accusingly over the screen. “Y/N, it’s been a year. A whole year. Why haven’t you blocked Hyuck yet?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just tilt your head back with an exhausted exhale, reaching for the phone. Not because you want it back, but because it feels incriminating in her hands. Like a wound she’s now inspecting. And you don’t need her inspecting it.

“Because we’re okay,” you say, not entirely convincingly. “Mostly.”

It was just a like. On an Instagram post. Of him—with his friends.

(Some of them girls. Most of them girls. All of them tagged. And you definitely weren’t planning on clicking through their profiles in the middle of your best friend coffee date with your screen brightness criminally low. Definitely not.)

“And because we’re friends,” you add breezily. Then you pluck the phone from her hand and tap back into the app, your thumb moving faster than your brain, already leaving a comment beneath his photo.

Something flippant. Something funny. Something that screams: See? I’m a functioning, emotionally stable adult who can totally be friends with the boy who annihilated my heart while he gallivants around Europe on a boat with girls. 

Except probably subtler. 

Yeji stares at you like she’s witnessing a slow-motion car crash. “Oh, absolutely. And when that guy drove me home from the bar last weekend and told me I had pretty eyes, we were just friends too.”

You roll your eyes, swatting the air with your hand. “That’s different. Hyuck’s my childhood best friend. I can’t just cut him off now that we’re not…” you pause, the words catching in your throat like they always do, “you know?”

“No. I don’t know,” she says, arms crossed and chin lifted in that annoyingly perceptive way of hers. “Because you two are in a loop. An exhausting, toxic, ‘I-don’t-know-where-we-stand-with-each-other’ loop. And staying in touch with him is why you can’t move on.”

“We are not toxic.”

You are. 

But you’d already said it out loud like a reflex, before you even had time to make it sound believable. So, you try to fix it. 

“We’re just…”

You trail off, blinking hard like the answer might fall from the ceiling.

 “Co-dependent?” Lia offers helpfully. 

 You sigh. “Yes. That. Thank you, Lia.”

“It’s weird, is what it is,” Yeji says. 

You lean back in your chair, arms folded across your chest like armour. “Ugh. You wouldn’t get it.”

And they wouldn’t. They never have.

Because nobody gets you and Hyuck. Not Yeji, not Lia, not even the therapists you’ve paid a concerning amount of money to explain it all to you. No amount of therapy or psychoanalysis can remove the him-shaped hole inside of you. The way he exists like a second heartbeat.

How many times does a person truly get to fall in love? Not the practical kind. But the kind that rewires you completely. That makes you wonder how you ever existed before this person, and fear who you might become after. 

If love were fair—the answer would be simple. Once. Only ever once.

Because to love someone—truly love someone—is not just to hand over your heart. It’s to fold it delicately, wrap it in every part of your soul, and place it willingly in that person’s pocket. Trusting that they won’t ever give it back frayed or barely beating. 

And if they do (and he definitely did) well, what remains might resemble a heart, but it never beats the same again. You don’t think it ever will.

So yes. One love. One person. One boy—him.

Yeji calls it nostalgia. Says that since he was your first everything, it feels bigger than it was, and that’s why he’s taking up too much space inside your chest. She says you're scared of forgetting. But that’s not it.

You’d give anything to forget. It’s better than remembering everything. Of living in a world where he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. Where songs feel like him. Where movies feel like him. Where your own body sometimes feels like him because he’s marked it so damn much.

But if you did move on, if you could—you’d still have to ask yourself: where does all that breathless, foolish, all-consuming love go? 

The common consensus is that love turns to hate when it stays too long without being fed. But you can’t imagine a universe cruel enough to make you hate the very boy who made you believe in soulmates.

So you don’t hate him. Even though you should.

“Fine,” Yeji slumps back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp with that familiar fury she reserves exclusively for you—when you’re being like this. “You’re right. I don’t get it. I don’t get why you’re still in cahoots with the same boy who cheated on you and left you a complete mess.”

Lia gasps. “Yeji!”

But the thing is—Yeji has a point. And you know that. But knowing something and truly understanding it is two different things. 

You don’t understand how he put his hands on someone else. How his mouth touched a body that wasn’t yours. How he delivered that line—“I didn’t mean for it to happen”—with the kind of ease that made you wonder just how many times he’d practised it in the mirror before he had the balls to actually tell you. 

You didn’t understand, yet you knew all the same.

You were wearing his shirt when he told you. Still in his house. Still in the space you thought was yours too. And all you could think was: how many nights did he lie next to you like nothing was wrong? How many times did he touch you with hands that had already betrayed you?

He never told you when, or who. Just a sorry. A soft one. A useless one. And a vague promise that he’d do anything to fix it.

But there are some things sorry can’t fix.

You clear your throat, suddenly too aware of how loud your heartbeat feels in a room full of people who love you enough to hate him.

“Because we’re not in cahoots,” you correct. “We’re friends, Yej. Him and I have always been friends.”

It’s not a lie. Not exactly. 

You have been friends with Hyuck ever since he moved in next door to your family when you were six. And even then—when you climbed trees and shared crayons—you think your heart was already beating for him. So much you don’t know what life is without that pulse anymore. Without a hint of him running beneath your skin.

It’s why you plaster on a smile and say, “In fact, I even invited him to my birthday party next week.”

They look at you, eyes full of pity and sympathy. And that hurts way more than him breaking you ever did. Because now your friends are staring at you like you’re some sad, shattered, pathetic thing he left behind.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lia asks weakly. 

“You’re seriously a lunatic,” Yeji cuts in before you can respond. “You’re just dragging this out for yourself. Death by a thousand cuts and all that.”

“I am not a lunatic,” you say, shrugging her off. “It’s just... he’s still part of my life. It’s not like I’m inviting a stranger.”

“He fucked up your life,” she huffs, the words stinging. “He hurt you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “But I love him anyway, don’t I?”

And you do. Because some loves don’t end—they just rearrange themselves. 

Yeji yanks her chair back so hard the legs screech against the floor.

“He’s gonna hurt you again,” she spits. “How many times are you gonna let him rip you apart before there’s nothing left? Before you’ve sacrificed yourself and everyone else around you and you’ve got nothing left to give?”

You want to say something, but the words get stuck, because she’s right.

Lia reaches out, “Yeji—”

“If he’s there next week, Y/N,” she says, eyes burning over her shoulder looking from you to Lia, “then I won’t be.”

When Hyuck got a DM from the only girl he’s ever loved—two days ago, now—he sobered.

Which, if you asked Mark, was some kind of divine miracle. Because Mark had been watching his best friend drink himself into oblivion for the better part of a year. A slow, intentional kind of fucked up that was clearly a desperate, pathetic attempt to forget you.

But no shot, no spirit, no stranger’s skin pressed to his could ever do the trick. Not really. Because no matter how hard Hyuck tried, the hangover was always the same: he’d wake up, and you still weren’t his girl.

So when he saw your username light up his phone, he paused. 

Because the preview didn’t give anything away. It did that annoying thing that said “2 new messages.” No hint. No breadcrumb. Just a loaded gun of a notification staring up at him.

And, of course he clicked it. He had to. You knew he would. You’d sent two back-to-back messages on purpose—he’s certain of it. Because that’s exactly the kind of person you were. Always two steps ahead. Always orchestrating even your vulnerability. 

You wanted to see when he’d read it. 

And he did.

At 2:36 a.m. Because you’d definitely be asleep by then. And that meant he had enough time to draft the right response—measured, brisk, detached—like the past year hadn’t cracked him open.

He read it in the half-light of Mark’s living room, surrounded by people he didn’t really like and a bottle of something he couldn’t quite remember picking up.

hey. i’m having a thing next friday for my birthday—just a chill party. nothing major. 

you can come, if you want.

Hyuck stares at the two messages.

It’s not because of the party. He couldn’t care less about the cake or the candles. That’s not what has his heart in his throat. It’s the fact that—for the first time in a year—you actually reached out. None of that accidentally bumping into each other nonsense you two pull. No one buys that it’s an accident. 

At least, it’s not an accident on his behalf.

It’s not an accident when he keeps frequenting the same coffee shop you once claimed made the best lattes in the city—always at the same time. It’s not a coincidence when he drives through your favourite places on rainy days, just in case you need a ride and are too proud to just call him. And it’s definitely not a coincidence that makes him take the long way to your house. He does it deliberately. He selfishly takes more of your time than he deserves.

Because saying goodbye wasn’t an option for him. Not until it had to be. He’d take prolonged suffering. Death by a thousand cuts.

And it’s not his fault. Well. It is. All of the ruin, anyway. But in the twelve months since he blew it all up, you’ve still lingered. You always do. You always will. So he just keeps showing up in your life when he knows you need to move on. Because he doesn’t want you to. 

Because everything in his life is still half-yours. And he won’t board up the windows of that love—not even now. Not when some part of you still flickers inside it, and half of his heart is still in your chest.

Hyuck stares at your message again. He types something. Deletes it. Types something else. Deletes that too.

what kind of thing is it?

Too uninterested.

who’s gonna be there?

Too nosy.

sure, if you want me there.

Too honest. 

Everything felt like a trap—too much, too little, not enough to win you back, but equally too honest and would remind you of his actions that hurt you. 

How was he supposed to respond to the girl who once memorised every mole on his face? Who was the muse of every song he’s written? Who still makes his hands shake on the keyboard? Who he cheated on? Who he destroyed completely? 

Eventually he landed on:

might swing by, angel. happy early birthday, btw.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

11:27PM

Thirty-three minutes left of your birthday, but you’re not celebrating.

Instead, you’re sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter with one leg dangling, the other tucked beneath you, whilst your dress wrinkles and bunches around your thighs because you stopped caring how ruined you looked an hour ago.  

You don’t care that your lipstick is all but gone or that your mascara is smudged under both eyes. You don’t care because he’s not here. 

You were supposed to be smiling by now. 

But he didn’t walk in. 

He still hasn’t.

And you don’t even know why you’re surprised. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your baby. He’s not your Hyuck anymore. He doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing—not a happy birthday, or his time. You gave that privilege up the night you stopped being his. Or maybe the night he stopped being yours. You still haven’t decided which one came first.

Still, you hoped he would come. 

It was the only thing keeping you remotely sane—delusional hope that he might still show up. That maybe he’d walk through the door like he hadn’t betrayed you and still want you. You still wanted him. 

You hated that he broke you and still got to keep the pieces. Hated that even now, on your birthday, all you could think about was him. Hated that you still wanted his birthdays, his weekends, his forever. 

You take another drink. Cheaper vodka this time, and let it burn your throat as it goes down. You want the sting. You deserve the sting. Your eyes drift (again) to the front door.

Still nothing.

“You need to stop doing that,” Lia pads barefoot into the kitchen, coming right behind you to smack both her hands on your shoulders. “Stop watching that door like a hawk. Yeji would kill you if she saw you pining after him on your birthday.”

You press your lips together and glance away like you’ve been caught red-handed. Because, well. You have.

“Yeah, well. Yeji isn’t here,” you mutter, taking another sip—longer this time. 

Lia raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

You drain the last of your drink and look her straight in the eye. “Because I invited him.”

Lia looks at you expectantly. You know she hates being caught between you and Yeji, but it’s clear she thinks you were wrong to invite Hyuck tonight, knowing full well how Yeji would react.

And maybe she’s right.

That’s why you sigh.

“Look, he said he might come,” you say finally. “He didn’t promise anything. Yeji was overreacting.”

“He never promises,” Lia says gently. “And yet, you keep prioritising him like he’s still that sweet boy we both used to love, who used to buy your favourite cookies before class, or pick fights with the boys who made fun of you. But he’s not that boy anymore, Y/N. And he’s not yours anymore either.”

You flinch.

She notices. Regrets it. “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t, not really. Because this is the first birthday he’s missed since you were kids. Since you were eleven and he showed up with a homemade card. 

It’s not fine because his absence would say something that the cheating weirdly never quite did—that he’s not the boy you fell in love with. Maybe he hasn’t been for a long time.

Lia leans against the counter beside you. “It’s allowed, you know? Being hurt.”

“I don’t get to be,” you reply, glancing at her. “He doesn’t owe me anything anymore. I was the one who didn’t want to forgive him that night. I said I was done. I don’t expect him to grovel forever.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you deserved something. More than a half-assed apology at least.”

That lands in your chest harshly. You press your tongue to your cheek, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry. You’re not drunk enough to cry yet. Give it another hour.

“Come on,” Lia sighs and wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into her side, “I’m not letting you stay in here staring at that door and giving him the power to ruin the rest of your birthday.” 

But even as she says it, your eyes flicker to that door again—still no him.

Lia doesn’t let go of your hand as she leads you out of the kitchen and into the living room, where people are scattered across the sofas and floors. They all feel like strangers at your own party because you’ve spent the whole night looking for one person who never came. 

“Y/N,” Lia says, squeezing your hand, “this is Hyunjae.”

You blink. The boy in front of you is pretty. Dark eyes, strong jaw softened by the curve of a perfect smile, black hair pushed back sexily. He’s holding a drink loosely in his hand as his eyes sweep over you. 

“Happy birthday,” he says. “You look—”

Please don’t say beautiful. Please don’t say gorgeous. Please don’t say anything he would’ve said.

“—pretty,” Hyunjae finishes. “Really fucking pretty.”

You smile. Or try to. “Thanks.”

And look, it’s not that Hyunjae isn’t nice—he is. You can already hear Yeji telling you to give him a chance. He’s the kind of boy who’d text back, who’s safe, who’d never leave you staring at a door wondering if he’ll show up on your birthday or not. Hyunjae is the kind of boy who wouldn’t cheat on you. 

But the truth is, you don’t know if you can be the girl who lets someone call her pretty and fawn anymore. Not without wondering if they’ll still mean it once they see someone better, shinier, hotter than you. 

Just like he did. 

You nod along when Hyunjae talks. You laugh where you’re supposed to. Play nice. Be sweet. But everything he says sounds like static. Everything he is feels like a placeholder. 

And then, you hear it. That deep, honey-smooth, familiar voice saying: “Happy birthday, angel.”

It slices through the room. Through you.

Because there’s only one person who ever called you that. One boy. Lee Donghyuck.

You didn’t even hear the front door open. Typical. But there he is, leaning in the doorway, all tan skin and messy hair. His hands are buried in his pockets, his jaw set tight—too tight, like he’s seconds from grinding his teeth into dust. 

But it’s not you he’s looking at. It’s Hyunjae. Sitting far too close. Arm tossed lazily behind you on the couch, thigh pointing into yours, almost grazing like he owns your space. 

And Hyuck notices. You know he notices.

His eyes narrow. Lips parting slightly as his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You know that look. You’ve seen it before. That blend of heat and hurt and possessiveness he has no right to anymore.

It hits your chest all at once—shame, hurt, lust—and you fumble. Your hand twitches with the red plastic cup still clutched tight. The drink tilts before you even realise it’s slipping. Cranberry vodka sloshes, causing sticky, cold liquid to spill down the front of your dress, dripping into the neckline. 

“Fuck—” you hiss, jerking upright as the cup lands onto the coffee table. You paw uselessly at the now soaked fabric, trying to blot it with the hem of your sleeve, but it’s only smearing it worse.

Hyunjae starts to reach for a napkin, concerned. But your eyes have already found Hyuck’s again. And the way he’s looking at you now…

Your throat goes dry. “I—I’m gonna go change.”

You don’t wait for a reply. You’re moving before anyone can stop you, heart hammering against your ribs because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

You barely make it up the stairs, breath coming fast, fingers trembling as you reach for the door to your room. You close it. But you don’t get the chance to lock it. Because the door creaks again behind you. And then it clicks shut. You spin around. And there he is.

You don’t say anything at first. 

Just stalk over to your wardrobe like it’s perfectly sane to have your ex-boyfriend—your ex-best friend, the boy you used to see every single day, the only boy you’ve ever slept with, the only person who knows all the tells on your body, the boy you still love—in your bedroom for the first time in over a year.

You wrench the closet door open. A pair of heels fall out and land with a little thud. You don’t flinch. You pretend to rifle through hangers, but you’re not looking for anything specific. All of it is just something to do with your hands, because looking at him right now would be a sick kind of torture.

“What are you doing here!?”

Hyuck doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, you only hear the soft thud of his shoes on your floor, the creak of your floorboard by the dresser. He’s closer than you want him to be.

“You invited me,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You spin around. “I invited you to my birthday party. Which started five hours ago.”

He lifts his phone, the screen glowing in the dark. “As far as I’m aware,” he says, tapping it once, “you’ve still got thirteen minutes left. So again, happy birthday, angel.”

You stiffen. 

There it is. That.

That fucking word. The one that used to make you feel warm and wanted. Now it feels like an insult wrapped in silk.

“Don’t call me that.”

That stops him. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he lowers the phone. Shoves it back into his pocket.

“I thought you liked it when I called you that.”

“I used to like it,” you spit. “Back when it meant something. You know, before you fucked someone else behind my back.”

His jaw tightens. Good, you think. The truth hurts; you hope it hurts. And maybe that makes you cruel. But then again, he was cruel first.

He rubs his jaw, then exhales. “We’re really doing this now?”

You laugh dryly. “Oh, sorry. Would you prefer we pencil it in for next week instead? Talk about it over brunch sometime, yeah?”

You turn back to your wardrobe, suddenly too irritated. Your fingers find the old grey hoodie you always loved. It looks soft. Comfortable. Definitely not party appropriate. But you don’t care because you don’t want to go back out there. Not after this.

You peel your dress off in one motion, leaving you in the black lace set you picked out this morning—because it was your birthday. Not for anyone else. Not for a boy. Certainly not for him.

Him. 

You forget for a moment that he’s still behind you.

It’s like your brain short-circuits in his presence. Like it still confuses this boy for the lifeline he used to be. Like your heart can’t shout loud enough to warn you: this boy broke us, this boy hurt us, this boy is bad for us. All it says is: this boy is Hyuck. This boy is sweet. This boy—we love.

You only remember when you hear him inhale—sharply—and turn around. 

He’s looking at you like that again. Like he did back when he loved you, and you loved him, and he hadn’t ruined everything yet. He looks hungry, and like the only thing that might satisfy him is you. 

That thought makes you clutch the hoodie to your chest. “Turn around!”

He does. Obediently. But then: 

"So, did you wear that for me?"

His voice is so annoyingly smug it makes you roll your eyes as you reply. “No.”

But your cheeks betray you. Hot. Guilty. Flushed. Thank god his back is still to you, because if he turned around now and looked at you, he’d know. Because he knows all your tells. Always has.

And from just a simple flush, he’d know that yes, you wore this set for him. That yes, despite pretending you were over him in his Instagram comments, your traitorous heart had hoped that he might come tonight and rip the set off of you.

And just in case he caught your second tell (the tremor in your voice), you twist the knife a little more.

“I wore this set for Hyunjae, actually.”

A silence. Then the fucker starts laughing.

Not a little laugh. A full-bodied, head thrown back, belly laugh. You hate how much you’ve missed that sound, how it still makes your stomach flip. 

“Five minutes ago, I might’ve believed that, angel,” he says, turning slightly. Just enough for you to catch the outline of his grin. “And it would’ve driven me fucking crazy.”

Your heart stutters when he nods toward your chest.

“But I wasn’t talking about your underwear,” he says, eyes dipping lower. 

You follow his gaze down to the delicate gold chain resting just above the swell of your breasts. The one with the tiny heart pendant. The one with the H engraving. 

“I was talking about that necklace. The one I bought you for your sixteenth birthday,” He cocks his head. Smirking now. “Did you wear it for me?”

Your fingers fly to it instinctively. You hadn’t taken it off. Not even after finding out. You always wore it underneath your clothes, tucked away like a secret, because Yeji would have a field day if she knew you still wore his necklace.

But in the heat of the moment, stripping down to your underwear, your brain hadn’t realised that he’d see it again. 

“I thought I told you to turn around,” you snap, furious with yourself.

He lifts his hands defensively. “I am turned around.”

“I meant your head, not just your body, Hyuck.”

And so he does, again. Obediently.

You pull the hoodie on. It swallows you immediately. The sleeves dangle past your hands, the hem skims your thighs, and it smells like dust and weirdly like…the boy behind you.

“I’m decent,” you mutter.

He turns around, eyes flicking down before he smiles. Not smug, this time. Just soft and… a little sad?

“That’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, tugging at the sleeves. “No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. It’s massive on you. And unless you’ve got a secret stash of men’s hoodies in your closet, that one’s mine.”

You glare. “Oh yeah? And who says I don’t have a collection of men’s hoodies in my closet?”

“I do.”

 So fast. So sure.

You scoff, a single sharp laugh. “God, you think so highly of yourself.”

He crosses his arms—all tensed jaw and too-tight t-shirt—and it’s irritating, how stupidly good he looks whilst being smug.

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “I do. Because, despite us being broken up, you still wear my necklace.”  He nods toward your nightstand.  “You still have a photo of us beside your bed.” And then, one step closer. “And you fucking invited me here tonight.”

You lift your chin. “I invited everyone. It was a mass text.”

“Funny,” he says, a fake smile forming, “Mark didn’t get a text.”

“Aww,” you coo, mocking. “You still talk to your friends about me, Hyuck? Christ. Now I’m gonna start thinking highly of myself.”

“You should.”

For some reason, those two simple words hit you like a slap across the face. Because no.

“You don’t get to do that!” you snap at him. “You don’t get to tell me I should think highly of myself when you’re the exact reason I can’t even imagine the top anymore, Hyuck!” You laugh bitterly. “I don’t know my worth because you had me. But you wanted something else.”

And in that moment—maybe it’s your tone, or maybe it’s accountability—a flash of hurt crosses his face, that makes him wince. 

“Y/N, angel…” His voice cracks a little on your name, as he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck! It was one mistake. You don’t understand—”

But you don’t want to hear it. You’ve already heard it.

You hold up a hand, stopping him from wasting his breath. “I don’t want to understand anything about the night you decided to fuck another girl, thank you very much, Hyuck.”

“Of course, I get that but—”

“But?”  you raise an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“Yes, but, Y/N,” he fires back. “Because I don’t know what you want from me. You say you don’t want to forgive me—and I get it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He’s pacing now. “But you string me along. You comment on my posts, you let me drive you home, you still have my fucking hoodies—”

His eyes flick down to the one you’re wearing now, oversized and drooping around the neckline to show that gold chain. 

“—you wear my initials around your neck, and you asked me to come tonight—you. And now you’re mad that I’m here?”

His voice rises and you swallow—hard. Like maybe if you keep swallowing, you’ll stop the tears from climbing all the way up your throat. Because it’s all too raw. All of it. Him. You.This.

He’s unraveling in front of you. And even though you know—deep in your bones—that he doesn’t have the right to be this angry, a part of you gets it. Because this awful, splintered, aching love you have for him is confusing. It’s contradictory. It fucks with your brain so much that it doesn’t matter that you’re hurting because he’s hurting too. 

And that’s all you can focus on.

It’s like you said:  nobody gets you and Hyuck. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, angel,” he says again, quieter this time. He takes a slow step forward. Close enough to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, like he used to.

His hand lingers.

“I don’t know what you want,” he breathes, “but if you tell me—I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath stutters. Your throat tightens.

And then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Because. I. Love. You.”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to. You don’t even mean to. But those three words wrap around you tight. 

“Don’t,” your voice cracks. “Don’t say that to me, Hyuck. Not after everything.”

When you open your eyes again, they’re full of tears. Angry ones. Bitter ones. Hopeful ones too—because you’re weak, and stupid, and still a little bit in love with a boy who shattered you.

“I mean it,” he says instantly. His hand twitches at his side—you see it. He wants to touch you. Wants to wipe your tears like he used to because he hates them. But he doesn’t know if he has permission anymore. (He does, but he doesn’t know he does.)

“I’ve always meant it.”

“Then why’d you throw it all away?” You spit the words out like poison. “Why did you ruin us for a quick fuck?”

“I don’t know,” he breathes, stepping back. “But I do know I hurt you. And I’ll hate myself for that forever. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You laugh. But it sounds more like a sob. “You have a funny way of showing love.”

“I know.”

“You know everything,” you say, “except why you did it.”

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“You should go,” you whisper. “The party’s over. You’ve said what you needed to say. And I thought I could do this but I can’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes fly to his. He’s shaking his head, tongue in his cheek again as he sniffs.

“No,” he says again “I’m not leaving us like this.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“Liar.”

“Hyuck—”

“You want me to say it again?” he asks, voice rising just slightly. Not angry. Only desperate. “You want me to beg? Fine. I will. I’ll fucking get on my knees if that’s what it takes.”

And then, to your absolute horror, he does. 

“Hyuck, stop—”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry for everything. For all of it. For her. For the lies. For shattering everything good we ever had. But I love you, Y/N. And I’m not sorry for that. I’ll never be sorry for that.”

You’re trying to stay angry. Trying to hold onto the rage but it’s slipping. Because you want him. You love him.

He’s still on his knees. Still looking up at you. Still pleading. You wish he’d just stand up. You wish he didn’t look so much like the boy you fell in love with instead of the man who broke you.

“Please,” he says again.“I know I don’t get to ask. But I’m asking anyway. I’m asking because I love you. I never stopped. I swear to God, I never—”

“Stop it,” you say, too fast.

It feels like your chest caves in. Because the thing about love is: it’s loud. Louder than hurt. Especially right now. You love him so much you could scream. But instead, you drop down to your knees. Right there in front of him. And before you know it, your hands are reaching for him. Stupid, traitorous things.

“Stop,” you whisper. “Please, stop.”

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because he’s Hyuck. And Hyuck never knows when to shut up.

“I know I ruined it,” he’s saying. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I wouldn’t forgive me either. I wouldn’t. But I can’t stop loving you. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so hard. I’ve kissed girls who weren’t you and I’ve gone home wanting to claw off my own skin.”

You suck in a breath.

“You don’t have to forgive me now. Or ever. Just let me prove it. Let me try. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you for fucking ever, I swear—”

You’re kissing him. 

You have no idea why, but it just feels like you have to. Because you physically can’t not. Because the love of your life, him, is bleeding out in front of you and you’re the only one who knows how to stop it.

And when your mouth crahses into his, it tastes like heartbreak and history and every stupid, selfish thing he’s ever done. But you keep kissing him. Because just as much as it hurts—it feels like home. Like you’ve finally been returned to the place you belong. Like his lips have been waiting for yours all this time. 

He’s kissing you back just as fiercely. Like he might die if he doesn’t. And maybe he would. Maybe you would too.

You don’t know who moves first. You think it’s you, but maybe it’s him. You’re both equally desperate—lunging backward until his back knocks against the foot of your bedframe and you’re straddling his hips. 

His hands find your waist, landing heavy and possessive around you. But you don’t mind, because your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth—and God, you missed that sound. Missed him like oxygen.

His mouth moves to your neck, lips skimming every slither of skin he can reach, greedily not wanting to miss a single piece of you since he’s trying to make up for all the parts he used to take for granted. And you tilt your head back, giving him that access, because you’ve never been able to deny him anything.

“Tell me you’re still mine,” he breathes against your skin, half-choked.

You should tell him no. Should tell him he doesn’t get to ask things like that—not when he gave himself away so easily. Not now when he’ll never solely be yours like you’re solely his. 

But your heart is so tired and so in love it’s ridiculous, so instead you whisper: “I never stopped being yours.”

And then he’s kissing you again—deeper, this time. Until he pulls away and his forehead presses to yours, and he pants against your lips. “Let me love you,” he begs. “Please. Let me love you right this time.”

He feels solid beneath you. It’s making your brain fuzzy. It’s making you whimper.

“Okay,” you pant, tugging harder at those soft brown strands, as your hips shift and grind down against him, making him groan lowly. 

His hands clamp tighter around your waist, dragging you down harder, closer, like he’s trying to fuse you to him. And suddenly your skin feels too tight. You’re too aware of the clothes between you—what little there is.

Because you didn’t put on pants. Just that hoodie of his over your pathetic pair of black panties—thin, useless fabric—and now your pussy is rubbing right up against the thick outline of him through his jeans, and it’s overwhelming. You can feel absolutely everything you’ve missed.

Heat blooms in your stomach and you roll your hips again. It’s so shameless. So needy. But you don’t care. Not when it’s been this long. Not when it’s his fault it’s been this long—because you never would’ve let it be anyone else.

And he meets you in it. Each grind matched with one of his own, more harsh than the last. Until his hips are moving on impulse, chasing you like a man starved. His head drops to your shoulder, and his breath stutters. 

“Fuck, angel, slow down,” he chokes, “You’re killing me.”

You press your lips to his temple, to his jaw, anywhere you can reach, and whisper, breathless, “You deserve it.”

He groans—louder this time—like he agrees.

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers splayed wide, dragging up the warm skin of your back like he’s relearning it. 

“I can’t believe this is happening again,” he breathes into your neck. “You can’t be real.”

But you are. You’re right here. Straddling him. Shaking for him. Letting him touch you like he never stopped having the right to.

He kisses your collarbone. Then lower—your sternum, the tops of your breasts, the edge of lace peeking from beneath his hoodie. His hoodie. That fact alone seems to snap something inside him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s pushing the fabric up and up and up, until it pools around your ribs and the cold air hits your bare stomach. You shiver. 

“Take it off,” he murmurs. “Please. Want to see you.”

You raise your arms, let him peel it over your head, and suddenly you’re half-naked in his lap—wearing nothing but that black set you wanted him to rip off, then didn’t, then did… and now, he is. Fingers working at the clasp, slipping the straps from your shoulders and tossing the bra aside in your room somewhere.

And then, he takes his time letting his eyes drag over you. Taking a sick pride in seeing his initial rest in the valley of your breast. 

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

And something about that word—still—makes your stomach twist.

Your arms fold over your boobs on instinct, shielding yourself from the one person you’ve always felt safest with. Because still means there’s someone else now. Someone he’s looked at. Someone he’s touched. Someone you had to beat—and somehow did.

But you shouldn’t have had to.

He notices the shift immediately—how your arms cross, how your body goes stiff, how the room, warm just a second ago, chills.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, brows furrowing. He cups your face, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. “Talk to me, angel. What’s wrong? What happened?”

You’re still straddling him, half-naked, kissed raw and dizzy, and yet you feel like you’re a million miles away. You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke you. How do you tell him something he’s never known? How do you make him understand? You’ve never done this to him before—and just knowing how much it hurts—you don’t think you ever could.

“I just—” your voice cracks. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

He flinches—just enough for you to know it landed. But he doesn’t pull away.

The thing is, he doesn’t say her name. Doesn’t even mention her. Never has. But she’s here. Right here. In this room. Your room. In the silence. In his presence.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wipe the thought away. “No. No, don’t do that. Don’t think about her. This—” his hands cup your face tighter, gently desperate, “—this is you and me. Always you.”

Your jaw clenches, your eyes sting. “Then why wasn’t it only me?”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips before flickering away. He doesn’t answer—of course he doesn’t. He never does. And that’s been half the war between you. He doesn’t want to tell you the why.

Instead, his hands drift from your face to your waist, pulling you in like proximity might somehow make up for his silence. Like touch could smother your insecurities. 

His breath ghosts over your skin as he leans in.“Forget her. Just for now. Right here, right now, it’s only you. Only us.”

You hate that you melt. Hate that the ache in your chest loosens its grip the second his hands coax your arms from where you’d folded them. Hate that even after everything, he still knows how to make you feel safe inside the wreckage he caused.

He’s infuriating.

“Let me show you,” he whispers. “That it’s always only been you for me.”

His hands skim up your sides, thumbs brushing delicately beneath your tits. His eyes never leave yours—not for a second—as he kneads and explores and feels your body in his palm. And then his mouth follows.

Lips warm, slightly chapped, close around your right nipple. Your breath punches out of you. You can’t help it because his tongue flicks once, then again, then again until your spine arches and pushes the bud further into his mouth.

“Hyuck,” you moan, helpless, feeling the curve of his smirk drag against your skin.

His free hand trails up your other side, rolling the neglected peak between calloused fingers so deliciously because he remembers exactly what used to make you fall apart, and now he’s hell-bent on proving he hasn’t forgotten.

“God, you’re fucking unreal,” he murmurs against your skin, then bites gently, just enough to make you gasp. 

His words make you ache. Everywhere. Especially between your legs, where you’re still pressed tight against the thick, unrelenting shape of him through his jeans. And he hasn’t even touched you there yet, but it’s coming—you know it is. 

His mouth keeps going, warm and wet whilst he stays sucking just hard enough to turn your bones to water. And whenever you whimper he groans. 

“Please, Hyuck,” you plead. “Need more.”

He lifts his head, murmuring, “Yeah? You want me to show you how much I missed you?”

You nod, dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he groans and wastes no time lifting you off the floor like it’s nothing, carrying you to your bed. He lays you down gently, spreads you out beneath him like something precious. And then he peels off his t-shirt.

That tan skin—scattered with moles you’ve memorised, counted, traced with your fingers and your mouth—is on full display, just for you.

“I’ll give you everything,” he says, voice low as he drops to his knees, crawling between your legs. “Absolutely everything. As long as you don’t regret this. Don’t regret me.”

Your fingers sink into his hair before you can think. “I won’t,” you whisper. “Couldn’t.”

And then he dips down.

His mouth finds the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed kisses dragging tantalisingly up your skin. He’s not rushing. He never does when he gives head. It’s his favourite thing to savour. You. On his tongue.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, nipping at your skin, making you gasp. “How many times I’ve had to stop myself from texting. From begging you to take me back.”

“Who said anything about taking you back?” You say, hips shifting, dying for friction, but he pins them with strong hands, keeping you right where he wants you. 

“I did,” he says, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Am I wrong, Y/N? Because if I am, we can stop right now?”

“No,” you whine on a trembling breath.

He smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

Then, finally, finally—his mouth finds the place you need him most.

He licks a slow stripe up your center, groaning from the taste of you in his mouth. He does it again, and then again, until your legs are trembling and one of your hands fists the sheets, the other tangled in his hair, pulling and tugging at it, just how he likes. Just how you like.

He flicks his tongue, circles it, moans when you cry out for more.

“God, you taste the same,” he says hoarsely. “Still fucking perfect.”

You try to respond, to say something, but then he sucks again, so hard, you almost shoot clean off the bed.

“Hyuck—please,” it’s half a sob, a half moan, one hundered percent completley ruined.

He growls, arms locking around your thighs to keep you still, mouth relentless as he licks and sucks and worships like this is his penance.

“Shit, Y/N,” he mutters between licks, “I missed how fucking responsive you are. Always so good for me.”

You whimper. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Not gonna,” he promises. “Not until you fall apart for me. Right here. Right now.”

He hums, the vibration making your stomach flutter, and you swear your heart forgets how to beat.

“Let me make you come,” he says, voice completely ruined now too. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my mouth. Please.”

And you do. You let him. Because you want this. Want him. Still. Always.

Your entire body coils, legs shaking, hands clawing at the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you. It’s shattering, making you cry out, his name falling from your lips repeatedly. 

Hyuck doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally slumps back to the mattress, boneless and trembling. Only then does he lift his head, lips wet and shiny. He crawls up your body, kissing your thigh, your stomach, the underside of your boobs, your jaw. Everywhere. Until he’s hovering over you, and you’re staring up at him, glassy-eyed and overwhelmed.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing hair gently back from your face.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah. I just... I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I never really left,” he says. “Even though I know I should have. I’m too damn selfish.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up, tracing his jaw with shaking fingers. “I want you to fuck me, Hyuck.”

He blinks, then his eyes darken. “You’re sure?”

You pull him down until your foreheads press again and then whisper a soft, “Yes.”

Then he kisses you. Slowly. Passionately in a way you know this about to be more than just fucking. It feels like the before. The soft. His hands coming up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Everything so tender and full of love. 

And somewhere between the kiss and the forgetting, his pants are off. His boxers too. He’s about to fuck you completely raw—like he used to—and for a moment, your body almost lets him. Because it remembers. The blind trust. 

But this isn’t then. And that’s why you reach out, fingers curling gently around his forearm. Stopping him.

“Condom,” you whisper, cheeks flushing as you glance toward the nightstand.

Because it shouldn’t have to be like this. Back then, you were on the pill. You were his. He was yours. There was no one else. But now? Now you’ve had to share him—with her. Maybe with others too. 

He freezes. And for a second, you swear he looks gutted. But then he nods.

Wordlessly, he reaches into your nightstand, gets one open and rolls it on his cock. He doesn’t protest. He never would. Because it’s not the condom that guts him—it’s what it means. It’s that reminder that everything’s different now. And why. A barrier he put there himself because he was reckless, drunk, stupid and ungrateful. A consequence he crafted with his own hands.

But he doesn’t let that thought linger too long. The past is the past—he hates thinking about it. It’s what wrecked him. What wrecked this. What wrecked you.

Now, all he wants is the present. Not even the future. Just this. Just you. Because you’re here. Beneath him. Asking him to fuck you. You’re his—if only for now. And that’s enough.

He slides back over you. And for a second—just one—you both just… look.

You’re looking at him like maybe this could fix it. He’s looking at you like he knows it won’t. Sex doesn’t fix anything. It’s what broke you two in the first place if you really think about it . But he’s still doing it. And so are you.

He pushes inside of you slowly and your breath stutters, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice tight and thick. “You feel like—”

“Home,” you whisper, beating him to it.

Because you do. And he does. And it’s pathetic. And perfect. And completely going to destroy you in the morning.

His forehead drops to yours and he lets out a shaky breath, like the kind that comes right before someone starts to cry. But he doesn’t cry—he moves. Gently. Tenderly. 

You cling to him, every nerve alight, oversensitive in that desperate, raw way that makes you breathless beneath him—letting him kiss you through it, through the pain, through the slow, aching stretch of him inside you. 

And in between those kisses and the thrusts and the way your fingers tangle in his hair again, he whispers:

“Missed you.”

“God, I missed you.”

“I’ll never stop being sorry.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to put you back together with every snap of his hips. And maybe he is.

So you let him.

You let him fuck you until you’re both a mess of moans and apologies and, fractured I love yous. Until you’re panting in time with each other. Until you’re cumming—together.

After, it’s quiet.

Not awkward or bitter or biting, but comfortable. You’re tangled in each other, limbs overlapping, as Hyuck brushes his nose against your temple. Eventually, he slips out of you, careful to not hurt you, but you flinch at the loss. He presses a kiss to your forehead, one to each cheek, and then he’s moving—disposing of the condom, finding his way back to your side. 

“Let’s shower,” he murmurs, thumb storoking your jaw. “Let me take care of you first. And after… we’ll talk, yeah?”

You don’t say anything—because you can’t. Your throat is raw from all the moaning and the whimpering. And also because you’re scared of the talking. Terrified, really. Of the hurting that’ll come with addressing it. 

So instead, you swallow and say softly, “I’ll be a minute. Just... need a sec before I move.”

He pauses, like he’s checking you over again, brows pinching. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Not in the way he means.

“No,” you whisper. “Just… been out of the game for a while.”

He pauses but doesn’t argue. Just leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll start the shower.”

He slips out quietly, to the bathroom attached to your room. You hear the soft creak of the cabinets. He still remembers where everything is. 

And then—of course—his phone buzzes.

You glance over. You don’t mean to look. You really, really don’t. You know you shouldn’t if you wanna rebuild trust and whatever. It’s just…It’s on the floor, fallen from his jeans with the screen lighting up. 

It was taunting you. 

And anyway, he’s the one that broke your trust first. He’s the one that made you so paranoid. He’s the one who made you like this. 

Yeji

if i find out you went to that party tonight, hyuck, and didn’t tell her the truth, i will.

Your stomach drops straight through the mattress.

Another buzz.

Yeji

i’m serious. how long are you gonna keep it from her that it was lia you cheated on her with?

you’re ruining our friendship!

And suddenly you’re not warm anymore.

Suddenly you’re freezing. And hollow. And very, very awake and out of the afterglow sex haze. 

You can’t breathe.

You feel sick. 

Are you sick? Are you dying? Are you about to have a fucking panic attack?

Because it feels like something has clawed its way into your chest and is now eating you alive from the inside out.

Lia?

It all makes sense. It all echoes.

“That sweet boy we both used to love.”

“He’s not yours anymore.”

The door creaks again. Hyuck walks back in, towel slung low on his hips. Completely clueless. 

“You okay?” he asks, soft and smiling. “Shower’s warm.”

You don’t answer because your heart is hammering against your ribs and because you physically, viscerally, cannot breathe.

His smile falters, just a touch.

And then you say it.

One word. One name.

“Lia?”

You’re not even sure if you want to scream at him, or sob, or laugh—because how dare he. How dare he touch you like that, kiss you like that, look at you like that, when he knew—he fucking knew—he’d fucked your best friend and said nothing.

The same best friend who held you while you cried over him for a year. Who told you it wasn’t your fault. Who had her arms wrapped around you less than an hour ago trying to comfort you about him. 

You hold out his phone, pointing to the screen. “You fucked my best friend, Hyuck?”

He freezes. He lifts an arm reaching out towards you or towards his phone, you can’t tell. Probably the phone to see how much you know so he can spin it. Twist it. Try to manipulate this—manipulate you—again.

“Angel—”

“My name is Y/N.”

The words are a blade. His hand drops.

“Y/N,” he breathes, swallowing thickly, “it’s not what it looks like—”

But it is. You both know it. 

“Yeji seems to think it’s exactly what it sounds like.”

And then it hits you. All over again. Yeji knew. Your other best friend. She knew. 

Did everyone know? Everyone you loved? Everyone you trusted? Everyone you thought was safe? 

And suddenly your knees give out. You drop to the floor, spine hitting the edge of the bed on the way down, but you don’t even register the pain. You’re already somewhere else, hands trembling, vision blurry, gasping like there’s no oxygen. 

That fucking necklace around your neck—the one he gave you, the one you swore you'd never take off—isn’t fucking helping. So you rip it off. The chain snapping in your fist and you throw it. It lands at his feet. 

It’s the first time you’ve taken it off since you were sixteen.

“Y/N—”

Hyuck’s voice sounds panicked now. Hurting. He kneels in front of you, eyes wide, reaching for you—

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

You flinch so hard you nearly hit the nightstand. You can’t stand the idea of him touching you now, even though you know there isn’t a part of you he hasn’t touched.

He freezes. Arm stopping in the air. His face furrowed. And you know that face. The face from the night, the one carved from guilt and horror and regret—but it’s too late.

It’s so late.

You’re sobbing now. And it’s ugly—gasping and choking and curling up on the floor. 

“I—I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you—”

You laugh. Actually laugh.

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, spit and snot and mascara streaking your face.  “Hyuck, you fucked my best friend. And then you came here, tonight, and touched me like…like I was still yours.”

“You are—”

“No. No, I’m not!” You snap. “I don’t even know who I am right now. But I definitely am not—and never will be—yours again.”

“Please, Y/N,” he whispers. “Let me explain. It wasn’t—”

“You’ve had time to explain.” Your voice trembles, but the words are steel. “I gave you so much of myself. So much trust. So much love.” You swallow hard. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You needed to fuck my best friend. And keep it from me. And somehow rope the other one into it too, so now—”

Your voice cracks.

“So now I can’t trust anyone.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to lie, maybe to beg. But then he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you, regret written in every line of his stupid, beautiful face.

He doesn’t deny it. And that’s the last straw. You fold in on yourself. Arms wrapping tight around your knees as you bury your head and whisper: “I need you to leave.”

He doesn’t move.

You look up—eyes glassy, voice so quiet and weak.

“Get out, Hyuck. Now, please”

And this time, he listens. And you’re glad he listens. Because this time it feels different. This was it. The final fracture. Whatever you had with him? It’s dead now. You just wish you hadn’t kept it on life support for so long—wish you hadn’t clung so tightly to something already bleeding. 

That thousandth cut finally bled dry.

[ridingreeves]

𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈➤𝟤

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁*𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾*𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗑 𝖡𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾－𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌－𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾，𝖭－𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾，𝗍𝗈𝗑𝗂𝖼 𝖾𝗑 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾，𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖿 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋

A/N- im not good at part two's so i hope you enjoy it 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽❤︎︎

Smoke’s name lit up your phone just after 11 p.m.

You were already turned away from the light, arm tucked under your pillow, trying to pretend the day didn’t shake you. But that name on your screen?

It flipped your whole body heat like a switch.

You groaned and answered anyway. “What, Elijah?”

Smoke chuckled, low and gravelly like he’d been waiting for you to cave. “Damn. Full government? You mad or tryna be professional?”

“I’m tryna go to sleep.”

“Yeah? Thought maybe you was waitin’ on him to get home. But that nigga probably still somewhere drinkin’ kombucha and talkin’ about tax brackets.”

You sighed, loud. “What do you want?”

“You doin’ somethin’ Saturday?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said—Saturday. You busy?”

You sat up a little. “Why?”

“Family cookout,” he said like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just turned your whole emotional equilibrium inside out hours earlier. “Stack throwin’ some ribs on the grill, aunties bringin’ plates, kids gon’ be in the yard actin’ up… you know the drill.”

Your voice flattened. “So? What’s that got to do with me?”

Smoke hesitated, just for a second. Then came the truth.

“Wanna see you there.”

You nearly laughed. “Why would I come to your family cookout?”

“Because you family,” he said, voice low and firm. “Still my son’s mama. Still got my last name. And ‘cause you already know my people been askin’ about you.”

“Oh, have they?” you said, sarcastically.

“Yup,” he said. “Aunt Dee talkin’ ‘bout how you used to bring them red velvet cupcakes, askin’ if you finally left that boy who look like he drive a Prius and listen to meditation playlists.”

You sighed. “Smoke…”

“Look, I’m not askin’ you to come over here and confess your love. I’m sayin’… I'm taking lil man. Come eat. Chill. Be around folks who know you.”

“And him?” you asked.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Smoke scoffed. “Man, he not invited. Hell, if he pull up in them tight-ass pants talkin’ about chakras, Stack gon’ put him on the grill next to the sausages.”

Despite yourself, you snorted.

“C’mon,” Smoke said, quieter now. “You ain’t gotta stay long. Just come through. Our boy gon be running around with his cousins. Let your hair down.”

“I don’t know…”

“Let me make it easy,” he said, voice slick now, confident. “If you don’t pull up Saturday, Stack gon’ post that baby picture of you at our gender reveal. The one where you fell asleep holdin’ that blue onesie with cupcake on your face.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

“I already sent it to his phone.”

“Smoke!”

He laughed. Like deep, belly-rolling, “I got her” laughed.

“That’s dirty.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But it’s family business, right?”

You were quiet for a long moment. The idea of seeing them all again—his people, your people once upon a time—was dangerous. You knew that. Knew it’d be stepping back into something you worked too hard to walk away from.

But also?

You missed them.

You missed you—the version of you who laughed too loud on plastic lawn chairs with a cup full of spiked sweet tea. The you who wore crop tops and hoop earrings without worrying about what her new man would think.

“…What time?”

Smoke didn’t say “I knew you’d come,” but you could hear it in the way he exhaled through a grin.

“Three. Bring some of that pasta salad they always beg you for.”

You sighed again, but softer this time. “You better not start with me when I get there.”

“I won’t,” he said, voice low. “I’ma just be happy to see you. And maybe… remind you what you walked away from.”

You shook your head. “You never stop, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you? Nah.”

You didn’t say goodbye. You just hung up and stared at the ceiling in the dark, heart pounding louder than it should’ve been.

SATURDAY

The music hit you before you even turned onto the street—classic Frankie Beverly & Maze, the anthem of every Black barbecue across the country. You rolled down the window a little and smiled despite yourself.

You hadn’t even parked before your son ran to your car.

“They got the bouncy house again.”

“Do they,” you said, trying to keep it cool.

He lit up like a firecracker anyway. “YESSS!”

You parked down the block. Far enough away to feel like you could slip out if things got weird. Close enough to be seen.

And oh, you were seen.

Stack spotted you first, posted by the grill with a white towel over his shoulder and a pair of tongs in one hand.

“Look what the wind blew in!” he yelled, grinning. “Look at her—comin’ through with the thighs out like she ain’t been missed!”

 “So where yo’ boyfriend at? He don’t do sun, or he just allergic to bein’ useful?”

You rolled your eyes. “He had to work.”

Stack laughed like that was the funniest lie he’d ever heard. “Of course he did. Probably somewhere tryna sell somebody an extended warranty.”

“Stack—”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your sunglasses. “Don’t start.”

Stack came over to you, watching your boy run back with his cousins, then winked at you. “Your man let you out the house wearin’ that, huh? He brave.”

You didn’t answer. Just walked behind your boy toward the backyard where all the noise was coming from—kids hollering, grown folks talking over each other, people playing cards.

And then you saw him.

Smoke.

In a black tee, chain glinting in the sunlight, red Solo cup in one hand, leaning back in a lawn chair like he didn’t start half the drama in your life—and dare you to hold it against him.

He stood up when he saw you, smile slow, easy. Dangerous.

“Look who decided to bless the function,” he said, eyes sliding down your body.

“Relax,” you muttered. “I’m just here for my son.”

“Mmhm,” he said, stepping in close enough that only you could hear. “But you brought that sundress and them hoops like you knew I was gon’ be lookin’. That for me, mama?”

You pushed past him.

But the heat in your chest betrayed you.

⸻

The afternoon rolled on in that chaotic, beautiful way only family cookouts can. Kids in the sprinkler. Aunt Dee yelling at folks not to touch her potato salad. Stack on the grill talking ‘bout “I do this,” while burning the hot dogs anyway.

You sat on the folding chair under the tent, trying to stay cool and low-key, sipping sweet tea and avoiding all the side-eyes and slick comments from Smoke’s nosy-ass cousins.

You hadn’t been around in a while, but they remembered.

“Ohhh, she came back,” one of them whispered, not quiet enough.

“Lookin’ like she ain’t missed a beat,” another said, fanning herself.

Smoke was everywhere—tossing his son over his shoulder into the bounce house, cracking jokes with Stack, throwing shade with charm. But every time you glanced up, his eyes were already on you.

Like he never stopped watchin’.

Like he never would.

⸻

Later, when the sun was low…

You were sitting alone now, your son passed out under one of the tents with a plate next to him, cheeks sticky and hair wild.

You leaned back, trying to breathe. Trying to remember why you said you’d come.

Then, of course, Smoke appeared.

He sat down beside you, close but not touching. Just enough for the air between you to get thick.

“Appreciate you comin’,” he said.

You nodded.

He nudged your knee with his.

“You remember last summer’s cookout?” he asked. “Before everything fell apart?”

You looked at him. “Yeah. I remember.”

“You was dancin’ to that Fantasia song like you ain’t had no worries. I remember thinkin’, ‘Damn. That’s mine. Ain’t no way she ever leavin’.’”

Your chest ached. Because you remembered too. How good it had been before it wasn’t.

He turned toward you, full now. Honest. Dangerous in a new way.

“Everybody out here keep sayin’ we done,” he murmured. “But they don’t know how we built this. What we survived together. What we still feel. You think you can run from that, mama? But you always end up back here.”

“Back here don’t mean I’m stayin’.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Then why you still got that ring in your jewelry box?”

You looked at him, stunned.

He smirked. “Yeah. Ej told me. Said you wear it sometimes when you think nobody lookin’. Said you said it was ‘just a memory.’ But you don’t keep memories in velvet cases, do you?”

You stood fast, heart in your throat.

“I gotta go.”

Smoke stood too, but slower. Measured.

“You sure?” he asked. “’Cause you ain’t even tasted Stack’s ribs yet. Or had your second plate. Let me walk you to the car like I used to.”

You didn’t answer.

You just walked to your sleeping son, lifted him gently, kissed his sticky forehead.

Smoke followed behind you all the way to your car.

You laid your baby in the back seat, adjusted the belt, then turned around—and there he was. That same damn look on his face. Like he knew.

“Thanks for today,” you said, voice soft.

“You gon’ thank me better later?” he teased, but there was an ache in it. Something deeper.

You looked at him for a long second. Then whispered

“Smoke… don’t make me come back if you not gon’ keep me this time.”

His jaw clenched.

He stepped forward, hand brushing your wrist.

“I ain’t never stopped wantin’ to.”

You didn’t kiss him. Didn’t let him kiss you.

But the promise hung in the air.

And when you drove off that time, hands still trembling slightly on the wheel?

You weren’t scared like before.

You were curious.

Because you knew now—

That door?

Wasn’t as closed as you told yourself it was.

[maddie0101]

just friends

summary: you and dean are out at a bar grabbing drinks with friends like it’s any other night but dean’s close, almost too close and you’re not doing a damn thing about it.

warnings/ tags: smut (mdni), college!au, friends w benefits, no love confessions (sadly), fingering, some dirty talk, public smut, hidden relationship and feelings, sexual tension.

word count: 1.4k (pretty small for me, yes ik..but I’m a tad rusty)

note: I’m back bitches! :) enjoy!

It’s not supposed to be complicated.

That’s what you tell yourself every time you sneak out of Dean's bed before sunrise. Every time you redress in silence and slip past your sleeping friends with flushed skin and sore thighs—pretending that nothing happened.

Friends with benefits. That’s the deal.

No dates. No hand-holding. No stolen glances that mean too much. And it’s been working—for the most part.

Except nights like this.

You’re at your favorite spot downtown, some hole-in-the-wall bar with loud music and warm string lights tangled above the tables. You’re squished into a booth with the usual group, consisting of Jo, Benny, Charlie, and Cas. Everyone's talking over each other with drinks in hand, plates of fries already half-gone.

You’re wearing a dress. Short, soft, and comfortable. A little risky for October, but worth it. You saw Dean’s eyes drop to your legs the second you walked in. He hasn’t said a word about it, but you felt the shift in the air.

Now, you’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the booth, thighs touching, your drink sweating in your palm as you try to pretend you’re listening to Charlie’s story about her lab partner. You’re nodding, even laughing but your body is stiff.

Not because you're stressed or anything—but because Dean’s hand is on your thigh.

It started off innocent, honestly. Just resting there, his fingers lightly curled, the way a friend might touch a friend.

But you both know better.

He’s been inching higher for the past ten minutes, casual as anything, like this isn’t dangerous.

No one can see, not from the angle or with the table pressed against your ribs and the flickering shadows hiding his movements. But you can feel him and he knows exactly what he’s doing.

His hand shifts slightly, fingers brushing up your thigh, warm and steady and your breath catches in your throat.

“You okay?” Jo asks, blinking at you.

You force a smile and nod quickly. “Yeah. Just a little warm in here.”

Dean doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even react. Just keeps sipping his beer, his free hand wrapped lazily around the neck of the bottle while the other, his real focus is sliding slowly beneath the hem of your dress.

Your pulse thuds in your ears and your heartbeat speeds up.

He’s still not touching you where you want him to. He’s toying with you. Circling higher and closer but never quite where you want him. His knuckles brush the inside of your thigh and you shudder, trying to sit still. Trying to not squirm.

So you shoot him a warning glare. But when he finally meets your eyes—his are dark, amused, and possessive?

You swallow hard and shift your legs, trying to squeeze them together. Dean’s hand follows easily, caught between them now, palm pressed against the soft skin just inches from your center.

You lean in toward him, voice quiet and shaky. “Dean.” You warn.

He hums, barely audible. “Problem?”

“You need to stop.”

He grins without looking at you. “You don’t want me to stop.”

He's right...You think. But here? In front of your friends? That's a whole new level.

His touch and the fact that you're in public, surrounded by your friends, feeling Dean's hand has you soaked. There’s nothing between you but a pair of thin lace panties and whatever control you’ve got left—which is crumbling fast.

Dean shifts again, his hand sliding higher, fingers brushing just under the edge of your underwear now and your breath leaves you in a slow, shaking exhale and you grip your drink tighter, knuckles white.

You glance up to Charlie still talking, Cas asking Jo a random question, and Benny’s leaned back with a lazy grin, completely oblivious—you hope.

But then Dean’s hand slips beneath your panties, bringing you back to what is going on and you choke on your drink, causing eyes to quickly snap onto you with concern.

“Jesus, you okay?” Benny says, reaching for a napkin.

“Yeah,” you cough. “Wrong pipe.”

Dean doesn’t move. Not even when he presses two fingers right there—just enough pressure to make you see stars. Your hips twitch and you cross your legs tighter, trapping his hand in place, but it only makes it worse.

He curls his fingers ever so slightly and leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You wore this dress just for me, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. So he nudges your panties aside and the cold air hits your soaked heat in an instant. He groans softly, barely a sound but you hear it. “Fuck, you’re already wet.”

Your thighs shake and you stare at your glass, willing yourself to keep breathing while his fingers slide through your slick folds. He doesn’t push inside you just yet. He's teasing you. Still playing his game and you shift again, pressing your hips into his hand, silently begging.

Dean tuts softly. “Needy.”

You shoot him another glare but he only smirks before giving you what you want. His finger slips inside, slow and smooth, just one and your breath catches. He moves it slowly, curling upward, then pulls back and adds a second. You clamp your teeth around a whimper and dig your nails into the seat beneath you.

“Doing so good,” he murmurs. “Sittin’ still like that. What would they say if they knew, huh? That you’re dripping around my fingers while Cas talks about his psych exam?”

“Dean,” you gasp.

“Yeah, baby?”

Your thighs tremble and your skin feels too tight. Your eyes are glassy and you’re so close it’s painful.

Dean curls his fingers again, just the slightest motion, and your hips twitch involuntarily. You shouldn’t be like this—not here. Not in public. But your body doesn’t care. It’s reacting to him like it always does—instinctively, desperately, completely.

And he presses his palm against your clit, not rubbing, just pressing, grounding you with that solid weight.

Your vision blurs for half a second and your breath hitches in your throat. You grip the edge of the table so hard your knuckles ache.

He leans in, his mouth just barely brushing your ear. His voice is calm but dangerous. “Gonna come just like this?” he whispers. “In your little dress, right here at the table?”

You can’t answer. Can’t breathe. All you can do is hold on as Dean’s fingers fuck into you slow and deep, his palm now dragging tight circles against your clit.

He’s doing it on purpose. Drawing it out—keeping you right on the edge.

You whimper softly—barely audible, but he hears it.

“Quiet,” he says, lips still at your ear. “You make a sound and I stop.”

You nod frantically, digging your nails into your thigh and casting a quick glance to your friends still sitting around you.

Jo and Charlie are still deep in conversation. While Cas is arguing with Benny over whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. But no one suspects a thing. Thank God—because no one sees how Dean has you right there—blushing, panting, thighs shaking while he works you from the inside out.

Your dress has ridden up just enough to let him move without resistance, his wrist shifting with each slow thrust of his fingers. You’re dripping around him, muscles fluttering, begging for release.

“Dean,” you breathe, “please—please—”

His hand slows for a second and your breath stutters. “No,” you gasp, shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t stop, Dean, I swear—”

He smiles against your skin. “Then come for me.”

That’s all it takes. Your legs seize around his hand, muscles clenching tight as heat rushes through you—white-hot and overwhelming. You bury your face in his shoulder to keep from crying out, your body trembling so hard the table rattles.

Dean holds you through it, fingers still moving, gentler now, coaxing you through the waves.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

It takes a full minute before you can breathe again. And before you realize your nails left crescents in the vinyl seat, that your drink is untouched--that the conversation has kept going without you, blissfully unaware. Dean finally withdraws his hand, slowly and slides your panties back into place, straightens the hem of your dress like a gentleman—like he didn’t just ruin you in the middle of a crowded bar.

You turn your face slightly, hiding your dazed, flushed expression behind the curtain of your hair and Dean licks his fingers while meeting your gaze.

You nearly whimper again at the sight and Dean slides his arm back across the booth, settling like nothing happened.

Like his fingers don’t still glisten faintly.

Like your heart isn’t trying to beat out of your chest.

And you reach for your drink with a shaky hand, trying to pretend your entire body isn’t still humming from the aftershock.

Dean glances at you once more—smug, satisfied, and already plotting what he’ll do to you when he gets you alone.

And God help you, you can’t wait.

author’s note:

hii guys! thank y’all so much for being patient with me during this time! I’ve finally managed to write this little one shot after almost a 2 month hiatus! 🫠 I’m definitely in the mood to write but now it’s about finding the time to 😅 (I barely even have time to eat lmfaoo)

I should have some more fics coming out but I can’t promise how often it will be. I am going to try to work on requests as well and hopefully get those out to you guys!

anywaaaays— I hope y’all enjoyed this one! ❤︎

taglist:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @saturnsooya @miss-marmalade @xo-zeze @kamisobsessed @megara0224 @cupidzbunny @imsiriuslyreal @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @julsvdamxn @tinas111 @acesdiary @sapphic-destiel @callsign-ember @ladykitana90 @h8aaz @closetedangel @lunaleah @pieandflannel @soldiersgirl (lmk if I’ve missed anyone or if you’d like to be taken off of my taglist)

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

my works

© maddie0101 do not copy or repost my works without my permission

[asherwesley]

“I Do Listen”

Simon “Ghost” Riley x You

Some men wear silence like armour. He wears yours like home. He guards your nights not with guns, but with every counted breath.

────────୨ৎ────────

It’s a quiet afternoon.

The kind of quiet that comes softly like dust – warm, and still, and settled. There's rain taps against the windows, and there's a cup of tea cooling between you and Simon on the coffee table. 

Simon's perched beside you on the couch, half in shadow, flipping a knife between his fingers with ease. The motion is like muscle memory, not thought.

You watch him. Chin on your knee. Curled into a blanket that still smells like him.

The question slips before you can stop it.

“Do you ever listen to me sleep?”

His fingers still mid-flip.

His eyes don’t move to meet yours immediately. He stares at the knife, at the reflection of your shape in its metal curve. 

“Why d’you ask that?” His voice, when it comes, a low, cautious breath of sound.

You shrug, gentle.

“It just… sometimes I wake up and you’re already looking at me. And I wonder if you even sleep at all.”

He doesn’t answer right away. As if weighing the words first.

Then, slowly, he sets the knife down. Quiet. Careful. Like it might shatter the moment if it lands too hard.

You watch him breathe. Watch the way he leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as if he’s holding something in, or holding himself up.

“I do. Listen to you.”

It’s so soft you almost miss it.

“Every night?”

You don’t tease. Don’t prod. Just ask.

He huffs – something close to a laugh, but it falls flat before it can turn into anything real.

“There were nights,” he says, “after bad ops… after blood and noise and shit I couldn’t scrub out of my head–”

His throat bobs.

“– and the only thing that made sense was hearing you breathe.”

Now he looks at you.

Eyes shadowed. Bruised with sleep he never seems to get.

But there’s a softness in them too.

Raw, vulnerable in a way he rarely lets show.

“I’d count them. Every inhale. Every exhale. Over and over.”

A breath.

“Felt like… if I kept track of yours, maybe I wouldn’t lose my own.”

Something in your chest twists.

He looks away.

Eyes drop to his hands again. They’re steady, but not still.

“Didn’t plan on it,” he muses. “Just happens. I’ll wake up and your hand’s on me, foot tangled wi’ mine, and the world’s not so bloody loud anymore.”

Another pause, this one smaller.

“Could sleep anytime. Just… rather not.”

“Don’t wanna miss it.”

You don’t speak.

Instead, you shift closer. Press your head to his shoulder. Your hand finds his, and he holds on tight.

“That’s not weird, innit?” he mutters, voice gruff.

“No,” you whisper. “That’s love.”

And he just looks at you, really looks, like you've just said something dangerous. Something he doesn’t know how to carry. Something he’s not sure he deserves.

And for the first time that day,

he lets his eyes close.

Not from exhaustion.

But trust.

────────୨ৎ────────

For a man built from scars and shadow, trust is louder than any vow.

────────୨ৎ────────

It wasn’t sleep that saved him.

It was the fact he could sleep at all – with you near.

[undyingdecay]

helloooo, this is my very first time requesting anything on tumblr, but your writing is just too good to pass up the opportunity.

i cannot, for the love of all mankind, get dark!bucky barnes out of my brain. it’s like an itch that can’t be scratched, no matter how hard i try. and i’m talking about some straight up dark shit that would potentially make me look fucking insane if i said it out loud.

(non-con) WHO SAID THAT? 👀

(tw: very heavy non-con, translation: khoroshaya devochka — good girl)

ok everyone sit down and listen, so ideally — and this is so bad it’s good — i’m thinking very freshly post-hydra!bucky. the kind of fresh where he still moves like a fucking predator without realizing it. where his hair’s still got that dry, greasy texture because he hasn’t figured out conditioner and tony’s too much of a prick to explain it to him. where his eyes are still vacant half the time, like there’s a stel trap wrapped around his head, but then — then there’s moments. quick flashes. like his gaze catches on your neck a second too long when you tilt your head or his jaw ticks when you laugh a little too loud in the kitchen because sam’s being a dick. little cracks in the armor.

and here’s the kicker, steve asked you to look after him. not like he was a rabid dog. no. steve wouldn’t call him that. steve would never say it like that. it was more in that… do-it-for-me tone, that boyish all-american pleading like he’s just shy of getting down on one knee. it wasn’t fair. you were good at saying no. you were good at keeping boundaries. but when he asked, when those big stupid hands were scrubbing sweat off his neck post-run and his biceps were gleaming under the LED lab lights?

you agreed. because you’re an idiot.

and bucky, bucky didn’t talk to you.

not much, anyway. he barely talked to anyone, truth be told, and you weren't about to make him. you’d still check in. you’d talk at him, mostly. about dumb shit — what kind of cereal was on sale, how tony’s AI fridge locked you out for putting a can of off-brand soda in it, how nat had somehow learned to crochet and was currently making sweaters for the knives she kept under her mattress. normal stuff. and maybe you wondered if he was listening but only sometimes.

you kinda forgot who he was, to be honest. like, yeah, there were moments you remembered — like the time you were standing in front of the fridge, reaching for the leftover pasta you’d been thinking about all day, and he just… picked you up. didn’t say a word. just lifted your entire body out of the way like you weighed nothing. set you down a foot to the left. opened the fridge. pulled out a bottle of water. left. no ‘excuse me’. no ‘move’. just manhandled you like a fucking doll and dipped.

but then came the night. and you swear on your life you didn’t hear him come in. you didn’t. you always did before. you could hear the way his boots dragged a little or the click of metal fingers against the wall. not this time. one second you were half asleep, the next you were on your back, bedsheets twisted around your ankles and something cold and heavy pressing your wrist down into the mattress.

you knew it was him. even in the dark, even before you opened your mouth, you knew.

“bucky—?”

his hand was in your hair, not pulling but holding, fingers twisted so deep into the roots it made your eyes sting. the words didn’t register. he was speaking, low and harsh in your ear, and you couldn’t understand a word of it but you knew it was russian because natasha would curse under her breath in that same jagged way when she was pissed off.

he was grinding against you. fully clothed. all rough denim and stiff tactical gear, and you could feel the press of him through it. the sick, hot friction of fabric on fabric like it was enough for him. like he didn’t even care about getting his cock out, just needed to rut against something warm and soft and unwilling. his breathing was so fucking loud, low grunts slipping out every time his hips jerked forward.

you were pleading. of course you were. because what else do you do when a supersoldier’s on top of you with a metal hand around your throat? you were asking him to stop, babbling out whatever you could think of — please, bucky, you don’t wanna do this, you don’t wanna hurt me, please, please— but it barely mattered. didn’t even look like it registered.

and some part of you — some deep, shriveled, awful instinct — told you to stay still. like maybe if you didn’t move, didn’t scream, didn’t make it worse, he’d finish faster. like maybe this was the least you owed him. not as a person, but as a thing. a thing that had been torn up and stitched back together wrong. like maybe this was how you repaid the debt you never owed in the first place.

and it made you sick to your stomach.

he muttered something sharp in russian again, voice rough like gravel and whiskey, and his hand moved from your hair to your neck. not squeezing — not yet — just pressing down enough to make your throat work harder.

“stupid things,” you caught, because that was in english. “never listen.”

and then quieter — almost tender, which made it worse — “zhenshchiny ne mogut plakat', yesli oni mokryye naskvoz'.”

you didn’t even understand what the fuck that meant at first. not until later. not until you found natasha at the gym and repeated it in a shaky whisper and watched her face twist, real ugly and mean.

and she told you. told you what it meant.

'women can't cry if they are soaking wet'

and you’ve never slept right since.

you should’ve known better to.

the first time it happened, you thought maybe it would be the only time. some awful, one-time, trauma-fueled mistake. a sick, violent need in him that would burn out and leave you in peace. you even tried to tell yourself he didn’t know what he was doing — the way he’d snarled in russian, the cold clamp of vibranium fingers around your throat, the sharp rut of his hips into yours like an animal. the way he kept you pinned under him, fully clothed, grinding himself into your cunt through your shorts until your body betrayed you, slick gathering no matter how much your mind screamed. you thought maybe, maybe it would end there.

it didn’t.

he stayed after. lay there beside you in your own bed, that metal hand still curled around your wrist, eyes wide open and unblinking in the dark. watching. like a predator deciding whether to finish the kill or let the wound fester. he didn’t speak. didn’t explain. didn’t leave.

the next night, you thought about locking the door. stood there with your hand on the knob, heart pounding in your throat. and then you let it go, because what was the fucking point? a lock wouldn’t stop him. nothing would. not when the winter soldier still lived in his bones, moving his hands before his brain caught up. and sure enough, sometime past midnight, boots heavy on the floor, the oppressive presence of him filling the room — and this time, there was no hesitation.

he undid his tactical pants just enough, the harsh rasp of the zipper making your stomach twist. there was no slow approach, no pretense. his hand knotted in your hair, wrenching your head back, and then your face was in the pillow, his grip like a steel trap around your neck.

“stop—” you tried, and that was the last word you managed.

he spit on your cunt first. a thick, cruel thing, then smeared it with his fingers, muttering something in russian that you didn’t need natasha to translate. the intent was clear enough. then he shoved himself inside you, one brutal thrust, tearing you open like he owned the place. no prep. no care. the stretch was merciless, thick and unrelenting, your breath ripped from you as your whole body jolted forward.

and the worst part? you felt yourself get wet.

it wasn’t want. it wasn’t arousal. it was your body’s betrayal. terror slicking your skin, nerves on fire, every cell screaming and still — still the ache built between your thighs, heat blooming where it shouldn’t. he noticed. of course he did. leaned down, breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“khoroshaya devochka,” he rasped, rough and pleased. “knew you’d stop fighting.”

he fucked you like he didn’t need to be gentle, like your body was just a place to bury himself. every thrust brutal, grinding your hips into the mattress. teeth in your shoulder hard enough to bruise, to break skin. and every time you made a sound — a sob, a plea, a ragged whisper of his name — you felt him twitch inside you. like it turned him on more.

by the time he came, it wasn’t soft. a sharp snap of his hips, a guttural snarl in your ear, his teeth sinking into the muscle of your shoulder as thick, hot ropes spilled inside you. his hand never eased up on your neck. he kept you pinned there, limp and wrecked beneath him.

and then — he didn’t leave.

he rolled you onto your back, head resting on your stomach like it was some sort of goddamn prize, one hand lazily stroking your thigh while his cum leaked from you in slow, hot pulses. he stayed until dawn, and you lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, praying for death or daylight, whichever came first.

when the sun finally broke through, you got up, made coffee. looked at yourself in the mirror. bite marks and bruises trailing your neck, fingerprints mapped across your skin like a claim. you didn’t tell anyone. not steve. not nat. not sam. what would you even say? that their broken weapon was breaking you?

he came back again the next night.

and the next.

each time worse than the last. new ways to bend you, to mark you, to drag desperate, shamed pleasure from a body that didn’t know how to stop responding. every night his cock inside you, his voice in your ear, muttering in that dead, cold russian.

you stopped begging. stopped trying to fight.

because deep down, you knew he’d decided you were his.

and stupid things never learn.

(ive officially lost it)

[salsa-and-light]

@spidersteelandsmile

Your story is beautiful. Than you for sharing, these sorts of things aren't talked about enough.

Knowing Queer people and Queer stories is the strongest antidote to prejudices like these.

I respect that you tried to approach this diplomatically.

I don't know if you were being brief to come off as non-hostile or if you genuinely aren't familiar with many of the tactics of homophobic Christians, but in my experience they do not have reasons for their beliefs.

Many have very rudimentary explanations which are either entirely untrue or fall apart upon examination. Examination that they can not or do not do themselves.

So I will admit that talking to them seriously can be taxing, even if they do have good intentions. It does not appear to me that that this person has good intentions.

I would be happy to explain more on the different ideas and sources surrounding this subject if you are curious, and you are more than welcome to read on. But in my opinion, I don't think you are going to get reasonable answers from someone like this.

>>>>>>> >>>>>>> >>>>>>> >>>>>>> >>>>>>> >>>>>>> >>>>>>>

@artist-issues

"But it’s kind of pointing out a flaw in your understanding of God��s Word to open your post with “give me verses” and then narrow it down to “but only the ones where Jesus is talking.”"

Christ specifically was operating in opposition to the religious norms of his day.

At various points both in his ministry and in the rest of the New Testament the Law and contemporary Jewish norms are specifically ended, removed or condemned.

Christian follow Christ, Christians focusing on Christ is the default.

We shouldn't be acting out the arrogant legalism of the pharisees who killed him, that's for sure.

"“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.“ John 1:1"

This is actually a good thing to mention.

As Gay Christian and historian of Christianity, Diarmaid MacCulloch put it:

"The Bible is not the word of God. Jesus is the word of God, it says so in the Bible."

So yes, Jesus the Christ seems to be the most important person to listen to in.. Christianity.

"“All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness..."

No one said that scripture was useless.

What you're doing is talking around the fact that the founder of our faith didn't have anything to say about homosexuality.

If you want to argue that it doesn't matter, then fine, do that.

Arguing against points no one made makes you seem defensive, or paranoid.

..

Though you have stumbled upon something worth mentioning.

The scripture is trustworthy.

But why would you be⸮

You can have your opinion of course, it's just that your opinion isn't worth much.

In a way it's telling that when questioned you cite the inerrancy of God and scripture.

As if the authority of God.. makes your argument stronger.

Difficulty with separating your opinions from God's is usually a problem.

"Peter, in his letter, said Paul’s words were Scripture"

..No..

but also,

"His letters contain some things that are hard to understand, which ignorant and unstable people distort, as they do the other Scriptures, to their own destruction." - 2 Peter 3:16b

It's odd that you decided to breeze past the part where he says people distort scripture.

I'm not even disputing the legitimacy of Pauls readings, but if I were, why would I trust Peter more?

And even if I did trust Peter more.. he doesn't use the word "scripture" in Greek, he said "writings".

["γραφὰς-graphas" is the Greek word in quetion, being the source for the English root "graph" as in "photograph", "graphics" or "grapheme" a linguistic term for a fundamental unit of written language"]

Even the English word "scripture" just originally meant writings but through the isolated exposure to the word through the Catholic church the word gained religious connotations. Spanish, French and other romance languages have a doublet of the term but have to specify "escritura sagrada", "Saintes Écritures" or holy scriptures, because their terms are the equivalent of "writing(s)".

This is mostly a English phenomenon.

So no one was arguing that Paul was unimportant, but if they were.. then your argument would still be bad.

"And if you doubt that the Apostle Peter had the authority to say what was and was not the Word of God, then you’re doubting that anything you know Jesus to have said was ever actually what He said"

Again, no one is disputing the accounts of Peter.

But if they were this would, again, be a terrible argument.

There are four Gospels and Peter didn't write any of them.

If someone wanted to ignore Peter's account they could and still have the majority of the accounts of Christ's ministries.

..

i think you're misunderstanding the problem here.

I don't think anyone here is saying that Christ is the only source of information.

Christians are people who follow Christ, it' not that deep.

But if we are listening to Paul we should listen to him.

Here's what he said.

"One of you says, “I follow Paul”; another, “I follow Apollos”; another, “I follow Cephas”; still another, “I follow Christ.” Is Christ divided? Was Paul crucified for you? Were you baptized in the name of Paul?" - 1 Corinthians 1:12b-13

We are not saved by the Law or by Peter or Paul.

Appealing to them to supplant the ministry of Christ is contradictory to the ministry of Christ and that of Peter & Paul.

"a lot of the eyewitness accounts of what Jesus said come from the Apostle Peter."

I don't even know what this means.

Peter didn't write the Gospels, at most he Wrote 1st Peter and 2cd Peter.. and that's disputed too.

This isn't even the topic, I don't care and you're not the person to talk to about this anyways,

but these claims are just puzzling.

"If you’re going to say Scripture is your authority, you have to answer the question “why.”"

Interesting that you didn't give a why when you were making things up about how being straight was a fundamental part of the faith.

"The only reason to make Scripture the authority for your life and how you live it is if, indeed, it is the Word of God."

"The Bible is not the word of God. Jesus is the word of God, it says so in the Bible."

"And you have to believe all of it is the Word of God. All of it."

This is called a false dichotomy.

Another lie.

Not that anyone was saying that they didn't believe the Bible.

Which again,

"The Bible is not the word of God. Jesus is the word of God, it says so in the Bible."

"Now that we’ve established that it’s all-or-nothing"

You didn't establish anything.

You said something insane and blathered for a bit.

No one is even arguing that parts of the Bible are untrue, your arguments are just terrible

It's amazing that language teachers can't correct this sort of thing.

"you can’t just pick and choose which verses have authority and which don’t"

No you don't get to choose.

If you're listening to the whole Bible then you are actually commanded to ignore certain portions of it.

Which I know that you know, because I know you're not making animal sacrifices correctly.

"here are the ones where homosexuality is prohibited.[Leviticus 18:22 & Leviticus 20:13]"

This is so embarrassing for you.

..

I'm going to ignore the hypocrisy of quoting a code of law that you don't follow and I'll even ignore that I count five mistranslations in just two verses and I'll focus something worse.

You're being dishonest.

Let's make this very, very simple.

Is two lesbians raising a child together a form of homosexuality?

Yes.

Is two men having sex together a form of homosexuality?

Yes.

Now,

Is two lesbians raising a child together a form of two men having sex together⸮

No.

This is the equivalent of saying that clothes are banned because hats are banned. You're exaggerating the meaning to match your personal feelings, not the semantics of the actual text.

This verse, which is A) mistranslated and B) defunct, still does not prohibit homosexuality.

It doesn't prohibit gay marriage, it doesn't prohibit gay parents, it doesn't prohibit anything that a lesbian might do.

It doesn't even prohibit all forms of sex between men.

Even in a defunct, mistranslated text you still felt the need to lie.

Because nothing about your views is based on reason, or honesty. It's certainly not based on text.

It's based on your prejudice.

"This is God...telling the Israelites in His Law"

It's Levitical Law, the law of the Levitical priesthood. Priests from the tribe of Levi.

And among its lists of laws, [which you do not follow], are laws requiring the execution of rape victims and systematizing the ownership and sale of women; among other things.

So I'm actually grateful that you spent so much time building up Paul so you can't backtrack when Paul writes about the Law.

"But now, by dying to what once bound us, we have been released from the law so that we serve in the new way of the Spirit, and not in the old way of the written code." - Romans 7:6 "So the law was our guardian until Christ came that we might be justified by faith. Now that this faith has come, we are no longer under a guardian." Galatians 3:24-25 "The former regulation is set aside because it was weak and useless" - Hebrews 7:18

But supposedly you got your conclusions from the text.

"It’s meant to reveal the standard that humanity falls short of, not condone falling short of that standard."

Sure the perfect version of humanity wears tassels.

Funny, Adam and Eve didn't wear anything.

"Jesus has not changed His mind about this. Homosexuality is an abomination. And ⬇️ [Romas 1:26-27]"

This is lazy.

I could tell you to just read the whole chapter; but who knows what you'd come up with.

If you had read the whole chapter.. you would know that this chapter is talking about a pagan sex cult.

And if you knew what you were talking about, then you would know that these men usually had sex with women.

Condemning a bunch of cultists is not a commentary on homosexuality even if the members were homosexuals, which they decidedly were not.

"⬆️ This was written in the New Covenant"

What would that even mean‽

Not everything in the New Testament, is a part of the new covenant.

You realize that the New Testament also includes the crucifixion and commands for slaves to obey their masters right?

"God hasn’t changed His mind. What He says is natural is natural...it’s not natural to be “consumed with passion” for the same sex as yourself."

You're talking about what's ""natural"" as if you aren't online. Be serious.

You want to know what else is unnatural⸮ Modern medicine, electricity, indoor plumbing, the written word.

If you had thought about this for more than a second you would have realized how stupid naturalism is as a moral standard

And if you had done that then you might have actually attempted to understand the meaning of the text.

The Greek term "φυσικὴν - physikēn" just means instinctual or inborn. It's a relative of the English word "physical".

It does not reference any such concept like an universal natural order.

It just means that these men were usually with women and not men.

This is the closest the Bible ever comes to describing orientation.

If Paul had intended to make broad sweeping commentary on homosexuality, a concept that would not exist for another eighteen centuries, then why would he be specifying that these men were acting out of character.

Probably because having sex for the worship of a pagan god is even more heinous when it's not even the sex you'd want to be having.

"Jesus talks about the correct view of marriage by quoting...[Matthew 19:4-5]"

Jesus does not say that this is the correct view of marriage, Jesus never even calls this a marriage, and neither does Genesis 2:24 which he is quoting.

You're compulsion to lie is troubling.

And because I actually know this topic fairly well I suspect that you're thinking that it must be about marriage because the verses mention wives.

But no

English translators added "wife", both the Hebrew and Greek terms of this quote(Genesis 2:24 & Matthew 19:5 respectively) just mean "woman"

And again, it's fortunate that you've spent so much time defending the validity of other scripture because if you want to argue that all scripture is equal.. then Jesus can't be claiming that the correct view of marriage is heterosexual monogamy.

Because the Bible frequently refers to polygamy and makes a distinction between marriage and other forms of relationship like concubinage.

So if you're claiming that no other sort of marriage can exist, then you're contradicting scripture.

"I know you said you don’t understand how what Jesus does say condemns homosexuality."

There’s nothing to understand, this is an imaginary problem.

Mentioning heterosexuality isn't condemning Queer people.

Queer people manage talk about heterosexuality all the time without being homophobes.

"Jesus was talking to people who were trying to trap Him by asking about the right way to handle divorce—a matter of marriage. And Jesus answered by explaining what the correct view of marriage is"

Assumption.

"We fall so hard that even what we desire is twisted and broken, and even our ability to know what brokenness is"

Clearly yours is.

"And that’s why it’s so good that you asked me to give you verses. Because when we can’t trust whether or not we know what’s good or bad, right or wrong"

You're a fool if you think feelings stop at the page.

Your feelings influence you.

You are not impartial, objective or even terribly knowledgeable.

Your interpretation is less reliable than the conscience of someone who actually knows something about the Queer experience.

"The Bible. God’s Word."

"The Bible is not the word of God. Jesus is the word of God, it says so in the Bible."

"You can’t base what God wants for you, what’s right and wrong, on your feelings"

That's what you're doing hon'

You arguments don't make sense and your behavior is more in line with an emotional outburst.

"Life experience is meant to be informed by what God says in His Word"

I'd love to see where you got that idea from.

All human communication is formed on the basis of past experiences.

Anything you could interpret must be transmitted through the lens of past experiences.

Which is why bias is an inherent part of the human condition.

"Because your analyzer, your mind, your heart, are broken,"

Oh look gaslighting.

Isn't it rich that you remember the basic reality of bias and fallibility only when they're using them to explain why you should be the authority.

"What I am telling you is that your interpretation of that experience, that it’s somehow “from God,” that He set it up that way and that’s how you know He approves of your homosexuality—that is what’s incorrect"

Cool story, but you can't prove it.

"Your interpretation of what you’ve lived through as “from God” is incorrect, and it is very dangerous."

Real quick, how many people died from being gay and happy⸮

It's "dangerous" because you can't disprove it. And you know that no one will buy the misery you're hawking without censoring any alternative.

"There are plenty of verses about that."

Oh yes there are plenty of verses about being wrong about scripture.

But history seems to indicates that that doesn't stop people frome being wrong.

One of us must be wrong don’t you think, but do those verses tell us who⸮

"This is against saying that “God placed a burden on me to do this or that” because you run the risk of perverting His words."

I guess you're also abstaining from the "burden of proof" too.

"Again, this verse proves[Jeremiah 23:25-27] you can think you’re hearing from God, or something is coming from God, and be wrong."

And you're exemplifying that problem beautifully.

"But you don’t have to read very far into the Bible to notice that God is a specific, existing Person with His own set of characteristics, wants, loves, and dislikes, and you can’t change them or decide what they really any more than I could change or decide what your characteristics,"

Says the homophobe using non-binary pronouns to blaspheme a God of Love.

This is a non-point.

No one is trying to change God here but you.

You're the one making the claim that God's grace is undone by homosexuality.

That's heresy.

"The only way to know is to line what you’re thinking about His will up next to Scripture. See if it matches."

Oh girl, don't you know better.

If your only standard for your base ethics is whether scripture "agrees with you" then it's no wonder you're so nasty.

For one you don't know much about the Bible, so basing your morality on your hazy recollections is.. not exactly ideal.

But let's suppose that you actually knew something.

You want to know who reads the Bible and comes away thinking they have God's approval⸮

Everyone who wants it

I'm sorry but even I and the other Queer people you so despise regularly come to the conclusion that the Bible supports us.

Your own pseudo-logic condemns you.

Queer people don’t usually go around bragging about it because anyone can get scripture’s approval: me, you, nazis, slavers, imperialists.

And lest you be confused, this is not because everyone else is lying to themselves and you are the one true Christian who reads the Bible honestly.

It’s because bias is inherent to the human condition and we can be wrong no matter how good or bad our intentions are.

"And if you’re living as if He does not think homosexuality is an abomination,"

Abomination is one of those mistranslations from the laws that you don't follow that I mentioned;

by the way.

"One more verse, because it’s the one where Hope is found.[1 Corinthians 6:9-11] See? Do you see?"

Another instance where some more research would have saved us both some time.

Please refer to the documentary about this

1946: The Mistranslation That Shifted Culture

Or if you can't find that documentary, you can look at this recorded presentation made by one of the presenters.

Both 1 Corinthians 6:9 & 1 Timothy 1:10 are mistranslations totally unsupported by historical analysis and even modern English semantics.

You don’t have to watch these videos, but if you want to claim to be informed with any honesty it would behoove you to actually be informed.

"Don’t be deceived - you can be wrong about this."

But not you is that right.

- negative self awareness -

"It is defined as normal by the Bible TO be deceived"

Yeah,

Which explains why Christians have proclaimed evil prejudices like racial hierarchy and imperialism for centuries.

Can you think of anything similar⸮

"You can be deceived—into believing that any of the sins he lists are somehow NOT sins"

And you were deceived into thinking that Love was immoral based on mistranslation.

"It’s in the verse. It’s plain. Nothing twisted or hard to see or understand about that."

You wouldn't be saying that unless you already knew that the translation is contentious.

If you had spent time trying to understand the situation instead of covering your own ass, then you might have been able to learn something.

"Homosexuality is a sin. But it’s not a super-sin. It’s not special"

Lie. You don't believe that.

And I know you don't believe that because you didn't write angry pouts about other sins.

You also didn't claim that the arrogant or the hypocritical stop being Christians.

Presumably because you aren't so stupid.

But you're not smart enough to not get caught in an obvious lie.

"Such were some of you - Christians have been homosexuals."

And Christians continue to be homosexuals.

Gay conversion is not possible through any ethical means, nor is it possible through unethical means, and we know this because we've tried all of them.

Advocating torture because you can't handle reality is evil.

"But it’s past-tense. It was who they were. It is NOT anymore."

Being gay has never been who anyone is.

And you would know that if you saw Queer people as your equals instead of as evil bogey man made to torment you.

"Homosexuals" is a mistranslation. And your wild conspiracism is embarrasing.

"The name of Christ? “Christian.” An identifier that is incompatible with the name “homosexual.”"

Prove it.

You have no credibility, your knowledge is inaccurate, you honesty is wanting and you're a minority opinion even among the bigoted.

This isn't an argumment, it's begging.

"You aren’t a homosexual. If you’ve been washed, sanctified, by the Spirit of God"

And we're still not heterosexual or straight.

Which is it. Is God's power limited⸮ Or are you⸮

There is a wrong answer.

"Please don’t jump right into responding to this reblog by saying things to me like “I pray that one day God opens your eyes to a world of love, not hate,”"

Oh.

So you do have an understanding of how impersonal platitudes are annoying.

So you weren't ignorant, you were a hypocrite.

"as if anything I’ve said is hateful"

- negative self awareness -

I don't know what needs to be done for you to have an attitude adjustment, but I teach rich pre-teens and they're not this bratty.

"or anything apart from what God says is love can be love. He is love."

Lower my expectations and keep digging.

You're somehow deluded into believing that Love can be evil.

I follow a God of Love, you’re doing something else.

Look at 1 Corinthians 13

You know.. Love is patient, Love is kind..

Ring any bells⸮

Why don't you read that chapter and let me know when you find a gender requirement.

"He says it is is better than the lies the world has convinced you is “love.”"

Oh so your evil.

Queer people are in fact capable of Love.

How you think you're not full of hatred is beyond me. Though I suppose you could be lying.

"Read what is typed in this post and weigh it and consider it, as if it’s the first time you’ve heard it."

So without all of your homophobic biases.

Funny, without assuming that homosexuality immoral and that Queer people are incapable of Love the Bible doesn't seem so prejudiced after all.

Way to tell on yourself.

Get real.

People aren't going to magically acquire your biases even if they could somehow get rid of their own.

You are not some blank slate interpreting without motive, you are dripping in bias, with a large helping of self-importance to boot.

"And THEN make the decision"

I did.

I got three degrees worth of knowledge and read a pile of books on the subject.

You can't even be bothered to read your own posts so you don't get caught in a lie.

Maybe you got off on being able to dominate the other boys and girls in Sunday school, I don’t know, but this behavior is terrible.

I once believed the way you do. Then I got better.

You could too. But you choose to wallow instead.

"Or are you going to stop trusting your deceitful heart and what the whole world says, and trust in God alone?"

You can't even Trust that God made a Love you don't experience.

Don’t bother talking about trust when you’ve shown that you don’t value it.

"If you’re a Christian, you chose to die to your old self and be Christ’s. Be what He tells you to be."

Which is a Queer fuck.

And if you don't like it, kick rocks.

"One is a traveling nurse who was engaged to another woman, the other is a 15 year-old girl who was dating another girl. They gave their lives to Christ in this past year and are happy, even though it’s hard, following Him."

80% of supposed "ex-gays" are openly Queer again within five years.

And that's according to the manipulated data of "conversion therapists."

But if you're hanging around we might be able to cut that time in half.

Wishing them a speedy recovery.

"“Let God be true though every one were a liar…”"

Well we already know which one you are.

I will say it again:

The LGBTQ+ person who asks Christians to "welcome and accept them without telling them they should change" is openly demanding that the Christians change. From being Christians, to being non-Christians.

Because Christ died to save you from who you used to be. When you become a Christian, you're choosing to change from who you were to who He tells you to be. That is Christianity. To tell Christians to stop talking and behaving like that is what they believe is to not only reject Christianity yourself, but demand that they reject it, too.

Do not listen to any influencer, pop culture icon, or person who says to you that Christians do not love LGBTQ+ people, because they say LGBTQ+ people should change who they are.

Christians change who they are. More accurately, they let Christ change who they are. That’s how they became Christians. Truth goes hand in hand with love—it is not avoiding it. Because love is not anti-rejection. Love rejects plenty of things! Love rejects hatred, self-focus, and lies. So of course Christians who believe in a God that says, “let Me change you into who you’re meant to be” can tell you that you need to change—and that is loving. They love you, and they’re not okay with leaving you the way you are. Because Christ didn’t leave them, the Christians, the way they were.

Don't listen to anyone, "Christian" or otherwise, who tells you different.

[nekonaps0]

Little rival

✦fem!reader

✦characters: Kageyama, Nishinoya, Oikawa, Kuroo, Atsumu

✦A little kid walking up and innocently telling their girlfriend, “When I grow up, I wanna marry you!”

Kageyama Tobio

You and Kageyama are walking together when a chubby-cheeked kid tugs on your sleeve and boldly declares,

“You’re really pretty! When I grow up, I’m gonna marry you!”

Kageyama freezes. Like, full on system error. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then slowly turns to look at the kid like he’s a new challenger entering the match.

“…Hah?” he mutters, so confused he might actually think the kid is serious. “You’re, like, five.”

When you start laughing, Kageyama frowns, crossing his arms. “Why are you laughing? He just proposed to you. That’s not funny. He said he’s gonna marry you! Isn’t he too young for that?!”

You try to explain it was cute and harmless, but Kageyama is now in serious mode. “You are my girlfriend. This isn’t a competition…” he mumbles.

Later that day, he’s quieter than usual. Eventually, he mutters, “I can’t believe I got jealous of a five-year-old…” he covers his embarrassed face with his hands.

Nishinoya Yuu

The moment the kid says, “I’m gonna marry you when I grow up,” Nishinoya gasps so loud it’s theatrical.

He immediately drops into a squat so he’s eye level with the kid, hands on his knees, expression serious.

“Whoa, WHOA, buddy. Bold move.” He grins, but there's a twitch in his eyebrow. “But you gotta earn her heart. This isn’t just a fairy tale, my dude.”

Then he turns to you, gripping your hand dramatically.

“Babe. He wants to steal you from me.” He acts like he’s been betrayed by fate itself.

You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, while Noya is now giving the kid a motivational speech about love. “When you’re older, you’re gonna meet someone awesome. But this goddess right here? Sorry, already taken. And I would rather DIE than let anyone take her!”

Please stop him before he traumatizes the little boy…

Oikawa Tooru

The second the kid says it, Oikawa puts on the fakest, most plastic smile of his life.

“Awww, that’s soooo sweet of you,” he says through gritted teeth.

Then he crouches next to the kid, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, little man… she’s already dating the most gorgeous, talented, and charming person alive—me. And, well… you’ve got a long way to go before you can compete.”

He throws you a wink, but you can tell he’s definitely sulking. “You like her smile, huh? Yeah, me too. It’s mine. Now move on.” You have to slap him on the back of his head to stop him before he makes the kid cry…

Later, as you’re walking away, he whispers, “You still think I’m cuter than him, right? Right?! Say it.”

And if you tease him even a little by saying, “I mean, he was kind of charming,” Oikawa gets offended. Like you just offended his whole bloodline. “I’m being replaced by a toddler! Is this the end?!”

Kuroo Tetsurou

The kid walks up confidently and says, “I think you’re really pretty, and I’m gonna marry you someday.”

Kuroo arches a brow and glances down at the kid, fighting a smirk. “Oh? That so?”

He slings an arm around your shoulder casually. “You’ve got good taste, kid. But unfortunately, you’re about ten years too early, and about one girlfriend short of a chance.”

You giggle and play along with the kid, who pouts when he realizes you're already taken. Kuroo kneels down, smirking just enough to tease but not scare him.

“Tell you what,” he says. “If you still feel this way some years later, look me up. Until then… hands off.” Then he winks and tousles the kid’s hair.

Later, he teases you about it. “I’m gonna have to keep an eye on you, huh? Even the kindergarteners are after you.”

Atsumu Miya

The second the kid says he wants to marry you, Atsumu’s jaw drops.

“Huh?? Did I just get challenged by a toddler?!”

He steps between you and the kid like he’s defending his title as your boyfriend.

“First of all, she’s mine, ‘kay? Second of all, you’re, like, in preschool. You even brush your own teeth yet?”

The kid just blinks at him while you try not to die laughing.

Atsumu scoffs. “Listen, lil’ man. I get it. She’s amazing. But I buy her clothes, bring her snacks, giving her massage. Can you do all that? Didn’t think so.”

You eventually pull him away before he starts arguing about taxes with the kid.

Later, he sulks with his head in your lap, mumbling, “Tch… can’t believe I got cock-blocked by a baby…”

You laughed so hard how childish he is but you give him a kiss and tell him he’s your #1 forever, and he immediately lights back up like the sun.

“Damn right I am.”

..............................................................................................................................

[mindless-existence1]

Kpop Demon Hunters

Baby Saja x Reader

Summery: You bring in snacks for the groups (Huntrix and Saja Boys) and Baby teases you a bit (hes your boyfriend)

Authors Note: I loved this movie and I loved Baby and Jinu from Saja Boys and all the Huntrix my requests are open for this movie this is my first fic for it tho

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You had gotten to the studio about 10 minutes ago to drop off lunch for the group. It had started out as just for Baby but then the others heard you were getting him some snacks and they begged you to pick something up for them too.

You didnt mind tho you were happy too, and Baby had told you about how hard they had been working recently. Saja Boys and Huntrix were working on a new song together and that ment long hours.

You sat on the couch of the lounge area, bags of food beside you. You just mindlessly played on your phone and hummed along to the songs playing in your headphones.

Finally you heard a door open an a collection of sighs coming from the idols. "Ugghhhh im so tired" you heard from Rumi and a chanting of "Couch! Couch! Couch!" From her costars.

The guys were more quiet just groaning and whiny about being tired and hungry and ready for a break. "Y/n!" The girls yelled when they saw you, Zoey and Mira jumped onto the couch and Zoey gave you a hug before they grabbed at the snacks.

The guys fought over different snacks and the girls downed their Ramen you specifically got for them. "Thank you so much" the girls cried. "Thank you y/n" the guys said through large bites of food.

"Of course, you guys are working so hard its the least I can do." They all hummed and smiled, Baby sat next to you eating his own share. "I really appreciate thank you babe." Your boyfriend said and kissed your cheek.

You smiled at him and started eating some od the food you got for yourself. "So how's the single coming along?" You ask after everyone began to finish their food. Zoey got a happy glint in her eyes and excited started telling about how she came up with the lyrics and what they all mean.

You happily listened leaning back into the couch, Baby's arm around you. You continued to talk and listen to the idols talk about their new single, half way through their break though you had put on some flavored chapstick not thinking anything of it.

But Baby noticed and if you guys weren't infront of your friends he would've started making out right then and there. But he was proud of himself for showing restraint.

Bobby walked through the door connected to the studio and called out. "Girls, Guys, im so sorry but break times over we need you back out in the studio!" The group collectively groaned but Rumi said "For the fans!" In mock enthusiasm.

"For the fans" the other idols repeated. One by one they got up with a sigh and walked towards the studio befor it was just you and Baby, "Ill be out in a sec!" He called to Jinu who was the last one to walk through the door, he nodded with a knowing smirk on his face.

When the door shut Baby immediately grabbed your chin and kissed you, you stayed like that for a moment just kissing untill he pulled away looking into your eyes. "Hmm, Strawberry. I like it." He said quietly while glancing down towards your lips.

You blushed and turned your head away slightly, "Baby!" You reprimanded. "Yes?" He put an innocent smile on his face and tilted his head to better see your face. "Go do your idol job you freak." He laughed but started getting up.

He kissed your forehead and started walking towards the studio, "Good bye my love, thank you for the food." You wave, grabbing your own things so you can get back to whatever you were doing before lunch. He blew you a kiss and gave you a wink, licking his lips as he closed the door to the studio

[lacydaydream]

My Word is God

⤷ Soldier Boy

summary: after a battle gone wrong because of your mistake, Ben is pissed. and he’s gonna take it out on you. mdni.

cw: porn with no plot. Ben is his own warning. unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it). dom!ben. swearing. degrading. spanking. doggy style. missionary. clitoral stimulation. spitting. cum tasting. slightly public. name calling [slut, doll, sweetheart, my girl, pretty girl]. power dynamic - Ben is readers boss. breeding kink. I might have missed some.

estelle yaps: this is just pure filth.

word count: 2.8k

“You can’t fuckin’ listen to rules,” Ben grunts, voice low and menacing. He sounded pissed, and his body language contended it.

He shoves you into an empty room. His palm against your back heavy, burning with the sizzling rage that was bubbling in his blood. You had disobeyed a direct order. Taken the words he’d said and disregarded them. Like his voice didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t the one in charge.

While out fighting, you had gotten in his way. And it wasn't a simple misstep. No, it was a major screw up. It cost him his window of opportunity to fight the enemy- an enemy that had been a massive thorn in the side of the U.S government for the last few months. The colossal mistake you made fucked the whole team up. All in the span of ten seconds.

Ben had told everyone exactly how they had to move out on the battlefield. He had been precise, down to the very last detail. And there you had been, prancing around like a dumb little girl. Acting as if his orders were a suggestion. Acting as if just because you slept with him you’d be exhumed from any punishments. And he knew you were a smart girl- hell, you had suggested some of the counter moves he told Crimson Countess to make. So he knew you weren’t stupid enough to make such a mistake unless you were rooting around for a punishment.

The room he shoved you in had a desk with a cup of pens that had the words ‘Best Dad’ printed on it. The chair behind the desk was swiveled, obvious that someone had once occupied it. The walls are blank but you wouldn’t have noticed, the only thing you could focus on was the building ache between your thighs.

Ben steps behind you, shoving you down onto the desk, growling as he watches your back instantly arch. “My word is fuckin’ god.” His voice booms with a precise confidence only a predator could have, laced with a danger that clouded your mind.

His hand lands a slap to your ass, rough and fast.

The sting radiates through your body, skin setting on fire. His normal demanding and dominating demeanor had somehow turned darker. Just by the way he had approached you earlier, sweaty from battle and mouth set in a snarl.

When a whimper falls from your lips, Ben only scoffs. “Can only listen when you get cock, huh, slut?” His voice was steady, controlled in a way that made your stomach flip and heart rate increase.

When his hand comes back down against your ass, he hums in satisfaction. The squeaks and whimpers he pulls from your lips erect a tent in his jeans, pressing his hips forward so you could feel the thick hardness over your pants.

“Should fuckin’ make you suffer.” He grunts, hips grinding against your ass. “Fuck up the whole mission- now I’ve got the fuckin’ governor up my ass.” Ben’s rough hands grip the chub of your bum through your suit, kneading with skill. He was already rambling, needing to let you know just how much you’d messed up. “Should hand you right over, hm, doll? Let you get a proper punishment. Maybe you’d learn your lesson.”

He groans as you push your hips back against him, panting like a pornstar. And fuck, if that hadn’t made Ben want to drop his anger and plow you against the desk for beeing so needy. His eyes narrow as he watches you turn your head to look behind you, gaze instantly catching his. Your hair was frizzy from battle, sweat, and being manhandled. God, you were a sight.

You shake your head, a small hint of fear blooming in your chest at his threat. He wouldn’t ever rat you out- he could never do something like that. But that look in your eyes? The look that always came before you were desperately begging him and saying you’d ‘do anything’? Yeah, he’d threaten it all day long. Anything for that look.

“Yer fuckin’ lucky today, sweetheart.” His voice is low, eyes piercing as he rolls his hips against you. “Need this tight pussy more than giving you a spankin’. She ready for me? Fuckin’ better be. Better be ready to earn back my fuckin’ respect.”

Soldier Boy tucks his fingers into your pants and yanks them down, tearing the fabric with the sheer force. The air against your backsides causes you to shiver, hands gripping the edge of the desk. Your fingers curled around the edge of the desk, polished wood biting into your soft skin.

His eyes flicker down to the sight in front of him. No panties. Just bare, soft skin under the stupid suit Vought had given you. His eyes light up as a growl bubbles up from his chest. His hand grips your ass cheek, skin calloused and warm. Ben bites his lip as he looks down between your legs, inner thighs slick from how turned on you were.

“Look at ya, sweetheart.” His words are mumbled, the edge melting away from his tone. He was still pissed about the earlier situation, but the sight of your dripping pussy was enough to soften his bite.

He runs his hands up and holds your hips. He brings you closer to him with a tug, smirking at the way your legs buckled. His large hands that were settled on your hips drag down to your ass. He kneads your flesh, slow and deliberate. “Bent over a desk just for me. Ready to get fucked, yeah? Cunt dripping down your legs.”

He picks up his leg and uses his boot to tap against your leg, a silent order to spread your legs. When you oblige, he grins. “That’s my girl. Doin’ exactly what I say.” He slaps your ass once once more, cooing when you whimper.

His hands leave you, working on his pants to free his cock. His cock is heavy in his hands, pulsing in his fist, tip an angry red. He had half a mind to have you suck him off- jam his cock down your throat and watch as pretty tears collected on your lashes. But the team would notice your absence. And whoevers office this was would be coming back. But moreover, he just wanted to piston into your cunt and have you whimpering his name.

“Gotta be quiet, sweetheart.” He grunts, running his tip through your slit. You’re already so wet, soaking his tip in your essence. A grumble leaves his chest, rough and almost animalistic. He plunges in without a warning.

The moan that leaves your lips is strangled and loud. If you hadn’t taken him before, you would have sworn he’d ripped your pussy right in half. But he fit- every delicious inch of him fit. He’s warm and heavy inside you, your walls clenching around him.

His hands grip your hips, a low growl leaving his lips. “Fuckin’ perfect pussy, Dollface. She’s squeazin’ me so well. Gonna take everythin’ I give you, yeah?”

When you manage to nod he wastes no time. That was enough for him. He pulls out nice and slow, every vein and ridge rubbing against your walls. He slams himself back in, hips slapping against your ass. The sounds that are created from where you’re connected are pornographic. It’s a symphony of skin slapping skin, whimpers, and moans.

His cock pistons into you, walls welcoming him in with a squelch each time he shoves himself back inside you. One of his hands is sprawled over your back, keeping you down against the desk. The wood nips into your skin. It’s a delicious mix of pleasure and pain. Every thrust propels your body forward, your hands gripping onto the surface for dear life.

You whimper at the pornographic sound of the wet plap of his cock pressing into you, the feeling absolutely perfect. There were moments like these when you forgot how much of a jerk Ben really was- just thinking about how he’d walk around like he owned the place. And he did. Ben had his own center of gravity that used a smirk to charm your panties off.

He grunts, hips rolling with precision. You’re so warm and wet. Just the most perfect cunt he’s ever had the pleasure of fucking. Hell, he had half the mind to propose. Even if you acted like a brat and messed up combat rituals. He could always count on you spreading your legs and inviting him into your cunt.

“F-fuck, Ben—!”

Your legs are shaking, panting against the desk as he drives into you. Everything felt so good. His hands were big and warm, holding onto you and keeping you grounded to the moment. His cock drags against your walls, your slick coating his length.

The asshole laughs. Laughs. “Shakin’ already.” He says it coolly, not even a strain in his voice. The man had the stamina of a god because of his altered genes and he made it your problem. If you looked over your shoulder you were confident he wasn’t even sweating. “Always so greedy for this cock, doll. Always takin’ me so well. But look at ya,” The smile is evident in his voice. “Shakin’ like a baby deer.”

Ben leans down, nose nuzzling your neck. The new angle allows him to hit deeper, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. His breathing is controlled as he grins against your neck, licking a stripe up your sensitive skin. “Feel good, Doll?”

You wither beneath him, eyes rolling back as his pace doesn’t dare let up. You nod, moaning, not trusting your voice to provide a good enough answer. Every fiber of your being felt alive and lit on fire, nerves sparking to life. The coil in your tummy was tightening, every delicious drag of his cock sending you closer to the edge.

“I need words.” Ben tuts, straightening his back to land a smack against your ass. His head tilts down to watch his cock drive into your cunt, puffy pussy welcoming him in with ease. Ben loved watching himself bury inside of you. Your slick coated his length, dribbled down your thighs, and even had his pelvis dripping with your essence. A beautiful sight. “C’mon, pretty girl.”

He slows down his thrusts, grunting under his breath at the pace change. He had to hold himself back. Slowly, he drags his cock out of you, tip barely breaking into your entrance. He pushes himself back in at a leisurely pace. Your cunt clenches around him as each inch gets swallowed, your lips parting as a long whine gets pulled from your throat.

“Tell me how good you feel- how good it is gettin’ fucked by your boss.” Ben coos at your whining, holding your hips so you couldn’t push back against him. He continues his tortuous pace. “You love sitting in meetings knowing you’re gonna get good cock after, yeah?”

“So good,” Your words are mumbled as your face drops down, forehead resting against the desk.

Ben doesn’t like that answer. He hoists you up, resting your back against his chest. His scent and warmth wraps around you, leather, cedar wood and something unmistakably him flooding your senses. The wide muscly expanse of his form swallows yours, instantly dwarfing you. Ben was huge- in more ways than one.

His cock stays buried to the hilt, stuffing you full. He pauses, hands on your hips rubbing and moving up your sides. Exploring every inch of your skin as if he’d touched you for the first time. When your head lolls against his shoulder Ben grins. His fingers run down your abdomen and dip between your folds, resting against your clit.

“So quiet, doll. Wanna hear you respondin’.” His fingers circle your clit in tight, deliberate circles. His thrusts are slow and shallow as he holds your body up against his.

“Feels so good, Ben.” You moan out, the coil in your belly about to explode. “L-love sitting in meetings… knowing I’ll get fucked.” Every word is swallowed by a pant, walls fluttering around his dick.

“You’re just a little cock slut.” He murmurs into your ear, fingers and hips working in tandem to hurtle you over the edge. Ben moans when he feels you gushing all over his cock, walls clenching as your cunt creates a creamy ring around the base of him.

His hips stay dragging his cock slowly, pressing against your cervix with each thrust. His fingers slowed to a lazy circling of your sensitive nub. He coos when he starts to feel your body convulsing, legs shaking as you rode out your orgasm. As whines and whimpers leave your lips, Ben’s hand gently wraps around your jaw to cover your mouth. “Shh, doll.”

He continues his pace until he can tell the overstimulation was too much, your thighs trying to clench. He pulls himself out, spinning you in his hold. His arms are around you and he picks you up by your thighs, setting you down onto the desk. Ben lays you onto your back, looking down at the fucked out glint in your eyes.

Ben lifts your legs, hoisting both feet over one shoulder. “Gonna be good and keep quiet?” He questions you as one hand grabs onto his leaking cock, dragging the tip through your slit. He rubs the head over your clit, circling it the way his fingers just had moments ago. He shushes you once more when a whine leaves your lips. He lines himself up, gaze shifting to yours as he sinks into your used cunt.

He smiles when you nod, watching you suck your lip between your teeth to stay quiet.

He grunts as he bottoms out, watching your face contort as every inch gets buried into your welcoming heat. “Gotta give me a few minutes, sweetheart.” His hips start to rock into you, the extra wetness from your orgasm making your pussy feel like heaven on earth. “Fuck, doll. S’the best pussy right here.”

Ben babbles some more, hips pistoning into your cunt like he owned it. Grunts fall from his lips like a prayer as his hips stutter. His thrusts were animalistic as he chased his high, cock twitching and throbbing as his tip bullied your cervix.

Every thrust felt like magic, soft whimpers leaving your lips despite your best efforts to be quiet. Your body lurched forward as his grip on your shins tightened as he thrusted inside you. Ben watches as your face twisted into pleasure, noises getting louder.

Ben growled, using his free hand to shove two of his fingers into your mouth. “Gonna get us fuckin’ caught. Balls deep in this pussy, havin’ you scream my name. You want that, doll?”

You shake your head, moaning around his fingers as they press down against your tongue. You suck on his digits, watching as his eyes darken at the sight of you. His cock twitches and he’s thrusting once more until you feel him shoot his load into your cunt.

Ben growls, hips stuttering slowly to a stop. He kisses your shin, pulling out of your cunt. Ben shifts one of your legs onto his other shoulder to watch his cum drip from your entrance. Ben’s cock twitches as he watches as white, creamy fluid dribbled out of you.

With a sigh, he gips onto his softening cock. He uses the head to collect the cum and push it back up inside you. “Don’t fuckin’ waste that.” His voice is low, thrusting shallowly to pump his seed back up into your cunt.

Ben’s gaze snaps up to you, chest rising and falling as your walls clench around him. He catches your fingers trailing back down to your clit, quickly taking his fingers from your mouth to swat your hand away. Ben grips your wrist and halts his movements. “Really, doll? Wanna come again that bad?”

A long whine leaves your lips, causing Ben to chuckle. He should leave you now, letting you wallow in your frustration after the stunt you pulled. But your pussy made him a weak man. “Alright, alright.” He chuckles once more lowly, fingers finding your clit once more.

“Stuffed full of my cum and still needing more. Naughty fuckin’ girl.” His fingers circle your clit roughly, watching your face twist in pleasure. He grins as your lips part, mouth forming an ‘o’ shape. Ben dips down, moving his fingers to dribble spit onto your puffy clit. His fingers go back to circling your clit, his spit mixing with your juices and his cum.

When your second orgasm crashes down on you, your legs shake as white hot pleasure shoots through your veins. Ben grunts as your walls flutter around his dick, pulsating as you gush around him. His gaze stays on your as he brings his fingers covered in your slick and his spit up to his mouth, sucking them clean. He growls, his eyes closing as he tastes how sweet you are.

Ben pulls out from your cunt slowly, watching you twitch as cum drips down your thighs.

“That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

[yungbludz]

En Su Casa

SUMMARY: well deserved rest days back at home feel like torture for the champion…

WARNINGS: smut

You didn’t know exactly when or why things took a weird and unexpected— very predictable though— turn. Whether it was when Carlos finally came back home with you or when he laid in his bed after months of constant traveling around the globe. What you did know was that he was… restless.

His family had known you for a while yet you had been to their place only a handful of times. Carlos wasn’t home that often either so you mostly spent your time together during tournaments or on a beach somewhere warm. When he asked you to go back home with him you didn’t even hesitate. Anything for the champion, no? Oh boy, you were in for a ride.

At first you didn’t even notice. Well, you didn’t put two and two together at least. When you walked into his house, his parents were making dinner together. His whole family was there for their champion and you felt pride and joy overwhelm you as they congratulated him warmly. Carlos thanked each and every one of them, hugging some and kissing some others before excusing the two of you to go put your bags in his room.

“Can I take a shower before dinner? I feel gross,” you commented as you tried to find a spot for your bag. You didn’t even acknowledge Carlos, being very surprised his room was in its usual messy state — courtesy of his mom.

“Of course. Maybe we can even shower together and save some time, no?” You were used to this kind of jokes. Carlos was always rather flirty with you but it didn’t mean that he always wanted to act upon his eleven year old jokes. In hindsight you should have seen the way he was eyeing you up and down or how he was already taking his shirt off. Yet you giggled and brushed it off, grabbing your clothes and closing the door behind you.

The next hint should have been after that dinner. You were helping loading the dishwasher with Carlos— which should have been odd enough to ring a bell since Carlos was not one to volunteer to help. He was passing you the dirty dishes to put them in. His mother had insisted you let her do the hard work but you shook your head and told her she should relax. You were staying there for a few days, the least you could do was help out around the house. Carlos had quickly stood up and followed you. Even his own family shared a look of confusion.

You were listening to his family banter coming from outside. It wasn’t hot yet in Murcia which allowed you to enjoy a chill evening out on their little terrace. Carlos was awfully quiet for someone who didn’t know what quietness meant.

“Everything okay?” You had asked at some point turning around. Carlos looked up from the pile of dirty dishes and smiled. You should have noticed it wasn’t his usual lovey dovey grin: it was a smirk.

“You are so sweet. Taking care of my mom and of my family,” he stated nonchalantly. You smiled back and shrugged your shoulders, resuming the activity of putting dishes in the dishwasher.

“It’s no problem. Your mom deserves some rest,” you replied absentmindedly.

“Hopefully you’re taking care of me next,” he had murmured. And maybe, just maybe, if you had seen the look on his face you would have understood his words’ true meaning. But you weren’t facing him.

“I always take care of you, sweetie,” you said sweetly. Carlos sighed and tried to say something back so that you could get him but his grandmother stepped inside the house. You didn’t notice, too engrossed in your conversation with his grandma but Carlos rolled his eyes and sighed annoyed. Not at you, but at the situation he was finding himself. Every time he tried something either you wouldn’t get the memo or one of his family members cockblocked him.

The next time he tried something funny was around bed time. His extended family had finally left and the rest of the house had gone to bed. You were brushing your teeth, washing your face and getting ready to sleep while Carlos laid in his bed only wearing a pair of boxers with his hands behind his head. The memory of his win in Rome only a distant memory now. There was something else he wanted now, almost more than winning in Paris again.

When you finally came back into his room he eyed you up and down. You were wearing a simple t-shirt and shorts. Nothing fancy or sexy. But it was the most attractive thing on earth for him, maybe because he had started to think with his dick and not his brain.

“Amor, vengas aquí,” he called for you as you paid him no attention. One thing Carlos was most of the time was needy. He needed your whole attention every single time. It was endearing to be fair. You locked your phone and crawled on the bed to lay next to him but he redirected you so that you sat in his lap.

“I missed you,” he mumbled tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You grinned confused.

“Missed me? We have been together the whole day,” you reminded him but he pouted and shook his head. His hands fell to your naked thighs and stayed there, caressing the skin.

“C’mere,” you leaned in to kiss him. He wasn’t entirely wrong: you had been together the whole day but you were always surrounded by family members. Carlos welcomed you in his arms. You pecked his lips but he was the one to deepen the kiss. His hands moving from your legs to your waist to pull you closer, his mouth moving slowly yet hungrily against yours. He was a good kisser, always been. The type of kisser to make your legs wobble and insides twist. But you knew a few tricks too. You knew he liked it when your pulled his hair gently or when you bit his bottom lip.

What had started off as a simple kiss turned into a sloppy make out session. Carlos was so invested in it that he forgot where he was and how quiet he needed to be. He was so used to hotel rooms where he could be as loud as he wanted because he always booked his room as far away as possible from his team that it didn’t cross his mind the fact that his parents were two doors away from his bedroom.

“Shh…” you giggled when he let out a grunt. He let out a breathy giggle and enjoyed your lips on his for a little longer. Your nails scratched his scalp as you kissed him. And then, suddenly, you pulled away.

“Time to sleep,” you had reminded him while trying to get off him. Carlos looked at you in shock and bewilderment. He glanced at you and then down at his lap, his white boxers did nothing to conceal his growing bulge.

“Amor?”

“Yes, we can cuddle. But don’t snore,” and with that you turned around and went to sleep. Carlos was so confused he didn’t even protest at first. He was so confident all that kissing would lead up to what he wanted that the thought of you just going to sleep after getting him all worked up baffled him. Did you really not get in the mood after making out? Did he do something wrong? Oh God. What if you didn’t like having sex with him? Did he not satisfy you anymore? Carlos tried to remember if there was ever a time when he behaved selfishly during sex. Did you fake your orgasms? Oh God. Was he one of those guys? Those who can’t tell when their girls are faking it? Carlos started to spiral. Going to sleep was now the last thing he could do but you seemed to be fast asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.

Therefore Carlos turned, flipped around, huffed and puffed as he tried to find the right position. Yet the problem wasn’t the position, it was thinking you weren’t attracted to him anymore.

What Carlos didn’t realize was that his single sized bed wasn’t big enough for you to not feel every single movement he made. Therefore you weren’t getting any sleep either. Thanks to him. It was around midnight when you finally took matters into your hands and turned around to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him. He was taken off guard because he genuinely thought you were sleeping.

“Nada…” he tried to lie but he was the worst liar on earth.

“C’mon tell me. Why aren’t you sleeping? Whatever is bothering you is bothering me too since I can’t sleep if you keep moving around,” you sighed and sat up to turn on the little light he had on his nightstand. Carlos debated whether or not he should have said something. He hated showing he was insecure to you but he also knew it was better to work it out together than to hide it.

“¿No te gusta como follamos?” (Do you not like how we fuck?) it was so random that you stared at him with the most puzzled look you could come up with. Was he on drugs? Did he drink any wine at dinner? The lack of answer made Carlos internally panic.

“You don’t? Oh god, are you going to break up with me?” He blurted out panicking. Uh? You stared at him as if another head had grown out of his neck.

“What are you talking about? Where is all of this coming from?” You finally spoke. He had blindsided you with this sudden question.

“You have been avoiding having sex with me,” he stated matter of factly. You tilted your head to the side and furrowed your brows. Uh? You couldn’t recall a single time when you had rejected his advances.

“Earlier. I thought we were going to fuck but then you went to bed,” he finally explained. Your eyes widened and you couldn’t help but laugh. It didn’t calm Carlos down at all. Now you were laughing at him. Oh God, it was over. He was officially single.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he pouted and crossed his arms looking down.

“Oh no, baby. I’m laughing because I had no idea you wanted to have sex. Carlos, we are literally two doors away from your parents. I thought it wouldn’t be appropriate,” you tried to explain your thought process. That finally calmed Carlos. So you didn’t hate him? Good to know.

“But why not?” He kept pouting. He was cute when he did that. You smiled and caressed his cheek sweetly.

“Because, baby, you are the loudest person ever when we fuck and I don’t think either of us wants your family to know that,” your point was more than valid. Carlos embarrassingly smiled but didn’t give up. He was confident he could keep it quiet.

“Pero puedo ser quieto,”

“You couldn’t even be quiet with my panties in your mouth in Rotterdam and Juanki was next door,” you reminded him. You weren’t wrong. His coach side eyed him the whole flight back home. Carlos wanted to talk back but he knew you were absolutely right. Yet he couldn’t change his mind. The bulge in his boxers had a mind of its own.

“Pero amor…” he started to talk and put his big puppy eyes to work. You giggled and shook your head. You weren’t going to let him get away with this. Carlos grabbed your hand and tried to pull you closer by also grabbing your waist.

“Carlos,” you warned him pointing a finger to his chest. He was playing with fire.

“Pero, amorc mira lo que me haces. No puedo estar así toda la noche, ¿no?” He took your hand in his and led it downward till you reached his boxers. He was hard. You rolled your eyes but you knew he was working his magic on you.

“Dale, amor. Te juro que puedo estar quieto,” he mumbled while kissing your shoulder and then your neck, leading to your cheek and then his mouth ghosting over your lips. Damn. He was hard to resist.

“The first sound I hear coming out of your mouth I am stopping,” you warned him. He nodded like a good boy and smiled. Of course he always got what he wanted…

You didn’t know how hard it was to be quiet. You assumed Carlos would be the one struggling the most but you were wrong. He was sitting up against his headboard while you rode him. You were sure your jaw was going to snap soon because of how hard you were clenching it. Carlos licked his lips and sighed. His hands guiding your hips as he imposed an atrociously slow rhythm. You could feel every inch coming in and out of you. It was torture.

“Carlos,” you whined as he slowed down.

“Quieta,” he scolded you. The audacity… you looked away and tried to breathe in and out. This wasn’t pleasure, this was medieval torture and why on earth was he enjoying this so much? You bit your bottom lip and clenched around him every time he bottomed out. He gave you a warning look but that didn’t stop you.

“Y/N,” he grunted as you continued. He couldn’t expect you to keep going like this the whole night.

“Shut up,” you shushed him. Your hands holding onto his broad shoulders for leverage. He gripped your waist and let you finally move. And so you did. You went faster and he began to struggle. His mouth dropped open as you rode him the way you both liked. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the point where your bodies were conjoined, the way his cock slipped in and out of you.

“Joder,” he grunted sinking his nails in your flesh. You didn’t stop, resting your forehead against his as you tried to find a more stable position. The skin to skin wasn’t very quiet but you prayed the door and the walls would muffle the sound. Whereas you took care of Carlos’ increasing grunts by slapping your hand over his mouth. Of course he couldn’t shut the fuck up.

“Carlos, I swear—“ you groaned when he let out a deep grunt. He couldn’t even be quiet on court. What did you expect?

The Spaniard took you off him, which left you puzzled and annoyed. He flipped the two of you around so that you would be lying on your back and he sneaked between your legs, his face hovering over yours and his arms around your head.

“What are you—“ he pushed your legs back so that he could have more access. His face was soon hid in your neck where all of his grunts and moans were muffled. The angle switch did wonders on your core. You sank your teeth in your bottom lip to silence yourself.

“Fuck,”

“Be quiet,” he reminded you smugly. The prick.

His pace was ruthless and didn’t let you even breathe. He was going harder than you expected but you could also feel your orgasm build up faster.

“Amor, un día me vas a matar,” (you’re going to kill me one day) he muttered breathlessly. You wanted to answer something snarky back but you didn’t trust your own voice in that moment. Carlos’ stamina and strength on court were just as impressive in bed. His hips ruthlessly slapped against yours till you couldn’t take it anymore. His teeth bit your neck, his hands fisted the sheets as he teetered over his own orgasm.

“Correte para mí,” he begged you in your ear and you could only do as you were told. Carlos followed you right after, coming undone inside of you. His hot seed spilling into your throbbing core. You tried to be quiet in the process, biting onto his shoulder. Carlos pulled out after a few seconds and smirked when he saw his cum spill out of you and onto his sheets.

“Great, now we have to make the bed again,” you huffed and tried to sit up but Carlos quickly pushed you back down. He towered over you with a big smug, his naked and hard chest almost intimidating.

“I’m not done,”

[jeondesu]

FRI(END)S — ꒰ 양정인 ꒱

── ✧ ˚. 𝓹airing ˒˓ yang jeongin x f!reader ˒˓ childhood friends to lovers 𝓰enre/𝓽ags. fluff, angst (not a lot, i hope..?), some profanity, kissing, i believe that’s it.. 𝔀ords. 3.8k

[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — hello peeps, i’m back from the dead w a new fic that i’ve been working on for a while but i’m glad i finally finished it :D this is for my sweetheart @jeonginslittledoll, i hope you like it bestie <3

𝓼ong 𝓲nspo. fri(end)s by v

Jeongin doesn’t remember a time in his life when you weren’t there. Dating all the way back to kindergarten, you were in all his drawings— your pigtails lopsided and stick limbs holding his hand. He remembers how he’d always draw the sun in the corner and you’d insist on adding glitter stars even when it was supposed to be daytime. You shared your crayons with him without hesitation, even your special sparkly ones, which at five years old was basically the pinnacle of loyalty.

You were there the first time he cried over a scraped knee, when he wanted to show you this cool trick and ended up falling off his scooter. He tried not to let it show, but you saw anyway, gasping so dramatically he cried harder, until you kissed his knee and told him you had ‘magical healing powers’. He never once questioned it.

In third grade, he failed his math test for the first time. His hands were far too shaky to hand the paper to his mom, so he showed it to you first. You sat beside him on the swings, bumping shoulders, and told him you’d help him study, even if you both sucked at fractions.

When sixth grade rolled around, you were there to console him when a girl told him that she “just wanted to be friends.” He didn’t even like her that much, not really. But he still looked for you after class and said nothing when you handed him your last fruit roll-up and gave him a little nudge, a signal that meant “I’m here for you.” You didn’t bother with the clichés or telling him there were plenty of other fish in the sea. You just stayed. That in itself was enough for him.

He never got over how easy it was with you. How stupidly, infuriatingly safe he felt around you. Like all the worst parts of him didn’t matter because you already saw them and accepted him exactly for the way he was— choosing to remain by his side.

You knew him when his voice cracked, when he had braces, when he tried hair gel for the first time and looked like he’d dunked himself headfirst in a bucket of oil. You gave him a beanie and said, “we’re pretending this never happened.” He wore it every day for two months straight.

You were his first crush, too. Of course you were. He was eleven, you had the most god awful haircut, a gap in your front teeth, and you laughed so hard at his stupid Pokémon impressions that chocolate milk came shooting out of your nose.

He swore that day that he’d marry you.

And even though he was just a kid who barely understood the concept of love yet, some part of him must’ve already known— because every person he’s tried to love since then were miles behind you.

You were his first sleepover. The first person who saw him cry when his goldfish died. The only one who remembered the day his great grandfather passed and left a cupcake on his porch even though you had just came back from out of town.

He fell in love somewhere between then and now. Quietly. Foolishly. Permanently.

Maybe it was sophomore year of high school, when you made a Spotify playlist just for him called “for when your brain won’t shut up”, and every single song felt like a lifeline. Maybe it was that summer you got into a shouting match with a guy who tried to cut in front of Jeongin at the movies, even though the guy was like twice your stature. Or maybe it was during junior year of college, when he saw you at 2 am— bare-faced, exhausted, curled up in his hoodie on the couch, nodding off mid-sentence and realized there was no one else he’d rather listen to ramble about life and cereal brands until the end of time.

But you never knew a thing.

Because what kind of selfish asshole would risk twenty plus years of friendship just to say, I wanna kiss you so bad it hurts?

What kind of friend looks at the one constant in his life, the only person who’s witnessed all his bad days, all his awkward phases, all his heartbreaks, and confess that he wants something more?

So he kept it all in. Repressed every emotion until it was buried so deep underground that there’s no way you could possibly detect his true infatuation for you. Through the birthdays, family gatherings, and movie marathons, the way you’d unconsciously rest your head in the crevice of his shoulder during long car rides. Every sleepy voice note you’d sent to him when you couldn’t fall asleep, every text that ended with a heart or a “love you!” that he knew was platonic… but still made his chest tighten.

He learned to smile while watching you fall in and out of love with other people. Learned to perfect the role of the supportive best friend you’d never lose— at the expense of being the boy you’d never choose. Because that’s the thing about loving someone who’s always been there.

You’re too afraid of what might happen if they’re suddenly not.

+

“You think this looks okay?” You ask, finally stepping out after rummaging through half your wardrobe.

Jeongin glances up from the TikToks he was watching on his phone, sitting comfortably on your bed. He hears the faint rustle of fabric swishing around before he sees you, feet shifting nervously against the hardwood floor. You’re in a white babydoll dress, thin straps, low-cut neckline, the soft flowy hem brushing your thighs— for a second, he forgot how breathing works.

You’re so pretty, it kills him, only causing him more stress and inner turmoil from staring at you for so long. He wants to thank your parents for creating such a masterpiece. If this were a cartoon, his eyes would’ve been filled with nothing but hearts and practically jumping out from his sockets.

You strike a awkward pose. “Is it too much..?”

“No,” he croaks, throat instantly going dry. “You- you look great.”

You look like everything he’s ever wanted and never got to have.

He sees the way you pause, smoothing down any wrinkles on the garment, then scrunch up your nose like you’re not convinced. You do a little half-spin toward the mirror and Jeongin props himself up on his elbows, watching as you inspect yourself with furrowed brows.

You beam anyway. “I’m a kinda nervous. Feels like it’s been forever since I’ve gone out on an actual date.”

Jeongin forces a stiff smile, straightening his posture, elbows now resting on his knees, hoping that his voice doesn’t give out on him. “You’ll be fine. Jake seems… like a decent guy.”

His voice dips ever so slightly on the word decent, but you don’t catch it. Of course you don’t.

You don’t notice how carefully he avoids eye contact. How he keeps wringing the hem of your throw pillow like it might save him from saying something reckless. You don’t see the way he keeps shifting on your bed like the mattress is made of nails.

You move towards the mirror of your vanity and start dabbing lip gloss on, tongue between your teeth like you always do when you’re concentrated. “You think he’ll like this lip color?”

Jeongin’s heart almost shatters. “Yeah,” he whispers. “He’s gonna love it.”

But he hates it. He hates all of this. Hates the way you hum a little tune to yourself while curling your lashes, the way your perfume already smells like a goodbye, and the way your phone lights up with Jake’s name and not his.

You suddenly groan, tossing the lip gloss onto your vanity that’s cluttered with a bunch of other products and dig through your makeup bag like it just insulted you.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” you laugh dryly, half out of fear and half out of excitement. “This one’s too pink, the other one makes me look like I’ve been kissed by a ghost, and I swear this eyeliner’s plotting violence against me—”

“You don’t need any of that,” Jeongin says quickly, before he can stop himself.

You blink, turning to him, lip gloss wand frozen midair. “What?”

He swallows. “I mean… you look fine. More than fine. You’re pretty without any of it.”

The room stills with a bitter silence and Jeongin panics.

“I-I’m just saying,” he stammers, scratching the back of his neck and glancing everywhere but at you, “if this guy can’t accept you for who you are, like, as is— then he’s not the one for you.”

You stare at him for a beat too long, then your gaze softens at his words, “…Jeongin.” Your lips tug upward, just barely.

He swears the way you say his name will be the death of him.

You look down at your feet, suddenly shy, your hand fluttering over your mouth as if the compliment just fully hit you. A rush of heat spreading across your cheeks.

“Thanks,” you mumble, eyes flicking up. “That was.. really sweet.”

Jeongin shrugs, trying not to combust. “Just being honest.”

You face to the mirror again, a little quieter now, a little more smiley and upbeat. Still touching up your mascara, still blissfully unaware that he’s sitting there on your bed, watching the love of his life get all dolled up to go fall for someone else.

Yet he stays, because there’s nothing else he can do.

Even when it hurts like hell.

+

The night feels like an itch under his skin.

Jeongin doesn’t go home, telling himself that he’s just “killing time” by driving around aimlessly like he always does when his thoughts get too loud. But somehow, he ends up parked outside the diner down the block from where your date is happening, pretending like he’s just “in the area” as if it’s some kind of coincidence.

The cars still running, headlights dimmed. He fumbles with the radio, trying to drown the silence with anything that doesn’t sound like his internal monologue going back and forth. But every damn station seems to be playing some kind of love song, sappy ballads or cheesy pop lyrics about holding hands and finding “the one”.

He switches the station again. Then again. And again.

No luck.

“You are the best thing… that’s ever been mine…”

He groans and smacks the power button. Back to silence, which is even worse, somehow.

His fingers twitch around his phone as he mindlessly scrolls through different apps, reading the same unfunny tweets, the same recycled memes, and the same dumb messages from the groupchat. Staring blankly at the screen until everything fades into nothingness.

Ultimately, he gives up. Tossing his phone into the passenger seat with a defeated sigh.

He’s now people watching through the windshield. Spotting a happy couple that’s walking as if nothing else exists around them, the girl’s giggling like some lovestruck teenager and clinging to her boyfriend’s arm like she’s been permanently glued to him. Another pair drinking a milkshake inside the restaurant booth next to the window, sharing a straw as they interlock hands. Some other guy pulls his girlfriend in by the waist outside the door and kisses her like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Jeongin exhales hard through his nose, balling his hands into a fist like he’s going to punch the air.

It’s like the universe was straight up mocking him at this point.

This is what it’s supposed to look like, right? The hand holding, the lingering glances, the closeness, the quiet knowing.

And he has that, with you. Just not in the way that counts.

Not in the way that lets him pull you close and kiss you in public. Not in the way that lets him say, God, I wish it were me instead of him.

There’s a constant ache in chest that settles behind his ribs, dull and relentless.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. You’re allowed to go on dates. You have free will to go like other people and fall in love without asking for his permission, but that doesn’t stop the nausea that keeps rising in the back of his throat like bile.

The sick pit in his stomach just won’t dissipate.

He even picks his phone back up and hovers his thumb over your name in his contacts. Just to... check in. See how it’s going, or maybe make up some fake excuse. ‘Hey, did you leave your charger in my car again?’ Anything to hear your voice, to make sure you’re safe. To remind you that he is the one who knows your favorite coffee order and your allergies and the way you always double tie your shoelaces out of habit.

But he doesn’t hit call. He just stares blankly at the phone screen like it might explode in his hands.

And then it does.

His phone lights up with a new notification from you. Heart leaping out of his chest as he picks up on the first ring.

“Hey,” he says, trying not to sound too eager.

Your voice is small, sounding mildly upset. “Can you come get me?”

Jeongin’s already starting the car. “Of course. You okay?”

There was a long pause, but you reply soft-spokenly, “Yeah. Just… not what I thought it’d be.”

Your voice cracks a little on the word thought, and something in him twists hard.

“Stay there,” he reassures, “I’ll be there in five.”

Another pause follows suit. Then you respond with a quiet, “okay.”

He hangs up, his grip on the steering wheel grew tighter, trying his best to ignore the heat that’s crawling up the back of his neck.

He should be relieved. Over the moon even. But mostly, he’s terrified of the outcome of this. Because tonight, for some reason, he feels as though something’s going to break— and he’s not sure if it’ll be his heart, or the silence between you. Maybe both.

+

Not even ten minutes later, you’re climbing into his car, arms crossed, face unreadable.

Your perfume comes floating in with you, faint but familiar, like vanilla orchid and late nights— and Jeongin swears it knocks the air right out of his lungs.

You don’t say anything at first. Just buckle your seatbelt with stiff hands, staring out the windshield like it personally wronged you. Your eyeliner’s slightly smudged, your earrings are missing, and your cheeks are flushed, but not from laughter, he can tell. From frustration. From disappointment.

He doesn’t pry with questions. Just hands you the bottle of water he always keeps in his cupholder, label half-peeled from your constant fidgeting over the years.

You take it with a ‘thank you’ so low he barely catches it.

He watches as you untwist the cap and sip in slow silence. The streetlights flickering across your face in a rhythm that feels far too fragile.

It pains him to see you like this.

“He talked about himself the whole time,” you mutter eventually, still choosing not to look at him. “Didn’t ask me anything.”

Jeongin watches the way your fingers pick at the label on the bottle, thumbs moving in distracted little circles. You always do that when you’re thinking too hard. He wonders if you even realize.

He wants to tell you that any guy who doesn’t ask about your favorite Studio Ghibli film within the first five minutes doesn’t deserve a second of your time. That if someone can sit across from you and not feel a magnetic pull toward your laugh, your weird stories, the way you ramble when you’re nervous— then they’ve never had a heart worth trusting in the first place.

Instead, he replies, “that sucks.”

Because it’s the safest thing to say when his own heart is gnawing at the inside of his ribs.

“He also said we should hang out again,” you add, letting out a bitter laugh that sounds more tired than amused. “Said he ‘vibes with my energy.’ Whatever the hell that means.”

Jeongin’s grip on the steering wheel is so tight he could almost break it in half, knuckles whitening, clenching his teeth.

He’s quite a second too long before forcing out, “Do you want to?”

You finally turn your head towards him. “No,” you admit, looking at him. Really looking.

That almost undoes him.

Your eyes are searching, soft, but laced with something deeper. Something older. Something that knows him too well.

“He’s not you.”

He blinks rapidly, caught off guard. “Huh?”

You shrug. “I mean, I don’t know. I just kept thinking how easy everything is with you. Like… he didn’t laugh at my weird stories. He didn’t know how I take my coffee or why I hate pickles or that I cry during Pixar trailers. It felt like I was performing. But with you, I don’t have to.”

Jeongin swallows hard, throat going dry, his mind racing ten miles per minute.

You said it so casually. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s not unraveling every thread he’s spent years pulling taut just to keep himself together around you.

“You shouldn’t settle for someone who makes you feel like you’re not enough,” he tries to remind you of your worth, how there’s no need for you to deal with these sorry, weak excuses of men when he can be all you need and more.

“I’m not,” you say, voice gentler now. “That’s why I’m sitting here. With you.”

Something in his chest snaps upon hearing that. It’s so abrupt even he’s shocked by it. Like something he’s been desperately trying to hold back finally breaks free.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You freeze, raising an eyebrow of confusion. “What?”

He turns to fully face you now, deciding that now was the time to change everything, everything he’s been suppressing for as long he could remember.

“I can’t keep pretending that I don’t love you.”

The car goes eerily quiet. Even the night outside seems to be at a standstill.

“I’ve been in love with you y/n, since we were kids,” he continues, the words come tumbling out— raw, scared, unstoppable. “Since you wore that coat that was a hideous shade of purple every winter and made me dance with you in your living room at midnight. I’ve loved you through it all. I can’t stress enough how much you mean to me. You’re all I think about, I can’t even look at other girls the way I look at you, there’s no comparison. It’s either you or nothing, I really don’t care about anyone else.”

You blink several times to register all of what he’s saying, but none of this still seems real to you. Even after he’s confessed everything, poured his whole heart out while looking at you with a straight face and candor of his actions— it’s still not clicking for you.

He can’t believe he just admitted to all of this out loud but truthfully, it’s like a weights been lifted off his shoulders, finally freeing himself of this mental prison he’s locked hisself in for so many years. If you say no he’ll ultimately have to accept it, though he won’t let you go just yet.

“Jeongin..” your voice trails off, too lost in thought to even conjure up a proper response.

He cuts in before you get the chance to react, “You don’t have to say anything. I know this’ll probably ruin everything and you might not want to remain friends, I- I get it. I just couldn’t watch you walk away again and wonder if maybe I should’ve said something. I had to say it. Just once.”

Your silence is a living thing, stretching thinly between you and trembling, full of everything neither of you said your whole lifetime. The car feels too small, too intimate, too heavy with history.

And then, you reach for him.

With no hesitation, a set of lips are pressed onto his. Eyes wide open from shock, but soon melts into you, deepening the kiss with a fiery passion that could only be ignited from years worth of pining.

He’s only ever kissed you in his daydreams but the real thing? It doesn’t compare one bit. It felt surreal kissing you, touching you, holding you this closely.

Your lips sync together in motion, connecting as one. His hands cupped your face perfectly; so soft, so warm, and inviting. Your fingers were now tangled in his hair and he tilts his head to capture more of you. The sweet taste of you was exactly as he imagined, he couldn’t believe he went this long without kissing those pretty lips of yours.

Dopamine floods his senses like static electricity, it was all too much for him yet he couldn’t stop himself. He was intoxicated by you. It was probably that favorite cherry chapstick you always wore, he knows that was your go-to flavor of choice. He wanted to savor you in this moment for as long as he could.

You left each other breathless by the time you pulled away. His lips red and puffy from all the pressure.

“I hope that clears up my response,” you express finally, “I know you said I may not want to remain friends after telling me this, but that’s okay. I don’t want to be just friends, I’ve always wanted something more with you too.”

His eyes lit up. It felt like he could finally breathe again. He poked your arm, lightly touching you to make sure this wasn’t another lucid dream he could’ve been having.

He was going to ask you to pinch him but he’ll save himself the embarrassment for later.

“I feel so secure when I’m with you, it’s like nothing else matters when I’m around you. I know how certain I am of my feelings for you. We don’t have to date right now.. we can take our time if you want. I just feel so truly blessed to have someone like you in my life.” Jeongin does his best to articulate his words but he never feels like it’s enough to convey.

There wasn’t a million words in the world that could ever describe the feelings he has for you but he was adamant on showing them.

“I love you Jeongin.”

His heart almost stopped once he heard that. This felt way better than a dream, the reality was far more sentimental. He wasn’t expecting the night to turn into a sappy love confession between you two but here you both are. Sitting in his car through the late hours, looking with nothing but admiration for one another.

“I love you y/n. Always have and always will, I’ll continue to love you in every way possible. I’ll never let you go from this day forward.”

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