#and then the angry brows and shadow over his face...

[miirily]

You’re assigned to monitor his neural patterns. You’re supposed to keep him stable. But he starts speaking to you through the interface. You’ve never met him in person. You shouldn’t even care. But somehow, he knows your name.

You sit in the cold, humming dark of the bunker, the only light coming from the array of monitors bathing your face in spectral blue. The underground smells like rust and old circuits, a recycled metallic tang that never leaves your lungs. You’ve been down here too long. You don't remember the last time you saw the sky, real or artificial.

Your hands hover over the interface, fingers twitching from too much caffeine and too little sleep. Gojo Satoru’s neural stream dances across the screen: a cascade of biofeedback, erratic synaptic patterns that don’t line up with the others. He’s different. You’ve known that since the first night you were assigned to him. They told you to stabilise his mind. To monitor. To never engage. But the data keeps changing. He dreams too vividly. Too intentionally. And he keeps trying to reach you.

Tonight, the stream flickers in an unfamiliar rhythm—short, sharp pulses, repeating. You think it’s a glitch at first. Then you recognise the cadence. Morse code.

Y-O-U-R N-A-M-E I-S N-O-T L-O-S-T.

The blood drains from your face. You haven’t heard your real name in years, haven’t really thought about it anymore. Not since they deleted you. Not since you buried your identity beneath layers of stolen credentials and silence. You haven’t said it out loud in over a decade, and yet Gojo, somehow, has pulled it from the ash of the system.

Your fingers tremble as you check the uplink. Audio disabled. Mic off. Camera one-way only.

And then he moves.

On the main monitor, he lifts his head. Slowly. Deliberately. A shadow peels off his face as he moves, revealing bright, unblinking blue eyes so unnaturally clear they almost seem backlit, glowing faintly in the sterile light of the cell. They’re the kind of eyes that look through things. Through you. His snow-white hair falls messily across his brow, damp with sweat, strands catching the light like glass threads. His gaze drifts upward, towards the embedded lens in the ceiling. Not by accident. Not vaguely. He’s looking exactly at it. Like he knows. Like he’s always known.

“You’re not just watching me, are you?”

His voice cuts through the air like it was born in your own skull. There’s no channel open. No possible path for transmission. But you hear him. Not through the speakers. Inside you. Like an echo pressed into the bones of your mind.

Your stomach knots. It shouldn’t be possible. None of this should be possible. But there he is, staring through the screen like it’s a window. Not a barrier.

You tear off your headset, breathing hard. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Fear mixes with something else, something sharp and electric. Recognition.

He knows you.

You run a trace, frantically chasing the path of the message. Firewalls, encrypted data towers, black protocols. None of it explains this. Until you find it, buried deep beneath government code, nearly fossilised.

ECHO_01.

Your code. Your old failsafe. A hidden backdoor you wrote long ago when you were still someone. Meant to preserve the humanity of the mind before the State tore it away.

You never thought it survived. But it did. Just like Gojo.

Your hand moves on its own, reaching for the mic. One word makes it out, soft and strangled.

“…Satoru.”

He blinks, and a slow, knowing smile touches his lips.

“They’re watching,” he says, as calm as if you’re old friends meeting after lifetimes. “But not like you. You see me.”

Your throat tightens. He presses a hand to the mirrored wall of his cell. Without thinking, you lift your own to the screen. The glass is cold, but your fingertips tingle like they’ve made contact.

“I’m waking up,” he says, and there’s something infinite in his voice. “But I need you to do something.”

Lights flicker overhead. Sirens whine to life, metallic and angry. Unauthorised contact detected. Protocol breach. They know.

“I need you,” Gojo whispers, “to remember who you are.”

Then he steps even closer. Slow, measured movements, like he's afraid to scare you off. The sterile light above him flickers, throwing long shadows that stretch across the walls of his containment cell. His face tilts toward the lens, and for a heartbeat, it feels like he’s looking straight through it, straight into you.

You know it’s impossible. The camera is one-way. The interface is untraceable. You're buried under a mile of concrete and dead signal. And yet—

His eyes. Those bright, glacial blue eyes. They seem to lock onto yours with impossible clarity. Like he can see your expression, read the panic in your posture, feel the way your breath catches in your chest.

He leans in closer. So close now that the strands of his snow-white hair fall into his eyes, soft and fine like ash caught in moonlight. The monitor pixelates slightly under the pressure of his proximity, but even through the static, his presence is overwhelming.

“I remember,” he says softly.

Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. The sirens blare overhead, sharp, mechanical alarms that tell you you’ve gone too far, that containment has been breached, that someone is coming. But none of that feels real. Only his voice feels real.

“I remember what they took from you,” he breathes. “From us.”

Your hand is still pressed against the screen, trembling now. You don’t know why, but something inside you cracks. A fragment of something long buried rises to the surface, an image you can’t place, a laugh you don’t remember making, the echo of warmth in a world that turned cold long ago.

Gojo doesn’t flinch as the lights around him dim and flicker. He just keeps watching you.

“I remember the garden,” he whispers, barely audible beneath the shriek of the alarms. “The light in your eyes. You said we weren’t meant to be weapons. We believed that, once.”

Your breath stutters. A tear slips down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your fingers curl against the glass.

“I need you to wake up,” he says, voice like smoke and snow. “Because I can't do this without you.”

Then everything goes black. Feed terminated. Bunker silent.

But the silence doesn’t feel empty.

Because deep beneath the layers of dead code and static, his voice still pulses in your mind.

[z0mi3]

Simon’s been missing for months.

At first, it was panic. Sleepless nights. Missed calls. You paced the kitchen floor like a ghost, heart hammering with every unknown number that lit up your phone. Maybe something happened. Maybe he was hurt. Or worse.

But that was before you called the base.

Before some stone-cold voice on the other end told you your husband hadn’t gone missing he’d been deployed. Four months ago. Without a word. No note. No goodbye. No explanation. He left like a shadow and didn’t look back.

And now you’re just angry.

Livid.

Because the man you trusted with your life didn’t even have the decency to tell you he was leaving.

It’s a little after 1 a.m. when you hear it, the dull slam of a car door. Then boots. Heavy and familiar on the pavement outside. You don’t rush to greet him. You don’t cry. You don’t even blink.

You stay in the kitchen, elbow-deep in last night’s dishes because sleep doesn’t visit your side of the bed anymore.

And why would it? That bed hasn’t felt like home since he left it.

You hear the lock click. Then the door creaks open.

Then—silence.

You don’t turn around.

“This how you greet me now?” His voice cuts through the quiet.

You don’t answer.

“Seriously?” he says, sharper. “I come back from hell, and I get a cold shoulder?”

That makes you laugh but it’s hollow. Bitter. You set a dish down with too much force. “Hell? You think you’re the only one who’s been through it?”

Simon stiffens in the doorway.

You turn, eyes sharp. “You left, Simon. You vanished. I thought something happened to you. I thought you were dead.”

“I couldn’t tell you—”

“Don’t give me that shit,” you cut him off. “You didn’t even try. You let some random operator be the one to break the news. You didn’t have the balls to tell your own wife that you were leaving.”

He steps forward, jaw tight. “You think it was easy for me? You think I wanted to go?”

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“I was protecting you—”

“Don’t.” You hold up a hand, shaking your head. “Don’t feed me that line. You didn’t protect me. You abandoned me.”

Silence floods the room again, thick and bitter.

He exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Why not?”

You look away, voice cracking despite yourself. “Because talking leads to arguing. Arguing leads to nowhere. And I’m just… I’m tired, Simon. I’m so tired.”

He watches you quietly. “Okay. Let’s go to sleep then.”

You let out a soft scoff. “Not like that you aren’t.”

He frowns. “Like what?”

You look at him for the first time in full really look. His face is tired. Eyes dull. Shoulders weighed down like he’s carrying something he can’t put down. But it’s not enough. Not after everything.

“Like a soldier.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then another.

Something in his expression falters.

“I want to sleep with my husband,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Not some stranger in a uniform. Not someone who shuts me out, who leaves without a word, who walks back in like I should be grateful.”

The pain is all over your face in the tight press of your lips, the furrow in your brow, the shine in your eyes you refuse to let fall.

“Is that too much to ask?”

You don’t wait for an answer. You turn your back and walk toward the bedroom, the weight of your words dragging behind you like chains.

Simon stays in the kitchen, frozen. Still in his boots. Still not the man you married.

And the silence swallows him whole.

dividers by @thecutestgrotto | i wrote this while listening to Not You Too by Drake at 4 am !! o(≧∇≦o)

[mommy-mortis]

Irish Vampire Blues - 15

Game night with the Hobbs, the Shadows, and whatever childe that wanted to stop by was always enjoyable for everyone involved, but they didn’t just play games. Ena and Dan would take that time to also network, put their ears to the ground so to speak.

They in their own right, had become an information guild of sorts, so it hadn't been too surprising when Jonah had walked through the door. Ena had recoiled when she saw her, turning her back to Jonah.

Jonah hadn’t seemed to care though, scoffing at Lorena's childish behavior. “Is that any way to treat your sister? Besides I come in peace, I just want some info on Remmick and your Queen,” Dan quickly recognized the way she worded queen as disrespect for you.

“Get out,” he said calmly.

“Why? What are you so loyal to her? I don't think you understand, she's human, how long do you expect her be around?” Lorena looks over her shoulder giving Jonah a scathing look. Jonah puts her hands up in surrender “I don't plan on hurting her, but once she's gone Remmick will need a new Queen and you're looking at her.”

“No it's you that doesn't seem to understand. There is nothing that you could say that could get us to betray our Madam,” even Dan was having a hard time staying civil with what he was hearing.

“Who said anything about betrayal? Listen to yourselves; you sound more like slaves than subjects.”

Dan finally raises his voice, though it still felt too tame for how angry he was, “No you listen, it is because of our Madam that we aren't slaves. We were told to give you grace since you're new, inexperienced-”

“By Remmick?” Her face lights up, from the though of being fussed over by Remmick.

Dan rolls his eyes “By our madam” he sighs but continues to try to explain to her “You've never tasted the hive, reading the Sire's thoughts as if they were your own. Doing his bidding without a thought to your own wants, so you don't understand, you just can’t.”

She rolls her eyes right back at him scoffing in his face. “Aren't you being a little over dramatic, Remmick specks fondly of the days when your minds were connected, it sounds kinda nice.”

Dan bristles at her words, “We don't know what you've been told, and we don't want to know. Our Sire's machinations are his own, but I have a question for you. What do you expect to happen once you have served your current purpose?”

She furrows her brows, she hadn’t thought about it but she supposes, “Whatever Remmick wants to happen.” She smiles.

Dan harrumphs at her, there's displeasure in his eyes but pity too. “There are things that we will always be grateful to our Sire for, but we are no longer deluded about his true nature.”

“True nature? What do you mean?” She sneers at Dan.

Lorena finally turns around with less contempt in her voice than expected, but not completely devoid of it. “It must be hard for you to hear, but you don't have to listen to us. There are dozens, even hundreds of others that will tell you the same things; so go, go into the night and ask the questions you want to know.”

Leaving Daniel and Lorena's unit Jonah glaces down the hall to were Remmick lived with you. Focusing, she tries to expand the range of her hearing, like Dan had said she was new and even Remmick had said that her abilities would be weak at first, but this shouldn't be too hard.

“Are you aware of her crush?” Were they talking about her? She smiled; it was nice to know that even you were aware of the competition her mere presence posed.

“Oh love are you Jealous of our little pigeon?” The way he called her a pigeon made Jonah reel back; why did his words sound so acidic?

“No I just find what you're doing to be cruel,” What were you doing sticking up for her? was it just a ploy to look like an angel in front of Remmick?

“Don't worry my love once everything is settled she can be removed,” Removed? what did he mean?

“What do you mean?” Was that anger or disgust in your voice? At this moment Jonah can't tell, all she knows is that it's real.

“I can't just make her walk in the sun like before, but it wouldn't be hard-”

“Stop! Don't talk about her like she's disposable”

"Why, she was always just a means to an end...”

“You may not see it, but when I look at her, I see all her possibilities. If someone with that much potential is disposable to you, then so am I.”

“What are you saying, My love”

“All I'm saying is don't try to flatter me by bringing her down, all I can think of is how you'll treat me just the same when I'm no longer useful to you.” The sound of Remmick's footsteps echo from the sound of him approaching you.

“My love your words wound me, you and her are nothing alike.”

“The only difference between her and me is that for the moment, you love me.” Jonah can hear you scoff at Remmick “She's wasted on you, and the quicker she realizes that the better,” You thought she was wasted on Remmick?

“Ah, my love is too kind” his voice sounded too dismissive. He had been called out on his behavior and was now trying to lick his wounds.

“Not too kind just aware-” You don’t get a chance to finish that sentence.

The sound of him kissing you is loud enough to make Jonah's heart shatter, 'He must be saying all this just to appease you, this can't be how he really feels about her.'

She listens as you pause for air, mocking him, “Ah my love is too affectionate.”

“No too affectionate, just aware of a little birdie eavesdropping” His voice sounded playful, but she could hear the threat in his voice. How long had he'd known she was there? She doesn’t rush to the elevator, that would take too long if he decided to chase after her, but instead leaves through the fire escape.

As she fled from the apartments, it hits her that she had no true place to go, no group of her own.

She had spent most of her time training beside Remmick and neglected getting to know anyone else, or join any groups, but there were a few places she knew were the Childe of Remmick would hang out. Ones unlike her, who had been a part of the hive mind once.

The club filled with techno mixed with hip-hop; she moved past the strobe lights and bodies glued to each other on the dance floor, to the more secluded part of the building where the music was loud enough to hear, but not have to shout over.

She asked her questions, Remmick's personality, his leadership his wants, what defined him; and she got the same answers over and over, violence and his love for you.

She stands around a group of guys happy enough to tell her what it felt like to be in the hive mind; she listens intently as they each give their own accounts of how things were and how things had changed, after you had saved them.

In the middle of the second to last guy trying to explain to her what it felt like to be 'Unplugged and how deep the rabbit hole went', the guy next to him who had been slowly growing more and more agitated pipes up.

“Can you shut the fuck up with the Matrix references!? This is probably how he got your dumb ass, I swear to the higher planes of existence, that you probably thought he was going to give you the pill speech, ya fockin' idiot!” She watches as they squabble, finally coming to blows. They wrestle on the floor as she makes her way out the back door of the club into the alleyway.

She had learned all that she needed; the housing, the blood bank, even the chance at a semi normal life with the promise of a career. It had all been you, not Remmick, like she had once assumed. She was starting to understand who the real leader was. Behind every great man and all that shit, and from the sound of it Remmick hadn't been so great.

The sound of humming could be heard from the entrance of the narrow path before her; she sees the silhouette of the man she had been asking about all day, a memory passes by.

A memory of one of the childe telling her about Remmick's culling the childe that didn't fall in line, right after their liberation. Usually she would run to Remmick but the vibes that were dripping off of him made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. She tries to turn back but the ally is dead ended, and the door back into the club is locked.

She thinks again about the fact that all this time she had relied on no one other than Remmick for companionship, she had to wonder if that had been Remmick's plan all along. Unlike everyone else in the flock, she had no one to speak out or even mourn her name if Remmick were to decide that she was more trouble than she was worth. He would kill her right here in this filthy fucking alleyway, just like that officer that had used her as an obvious replacement.

Remmick was using her for his own plans she wasn't blind to the fact that you and her shared certain features. It was the reason she died the first time and was also the reason she was born again.

She could hate you for this, but instead she understood now that it wasn't you that had put you both in the Madonna-Whore intricacies of men like Officer Willams and Remmick. The virgin, The whore. Her back hits the alley wall trying to escape from inevitability. She wants to plead for her life but her pride won't let her; instead she gets angry with every step closer he gets.

“You said I was needed” accusation dripping from her tongue.

“You are needed, to make my wife's life easier.”

“You offered me revenge” tears well up in her eyes

“For the safety of my wife”

Fed up with Remmick’s dismissive answers her face screws up, sticking her chin out while looking her nose down at him. “She's your fiance not your wife.” She states coolly tears finally dropping down her chin.

At that he rushes towards her, getting inches away from her face. “She has always been my wife; I don't need a piece of paper, a ceremony, or her to even know it for this to be true.”

Fear strong enough to lock her in place, courses throughout her veins, but still her tongue moves, even at the risk of it's removal. “You're crazy”

He smiles at her revelation “You were never part of it so you wouldn't know how it feels to tap into the hive, but even now I can remember the memories, emotions and proclivities of everyone of my childe. And while a lot of their predilections may have shaped me in the past even to the point of my dear wife taking notice of their absence, one thing about me has never changed, and If I remember correctly has been with me from the very beginning, and that is my lust for blood.”

The face she makes is one of disgust. “You talk about her safety but you're the biggest threat to her lif-”

He wraps his hand around her throat, slamming her head against the wall. She feels a wetness slowly run down the back of her neck, and wonders for a second if it was starting to rain. But soon realizes the moisture is coming from the back of her head.

“Now listen here childe, if my wife ever has any reason to doubt my love for her,” He bares his teeth at her in a threatening matter “Or the safety I bring her, and it happens to be your fault, I will make you rip off your arms and eat them. Are we understood little girlie?”

She nods feeling his grip tighten around her throat, ready to snap it if she continued to test his patience. Dropping her on the floor he looks down at her with so much loathing she can feel it on her skin. “Good, never test me and never listen in on me and the missus again.” he walks away without looking back, just like-.

What had just happened, was this the real face of their Sire, is this what everyone had tried to warn her about? She slowly moves her fingers from her neck, to the back of her head, softly assessing where the smell of copper that coated her hand came from.

The delusion had finally been broken.

Taglist

@avidreader73

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15

[heeluvv]

˗ˏˋ05. MY EYES ONLY

pairingᝰ.ᐟ park sunghoon x reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ public sex, unprotected sex, fingering, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted. (not proofread)

statusᝰ.ᐟ 5/9 completed!

the room was dim, swallowed in the soft hum of electronics and the faint ticking of the wall clock, the only source of light spilling from sunghoon’s laptop screen. the blue glow stretched across his face, casting sharp shadows beneath his cheekbones and deepening the tired circles under his eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care. his back was hunched slightly, elbows braced on his knees, jaw clenched as his eyes tracked every detail on the screen like he was hunting something. across from him, sunoo sat cross-legged on the couch, a half-finished drink sweating beside him, his phone forgotten in his lap as he stared curiously at the concentrated look on sunghoon’s face. the way he scrolled—slow, deliberate, almost too precise—sent a quiet tension crawling across the room, unspoken but growing heavier by the second. “what’s up with you?” sunoo asked finally, brow lifting as he tried to break whatever trance had settled over him. but sunghoon didn’t blink, didn’t glance up, didn’t even shift. “i have to find who the fuck these idiots are fighting about,” he muttered, voice flat and clipped like he was reciting something he'd already said in his head a hundred times.

sunoo blinked, thrown off by the answer. “who?” he asked, the single word dragging out slightly in confusion as he leaned forward a little. sunghoon inhaled through his nose but never took his eyes off the screen, his fingers clicking and scrolling with rhythmic precision. “jay and heeseung,” he said, quieter this time, like it was a secret he shouldn’t be repeating. “i stopped by a few nights ago… and they dropped the biggest shit ever.” he paused, jaw flexing again. “they’ve both worked with the same girl. collabed with her. and now they’re catching feelings—acting like they’re not, but they are.” the words came out heavier now, more bitter, more laced with something he hadn’t processed yet. “when i asked who it was, they shut down. wouldn’t even give me her username. like they didn’t want anyone else finding her.” he finally leaned back a little, eyes narrowed at the faint trail of usernames and blurred thumbnails in front of him. “so now i’m finding her myself.”

sunoo sat up straighter, his interest finally piqued, a quiet hum leaving his lips as he leaned over to peek at the screen. “you think they’re in love or something?” he asked, half-joking, trying to cut the tension—but sunghoon didn’t laugh. he didn’t even smile. “i think they’re obsessed,” he said instead, cold and steady, his thumb tapping at the trackpad with slow pressure. another scroll. another refresh. then suddenly, the screen shifted, and a thumbnail caught his eye. a soft frame. blurred background. skin in low light.

@babydollxo.

he clicked it before sunoo could even process what he was doing, and the profile loaded with a stuttering hum. there wasn’t much to it—no profile picture, no bio, just two videos stacked neatly under the username. the first one had thousands of views. the second had just been posted within the last hour. “that’s her,” sunghoon said, almost to himself, almost reverent, his voice lowering like he was speaking in church. sunoo tilted his head, brow furrowing as he studied the screen. “how do you know?” he asked—but he didn’t need an answer. because just then, a soft pink glow rippled across the edge of the screen. a gift notification. and another. and another. they rolled in silently, one after the next, usernames sunghoon knew by heart: @heefreakshow. @jayafterhours. and then—surprisingly—@jakeoncam.

sunghoon stared, unmoving, unreadable. not surprised, not shocked, not even angry—just silent. like something deep inside him had clicked into place. like something that had been itching under his skin had finally found a name. sunoo shifted again, lips parting, but the tension was too thick now. it sat heavy in the middle of the room, settling in the hollow between their breaths. “damn…” sunoo whispered, almost out of awe. “she must be something else.” and still, sunghoon said nothing.

and then the page refreshed.

you’d posted another one.

the refresh hit soft—just a faint shift in the page’s layout, the timestamp on your profile jumping forward by a single digit. sunoo blinked first, sitting up straighter as the new thumbnail loaded slowly, a hazy image pulled from a dim-lit angle that showed more of your legs this time. the camera was closer now. more intentional. angled from the foot of the bed, a little lower, aimed just high enough to catch the way your thighs spread, the edge of your fingers pressing into your waistband. sunghoon didn’t speak. didn’t ask if they should watch. he just clicked. the screen flickered once, then dipped into darkness, and your voice bled through the speakers again—quieter than before, softer, more intimate, like you were whispering to someone just out of frame. “missed you,” you said, breathy and wrecked. “wanted to be good tonight.”

sunoo exhaled sharply, but didn’t say anything, and sunghoon’s jaw flexed as he leaned in even closer, pupils blown wide and locked on the way you tugged your panties down your thighs with slow, teasing fingers. the fabric slipped inch by inch, delicate and soft, pooling at your knees as your bare heat pressed to the sheets beneath you, your hips rolling faintly like you couldn’t help it. you were on your back now, the curve of your stomach rising and falling with each breath, your fingers drifting up between your thighs with a kind of practiced slowness that didn’t feel fake—it felt familiar. like someone had already told you how they liked it. like this wasn’t for everyone. the way you moved was purposeful. trained. like you were doing it for someone specific. and that’s when sunghoon’s throat went tight. because he knew it—he fucking knew it. this video wasn’t meant for just them this time.

it was meant for someone new.

your fingers moved slow at first, two of them dragging up through your folds before circling your clit in soft, measured patterns, hips twitching like you were already close. the lighting cast shadows across your skin in gold and pink, and even though your face still wasn’t in the shot, your mouth was—barely in frame, parted with every breath, lips glossy and full as you whimpered something too soft to catch. “do you think about me?” you asked the dark, and sunghoon swallowed hard, tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth. “i think about you… all the time.” sunoo didn’t even move now—frozen beside him, mouth slightly open, locked in the same quiet daze. sunghoon was burning. his chest was tight, his hands tense in his lap, his legs spread wide for balance like he was trying not to fall forward and crawl into the screen. he wanted to know—wanted to know who the fuck you were talking to. wanted to know if it was them.

your moans got higher, shorter, your hand working faster now, legs flexing as your hips rolled against your palm. the camera didn’t shake. the audio didn’t glitch. it was clean, steady, deliberate—every second meant to be watched, replayed, consumed. sunghoon didn’t blink. not once. the jealousy that sat low in his stomach during the first video had cracked wide open now, bleeding into something hotter, meaner, more possessive. they’d seen this before. maybe not this exact video, but they’d seen you like this. they’d had this. heeseung. jay. jake. he thought about their usernames flashing across your gift notifications, about their silence when he asked who you were, about the way they kept your name like a fucking secret.

but now he had you in his hands.

and he wasn’t giving it back.

the video ended in silence, the last frame freezing on the slow rise of your stomach and the soft part of your lips, skin glowing in that muted, bedroom gold. the room felt smaller now, darker, as if the air had thickened with the weight of what they’d just seen. sunoo leaned back slowly, blinking like he’d come out of something heavier than he expected, shoulders sagging with a deep exhale. “well… shit,” he muttered, voice light, but not casual. “i get it now. i mean—i really get it.” his head tilted toward sunghoon, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief. “not surprised they’re obsessed. honestly, i’d want more too.” sunghoon didn’t respond—not right away. he just sat there, still leaned forward, watching the blank video like it might start on its own again, like it might show him something he missed the first time.

then, after a few long seconds, he finally leaned back, lips curling into a quiet, unreadable smirk as he shut the laptop screen with a soft click. “lock the door when you leave,” he said, voice low and even, already rising to his feet with the laptop tucked under one arm. sunoo raised his brows slightly, caught somewhere between amused and curious, but didn’t argue. sunghoon didn’t wait for a response—he was already halfway down the hall, the soft pad of his footsteps disappearing into the darker part of the apartment. when he reached his room, he closed the door behind him, not slamming it, but with enough finality to feel like a barrier being drawn. and then, slowly, he sat down again. opened the laptop. let the glow wash over his face all over again. your profile filled the screen—only two videos, no bio, no face—and still, it was more than enough. he clicked play.

and this time, he didn’t have to share you with anyone.

sunghoon sat in the center of his bed, back resting against the headboard, legs parted loosely as the soft click of the laptop echoed once in the stillness of his room. the screen flickered back to life, and there you were again—frame perfectly centered, thighs spread, voice barely above a whisper as you circled your fingers against your clit like you were inviting someone to watch you fall apart. he just watched, slowly sinking into the pull of it, his breath growing heavier with every second that passed. his hand slid down to his waistband, not frantic, not greedy—just needing to match the pace of what you were giving him. he palmed himself through the fabric, eyes trained on your trembling legs and the way your back arched with every soft moan you let out. his thumb dragged over the head of his cock, slow, steady, the friction just enough to make him twitch.

his jaw tightened as the video went on, your pace quickening, your free hand gripping the sheets beside you as your breath hitched and your thighs began to shake. you were close—he could see it in the way your hips rolled deeper into your palm and your chest lifted with each ragged gasp. sunghoon stroked himself now, slow and firm, matching your rhythm like it was instinct, his hand slick with precum as he let out a soft curse under his breath. “fuck…” he muttered, eyes never leaving the screen, body tensing as he imagined your mouth wrapped around his name instead. it twisted something low in him—the thought that you had done this before for them, that you had said their names when you came, moaned for them while they watched like kings behind their screens. heeseung. jay. jake. they’d already touched this—already had the pieces of you he was only now learning how to crave. and still… he couldn’t stop. wouldn’t. not until he made sure you belonged to him too.

his strokes grew faster as you cried out softly, fingers fluttering over your clit in the way he knew you had done a hundred times before when no one else was watching. but now he was. and he swore he could feel the tension in your voice when you moaned—like you needed someone to answer it, to fill it. sunghoon’s lips parted, a quiet groan slipping from his throat as he imagined his hands replacing yours, imagined pinning your wrists down while your hips bucked against his, slick and needy and desperate to be claimed. his hips jerked forward into his own fist as you whimpered again, this time louder, and he felt the heat building in his core like a fuse burning down, slow but inevitable. his free hand gripped the bedsheet tight as his back arched slightly, tension coiling through his spine. white streaks painted across his stomach, his hand slowing as he rode it out, and the video ended just as he collapsed back into the pillows.

but he didn’t close the tab.

he just let it replay again.

―

you wake up with the kind of silence that feels still and heavy, like the morning hasn’t quite begun yet—soft light pressing at the edges of your curtains, your blanket twisted loosely around your legs, your throat dry and warm. your phone buzzes once on your nightstand, but you don’t reach for it yet. your limbs are still too heavy with sleep, your body sinking deeper into the mattress as your mind starts to catch up with where you left off. the video. the upload. the way your hands moved over your skin under low light, the camera angle just right, just personal enough to feel like you were whispering into someone’s ear. you didn’t name anyone. you never do. but you knew what you wanted it to feel like—close, unfiltered, like whoever was watching had slipped into your room and caught you in the act of missing them. eventually, you roll onto your side, blanket slipping down your bare hip as you reach for your phone and blink the brightness away. your lock screen is full—messages, follows, gifts—but you ignore most of it. just scroll.

until one username catches your eye.

@hoononrepeat

you hesitate before tapping it, your thumb hovering over the alert, not because you recognize it—but because it’s clean. plain. no emojis, no flirty tag, just a smooth, simple handle and a single notification waiting for you. it’s not a tip. not a comment. it’s a private message. and for some reason, your chest tightens just slightly when you open it. the text is short—two lines, spaced perfectly, no punctuation.

hoononrepeat: you looked so soft like that. i can’t stop watching.

that’s it. no hello, and somehow, it lingers longer than any paragraph you’ve ever been sent. you read it again. and again. and your hand goes still against your chest as you stare at the screen, wondering why this one feels like it was meant for you—not just for your content.

you hesitate before tapping it, your thumb hovering over the alert, not because you recognize it—but because it’s clean. plain. no emojis, no flirty tag, just a smooth, simple handle and a single notification waiting for you. it’s not a tip. not a comment. it’s a private message. and for some reason, your chest tightens just slightly when you open it. the text is short—two lines, spaced perfectly, no punctuation.

is that all you wanted to say?

his reply comes immediately.

hoononrepaet: nohoononrepeat: i want to see you, want to see what more you've got to show.

―

you don’t even bother with a jacket. the air’s still warm and your heart’s already racing, too hot in your chest as you lock your door behind you and start toward the street. you spot him immediately, leaning against the driver’s side door, one foot braced against the pavement like he’s been there for a while, arms folded across his chest as his gaze lifts to meet yours. the moment your eyes connect, his posture shifts—subtle, but there’s something unmistakable in it, like he hadn’t fully believed you’d come out until now. his stare doesn’t drop, doesn’t flicker, doesn’t do any of the things guys usually do when you walk up in person—and it makes the air around you thicken, your nerves prickle with something a little too heavy to be just shyness. “hi,” you say, a little breathless, and it feels stupid immediately because why are you nervous? but he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile big—he just opens the passenger door for you, eyes still locked on your face like he’s memorizing it one blink at a time. “you’re even prettier in person,” he says under his breath, quiet enough that it feels meant for no one but you. you duck your head slightly as you slide into the passenger seat, the scent of leather and something faintly woodsy wrapping around you while he walks around the front and climbs into the driver’s seat like he didn’t just drop a confession between your feet.

he doesn’t start the car right away. for a moment, he just sits there, his hand resting on the gearshift and his eyes roaming your features like they’re trying to trace every shadow and light across your skin. you shift a little in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of how dressed down you are—just jeans, a hoodie, your hair barely styled, and no camera between the two of you this time to hide behind. “i brought stuff,” you say, voice quieter, fingers fidgeting slightly with the zipper of your hoodie. “for the shoot, like outfits and stuff… if you wanted me to change.” but he shakes his head slowly, gaze heavy and unmoving. “no,” he says, lips tilting just barely. “you look perfect like this. soft. real.” the words hit different—warm and strange and intimate in a way you hadn’t expected—and suddenly you’re not sure if you’re here for a video anymore, or something else entirely.

he finally turns the key, the engine humming to life beneath you, low and smooth like everything about him so far. the lights from the dash flicker against his skin, catching the shape of his jaw, the cut of his cheekbone, and you realize he hasn’t looked away once. he pulls off from the curb with a practiced ease, one hand on the wheel, the other resting between the console, fingers tapping out some rhythm only he seems to know. “i know where we should go,” he says after a few moments, his voice low and calm, like you’ve done this before. “somewhere quiet. somewhere just for us.” you nod, swallowing down the lump in your throat, and your eyes stay on the road ahead as he drives you deeper into the kind of night you don’t come back from untouched.

you don’t realize how far you’ve gone until the sound of the city fades behind you, traded for the quiet hum of the tires against worn pavement and the rhythmic crash of distant waves. the roads grow darker the closer you get to the water, the tall brush lining the narrow path catching the headlights and glowing gold for a second before disappearing behind you. neither of you speak much. not because there’s nothing to say, but because everything already feels thick with meaning—like if you speak now, it’ll all spill out too soon. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers drumming against the fabric in a slow, measured beat that somehow keeps time with your heartbeat. occasionally, he glances over at you—quietly, not intrusively, but like he can’t help it—and every time, he looks away with that same small smile that never quite reaches his eyes. you sit curled in the passenger seat, your fingers tracing the hem of your jacket as your eyes dart to the faint outline of the ocean just past the treeline, the sound of it getting louder now. finally, he slows the car, turning down a dirt path, and you realize where you are.

“we’re here,” he says softly, and you nod like you’ve just woken from a trance.

the car rolls to a stop, the tires crunching against gravel, and for a moment, neither of you move. the engine shuts off, leaving only the steady pulse of the ocean and the soft creak of your seatbelt as you unbuckle it. he reaches behind the seat first, pulling out a small tripod and a bag you hadn’t noticed before, slinging it over his shoulder as he steps out of the car. the air hits you first—cool, sharp, salt-soaked—and you wrap your jacket tighter around your frame as you follow him down the barely lit path, the sound of waves pulling louder and louder with each step. the moonlight spills silver across the sand once the trail clears, the entire stretch of beach empty, undisturbed except for the tide. he walks slowly, not too far ahead of you, occasionally looking back to make sure you’re still behind him, and something about the way he waits for you, quietly, makes your chest ache. there’s something intimate in how unhurried he is, how his steps match yours once you reach the soft sand. when he stops, it’s in a small, nestled alcove, half-shadowed by a dune wall, protected just enough to make it feel like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you. he lays down the bag carefully, crouching to pull out a blanket and an extra battery pack, then adjusts the tripod and tests the angle, his fingers working with silent ease.

you stand there for a moment, watching him, heart pounding for reasons you haven’t sorted through yet.

"this is definitely going to be a first for me…” you murmur, your voice soft and slightly shaky as your arms wrap loosely around yourself, your eyes drifting toward the dark stretch of waves behind him. “i’ve never done anything public.” the words feel heavier once they leave your mouth, hanging between you and the ocean air, caught somewhere between nervous excitement and the unknown. he looks up from where he’s crouched in the sand, his fingers twisting something on the base of the tripod, and for a second, the moonlight catches his expression—soft, calm, but unmistakably intrigued. “i’m glad to be the first, then,” he says, his voice low with a subtle edge of teasing confidence, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he rises slowly to his full height. his body is close now—too close, the heat of him bleeding into your space as his figure looms above yours, the sharp difference in your heights making you tilt your chin up just to keep his gaze. his eyes don’t wander, not yet; they stay fixed on you with a sort of quiet intensity, like he’s already begun memorizing your features under moonlight. “are you ready to go for it?” he asks, his voice dipping just slightly lower, and the way his tongue darts across his lower lip leaves a shimmer behind that catches the light. your stomach flips as his eyes linger on your face, not impatient, not forceful—just waiting, just watching, like whatever happens next is yours to decide.

you nod slowly, breath caught somewhere between nerves and anticipation, and he catches your hand with such care it almost makes your chest ache—his fingers curling gently around yours like you’re something precious, something fragile, and he guides you down to the blanket he’s laid out across the sand. the moment you sit, you feel the coolness of the fabric beneath your legs, the way the grains of sand shift underneath, grounding you as the breeze tugs lightly at your clothes and the sound of the ocean murmurs just behind you, low and steady. he lowers himself with you, crouching at your feet with a kind of focus that steals the air from your lungs, his hands trailing deliberately along the shape of your calves, then your ankles, then the delicate curve of your heels as he slips your shoes off and sets them to the side like they might interrupt what’s about to happen. his touch lingers longer than necessary, like he doesn’t want to let go just yet, and when his eyes lift again, they don’t just look at you—they study you, flicking between your mouth and your eyes as if he’s already imagining what they’ll look like when you fall apart under him. your hair moves slightly in the wind, a few strands sweeping across your cheek, and he reaches up without thinking, brushing them away with his knuckles before sitting back for a single second—just enough time to press the record button on the camera, the soft mechanical click echoing beneath the hush of the waves. he comes right back to you after that, like he couldn’t bear the space for long, his hand rising to cradle your jaw as he leans in, the warmth of him close enough to make you dizzy before he’s even touched your mouth. and then he kisses you—slowly, deeply, with so much deliberate tenderness that your toes curl into the blanket, his lips soft and searching as he tilts his head just slightly to fit you better, like he’s done this before in a dream. his hand moves to the back of your neck as the kiss deepens, his body shifting closer until his knees brush yours and his breath is all you can taste, all you can feel, all you can want.

his hand slips from the nape of your neck down to your waist, warm and steady as it curves along your side, pulling you gently toward him until your chest presses to his and the kiss shifts—deeper now, hungrier, like he’s been waiting far too long to taste you. the blanket crinkles beneath your knees as he guides you lower, your bodies sinking into the soft give of the sand, your thighs brushing his as he shifts to straddle you, but never once breaking the kiss. you let out a soft breath against his mouth when his hands begin to roam again—one trailing up your back beneath your hoodie, the other brushing the exposed strip of skin above your waistband, like he’s mapping out every part of you he’s about to memorize. the ocean crashes in the distance, closer now, the waves folding over each other in slow, thundering rhythm that somehow mirrors the pace of his hands and the rising flutter in your chest. his lips finally leave yours only to trail down your jaw, then your neck, kissing a path across your pulse like he can feel it jumping under his mouth, like he wants to taste just how nervous and ready you are. you tilt your head to give him more room, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt at his back, anchoring yourself to something solid as his mouth moves lower, warm and open and reverent. his hand dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, pushing it slowly upward until the cool night air licks at your skin, goosebumps rising under his touch as he pulls it over your head with careful fingers. his eyes flicker back up to yours then, and he pauses—not because he’s unsure, but because he’s looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, his chest rising and falling as he whispers, “fuck… you’re even better in person.”

his fingers curl gently at the hem of your jeans, eyes flickering up to your face before he moves, as if waiting for one final breath of confirmation before he takes what’s already his. you nod faintly, lips parted and chest rising with uneven breaths, and that’s all he needs — his touch dips lower, thumbs pressing lightly into the creases of your hips as he begins to peel the fabric down, inch by inch, dragging it over the swell of your ass with reverence. the night air rushes to greet your newly exposed skin, cool and soft, brushing over your thighs like a phantom touch that makes you shiver, and you swear you feel the sand shift beneath you from the strength of your heartbeat alone. he kneels lower as he pulls them past your knees, his knuckles grazing the inside of your calves with a feather-light touch that makes your toes curl, his eyes never leaving yours as he carefully discards the jeans beside the blanket. he stays there for a second, crouched between your legs with the surf murmuring behind him, and even in the dim glow of moonlight, you can see how tightly his jaw is set, his breath visible when it leaves his lips in soft puffs. his hands trail back up slowly, his palms warm and sure, sliding along your bare thighs like he’s mapping them for the first time, and he exhales a quiet, reverent “fuck” when his thumbs ghost the edge of your underwear. “you’re really letting me see you like this…” he murmurs, almost to himself, and there’s something in his voice—hunger, wonder, something deeper—that makes your heart thud even harder in your chest.

he doesn’t touch you at first. not yet. his hands fall to the hem of his own shirt, his fingers curling into the fabric as his eyes stay locked on yours, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll look away first—but you don’t. you watch him, frozen in place on the blanket, the sound of the waves folding over each other behind you like the earth is holding its breath for what’s coming. the shirt lifts slowly, exposing the soft ridges of his stomach first, pale skin dappled with faint moonlight, the muscles flexing faintly as he pulls the cotton up his chest. he’s not performing, not trying to make it seductive—it just is, naturally, inherently, like the act of undressing in front of you is something sacred and instinctive at the same time. his arms stretch as he tugs it over his head, messing his hair slightly in the process, the tousled strands falling over his forehead once the fabric is tossed aside, forgotten in the sand. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush—he just reaches down to the button of his jeans, the sharp pop of it parting sounding louder than it should in the stillness of night. you can feel it in your body before you even understand it—the tightening in your chest, the ache blooming between your thighs, the flicker of anticipation rising like a slow burn. and then he’s lowering the zipper, the metal teeth dragging open with quiet friction, and you swear you could count each inch by the way your breathing staggers.

he pushes them down with a single movement, hips rolling forward just slightly as the denim slides past the curves of his thighs, pooling around his ankles in a wrinkled mess of fabric and heat. the ocean breeze kisses across the bare skin of his torso, but he doesn’t shiver—he just looks at you, like you’re the only warmth he needs, his chest rising and falling with the slow build of something that’s no longer just lust. even in the dim lighting, you can see how hard he is through the thin fabric of his briefs, the outline prominent and unmistakable, straining against the dark cotton with every breath he takes. but he doesn’t move to touch himself—not yet—he just steps out of the jeans and kicks them aside, the hush of the sand shifting beneath his feet grounding the moment in something painfully real. he’s gorgeous in a way that almost hurts to look at, like he was carved to be seen only in moonlight, the lines of his body sharp and soft in all the right places, his collarbones shadowed and neck flushed faintly with color. when he hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband of his underwear, his eyes never leave yours—not even for a second—and it makes your breath catch in your throat with how deliberate it all feels. it isn’t performative, not for the camera, not for a paycheck—it’s intimate, personal, almost reverent, like undressing in front of you is a privilege he doesn’t want to take for granted. and then, slowly, he starts to lower them.

he doesn’t climb on top of you right away—he kneels first, bare knees sinking into the edge of the blanket as his hands settle at either side of your thighs, his breath steady but deeper now, heavier. his eyes sweep over your body with a kind of hunger that’s been aching behind every look since he first saw your face, but now it’s raw, unhidden, his gaze softening only when it lands on your mouth. “come here,” he murmurs, voice low, almost hoarse, and you do—you lean forward instinctively, pulled by something magnetic in the way he’s looking at you. his mouth finds yours before you can say anything, slow and warm, lips molding to yours in a way that feels like he’s been craving it, like he’s imagined it too many times to hold back anymore. the kiss deepens gradually, never rushed, just sinking and sinking until his tongue grazes the seam of your lips and you part them for him without thinking. his hand cups the side of your neck gently, thumb pressing just under your jaw, not tight, just there—reminding you that he’s in no hurry to stop tasting you. you moan faintly against his lips, and that sound makes his hand twitch against your skin, a soft growl curling at the back of his throat. his other hand slides slowly down your waist, tracing the curve of your hip until it dips between your thighs.

his fingertips brush the inner seam of your panties, featherlight at first, just enough to make you shiver as the kiss deepens again—slower now, wetter, your lips parting around his with every sigh that spills between you. the pad of his middle finger presses gently over the damp fabric, circling once, and your breath catches in your throat the second he realizes how soaked you already are. “fuck…” he whispers against your mouth, the word hot and thick with disbelief, like it makes him crazy to know you’re like this for him. he pulls back just enough to look at your face, his thumb still tracing under your chin as his other hand slips beneath the fabric, the waistband stretching just slightly around his wrist. your thighs twitch when he makes contact, his fingertip dragging up your slit slowly, softly, gathering every bit of slick before circling your clit with unhurried pressure. your hips lift in response, a quiet whimper falling from your lips before you can stop it, and he groans quietly as if your reaction alone is enough to undo him. “you’re so fucking soft,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his eyes locked on your mouth again like he’s tempted to kiss you until you fall apart in his hands. his fingers slide lower again, dipping into your entrance just barely—just enough to tease—before pulling back to circle your clit again, slow and tender, like he’s learning every inch of you by touch alone.

his hand doesn’t rush. it slips lower with the kind of care that feels rehearsed—not out of boredom, but out of deep, deliberate control, like he’s been thinking about this moment for too long to mess it up now. his fingers skim the waistband of your panties first, not pulling, not yet—just stroking along the edge, like he wants to feel every last barrier before taking it away. his mouth stays on your neck, soft and unrelenting, lips brushing just below your ear as he breathes you in, the pads of his fingers finally curling beneath the thin fabric and grazing over your bare skin. you twitch—just a little—and he notices, because of course he does, and the low chuckle that leaves his throat vibrates against your jaw like it’s meant to settle under your skin. “you’re already so warm,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as his hand flattens between your thighs, cupping you fully, letting the heel of his palm press in just the right way. the friction is light—barely there—but it makes you gasp all the same, your legs shifting open without him having to ask. he draws slow, deliberate circles with his middle finger, not dipping in yet, just tracing over your clit like it’s his to learn, his to memorize, his to keep. your body starts to respond without thought, hips rolling into his touch, breaths coming in little stutters every time he drags his fingertip in tighter, more focused motions.

his kisses grow slower the more your body reacts, like he’s savoring each moan he pulls from your throat, like they’re all proof that you want this just as much as he does. he presses a kiss beneath your jaw, then trails down again, lips brushing your collarbone, soft and open-mouthed, like he’s marking a path only he’s allowed to follow. his free hand comes up to slide beneath your bra, thumb brushing your nipple with practiced ease as the other hand stays between your legs, his fingers never stopping, never breaking the rhythm he’s set. the ocean is a distant sound now, replaced by the soft rush of your breath and the quiet slick noise of his touch working you open. “you feel that?” he whispers, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make your stomach flutter. “you’re so fucking wet already…” your moan is breathless, not quite a plea, but it makes his jaw flex anyway, like he’s holding himself back, like if he doesn’t pace himself, he’ll lose it. his fingers slide lower for just a second, parting your folds to gather more of your arousal before circling back up to your clit, slick now, gliding smoother, deeper, more precise.

his touch builds pressure in waves—gentle, controlled, then a little firmer when you roll your hips just right, when your body pulses against his palm like it’s begging for more. he watches your face the whole time, eyes sharp and dark, soaking in every twitch of your brows, every soft drop of your lips, like he’s collecting your reactions to keep for later. your thighs tremble, and he moves with it, adjusting his angle so his finger presses a little tighter, a little faster, like he knows exactly what you need without having to be told. his lips find your shoulder, then the base of your throat again, his voice low and thick when he speaks next. “don’t hold back, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “let me hear how good it feels.” his words shoot straight through you, and you do—you let your moan slip out freely this time, soft and high, your chest arching into him as his fingers work tighter, faster, pushing you closer to the edge. he’s not even inside yet and still, you feel like you’re going to break, like his touch alone could ruin you if he doesn’t stop—or if he doesn’t give you more.

his hand shifts, just enough to change the rhythm, his fingertips pausing at your entrance like he’s waiting for you to twitch, to gasp, to show him just how ready you are. and when you do—when your breath hitches and your hips shift forward just slightly—he rewards you with a slow, gentle push, slipping one finger inside you with a smooth ease that makes your entire body go still for a second. the stretch is light but firm, deliberate, like he’s testing the way you open for him, the way you take him in. his breath fans across your cheek as he presses in to the knuckle, and you swear you feel him smile just barely against your skin, his lips grazing your jaw like he’s proud. your walls clench around the intrusion and he groans quietly in response, a low sound that makes your thighs twitch where they’re spread in the sand, your back arched slightly into the curve of his chest. his finger curls slowly, just once, then again, dragging along the front wall with precision that feels far too confident for a first time. “so tight…” he murmurs, almost reverent, his eyes locked on the way your lips part and your lashes flutter shut. “so fucking good, baby.”

he doesn’t rush the second finger—not yet. instead, he draws the first one out nearly all the way before sliding it back in, slow and deep, letting the motion settle into something you can’t help but grind down into. his thumb never strays far from your clit, brushing it just enough to keep you gasping softly, to keep your body trembling as he sets the pace. the ocean behind you is nothing more than a backdrop now, white noise to the heavy rhythm of your breath and the quiet squelch of his finger gliding in and out of you, slick and steady. your hands clutch the blanket beneath you, fingers curling into the fabric, desperate to ground yourself as he keeps you hovering, not too fast, not too much—just enough to make your thighs ache. he leans in closer, lips brushing your ear again as he adds the second finger with the same slow care, easing it in beside the first and pausing once it’s buried to the base. “you’re taking me so well,” he breathes, voice low and full of awe. “fuck, you feel even better than i imagined.”

the stretch is fuller now, his two fingers working you open in slow, deliberate pumps that have your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, your hips rocking down against his hand in search of more pressure. you feel full but not overwhelmed, the friction deep and purposeful, his fingers curling inside you with each thrust to press against the spot that makes your knees twitch. your mouth falls open as he picks up the pace, just slightly, his thumb pressing tighter against your clit now, circling in tandem with the rhythm of his thrusts. every movement is fluid, synced, like he’s orchestrating your body without ever taking his eyes off you. “you’re doing so good for me,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple now as his other hand cradles your jaw to guide your face toward his. “look at me, baby. i want to see you fall apart.” your eyes flutter open, hazy and glassy, and his expression darkens the moment you meet his gaze—like he’s feeding off your pleasure, like it’s pulling something out of him too.

his fingers push deeper, firmer now, each thrust met with the sound of your arousal slicking down his hand, your legs trembling against the blanket as you start to clench harder around him. the moans slipping from your lips are higher now, breathier, no longer controlled, and his lips find yours in the middle of one—swallowing the sound like he needs to feel every second of it. the kiss is slow at first, just like everything else, but it deepens fast, your mouths open and hungry, tongues brushing in time with his thrusts. the hand on your jaw keeps you close, keeps you steady, while the other works your cunt with dizzying precision, two fingers stroking inside you like they were made for it. every roll of your hips brings a low grunt from his throat, and you feel the tension building deep in your core now, coiling tighter with every passing second. “you’re gonna cum for me like this, yeah?” he murmurs between kisses, his voice hot and rough against your lips. “fuck—i want to feel it. want to see how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

your body’s already answering before your mouth can—hips stuttering, thighs trembling, breath catching in your throat as your walls begin to flutter around his fingers. his thrusts don’t stop, don’t slow, but his thumb presses harder now, circling fast and tight over your clit, dragging you toward the edge with no mercy. your moans pitch higher, breathier, as your body bucks forward, helpless against the wave building inside you. “that’s it, baby,” he whispers, mouth at your jaw again, pressing kisses between his words. “just like that… fuck, you’re so perfect.” the tension finally snaps, heat exploding low in your belly and rushing through your limbs as you cum hard on his fingers, your back arching and your mouth falling open on a sharp cry that gets lost in the crash of the waves nearby. he keeps moving through it, working you down slowly, his pace easing as you shake and gasp and grip his wrist like you need something to hold on to. your skin is flushed, your hair wild, your chest heaving as your thighs twitch with aftershocks.

you’re still reeling, breath stuttering in your throat and thighs trembling from the aftershocks, when he pulls his fingers from you with a slow, deliberate drag. they glisten in the faint moonlight, slick with your release, but he doesn’t even glance at them—his eyes are on you, completely locked in, like he can’t look away even if he tried. his chest rises and falls with a heavy rhythm, and you feel the heat from his bare skin as he leans in closer, the muscles of his stomach flexing with each breath. you barely notice the shift in his hands until he reaches past you, fingers brushing the tripod beside the blanket—still rolling, still catching everything. but he doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t even think twice. “fuck this shit,” he mutters, voice hoarse and low, as he taps the button to end the recording, the red light fading instantly as he tosses the remote into the sand like it means nothing. and then he’s on you again—no more angles, no more planning, just his lips crashing into yours like he needs you more than air.

the kiss is messy, deeper now, tinged with the urgency that’s been simmering beneath his skin all night, and you can feel the way his body trembles when your fingers slide down his sides. his hands roam with less restraint now, no longer careful or tentative but hungry, dragging up your thighs, over your hips, gripping the sides of your waist like he needs to anchor himself before he sinks too far into you. your name slips from his mouth between kisses, ragged and breathless, as he guides you back into the sand, the blanket doing little to cushion the heat of his body on yours. every movement is rougher now, more instinctive—the way his mouth latches onto your neck, the way his hips grind against yours like he’s already buried inside you. he settles between your legs with practiced ease, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds, catching at your entrance but never pushing in just yet, just teasing. “look at me,” he says suddenly, voice low but clear, his palm flattening over your cheek as he holds your gaze. “don’t look away, baby. not tonight.”

he pushes in slow, all at once, the stretch thick and satisfying, and your mouth drops open on a gasp as your body tenses beneath him. his groan is guttural—deep, broken—his forehead pressing to yours as he bottoms out, hips snug against yours, like he’s finally found something he didn’t know he was missing. he doesn’t move for a second, just stays there, buried inside you and breathing like he’s just run a marathon, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you can feel the tremble in his fingers. “fuck… fuck, you feel too good,” he whispers, almost in disbelief, like your body wrapping around him is something he can’t quite believe is real. his cock twitches inside you as you clench, your legs tightening around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, closer, like your body already knows how to beg for more. and when he finally starts to move, it’s slow, deep thrusts that drag every inch of him along your walls with unbearable friction, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. “this… this is better,” he breathes, mouth ghosting over your jaw, “better than anything we could’ve filmed.”

his rhythm stays steady at first—measured, deliberate—but the tension in his body starts to crack with each roll of your hips against his, and soon his pace turns rougher, more desperate. his hands splay across your thighs, holding you open as he fucks into you harder, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust until you’re arching into him, gasping for air. the sand clings to your skin, sticking to the sheen of sweat along your back, but you can’t feel anything except him—his breath in your ear, the slap of skin against skin, the guttural sound of your name as he groans it like a confession. “you don’t get it,” he pants, voice cracking around the edges, “you’ve got them all wrapped around your finger—but this… this is mine.” and he means it—not with jealousy, but with something sharper, something closer to worship, like having you under him like this is a prize no one else deserves. your hands dig into his shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks behind as your next moan breaks apart in his mouth, and he kisses you through it, lips bruising against yours with every thrust.

his hand slides up your waist without slowing down, fingers pressing possessively into your skin as he lifts your hips just slightly—angling you in a way that has your breath hitching hard in your throat the moment he thrusts again. the new position lets him reach deeper, hit harder, and he feels the way you clench around him with every movement. your thighs tremble around his waist, barely able to keep your hold as your body starts to unravel beneath him, but you don’t dare let go. his mouth finds your jaw, then the sensitive spot beneath your ear, teeth grazing over the salt-slick skin before biting down just enough to make you cry out. the sound you make goes straight to his head, and he moans into your neck—low, rough, almost pained. “say it,” he rasps, his voice jagged and wrecked, the rhythm of his thrusts growing harsher, more erratic. “tell me it’s mine.”

you nod before you even realize it, head falling back against the blanket beneath you, hips arching up to meet his with helpless desperation. but it’s not enough. he stops. he’s buried deep inside you, cock pulsing, but he doesn’t move—his palm comes up, fingers curling tight under your jaw to force your gaze back to his. your heart stutters in your chest at the look in his eyes—dark, wild, possessive in a way that makes your thighs squeeze tighter around him, like your body already knows it belongs to him. “say it,” he growls again, this time softer, like he’s pleading even as he commands. “say no one else gets you like this. say it’s only me who gets to feel you. see you. fuck you.”

“it’s yours,” you whisper, voice cracking, lips trembling beneath his. your throat feels raw from moaning, from gasping, from the burn of everything he’s pulling out of you—but you say it again anyway, louder this time, firmer. “it’s all yours—fuck, only you. only you.” the second you speak the words, he exhales like they’re the only thing holding him together, and then he’s moving again—thrusting back into you so hard you feel it in your teeth, in your spine, in the way your body curls up into him like you can’t bear a second of distance.

the sound of your skin slapping together echoes in the cool night, and your moans fall out of you with each thrust, getting louder, messier, as you near the edge. his weight presses you down, burying you into the blanket beneath, into the sand, and it feels like you’re being claimed. he kisses you like he’s starving, mouth devouring yours, his tongue tangling with yours as his hips roll with purpose—grinding against your clit every time he bottoms out until your back arches off the ground and your whole body trembles beneath him.

you come so hard you forget to breathe. your legs lock around him, your nails dig into his back, and you cry out his name like it’s the only word you remember. the pleasure blinds you, rips through your core and steals every thought until all you can feel is him—his cock still driving into you, his name groaned into your mouth, his hands holding you down like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

he follows right after, hips jerking as he moans your name like it’s sacred, like it hurts to say. he spills inside you with a shudder, his body trembling above yours, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling in the heavy heat between you.

but then his hand slides down, slow and deliberate, palm dragging across your thigh like he’s still hungry. his cock twitches inside you, not softening, and when he lifts his head to look at you again, there’s something dangerous behind his eyes—something greedy, aching, barely satisfied.

“not done,” he whispers, almost apologetic. “can’t be done. not when you feel like this.”

before you can speak, he’s moving again—rolling his hips into yours with slow, deep thrusts that make your breath hitch all over again. you’re still sensitive, your body still fluttering from the last high, and it makes every drag of his cock feel too good, too much, too soon. your fingers curl into the back of his neck, your back arching without your permission as he begins to build a rhythm, slower this time, more focused.

“you drive me fucking insane,” he murmurs against your neck, kissing the spot just below your ear, biting down softly when you gasp. “look at you—already trembling for me, still soaking wet, still so fucking perfect.”

he pulls almost all the way out just to watch your face, then slides back in with a groan that has his eyes fluttering shut, like your body is the one place he can breathe. every thrust is drawn out, measured and deep, making you whimper as the oversensitivity turns into something more potent—something sharper, hotter, harder to hold back.

his hand slides under your thigh again, lifting it higher around his waist, and the angle has you gasping, your nails dragging down his back. “gonna fuck you again just like this,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges, “right here, right now—until you forget anyone else even exists.”

his thrusts fall into a rhythm again, slower but deeper, more possessive now, like he’s not just fucking you—he’s reminding you. of who he is, of what you just gave him, of the way your body fits around his like it was made to. each stroke pulls a breath from your chest, a broken sound from your throat, and he swallows them one by one with kisses that land messy and hot against your jaw, your mouth, your throat.

you’re already too sensitive—every movement lights you up, makes your legs tremble and your hands scrabble for something to hold on to. he doesn’t let you run. one of his arms hooks under your lower back and lifts your hips, keeping you locked against him as he drives into you, over and over, deeper, harder, more sure. his body is heavy against yours but it feels grounding, anchoring, like he’s the only thing holding you to this earth.

“you feel that?” he breathes against your lips, his voice hoarse and wrecked, and you nod helplessly, nails biting into his skin. “feel how good you take me? how perfect you fuckin’ take me?” his hand snakes up between you, fingers pressing down on your clit with just enough pressure to make your whole body jolt. your hips buck, and he groans like you’re killing him, mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than lips, more desperation than control.

you’re close again—too close—and the way he keeps grinding into you with that thick, unrelenting rhythm, the way his hand doesn’t stop moving, it’s like he knows exactly how to pull you apart. “come for me,” he says, voice shaking. “let me hear how good i fuck you.”

you do. you can’t stop it even if you tried. your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, ripping a scream from your chest as your body seizes around him, back arching, mouth falling open. your vision blurs with stars that have nothing to do with the sky. your pussy clenches tight around him, pulsing hard with every throb of pleasure as he fucks you through it, chasing his own high like a man possessed.

his name falls from your lips over and over—no control, no shame, just pure need.

he cums again with a growl, hips slamming into you one last time as he spills inside you all over again, the heat of it spilling out between your thighs. his head drops to your shoulder as he groans your name like he’s praying, like he’s begging, like he’s offering you something he doesn’t even know how to put into words.

you’re both still gasping for breath, tangled together in the heat of the aftermath, his body heavy against yours as the waves continue to whisper nearby. your chest rises and falls beneath him, heart racing, your skin dewy with sweat and speckled with grains of sand that cling stubbornly to every curve. for a moment, neither of you speaks—just the quiet hum of the ocean and the way his hand lazily traces up and down your side, smoothing over your ribs like he can’t stop touching you.

“you okay?” he finally murmurs, voice husky and low, warm against your cheek as he nuzzles closer. you nod, eyes still fluttered half shut, and you feel the smile that curls against your skin when he presses a kiss there. he doesn’t rush. his hand glides down, then hooks behind your knee, and before you can react, he’s lifting you up—effortless, like your weight means nothing in his arms.

you let out a soft squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck as he stands with you pressed against his chest, still completely bare, still glowing with the flush of what just happened. “what are you doing?” you laugh, your voice breathless and high, but it makes him grin even wider. “washing off the prettiest girl,” he teases, eyes sparkling as he starts walking toward the shoreline, feet sinking into the sand with every step. “can’t have you all sticky and messy, can i?”

you hide your face in his shoulder, body warm from both the afterglow and his touch, and you feel the rumble of his soft chuckle beneath your cheek. he wades into the water with you held tight, only stopping once the waves are lapping at his waist. the ocean is cooler than the air, and it makes you shiver when it first hits your skin, but he holds you tighter, anchoring you against him like a human heater. one arm stays under your thighs while the other curves behind your back, fingertips gliding in slow circles.

he dips you down a little, just enough for the water to kiss your shoulders, and then lifts you again, like he’s cradling something precious. you meet his eyes, and they’re so soft now—nothing like the fire from earlier, just quiet awe, like he can’t believe you’re real. he leans in to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck—so many kisses, each one slower than the last, lingering, lips wet and warm from the sea. “you’re perfect,” he mumbles between them, words brushing your skin like poetry, “so fucking perfect.”

you’re not even sure what to say. your fingers twist in the hair at the back of his neck as your heart thumps hard again, but for a different reason this time. this isn't lust—it’s tenderness, intimacy, something that makes your chest feel too small to hold it all. he keeps kissing you like he’s trying to memorize every part of your face, even as the water laps at your skin and the stars glitter quietly above.

“stay right here with me,” he whispers, voice carried by the breeze. and you do—you melt into him, let the tide sway around your bodies as he holds you like you’re the most important thing he’s ever touched.

you let him hold you, let yourself rest your cheek against his shoulder while the tide rocks around you like a lullaby, and for a while, it feels easy. his breath is warm on your skin, and his arms stay wrapped tight around your waist like he’s scared the ocean might steal you away. the kisses don’t stop—soft little presses against your neck, your temple, the curve of your shoulder—and he’s humming something under his breath now, barely audible but comforting all the same.

it’s sweet. too sweet. dangerously sweet.

you blink up at the stars, jaw tightening as the weight of it all starts to sink in—the way he’s looking at you, the way your body fits into his, the way your heart is beating a little too fast, too full, and none of this was supposed to feel like this. not here. not now.

he says something again, something playful and light about how you look good in the moonlight, but it barely registers. your throat tightens. you laugh, but it’s thin. and when he leans in again, you shift your head away just slightly, not enough to be obvious—but enough to breathe, to remind yourself this isn’t forever.

what the fuck is wrong with you?

you were supposed to have fun. that was the plan—go in, enjoy it, play the game, collect your wins, keep your heart locked behind your teeth. and yet here you are, getting carried into the sea like a scene from a dream you were never meant to be in. you’re getting too soft. too attached. and not just to him.

your stomach twists as the reality lands hard: this is just one night. one boy. one body. but your soul keeps making it something more, and if you’re not careful, you’ll end up falling for all of them.

your eyes flutter shut. you force a smile back on your lips and nestle into his shoulder like nothing’s changed. like your whole chest isn’t aching.

three more. that’s what you tell yourself. just three more times. and then you're done.

but even as you say it, you know you’re lying. and worse—you don’t know who you're lying to more.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ hey…hey….>.< okayyyy not as long as my other ones but don’t you worry, next chapter will be !!

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[sunboki]

⎯ what remains unspoken. ⟡ featuring christopher bahng

🪝 : Christopher Bahng x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. best friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, jealousy, angst, two idiots chasing their own tails believing their love is unrequited (ㅠㅠ), based in australia, summer! au, beachhouse! au

WORD COUNT. 8.3k words ☆ 32min read

WARNINGS. cursing, jealousy/shame, reader moves away, mentions of drunkenness, nondesc smut, a dirty dream? (nondesc), reader is said to wear makeup, mentions cheating

AUG'S NOTES. working myself through a writing block.. this fic has helped a lot :) thank you all for being patient with me thus far, i think writing for channie is like free therapy<3 please let me know what you think!!

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Attached to the hip, you and Chris might as well have been twins in a past life. And yet, it’s always that tiny inkling, so many years where one of the two wants something more. So when you bring home a boyfriend one summer and both you and Chris begin drifting apart, you wonder if that denial will become something permanent.

or alternatively :

Until when do you stop pretending?

Among many things, Chris likes to think there was an “oh shit” moment to his life. One, exactly.

Over the years he tried pinpointing when that would be, what that would be. 

And then you brought a boyfriend home. His home. To a beach house you two would occupy together. Making shadow puppets with your hands and running out to the beach in the early mornings.

Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Making sand castles, running into the water with your clothes on and running out giggling messes.

For two weeks every summer, always. Together.

Never with a plus one.

He debated upon subtly sizing up the guy or appearing overly friendly, but not an ounce of his face seemed to move. Steely.

Cold.

Chris was never cold, and he felt that pang in his chest—guilt—seeing you notice it. That miniature knit of your brow, the purse of your lips.

Did he know you like Chris did? Know when you were angry, or frustrated. What your favorite song was, or how you preferred your hair when you were focused?

He wanted to hate comparison, he used to hate comparison.

And now he’s hating himself for being too late, letting you slip from his grasp like sand between his fingers.

When you were once protagonists of a novel written with a happy ending, that love interest was now home to another. 

And he was a bystander to a love story that was never his, watching you smile at someone else. 

Someone that wasn’t him.

Breakfast is hellish, not to mention the sleeping arrangements. This boyfriend of yours in the guest bedroom, while he sleeps in his.

Alone. Without you, or your pretty hair, or your pretty eyes. Void of your warm body snuggled up to his, where you used to make silly jokes beneath covers and muffle laughter in turn.

A part of him wants to cry, wants to ask you what you two used to be. What was under the covers? 

“Ah.. Chris..” The soft moan of yours, all those years back. Stupid, seventeen, single. A cursed pair of “S”’s he hadn’t realized would come to haunt him each time he closed his eyes. 

What was your pretty sounds, his face between your thighs those five years back?

Was it all pretend? Exploration as friends? 

No, you were smarter than that.

So he tells himself he was too late, and endures. 

Because maybe, maybe they’ll be a plot twist one chapter. Where you fall for the side character. 

No, no book ends like that.

It all started in an editing firm’s office. 

Well, not literally, considering you hadn’t even been in your mother’s mind until Jessica Bahng—mother of a four-month old Chris Bahng—held back a poor woman’s hair while she belched into a toilet.

That poor woman being your mother, who found out she was pregnant that evening after work.

And through a few Saturday’s at the corner cafe and prolonged conversation by the office’s monitors, the two became the best of friends. Watching little Chris grow into a toddling one year old, and in the process welcoming you into the world nearly ten months later.

From there, almost every waking moment consisted of time together. Chris as the lanky teenager with his brown hair sweeping across a tanned forehead, and you, following after him each step he took at less than a year younger. Kindergarten, Primary School.

Although, in the midst of the friendship, your father had found a better job opportunity in Brisbane, a decent ten-hour drive from the Bahng household you’d found second home in.

Though, after plenty of crocodile tears and mumbled “I’ll miss you”’s tumbling from an eighth grade mouth too absorbed in worrying about the matter of leaving rather than the fact you’d likely visit every month, you departed, off to a city so different from the Sydney you had known of. 

Even if it was Australia all the same.

And in turn, the annual summer visits began.

Summer before your freshman year of high school, where Chris finally got his braces off in his sophomore year and you soaked up every ounce of information given on surviving the first few days of school.

Then your own sophomore year, filled with feelings and discoveries and struggles unearthed you didn’t think could be experienced so vividly, expectations in need of fulfillment the board expected a sixteen year old to answer immediately.

What do you want to do with your life? Any plans for college? What about taking these extra classes? They look good on a résumé.

And simultaneously rip the ounces of childhood from your fingertips, but no school board puts that in the papers.

So the moment the car door opens after hellish voyaging to Sydney, you allow your lungs to inhale each ounce of salty air the Bahng family house offers, the childishness allowed for once amid crushing pressure. 

It is a meager five minute walk to the lapsing shoreline after all, and the ocean keeps good secrets within the sand, washing away your footprints as to flush away traces of whatever happenings occurred there. 

Yet, never truly forgotten. Instead, taken into the waters for little children to tell their mother of whom never believe the ocean spilled someone’s precious secrets.

“Chris.”

June eighteenth of your second year in high school, pajama-clad knees curl close into your body, lashes dusting open in the sparsely lit room to focus on him.

A dilation of the pupils, a hitch of the breath when he turns to you.

High school has changed Chris, but not in a foul manner. Blond curls, he’s exchanged from his usual russet locks. Round cheeks shifting in tandem with a sculptors hand, the marble of his skin a bit more toned, defined.

His jaw that clicks when he grows angered—not often, sometimes at his gaming system. 

Thickened brows furrowing and knitting in concentration.

Though those eyes are the same, and always will be. No other will have eyes like his, and you know in any life, in any state of amnesia, they would be recognized.

An “aha” moment where a switch flips in your brain, formulating a mere sentence involuntarily.

I love this boy, and I hope for forever he’ll look back at me.

And for that, you’re selfish. But honest.

If Christopher was a stranger, a look into that gaze and you think you’d know him instantaneously.

How silly.

But just as you had spoken, you’re reminded that childishness was something found each time you visited this place regardless of your actions. You’d hold onto that.

“I don’t want to grow up.”

The bit of fat at his under-eyes cause his eyes to form into crescent moons when he smiles, wrinkles at the corner of thick lashes crinkling.

Chris has always liked the moon.

A warm hand of his reaches forward, cupping your cheek as if the first time.

You think you like this more.

“Then don’t.”

A stroke of his thumb, and you snort a laugh when the cold of your nose bumps against the digit.

“And when you want to go back to being sixteen, come to see me, okay?”

Little did you both know that the future had a way of testing just how long sixteen would last.

Until when do you stop pretending?

An explanation as to how you ended up with the curly blond’s lips pressed to your thighs doesn’t sit anywhere in sight, and in the quiet comfort of your bedroom, you let the thought slip by.

Yet, in the end, there’s as much of a pathetic excuse as expected.

That serves for a bit of background information first.  

It was a mistake.

You were just teenagers.

But the stinging feeling in your heart, like the swelling of a thorn stuck between your rib cage, tells you that’s far from the truth.

For any infant it’s easy to placate an act, a theatre of behavior. For your stuffed animals as a doctor, for diving into the pool after the rings a mother would toss in beforehand, feigning the role of an experienced diver. 

But there comes both a time and occasion to weave a lie, no less complete the loom as someone cognitive enough to understand a situation’s veracity. 

When the mind is said to be “not fully developed” but each and every predicament feels like it matters on behalf of the world, when a sentence a year back pops itself from hiding, appearing at the forefront of your mind.

The true question.

Just how long can one stay sixteen? 

Junior year, with eighteen lingering a hairsbreadth away for the both of you.

Junior year, where talk of pressures and intimacy lead to Chris being your first time. 

And in turn, you were his.

Though that came a few minutes later. Something clumsy and unpracticed the both of you laughed at on continual occasion, enacted for the pure reason of curiosity, of trust.

While everyone gave themselves to strangers, you wanted to give yourself to someone adored, whom you didn’t believe for a second you’d regret. 

But was that really the sole reason? 

Curiosity? 

Or love?

No. Nothing along those lines. 

Or that’s what you told yourself those years, those moments. And although it’s supremely underestimated by that of adults, those prolonged stares, the upward quirk of his lips when he catches your eye from across the room is but a matter a babe could understand.

It has always been more, been a new road opened since you’d kissed him. The both of you simply headed the same route you always had.

Best friends, that’s all.  

But to an astronaut, the earth has never been the limit, or they wouldn’t be an astronaut. And you were someone that loved Christopher Bahng, but hid behind a title the both of you knew was untrue. 

Now it exists like a flash of the mind, swift and fast and almost unnoticed if not for the lingering feeling at your skin—an insatiable itch where his fingers had laid trace.

A soft nip to your inner thigh, his thumb resting just above your navel. His chin upon your lower belly when your events had come to a close, gazing up at you, unreadable.

No. Not unreadable, but one you didn’t want to read, look too far into and get hurt. 

Was that it? A gnawing fear of getting hurt holding you back from the things you wanted?

His face lingering with traces of you, lips swollen and glossy and stretched into a smile you scorned to stare at. 

“You’re.. gross.”

Maybe a “thank you” or a “that felt amazing” would’ve been the more appropriate response, but this was Chris, and to not speak your mind would break a vow instilled from the earliest of your elementary days. 

He laughs, a squeaky sound of happiness you soak up like a sponge—absorbing, absorbing, taking in every ounce offered. 

That you can trust in, place faith within. 

In a future unknown, however, a part of you knows that the only way of freedom is to prepare for a pain that may come, and may not.

For there is never a guarantee love will be fatal, but all will pass someday. 

To live without a taste of that freedom seems too awful to stay in your bubble. 

All so scary, uncertain. The unpredictability can be overwhelming. Somewhere in between you hope he felt it too.

Love, that is. 

Ah. 

A kiss at your lips, and he tastes like you—something you’d shrink away with disgust at if not for his presence, the tender manner in which he eases your shirt back down, then his own adjusted over his head. 

That night, you ate dinner and never spoke of it. Not a taboo topic, merely mutually understood. His parents out for a night, Hannah off staying late for an after school activity. 

A kiss after washing dishes in the sink, a kiss when you flop onto the couch. After an uno match by the coffee table, where your competitiveness sparks into screaming matches, tackling him following not long after.

Your bodies like a whirlwind of motion, writhing with chortled laughter like squabbling infants.

Overtop of you he pauses, and your earlier feigned rage fades as quickly as it was provoked, chest warming at the chaste peck to your cheek, then the press of his lips you beckon closer, hands curling into the fabric of his tee, slipping down his back to trace the bumps of his spine.  

One breath, two. 

Warm, and it feels like you’re melting.

Fingernails usher the shirt upwards, his lower back beared, tanned from summer sun. 

More.

You want more all over again. 

“Chris!” 

It’s Hannah’s voice, squeaky at age thirteen, that clears the steaminess instantly, clambering off each other so quickly your foot slams into his stomach, his hand shoving your face into the carpeted floor.

“I- I won in Uno! Fair and square!”

Not a great cover up, Chris, but the flushed nature of his ears, his cheeks, makes up for the stupid excuse. 

From this prompts a sequence of events, of excuses and hiding, of denial and relapsing into what’s familiar.

But just as life is unpredictable, none of those thoughts plagued your mind yet. 

Nothing had happened yet.

Then it happened, and you can’t come to recall how.

A party, freshman year of university. A guy, loud music, too many drinks. 

He was a sweet soul, helping you back to your dorm when the world became a distant, fuzzy memory. Someway or another (you’re betting your roomie gave it to him), he snagged your number. 

Because Saturday morning, 11am, you received a: “Feeling any better?” text you gazed at in horror—believing the random number to be some drunken one night stand—before being filled in.

Jae was his name. Jae Hyeong. 

A student in your Wednesday lecture, passing by unknown, now becoming known. 

You told Chris about him that summer, mumbled between bites of strawberries after a stop by the market in his dad’s old pick-up truck. 

Rust clung to the sides, and you could never be certain the engine would start up again. But it was loved and cherished. So faith was placed in it anyway.

Expectedly, he just nodded his head, popping another sweet bite between plush lips.

The thing was, you told Chris about him without mentioning the dating factor. 

Jae was funny, sweet. The first of your dates concluding with your stomach aching from laughter. And a cowardly part of you blames forgetfulness, while the other points directly at your heart.

Even when, staring into his eyes, all you see is Chris. 

How cruel, and you want to hate yourself for dragging this boy along. 

Scared.

Because at the moment, pursuing music was Chris’s dream, attending Uni at Sydney was that utmost goal he reached towards. 

And you’d support him through it, even if you were left behind. 

It wasn’t you, your mind berates.

It never was you.

So you’ll look away, deny the love you ache for. Jae deserves that, right? Not to be treated as some source of healing for you, a rebound for love unrequited.

Maybe the friendship of yours has clouded your judgement. It’s not love you harbor, but fondness.

A soul-sucking, gut-wrenching fondness that’s unequivocally love. 

“I think you’d like him.”

Maybe this is your hopes of even ground. That if the both of them become somewhat-friends, your feelings will ease and you’ll realize this was all a fever-dream and you were truly in love with Jae. 

All a dream. 

“Will I?” Chris grunts in reply, both of your legs dangling from the truck bed’s edge.

He thinks you’re prettiest like this. A bit unkempt, no makeup, hair left to its own devices. 

You. Wholly, unapologetically you. 

Blemishes and smile lines just like his, bits of strawberry lingering by the corners of your lips he wants to kiss away, lap up with his tongue and take advantage of the quiet of the morning, the lack of townspeople awake to witness his greed.

Chris is greedy when it comes to you, he’ll admit it. He wants and wants and wants, and can’t ever seem to be satiated. 

Whether it’s your kisses, your laughter, that sweet, mumbled moan when you’re feeling so good. 

Shit. He’s in too deep.

To his core, Chris is a gentle man. He wouldn’t allow himself to be angry at you if it cost his life but, he’s also human. And humans feel jealousy. 

It’s been a while since the thought occurred to him, since that biting pit began forming in his gut, gnashing their teeth at anything in sight. 

“Is he good to you?” A quiet murmur, one that’s a bit reserved compared to his usual cheerfulness, optimistic tone. This is curious, observant. That kind of behavior when he wants to know more though remain subtle.

Plus, he argues with that frothing jealously. It’s not like he’s your boyfriend, right?

Then, as quickly as it came, the jealousy is gone, swept away in the crashing tides just a few miles from where you sit. Replaced with nervousness, worry.

It’s not like Chris can control you. You aren’t to be controlled, and it’d be cruel to keep you from your potential to begin with. He’s just the coward that can’t bring himself to confess. 

And neither can you, but he doesn’t know that. 

Two nervous messes, fretting over love they’ve shared long before anyone speaks up about it. 

What remains unspoken.

Will your boyfriend be good to you? Treat you right? His head swims, grasping a strawberry hard enough that streams of juice slip down his wrist, droplets trickling  onto the top of a muscular thigh. 

And heaven forbid the guy breaks your heart. He wouldn’t hear the end of it from Chris and likely earn a beat down for the road. 

But then comes the hopeful thought, the “what if” that lingers under his skin, buzzes at his fingertips as an index comes to loop a strand of hair behind your ear to better see you.

The bit of pride in the corner, nudging his shoulder as if it were you. A longtime friend. 

I’ll treat you well.

Please let me be good to you.

Closing his eyes, the sad smile of yours after having failed your final exam resides there. Bittersweet, somber.

Would it be considered stages of grief if he had yet to lose someone?

No less, it feels as if you’re leaving him behind altogether.

“You alright?” 

But for now, you’re by his side. It’s enough.

“Hm,” A nod, eyes remaining closed.

“The sun feels good today.”

It feels better with you.

Who knew how quickly good things go.

“Hi Berry!”

The summer before your junior year of Uni, and for a moment, standing in front of the Bahng household feels nostalgic in a way that makes your heart sink. 

The rose-tinted glasses feel further away than ever. Peeling paint, cracks in the wood, creaking of the paneled floors you hadn’t noticed those summer’s before.

Things have changed, and you shudder to think you were the bringer of it.

The hand in yours whose last name isn’t Bahng, however, proves the point.

This summer, Jae came with you. Officially regarded as your boyfriend.

Thus far, there has been no greater feeling of dread and guilt in your gut than right now.

Dread in witnessing Chris’ reaction, guilt from the gnawing ache in your chest. Because no, by no means did you wish to treat Jae as a buffer, an anchor to love unrequited. Nonetheless, that certainly felt the case, more so the situation responsible for your guilt.

And maybe, just maybe, it was wordlessly understood. The manner you’d speak of Chris to Jae, that hidden longing unable to be shielded by a facade.

How cruel, a heart is. To love so shamelessly. Garner affection, but withhold a love solely reserved for one.

In need of mending, care you fail to give by yourself.

Berry, the beloved Chevalier King Charles Spaniel, helps calm such a maelstrom, if only for a short amount of time.

Before Chris walks down the stairs.

.

.

.

If fur had lined Chris’ back, it would be spiked in apprehension, aggression. Like a wolf, scruff ruffled in the presence of someone new.

A second-long overview tells him enough. Your hand in his, the way he trails after you as if some lovesick puppy.

The taste of bile in his throat makes him want to choke.

He missed his chance. Now it’s gone.

So childish, it all is. This harrowing sadness weighing on his chest, the jealousy.

“This is Jae, isn’t it?” 

Ah, you should’ve known better.

Chris could always tell.

Yet, his eyes never leave yours. A mere flicker of attention to the newcomer until you’re bathed in the spotlight again, and the hair on your arms rises unnervingly.

“Yeah,” Swiftly clearing your throat, you feebly try at gathering your wits, granting Jae a smile you hope is reassuring.

“He’s.. my boyfriend.”

All at once, Chris feels his world crashing down on him.

“What happened?” He wanted to ask, forgetting you grew up, no longer that little girl seated beside him on the playground’s swings.

Because it’s already enough in recognizing it, but another in receiving clarification.

A slow inhale is breath into lungs he feels are already too full, straining to contain oxygen.

He missed his chance. Now it’s gone.

I lost you, whispers in his mind. Fragmented pieces of a puzzle.

There was a reason an extra pillow resided in the linen closet, or the My Little Pony toothbrush tossed in the mug his old swim-team sold as merch. 

For you, and only you.

Never another.

Selfishly, he feels this casting has abruptly booted him from the main position, now rooted as a bystander in a set that isn’t even his.

Of course, Chris lacks the complete asshole gene, so a hasty handshake serves as greeting enough before he’s already reaching for the door.

“Eh? But we-“

“Guest bedroom is on your left. Y/N will show you. You two can sleep there or whatever- I’m going to surf.”

Just the partial asshole gene.

And he knows you can tell. Reading each other with the ease of a lover. Attentive, observant.

Nevertheless, your love is directed to someone else.

“He uh.. isn’t usually like this.”

A mumble on your part suffices in buffering the silence. That, followed by Jae’s cocked brow.

“Real friendly guy.”

Your lip tugs between your teeth, peering back at the boy from over your shoulder. Apparently, your expression of remorse fails to be hidden well. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” Jae consoles, “I dealt with that one jerk of a roommate back in Brisbane for a whole semester, y’know? A bit of coldness is nothin’.”

Ignorance only feels good for so long. Bliss is never permanent.

If only you had understood that lesson, abided by it.

Yet, just like those years before, you turn your head the other direction and allow life to pass by without him in it, despite staying in the same home.

Despite him being everything to you, despite a love shared over countless years.

.

.

.

He’s irritable. Chris is. The subtle grit of his teeth you've come to recognize, the harsh grip he nearly crushes his fork in. Dinner had never felt so stifling, never when you were here.

All of a sudden, the household you had once found solace inside feels all too hot, a sweltering furnace where each extra beat of silence adds a degree to the thermometer. 

Jessica Bahng’s cooking was incredible, as predicted, and conversation flowed effortlessly between you, her, and Jae—the boy charming without trying, his charisma winning over the woman after a mere two bites of food.

What wasn’t predictable was Chris’ quietness from across the table. Because each time he looks up, he finds himself seated in a theatre, watching what was pass by. Watching how you’d kiss Jae, hold his hand, laugh by his side. 

Was that all it was? Him as a spectator?

The chip in the corner of his dinner plate held in hand verifies emotion unwilling to be shown on the surface. 

He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t even acknowledge you.

Jerk.

You scoff, offering him a miniature scowl from the corner of your eye.

“So, how’d you meet Y/N? I forgot to ask last night,” Jessica insists, glancing from you to Jae in rapid succession.

Oh, great. The formalities.

“Well,” A pause on the younger boy’s end, sheepishly grinning. “It was actually at a party—“

“Pfft, yeah right,” Chris grunts beneath his breath in amusement, ramming his fork down into a piece of broccoli.

Acting like a child and he knows it, but no amount of maturity can seem to withhold the snide comments. 

Either the other three didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. He’s fine with both. 

“And yeah, I just remember her being so drunk and—“

“You wish,” The dyed blond mumbles once more to himself, shaking his head in quiet mirth. 

Those words beckon attention, and Chris mutters an inaudible curse after the sharp kick his mother grants in warning.

That night, dinner concluded like usual. Cheerful on one end, quiet as a mouse on the other. Figuring out who belonged on which side came easy. 

Except, Chris fails to remain silent this time around whilst attending to dish duty, lips drawing into a tight line witnessing Jae place his plate beside the sink. 

Not in the sink, not even an offer to help wash. No, the bastard’s eyes are dead set on you, flickering from your eyes, lips, ass—

Dammit, he wants to sock the guy right about now.

However, he waits until you get upstairs to wash up for bed before speaking.

“Gonna give me a servant uniform too at this point?” The last of Chris’ mutters, and it seems Jae is done with staying silent as well.

“Alright, just what is your problem?”

“I don’t know, why can’t you be well-mannered as a guest? At least wash your own damn dish,” Chris growls back, the two’s eyes meeting in a vicious staring contest prior to his mother’s scolding, resulting in both boys on dish-duty.  

Although it’s the words muttered in his ear when Jae leaves that nearly provokes every nerve in his body to crush the man’s face in with his fist.

“Whatever was between you two, forget it. She’s not yours anymore.”

Your face appearing from the top of the stairwell keeps his urge at bay, merely evident in the white-knuckled clenching of his fist, his form hasty to disappear outside the screen door.

Instinctively, sandal-clad feet taking him to the one place that lets him think.

The ocean.

It’s late, and high tides crash against the sandy shoreline. The squawking of seagulls has drawn to a close, the enormous light of the moon overhead a constant he finds comfort in.

Pattering of your footsteps, however, gather his focus instantaneously, wordless where your form curls by his side.

Another constant, just you and him.

Something to spite the change.

So much change, in fact, he feels like each bit of the youth he’s known is being swallowed up, consumed into newness he can’t accept.

But you still open doors fully in case monsters hide behind them, and he hasn’t changed the flavor of ice cream he buys from convenience stores since he was eight, so perhaps nothing has changed but exterior.

To be ignorant is to be blissful, a lesson continually presenting itself this summer. Neither happens to be involved in your predicament. 

You’re first to break the silence. Always the more courageous one, albeit he’d never admit it.

“I shouldn’t have brought Jae here, I’m sorry.”

Your slow inhale.

“This is.. our place, I get it. I just thought—“

“No,” A shake of his head, second nature upon reading the startled look you give him.

“I mean,” He has to tilt his head to peek at your face, hidden between your knees like a child.

“It’s our place, you’re right but-.. If one day.. somebody comes along, then that’s..”

A begrudging acceptance, if that’s the word.

You look up at him and- ah, you’re so pretty. Chris stops to stare for a moment, his lips parted like an infant fixated on the cookie jar.

Hurried blinking and a swift breath dispel the prior awe.

“That’s okay. If “you” becomes you and someone else, then so be it.”

A small, wry smile. Though beneath, he feels as if he’s breaking.

“I wouldn’t be your best friend if I didn’t pester your boyfriend, or, y’know, future boyfriends. ‘S what I do for my favorite girl.”

He smiles, wanting to cry more than anything while playfully pinching your cheek.

Why can’t you be mine?

.

Ten minutes or so separate your conversation, but you pick up again as if you’d never stopped in the first place. 

“Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I could just go back to being when we were kids again, y’know?”

“And what would you do if you were kids again?”

These words are slow, patient. 

His reply ruins the peace, the begrudging acceptance you had built like a wall of defense, blocking feelings foaming at the mouth to climb from your throat, echoing in the night air.

“I’d never let you go.”

“I’m going to bed,” A mumble interrupts the quietness, your head weighing against his shoulder. 

An anchor, in fear you’d be thrashed into the waves without return.

Chris has always been your buoy.

If only he could keep you afloat in your dreams, but you had yet to yearn for that just yet.

The small nod where he assures you he’d stay a bit longer serves as an untold: “good night” you offer a tight smile in response to, slipping past the creaking doorway and up to your shared bedroom. 

Shared with Jae, not Chris.

And no, Jae wasn’t a buffer. A substitute until you could muster courage to confess, to shout the aches and pains and torment your messy love prompts.

More often than not, Jae has been a lighthouse, helping you venture through the fog of feelings muddling your mind, decisions.

Hell, you don’t know half of what you’re doing.

So many adult responsibilities are manageable, but love provides its own labyrinth no matter the age, never a mere math equation, a problem and solution.

But with loopholes, and heartbreak, and stupidity, and impulsiveness. 

Confusion and sadness and guilt, these gut-wrenching feelings keeping someone up at night.

Like tonight, where your eyes stare daggers into the guest bedroom’s wall across from you. A wall lacking Chris’ swim posters, medals. The old nightlight still plugged into the outlet, once prominent galaxy patterns faded into nothingness.

There for the memories, it was.

Is that what you and Chris were now? A night light still plugged into the wall, left there like some somber source of recollection to look back on?

You hate how your stomach dips at the thought, the nausea building in your throat causing you to roll over, now face-to-face with a snoring Jae, limbs strung like a starfish across the mattress.

Luckily, sleep wasn’t too far away for you either, though it felt like an eternity before your consciousness fully dissipated. 

“Oh… Oh my Go-“

Your arms lift above your head, reaching for something you don’t even know. Reprieve, possibly, amid the tingling of your body, the fuzziness of your head. 

After months of dreamless nights, of course it’s a dirty dream.

Then an involuntary shift occurs through your body, hand extending towards the boy’s hair. And for a moment, it seems your dream-like vision flickers like a faulty lightbulb, because all you can see is Chris.

Somehow, you know it isn’t Chris, but Jae. Nevertheless, he’s the only face you can make out, the only form recognizable.

Although his name wasn’t explicitly uttered, the horror etching itself into your bones merely mouthing it has you reeling back into reality.

Not Chris’s bedroom, but your dorm room.

Not his chocolate irises meeting yours when you look down, the gentle reassurance in his warm palm, grasping the back of your thigh to offer a grounding squeeze. 

This is Jae. This dream is in Brisbane. And Chris is a whole ten-hours away. 

Your second day at the beach house, you wake in a cold sweat.

And right there, sixteen really did fade away.

“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”

Apparently, on a rather comical note, Jae had anticipated your form to be standing by the stove preparing breakfast, his sleep-ridden frame the last to wake up.

Mrs. Jessica had already busied herself driving Hannah to spend the summer with their grandparents, her own annual ritual.

Trust, he wasn’t all too pleased to find Chris there instead, the pan-wielding man granting your boyfriend a venomous stink-eye.

“Sorry, I don’t play housewife,” Your slumber-ridden mumble from the countertop’s stool beckons Chris’ slight snort, pointing the spatula to himself as if clarifying a: “That’s me, the housewife”.

That, paired with containing a huff of laughter watching your form peering into the fridge, hoping the next time you’d open it up a delectable dessert would be there.

To no avail, evident in your dejected grumble.

“Hey,” The curly blond scowls, his frown growing imperceptibly deeper when Jae presses a kiss to your cheek in greeting.

You don’t notice.

“Wait for breakfast, ‘m making omelette how you like. And uh.. I made some other stuff. You can have that, Jae.”

“Thanks,” Sarcasm drips from your boyfriend’s tone, rolling his eyes.

Still on the rocks.

Got it.

“Anytime,” Predictably, Chris feeds off the sarcasm, acting as nonchalant as ever while plating the food and murmuring reminders about waxing his surfboard in the garage.

Further grating Jae’s nerves in turn, you note.

A bigger bite of your omelette feebly manages to redirect the anxiety, the remnants of stringy cheese clinging to your upper lip.

“You’ve got something there.”

Your best friend’s hum rings aloud, reaching to brush the piece of food from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

And for a moment, a memory of the past flickers in your mind. The darkening of a room, now bright after only a second.

A memory. Not the dream last night.

His lips on yours, the quickening of breath, hands squeezing his clothing like a vice and—

“Thanks.”

The words surprise even you, not a forethought in sight. 

And you also don’t notice the cock of Jae’s head, the utter “I dare you” spoken in Chris’ lifted brows, this sneering quirk of his lips offered as a war cry to the other boy before walking past without another word.

One look, and a war had begun.

“We should visit the zoo,” Jae mentions one Sunday while you’re painting your toenails and Chris is absorbed in some video on his phone. 

“You seriously haven’t been to the Sydney Zoo?”

Conversations always end like this, and you’re tempted to ram your head into the nearest wall.

“I can’t believe you don’t know how to surf. You’re Australian, seriously.”

“Well I’m sorry I don’t live in my fancy beach house a convenient two minute walk from the beach.”

More bickering, bickering, bickering. Your skull wants to explode.

On an off-handed occasion, maybe they’ll behave tolerably in regards to one another.

That day was not today. Frankly speaking, tonight, where the only responsible person in the household, Jessica Bahng, had left on a work trip.

…You would admit, you also aren't immune to stupid decisions.

However, this stupid decision took the cake.

A competition, predictably, but not just mini golf or freestyle swimming; drinking.

From Asahi beer, apple-flavored soju and hard liquor, the whole assortment bedecked the coffee table, an already tipsy Christopher Bahng swaying across from you.

Sure, college paved the way for immaturity, but seriously. Seeing who could better handle their alcohol was just sad.

And trust, Chris looked about the epitome of sad (adorable, you forgot to mention) with his flushed cheeks and ears to the frustrated crease of his brows, pupils blown, eyes glossy where they fixate on a victorious Jae. 

Who, in a prideful fashion, tips back another shot of soju with his own, less-tipsy hiccup prior to getting up and stretching his legs, hopefully gathering water in the process.

Nonetheless, Chris just spaces out, evidently inebriated thanks to the unfocused nature of his attention. Fleetingly, his gaze then roved on you, head tipping in a swoon-worthy fashion like some enamored first grader.

Little were you aware just how gorgeous you looked right now from the boy’s buzzed perspective, breath smelling of alcohol where he exhales short huffs, lips curving into this dumb-happy smile.

And— he passes out, thankfully already seated on the carpeted floor.

Though, leaving you and a grumpy Jae with the responsibility of lugging him onto the couch, letting sleep help sober him up until you (considering your boyfriend did everything in his power to avoid interaction with the blacked out Chris) took the role of coaxing sips of water into his mouth.

By midnight, all the glasses had been cleared, and you adjusted a blanket over Chris’s drunken, sleepy frame, Jae already preparing for bed upstairs.

“I love Berry.” A whisper, and you crane to catch the remnants of his words before he shifts beneath the blanket, dead silent for a minute or two. 

Then he rolls over to face you, sporting a downright longing sort of look.

“.. I really love Berry.”

“You said that already, Chris.”

“Okay.”

And he rolls over like it was all a dream, pouty.

Too cute.

Your fond touch smooths coiling strands of hair from his forehead, sparing him a last glance prior to thumping up the stairs.

That night, lying sleepless in bed, you can’t help but wonder:

How much more of this? For both them and you. How much more competition until the calm facades crack, until your patience snaps?

The flames of a rivalry never seem to wane, each interaction adding gasoline to a heat almost unbearable.

Only a matter of time until someone pours in too much and ignites an inferno.

One week until your visit to Sydney comes to a close, and the two are still at each other’s throats.

Between mundane things like making dinner or cleaning to stupid competitions like who ran the fastest mile in junior high or who can stay underwater the longest (or the drinking competition, a notable contestant), this trip has started to feel like a babysitting gig instead of a vacation.

“Chris-“

“Christopher.” Chris corrects one evening, the snide reprimand earning Jae’s icy glare in return.

Currently seated by your side on the couch once occupied by the blond, Jae scoffs to himself, arm extending to drape over your shoulders.

Meanwhile, your attention remains solely on the nature channel, a bit dazed in exhaustion after a long day of swimming beneath the warm sun overhead.

What makes him bristle is the way Jae leans into your form, pressing a kiss to your temple whilst maintaining sole eye contact with the other man. 

When your head turns, however, all is well.

This quieted, occasionally evident rivalry grates your nerves with no trace of resolve.

“Say,” An aimless hand taps against the side of the reclining chair your best friend sits within, a loose tee and sweatpants adorning his form.

And you’d be a fat liar to not admit glancing more than once at the way the fabric stretches over his torso when he shifts, squeezing against muscles unable to suitably fit.

Merely appreciative, you tell yourself.

“Why don’t we let dear old Jae pick Y/N’s favorite movie, hm?”

Such a mocking question, it is, and Chris spares no expense chucking the remote control in hand a little too hard at Jae, the man’s brows furrowing in silent irritation he refused to voice aloud.

Testing him.

Perhaps a time ago you’d mentioned your favorite movie to your boyfriend, though the topic wasn’t all too serious in your opinion.

For Jae, however, this was war, this unspeakable quiz verifying if he knew you better than Chris, knew the answer the other man knew like the back of his hand and then some.

You both know the champion title would always rest in Chris’s hands. 

That you kept quiet about.

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t know her favorite movie.”

Cocky, Chris is. 

And dammit, the tick of his jaw is unfairly attractive.

“It’s Tangled, now give me the remote and both of you grow up.”

It’s your turn to answer, having grown sick and tired of these childish taunts before snatching the remote from Jae’s grasp with a shared, scolding glower towards the both of them.

Comedically enough, they shrink like dejected puppies.

Fortunately, the movie helps distract you for a while, long enough that a nap becomes a decision not on your own accord—body slumping against Jae’s.

Unfortunately, Jae flipping Chris off from the couch and mouthing a “loser” beneath his breath escalates things to a level you don’t like to imagine.

Perhaps that’s the cause for either black eye decorating their face and Chris’s busted lip the next morning.

.

.

.

Trust, waking up to black and blue boys roaming the house was a sight hard not to laugh at.

“Did you guys.. fight?”

“Fight? I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve got a black eye, Jae.”

By the time the last day rolls around, those arguments, petty behavior, childish games become something you want to hold onto, June and July drifting past too quickly for you to chase after.

And while you had some grasp of their fight three days ago, only half of it has been made knowledgeable.

Chris would like to keep it that way for a multitude of reasons.

The favorite movie of yours served as the gasoline, and you had foretold the inferno to come.

“It’s not my fault you can’t let go of something that was never yours!”

Chris shoves Jae’s suitcase in the back of your car harder than need be, the other boy’s words ringing in his head as if some dreaded deadline.

“She’s- she’s not something to be owned like an object! I don’t want to possess her, I want to love her! And my god if you could get that through your head I think things would become a lot easier for both of us!”

A worthy argument on his own part, Chris would argue.

“You know what needs to get through your head?” Chris recalls the events similar to replays in sports, nearly able to feel the anger that had been coursing through his veins when Jae retaliated.

Storming straight up in his face where they stood on the beach, the night sky as their audience.

“You lost your chance, Chris. Waited too fucking long to confess and now you’re acting like a little kid just ‘cause you didn’t have the balls to say something, get it?” 

Jae spat his name like a cursed pseudonym, and a snort of satisfaction exhales from his frame envisioning the sucker-punch he gave the boy after that.

Followed by the clench of his fist, observing your laughter while talking with your boyfriend from afar.

Boyfriend.

Dammit.

Then the last part, before they both went tumbling into the sand in a mixture of fury-filled shouts and flying limbs.

“She’s not yours, Chris. Deal with it.”

His reply?

“Hurt her, break her heart, and I’ll give you a matching black eye.”

Who knew such a day would come so soon.

Maybe you should’ve known better.

Or that’s what you try to explain to yourself using. Some sad excuse to make up for the scene witnessed just minutes earlier.

Six months, not even half a year, and two months after traveling to Sydney together.

Stopping at crappy restaurants during the boresome ride, cracking jokes, laughing until your bellies hurt. Kissing, sex.

Was it the whole tension with Chris? Your mind rationalizes, frantically searching for some reason, rhyme. 

Trick question. There is no rhyme or reason in love.

Now, Jae professes all of it amounted to nothing while staying silent at the same time.

Him kissing another girl in front of your dormitory proved that.

Cheater.

And within the few minutes you bask in realization, you wish so terribly you could unleash that wrath on him. Scream in frustration or land similar punches the two battered each other with in Sydney.

Kick him in the shins, yell manically enough to scare the sadness out of your body.

But honestly, you just want to cry.

A sharp inhale, battling the sob threatening to run free with the beep of your phone’s keypad, serving as your only companion.

Until Chris picks up the call, and shit.

You break.

“What.. What was I thinking-“

It’s a job and a half sniffling up the cries, and for once, you feel embarrassed calling Chris crying—even with this being far from the first time.

Why involve someone else in your own problems?

Realistically, a part of you knew such a happening both could and, stupidly enough, would occur, knew this placated vision of peacefulness was a meager mask, acting as a film to the truth behind the blurry camera lens.

You can’t stay ignorant to him, and there isn’t a particle of happiness in unrequited pining, no matter trying to ease the pain with someone else who’ll eventually hurt you.

Fuck.

Because you love him. That’s all.

There, said and done. 

In your mind, at least. But saying that aloud results in your tongue feeling like lead, results in more crying.

“Y/N,” His voice, and you feel the coldness in your fingertips warm up, as if wrapped in his embrace. A long, safe hug.

“Answer me two things.”

Your additionally embarrassing, whimpered sound of agreement affirms his offer. 

“Was this Jae?”

No it was—

Yes. Honestly, truthfully, it was. 

No more pretending, excuses. Sixteen was over.

“Mhm,” Wiping your snotty nose on the back of your hand, a miniscule amount of relief comes from leaning against the wall behind you.

“And do you want me there or just want to talk?” That lilt of his tone, tender. 

 He’s good at making you want to cry. Though never due to meanness. 

Sucking in a shuddering breath, you calm your voice as much as possible.

“Here. Here, please.”

Then a realization.

“But you’re, like, ten hours awa-“

“That doesn’t matter. I’ll make it five. Right now, go back to your dorm, get some good takeout, and turn on Tangled, okay? Find something relaxing and don’t think about anything for a moment. I’ll be right there, alright?”

Longing lies in the way you press the phone to your cheek, savoring his voice like a soothing balm.

Let’s go back, let’s try this one more time.

First that time he asked you to prom in highschool, the second in his bedroom, allowing yourselves intimacy with each other for the first time.

You’ve never heard of a third chance before. 

For him, you’re willing to try.

That said, Chris held tight to his word, the rattling truck of his a miracle in managing to get here—no less get here two hours earlier than most did on the drive to Brisbane from Sydney, alerting you from the comfort of your dorm’s bed with its puttering engine and creaking brakes.

Surprisingly, however, he doesn’t spare you a word whilst rushing past, seemingly having chosen perfect timing in rushing to the dorms where a rather unlucky Jae steps out.

You don’t think you’ve heard a more dreadful noise than the crunch of Jae’s nose beneath Chris’s fist, the force alone sending the boy bowling to the ground before he’s being picked up again by the collar, your best friend downright seething.

“What did I tell you, hm?” A growl, his arm poised for another blow you can’t bring yourself to watch. 

“Hurt her, break her heart, and I’ll give you a matching black eye.” Chris repeats, nothing but white-hot rage charging through his veins. 

Jae, satisfyingly enough, looks terrified.

Good, Chris internally muses. Because simply pulling in, he saw all he needed to. The puffiness of your eyes, your shuddering sniffles. 

And all of a sudden it feels like that time in second grade, where Chris and a few of his friends had gotten redemption on the kid who stole your favorite popsicle flavor purposefully.

And for you, you feel like you’re watching that missing-toothed, sunburnt boy stand up for you again.

“I think another black eye might compliment the nose,” He snarls, momentarily catching your gaze.

The subtle shake of your head dissipates every angry instinct simultaneously, deciding to harshly shove Jae back to the ground alternatively and, at last, gather you in his arms for a hug that felt long overdue.

Occasionally you come to think there are connections that reach deeper than love — being the connection of souls in the most intimate of moments. Being your fingertips threading through blond curls, kissing at his lips clumsily—unlearned.

Right now, this hug. Nosing into the scent of his detergent, finding comfort in the place you were meant to be in, the arms you weren’t meant to be held in.

It had always been unlearned, but it was Chris, so you didn’t mind.

Oh, you loved it.

Loved him.

A bloody-nosed Jae could wait, because the last hour of Tangled needed to be watched, and the curl of his fingers in yours coaxed you along without a chance of stopping.

.

.

.

Senior year and soon to be graduates. Grown up, maybe just physically.

“Chris.”

The words are nearly inaudible, drapes of the canopy bed sole privacy to the man lingering above you, blond curls just as you remembered, eyes that same, heart-stopping chocolate hue.

Your hands find themselves reaching up, tentative to touch warm skin. Golden. 

Chris is always golden.

“Please hold me.”

And those arms that were always meant for you, lips kissing at your chin, pulls you into a rip current you had no intention of leaving.

Yours, his.

Messy, unlearned. Down to experience eventual problems.

But it was Chris, so you didn’t mind.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[inseobts]

Things I Never Said - pt.2

shanks x fem!reader (+ platonic luffy x fem!reader)

part 1

after years of running from a love too painful to face, you’re forced to confront everything you tried to bury when you meet your old little friend, luffy... and shanks

words count: 5.0k

a/n: here we aaaaaaareeeeeeee

tags: angst, past love, reunion, bittersweet

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The silence that follows is sharp.

Then footsteps. Measured. Slow. Inevitable.

You see his boots first. Then his long shadow. Then... him. Red hair. Familiar coat. That face. Those eyes.

He stops when he sees you.

Just for a second.

No smile.

No smugness.

Only something unreadable. Something heavy in his eyes. A flicker of something breaking through that confident mask.

You step out from the crates, spine straight, chin high.

“I never liked playing hide and seek with you.” you say, steady as you can manage “You always found me too fast.”

He opens his mouth but you don’t give him the chance.

“Anyway,” you add, brushing off your coat like it’s nothing, “I’m leaving now. I have nothing to do here. And you can’t stop me.”

You walk past him like your knees aren’t shaking.

Like his presence doesn’t feel like the tide pulling at your ribs.

He turns as you pass, quiet.

“…Y/N.”

You stop but you don’t look back.

“I didn’t come here for this.” he says.

“I know,” you reply “You never do.”

Then you keep walking.

One foot in front of the other.

Like if you just keep going, your heart won’t turn back.

You don’t look back but you feel him there. Still. Like a shadow behind your ribs.

The air feels thinner the farther you get, like walking out of gravity and into open space.

You tell yourself this is what freedom feels like.

You lie.

Your boots hit the ground hard as you keep walking. Past the alley. Past the crates. Away from his voice and the weight behind it.

You hear his steps, slow behind you, not chasing, not leaving either.

But then “HEY!!”

You freeze.

So does he.

That voice could only belong to one idiot.

Luffy appears around the corner like a lightning bolt with legs. His straw hat is tilted back on his head, hands on his hips, frowning at both of you like an annoyed big brother.

“You’re both so dramatic!”

You blink “Excuse me?”

He points at you “Running away.”

Then at Shanks “Brooding in doorways.”

Shanks raises a brow “I wasn’t brooding.”

“You were absolutely brooding,” Luffy says “You were doing the squint thing.”

“I don’t do a squint thing.”

“You do...” you mutter, arms crossed.

Luffy claps once, loud.

“Okay. That’s enough. I’m not letting either of you leave until we sit down and have a drink like normal people.”

“Luffy—” you start, already shaking your head.

“Nope,” he cuts in “You’re both stubborn and stupid. So I’m forcing this.”

“I don’t want a drink.” you mutter.

“I do,” Shanks says behind you “I think I deserve one after being lied to by entire towns.”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. He just smiles faintly.

Luffy grabs both your arms.

Not gently.

You both stumble slightly as he drags you toward a bench at the side of the restaurant, one of the little outdoor tables.

“Sit.” he says.

You hesitate.

So does Shanks.

But the look Luffy gives you is impossible to argue with.

It’s not angry. It’s not desperate.

It’s… hopeful. And that somehow hurts more.

You sit.

Shanks sits too.

You stare at the table like it just insulted your mother. He leans back like this is all just fine.

Luffy plops down across from you both, already calling out to someone inside for drinks.

“You’re both gonna thank me later” he grins.

You sigh.

Shanks chuckles.

And for one brief second it feels almost like old times.

Almost.

Three drinks in front of you now.

You haven’t touched any of them.

Shanks is nursing his, slow. Luffy already downed his and is loudly demanding meat from a passing waiter.

You keep your eyes on the middle of the table. Neutral ground.

Safe territory.

Luffy leans forward, grinning like he didn’t just drag two emotionally constipated exes into a forced reunion “So! This is fun, huh?”

You stare at him.

“Luffy,” you say flatly “This is not fun.”

“You will thank me later.” he insists, still too cheerful.

From the next table over, Zoro leans back in his chair like he’s just coincidentally resting while keeping an ear out.

Nami is pretending to polish her bracelet.

Robin is very obviously reading a book upside down.

Usopp is behind a potted plant that’s way too small to hide him.

The only one not being subtle is Sanji, who’s beside you, chin in his palm, eyes practically twinkling.

“So, Y/N-swan,” he says in that velvet-smooth tone, “what are the chances a woman like you is single for good reason and not just waiting for the wrong man to get lost at sea?”

You blink at him.

Shanks’s hand tightens a little around his glass.

“Careful, cook” he mutters.

“Oh? Did I strike a nerve, Red-Hair?”

Sanji beams.

Shanks smiles. His eye doesn’t.

You suppress a grin and finally sip your drink. Just to do something.

“You never liked lemon in your drink” Shanks says casually.

You freeze.

Just a second.

“I changed” you lie, placing the glass down like it didn’t hit the wrong part of your heart.

Shanks hums “You haven’t.”

You roll your eyes “And you still think you know everything.”

“Just the important things.”

You scoff and lean back.

Sanji offers you a lighter drink from his tray “Ignore him, mon cœur. Men like him always think they’re the center of our stories.”

Shanks stares at Sanji like he’s deciding whether to flip the table or just the cook.

“You know,” Sanji says thoughtfully, “it’s not too late to write a new chapter. With better characters.”

Shanks sets his glass down.

Firmly.

Luffy slaps both hands on the table “OKAY!! Let’s talk about something else!”

“Please” you mutter.

“Like—uh—weather!” Luffy tries “Or meat! Or—hey, Y/N, did you ever punch Shanks in the face?”

Shanks makes a sound that might be a warning.

You smirk “Once.”

“Twice,” Shanks corrects “The second time was definitely for something small.”

“You cut my braid off in my sleep.”

“…Right.”

More suppressed laughter from the surrounding eavesdroppers.

Luffy beams, completely ignoring the fire under the surface “See! Look at that! Talking! Bonding! Healing!”

You sip your drink again.

Shanks watches you over the rim of his glass.

And behind his calm eyes, you know exactly what he’s doing:

Waiting.

Waiting for you to stop dodging.

Waiting for the next crack in your walls.

And somehow, that’s more dangerous than anything he’s said out loud.

The drinks are almost warm now.

You’ve said little. Shanks has said less.

But the tension between you is loud enough that the entire table can feel it. Even Luffy’s smile has started to dim.

Then Shanks says something simple, stupid “You still talk too fast when you’re nervous.”

You bristle.

“I’m not nervous” you snap.

He lifts an eyebrow “Could’ve fooled me.”

“You always think you know everything.”

“I just know you.”

“Not anymore...” you shoot back, harder than you meant to “You don’t know me at all.”

A beat.

The crew is quiet.

Then Shanks leans back, casual voice, but the edge is sharp now “No one changes that much. Not even after years of running.”

You slam your glass down “I didn’t run—”

“You hid,�� he cuts in, voice rising “You hid so well the world convinced me you didn’t exist.”

“And what would you have done if I didn’t hide?” you snap “Would you have dropped everything? Left the crew? Given up the sea for me?”

Shanks doesn’t answer.

And maybe that silence is your answer.

You nod, bitter.

“That’s what I thought.”

Then, you say it.

The line you’ve held back for years. The one you promised yourself you’d never say out loud.

“Are you enjoying the sea now that you don’t have a distraction?”

Shanks’ jaw tightens.

He looks at you like he can’t decide whether to shout or laugh or fall apart.

And then his voice cuts through the air like a blade “Are you enjoying the sea now that you run away without saying anything?”

The table goes dead silent.

Luffy blinks “Wait—wait. You left? Without telling him anything?”

You grab your glass.

“I had to,” you say, taking your first real drink since being forced into this “He pushed me to take that choice.”

Shanks’ voice cracks, just slightly “Do you have any idea how much I searched for you?”

You don’t look at him.

“Do you know what it’s like to sail into island after island—asking if someone’s seen you—and getting the same answer every time?”

You stare into your glass.

“‘I don’t know what a Y/N is’” he repeats, bitter “It was like the whole world was under some spell. Like you erased yourself.”

You finally glance up.

“I had to,” you say again, but softer “Because if I didn’t disappear… I would’ve gone back. And I knew I couldn’t survive that again.”

He swallows hard. And for once, he has nothing to say.

Luffy doesn’t speak either.

Nobody does.

Just the sound of waves brushing the edge of the island outside. The weight of everything unsaid finally spoken.

And no one is laughing anymore.

The silence stretches so long you wonder if it’s done.

But Shanks speaks again. Low. Steady.

“…It was that night, wasn’t it?”

You close your eyes.

Don’t answer.

You don’t need to. He already knows.

“That last island,” he says, “with the storm. When we fought.”

You look up “Fought?” you echo “We broke.”

“I didn’t know it was the last time I’d see you.”

“Neither did I.” you say, bitter “Until you made it clear I wasn’t part of your future.”

Shanks frowns “That’s not—”

“You said it!” you cut in “You said, ‘You knew what this was. The sea comes first’. Like I was stupid for dreaming of something else.”

Shanks’s expression hardens.

“You were talking about settling down. Leaving the crew. Staying behind.”

You laugh once, dry, sharp “Leaving the crew? Staying behind? I never said or meant that! I like being a pirate too!!"

"But that's what I understood. What was I supposed to say?”

"Something that sounded less like a goodbye.”

“I didn’t mean goodbye...” he mutters.

“But you didn’t stop me.”

That hangs there.

Heavy.

“I was angry,” you say “I was hurt. You looked at me in the eyes and said, ‘Don’t make this harder’. So I made it easy. I left.”

Shanks grips the edge of the table.

“That wasn’t what I meant. I was trying to—”

“To what?” you snap “Protect me? Spare me? Or just make sure your ship didn’t get messy?”

“That’s not fair.”

“You didn’t want me to stay,” you say, voice cracking, “you just didn’t want to feel bad that I left.”

Across the table, Luffy sits in silence, eyes wide. The rest of the crew is frozen, no longer even pretending not to listen.

You go quiet and then quietly, shakily, you say “You never asked me to belong, did you?”

That’s what broke you.

Not the sea.

Not the danger.

Not even the arguments.

It was being loved like a secret, not a home.

Shanks doesn’t speak.

Not right away.

He looks… older suddenly.

Tired.

“I was afraid” he says, barely above a whisper.

You blink “Of what?”

“That if I made you part of it, if I gave you a place on the crew and in my heart, it’d mean you’d never be safe again. I thought I was protecting you by keeping things… separate.”

He finally looks at you.

“And all I did was make you feel like you never had a place at all.”

Your throat tightens.

Something unravels in your chest, slow and aching.

“…I wanted both,” you whisper “You. The crew. The sea. I would’ve taken it all. I wanted to stay. But not if I had to keep standing on the outside.”

The wind stirs between you. And this time, there’s no one left pretending they’re not watching.

Not even Sanji.

Shanks reaches out slow, uncertain and places his hand over yours on the table.

Not to hold you.

Just to touch. Just to ask.

You don’t pull away. But you don’t squeeze back either.

The tavern is still.

Like even the wind’s holding its breath.

Shanks’s hand is still resting lightly over yours. Warm. Hesitant. Anchoring.

He leans in just a little, not too close, not anymore.

“Y/N,” he says softly “I really spent years looking for you.”

You meet his eyes. There’s no teasing in them now. No charm. Just something raw, stripped down. Real.

“Please,” he says, “don’t run away from me again. Not now.”

The ache in your throat pushes up fast.

And suddenly you’re not just the woman who’s survived all this time. You’re not the pirate, or the legend he once loved.

You’re just a heart that’s still cracked open.

You pull your hand away, enough.

“Shanks…” You shake your head “What am I supposed to do?”

He watches you carefully.

“I’m not who I was back then,” you go on “And you’re… you’re still you. Captain. Red-Hair. Yonko. You walk into places and everyone either runs or kneels.”

“I don’t want you to run” he says.

“Then what do you want?” you ask “For me to follow you again? Be the ghost in the corners of your ship? Watch you put the sea first every time and just smile through it? I did both of us a favour by leaving that day Shanks, and you know it.”

“No,” he says quickly, firmly “I want you with me.”

You laugh, bitter and small “You had me.”

His jaw tightens.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he says “Even when I thought you hated me. Even when I hated myself for letting you go.”

You look at him for a long moment. Really look. And maybe you see the regret and the love.

The years in his face that match the years carved into yours.

You shake your head slowly “I don’t even know how to be in the same room as you without feeling like I’m going to fall apart.”

Shanks gives a small smile. Not cocky. Just sad.

“Then fall apart,” he says “I’ll still be here.”

You turn away before your face cracks again.

And beside you, Luffy doesn’t speak.

But he shifts a little closer. Like he’s guarding both of you at once. Like he knows, more than anyone, what it means to love someone who never stays in one place for long.

The room hasn’t moved in minutes.

Your voice, his voice, the ache still hanging between you and then the door opens again.

A familiar voice cuts through like a tide pulling you out of the moment.

“Y/N?”

You turn quickly. Relief floods your chest before you can hide it “Kale.”

A man steps in. Tall, late thirties maybe. Soft brown hair tied low, broad shoulders, calm eyes that flick to Shanks without hesitation. A hunting knife at his belt, clothes worn but clean, a local, someone who belongs here.

He doesn’t bow. Doesn’t shrink.

He walks right to you.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low. Familiar. Like he’s said that a hundred times before “I saw the ship. Figured it was his.”

Shanks shifts slightly. His jaw is tight.

Kale looks at him again, and this time it’s not just curiosity, it’s caution. Not fear.

Protection.

You smile at him and nod “I’m okay.”

“Sure?” Kale asks again, not breaking eye contact “Because if you’re not, we can go. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

You reach out and touch his arm “I know.”

The touch isn’t flirtatious. It’s grounding. But it says enough.

Enough to make Sanji, from the corner, freeze mid-flirt.

Enough to make Shanks lean back, arms crossed, not blinking.

“I told you I could handle it.” you add gently.

“And I told you,” Kale says with a faint smirk, “that I don’t trust pirates with unfinished business.”

You laugh under your breath “You don’t trust anyone.”

“Only you.” he says.

And that... oh, that lands.

Shanks’ voice is quiet, but heavy “So… this is what you built while hiding from me?”

Kale turns to him, calm and unshaken “No. This is what she built when she healed from you.”

You step in, quick, before it escalates “Kale…”

But he looks at you again, and this time, there’s no challenge. Just care.

“I’ll wait inside. If you need me, you know how to whistle.”

Then he’s gone.

The silence after he leaves is loud.

Shanks doesn’t speak right away.

You stare at your hands.

“He knew about me?” he asks finally.

You nod “Of course he did. I told him the truth.”

Shanks tilts his head “You trust him that much?”

You look up, sharp “I trust him more than I’ve trusted anyone in years.”

He swallows.

And the jealousy is there, not in rage or possession, but in the realization that someone stepped in where he chose not to stay.

Someone didn’t ask you to stay in the shadows.

Someone just stayed.

Shanks is still staring at the door Kale just walked through.

Like his mind’s caught up in a different battle now.

He finally speaks, voice low but tight.

“So…” He glances at you “What is he to you?”

You exhale hard through your nose “Don’t.”

“Just a question.”

You spin slightly to face him, arms crossed “He’s someone who’s always had my back. Someone who never made me feel like a burden.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You narrow your eyes “I know what you meant.”

His jaw tightens.

“I’m not jealous” he lies.

You snort “You’re not even trying to sound convincing.”

He opens his mouth, but you’re already stepping back. Putting distance between you and the table. Between you and everything that hurts.

“You have no right to act jealous now,” you say sharply “It’s been years since we broke up.”

The words hang in the air, sharp as a blade.

And then, quieter, you add, “You lost that right the night you let me go.”

You take another step back. You don’t want to be here anymore. Too many eyes. Too many ghosts.

You turn.

But two hands, one on each side, stop you.

Luffy, on your left, tugs at your sleeve gently “Wait.”

Shanks, on your right, steps forward “Don’t go.”

You look between them, your face tired. Not angry, just worn down.

“What do you guys want from me?”

No one answers right away.

The silence feels heavier than any fight.

And so you go on, voice cracking just a little.

“You want me to pretend nothing happened? That I didn’t disappear from the world because I couldn’t take being near him anymore? You want me to sit here and smile and drink and forget that the reason I kept running wasn’t because I hate him—it’s because I don’t?”

Luffy’s eyes widen.

Shanks’ breath catches.

And before either of them can say anything, you finish, soft and bitter “You want the truth? Fine. There’s nothing between me and Kale. Never was. He’s not my lover. He’s not my man. He’s just the one who stayed when I couldn’t move on.”

You look at Shanks then.

Full eye contact.

And he looks like you just hit him in the ribs. But he doesn’t speak.

He can’t.

The silence is unbearable.

Their eyes are still on you, Luffy’s wide and stunned, Shanks’… broken. Like he can’t even breathe, let alone respond.

You blink hard.

Then grab the drink in front of you and toss it back, barely tasting it.

It burns. Good.

You slam the cup down and breathe in like you’re preparing for battle.

You are.

“I’m too drunk now,” you say, voice louder than it should be, “so let’s tell you aaaaall the truth.”

Sanji opens his mouth but Zoro elbows him in the ribs before he can flirt again.

You keep going, swaying slightly, but steady enough to tear your heart out in one piece.

“You wanna know why I kept running every time your ship got near? Why I changed islands like shirts?” You point a shaky finger at Shanks, who doesn’t even flinch “Because I knew... I knew that if I saw you again, it’d break me.”

You’re trembling now.

“Because I’d forget everything you ever did to hurt me. Every night I cried on a ship with no one but the stars to scream at. Every port I walked through wondering if maybe this was the place I’d finally stop missing you.”

Luffy’s lips are parted. He wants to say something, but you don’t let him.

“I knew,” you say, quieter now, “that I’d fall to my knees and go back to being the fool who would do anything... give everything... just to be near you.”

You shake your head, your voice warping, breaking “And I tried to move on. You don’t know how hard I tried. You think I didn’t want to forget you?”

Shanks takes a step forward.

You stop him with a hand raised.

“No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to comfort me now.”

He freezes.

You breathe hard through your nose and go on.

“There were men, Shanks. Dozens. Pirates, marines, doctors, farmers, some of them sweet, some of them strong enough to make the whole town quiet when they walked by. And they wanted me. Many of them. Begged me to give them a chance.”

You look straight at him. No shame. Just the truth.

“But I couldn’t. Because no matter how many stood in front of me, my mind was still full of you.”

That one lands.

You see him flinch.

Your next words are nearly a whisper.

“I never moved on. Because I never figured out how.”

You glance around the table, the room, the crew... all dead silent. Watching a shipwreck in real time.

Then back at him.

You sniff, wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, and laugh bitterly.

“So now you know.”

And then, quieter “Now you both know.”

Shanks finally speaks.

His voice is low, rough “Y/N, I—”

“No.”

You cut him off, sharp. He tries again, but your voice barrels right over his “Don’t. Please don’t.”

He steps back like you struck him. And in a way, you did.

You rake your hands through your hair, pacing a step, heart pounding.

“I’m not done. I’ve waited years to say this, and I’m not stopping now.”

Shanks watches you, silent. Guilty. Wrecked.

You point at your chest “You think this is easy for me? That I wanted this? I spent years building a life without you. Teaching myself to breathe again. Telling myself I’d be fine, that I could do it, that I was stronger now. But—”

Your voice cracks. You blink back tears. Again.

“—but now that I’ve seen you, I don’t know how to leave.”

His jaw tightens.

You gesture wildly to the door “I should’ve been gone by now. That’s how it works! You come, I go. Simple. Clean. Safe.”

You clutch the edge of the table like it’s the only thing holding you up.

“But I saw your face again. I heard your voice. I saw you smile at Luffy like that, and it hurt, Shanks. It hurts. Because I remembered what it felt like when that smile was mine.”

Everyone’s quiet.

Even Sanji.

And then…

Luffy, bless his heart, pipes up “…So, wait, does that mean you still love him?”

You stare at him.

Zoro groans into his drink. Robin sighs. Usopp tries to slide down his seat. Nami mutters “oh my god” under her breath.

Shanks doesn’t even blink, he’s staring straight at you now, waiting for the answer with his whole soul in his eyes.

You just breathe.

One, two, three shaky breaths.

Then “Yeah, Luffy. That’s exactly what it means.”

The table is silent.

Everyone is still processing your answer.

Luffy has the decency to look sheepish “…Sorry.”

You give a weak laugh and shake your head “It’s fine. You’re just being you.”

Shanks hasn’t said a word. You can feel his stare on you.

When you finally meet his eyes again, he looks… different.

Not broken. Not angry. Determined.

“Then don’t leave.”

His words hit you like a wave.

You blink “What?”

Shanks stands, slow and steady, like he’s afraid you’ll bolt if he moves too fast.

“I said don’t leave. Stay. With me.”

“Shanks—”

“I don’t have a speech,” he says, cutting you off, “because I don’t deserve to explain anything. We both know I ruined it. I let you go. I let the sea take me away from the one thing that ever felt like home.”

You freeze.

He steps closer.

“I didn’t come here to find you,” he says quietly “But now that I have—I’m not walking away.”

You shake your head, lips trembling “It’s not that easy—”

“Then make it easy.” he pleads, voice low and full of something rough and raw “Y/N… I’ll stay all the time you need. Or I’ll take you with me. I’ll build a new ship, I’ll burn mine down, I’ll steal an island—just tell me what you need me to do.”

You stare at him.

You’re not sure if your heart is breaking or healing.

Maybe both.

“I’m scared,” you admit “Because you’re Shanks. And I’m just… me. I don’t know how to trust that you won’t leave again.”

He nods once, serious “Then I’ll prove it. Every day. For as long as it takes.”

You look down and whisper, “Why now?”

He steps close enough that you can feel his warmth again “Because I could finally meet you for the first time in years… and you’re looking at me like I still have a chance.”

And maybe you are.

There’s silence again.

Shanks is still in front of you, hand out, heart in his eyes.

Your breath is shaky.

You feel the weight of everything, years of pain, love, longing, anger. All of it pressing down like the sea itself.

You want to say something, you try but nothing comes out. So you just… move.

You step forward, quick and quiet, and you hug him. Hard.

Your arms lock around his shoulders, your face hides in his neck, and for a second, he doesn’t move.

You feel his breath hitch. You hear the sound he makes, like a laugh choked in the middle of a sob.

Then his arms wrap around you, tight. Stronger than you remember. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

No one speaks.

Robin sets her glass down softly. Nami wipes at her eyes like she’s not crying. Zoro just sighs like, finally.

You don’t want to let go and you don’t.

Not until—“NOW KISS!!!”

Luffy... Of course it’s Luffy.

You break the hug just long enough to reach out and sock him right in the face.

“OW! WHAT?!” he cries, holding his cheek.

“That was a perfect moment, you absolute dumbass!” you snap.

Shanks bursts out laughing, forehead against yours now, not letting you go.

“You still hit like a storm” he murmurs.

“And you still talk too much” you whisper back.

But you’re smiling. And he’s smiling. And even if the past still stings…

This feels like the beginning of something better.

You step back, slowly pulling away from the hug. But your hand stays on his chest.

“I’m not saying yes,” you murmur, still catching your breath “Not yet.”

Shanks doesn’t flinch.

“I need time, Shanks. Real time. No promises, no pressure. You show me you still care, and then I’ll decide what to do.”

A wind passes. It’s soft. Gentle. Like even the sea is holding its breath.

Shanks smiles, not cocky, not confident. Just grateful.

“I’ll stay on this island for as long as it takes,” he says “Could be weeks. Could be years. I don’t care.”

You glance up at him, eyes searching.

“I mean it,” he says again, voice low “I’ll wait.”

Later, on the docks, the Thousand Sunny is getting ready to leave.

Luffy’s hugging you like he’s never letting go. He’s full-on bawling.

“WAAAAH!! I don’t wanna goooo! You were so cooool! And this was just getting GOOD!”

You laugh, patting his head “We’ll meet again, Captain. You’re good at finding people.”

“I am!” he sobs harder.

Nami shakes her head “Let him cry it out. He’ll be fine once we hit the next island.”

Robin smiles “You’ve made a mark on him. Not many people do.”

Sanji’s holding your hand dramatically “My lady… if you ever get bored of that red-haired pirate, remember: my kitchen is your castle.”

You snort “Goodbye, Sanji.”

Shanks casually drapes an arm over your shoulder and smirks “Careful, you’re breaking a young man’s heart there.”

Sanji cries harder “I KNOW!!!”

As the Sunny pulls away, you wave until they’re out of sight, Luffy still screaming your name over the sea breeze.

You turn to look at Shanks and say "Okay, now that Luffy isn't here... I'm going to be honest with you. Forget everything I said, I'm leaving."

His face goes pale and then you smile, "Oh I was kidding, don't cryyy!"

"YOU EVIL WOMAN!" he yells faking a pout.

"Too soon?"

"WHAT DO YOU THINK??"

Then you smile at each other and you turn to face Shanks’ crew.

A few of them freeze mid-step when they see you beside him.

Benn Beckman raises a brow “You… brought her back?”

Shanks shrugs like it’s no big deal “I’m taking a break. We’re staying here a while.”

The crew looks at each other.

Roux drops a piece of meat.

Lucky Lou whistles low “Did hell freeze over or somethin’?”

You just smile quietly and walk past them toward the town, boots crunching on sand.

Shanks watches you go. And when his crew turns to him for an explanation, he simply says “She’s the only treasure I ever lost and regretted.”

No one says anything after that.

Because they all get it now.

Tag List: @matronofthevoid - @thatanonymouschocolate - @gakkaiisnotgappy

[stargrillzz]

THAT WAY

SUMMARY: You can’t keep up with Bucky's ways.

NOTE: I changed absolutely everything about this profile, but I love this new aesthetic and vibe. xoxo

There was something haunting about 3 a.m. at Stark Tower.

The entire place, usually pulsing with the low hum of life and tech and Tony’s endless inventions, was completely still. The kind of silence that rang in your ears like a warning — or a memory. Everyone was asleep. Everyone except him.

Bucky Barnes sat on the edge of his bed like a statue carved from history and hurt, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Sweat clung to his temples. His dog tags were cold against his collarbone. The shadows stretched across the floor like they were trying to reach him, pull him back. Every time he closed his eyes, Hydra's claws were waiting. The screaming. The pain. The way he could feel the metal biting into his bones. The way his own hands, coated in blood he hadn’t chosen, still felt too real. His throat was dry. His heart was loud.

And then there was you. His fingers hovered near his door, hesitating. He knew it was late — insanely late — but… he also knew you’d open. You always did. Like a warm light behind fogged glass, you never turned him away. Still, he knocked softly, almost ashamed of himself for needing you again.

The hallway was quiet, and for a second he thought maybe tonight, you wouldn’t answer. But the door creaked open not even five seconds later, and there you were — sleepy eyes, hair messy, wrapped in one of those oversized Stark-branded hoodies you always stole from the laundry pile. You blinked at him, voice still hoarse from sleep. “Buck?”

He looked at you — eyes heavy with guilt, with something softer behind it. “I… shit, I’m sorry. I know it’s late. I just—” You stepped back immediately, swinging the door wider. “Don’t apologize. Come in.” He gave a breathy nod and stepped into your room, his broad shoulders brushing against yours. The air was warm, soft. Your room always smelled faintly like vanilla and something calm, like safety. You closed the door gently behind him, voice quiet. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t even try. I knew what was waiting.” You didn’t push for details. You never did. He loved that about you. You always gave him space when the rest of the world tried to dissect him. You moved toward your bed, crawling under the covers and patting the empty space beside you. “Do you want to stay here?” Bucky looked at you — really looked at you — and then just nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He sat down carefully beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this — climbed into your bed after a rough night, curled into your warmth like it was the only thing that made sense — but this time, it felt heavier. His silence was louder. You both lay down slowly, facing each other under the covers. The space between your bodies was small, but the tension between you? It filled the room like fog. His eyes searched yours — deep, quiet, like they were trying to memorize every inch of your soul. You couldn’t breathe for a second. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. His eyes said so much — exhaustion, pain, but also something… softer. Something almost like longing. His voice broke the silence. “I really don’t know why I have you.”You blinked, brows drawing in slightly. “What do you mean?” His voice was low, almost ashamed. “With all the bad things I’ve done… I don’t know how I’m lucky enough to have someone like you in my life.” Your chest clenched. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers brushing lightly over his vibranium wrist before moving to his jaw. “Bucky… you didn’t do all those bad things. And you know that. With everything that’s happened to you — everything you’ve suffered — you have every right to be angry, to shut down, to give up.” Your thumb stroked gently over his cheekbone. “But you don’t. You fight every day. You try. You still care. And that makes you more of a hero than most people I know.” His eyes softened as he stared at you, quiet and unmoving. Your words wrapped around him like a blanket — not one that fixed everything, but one that soothed the ache, made it bearable. He didn’t look away. His metal fingers moved slowly — brushing your hair back from your face, lingering on your jaw. The coolness of the vibranium against your skin made you shiver, but not from the cold. His hand cupped your cheek as if you were something fragile — or sacred. He whispered it so softly, like it might break in his throat. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Your breath caught. And before you could answer — before you could figure out whether that meant what it sounded like it meant — he tugged you forward, arms wrapping tightly around you, burying your face into his chest. His chin rested on the top of your head, and he exhaled like the weight of the whole world had just let go. Your arms wrapped around his waist, squeezing gently. You could feel his heart — steady now. Safe. Neither of you said another word. But neither of you needed to. Because even though he wouldn’t say it — not yet — he meant it. And so did you.

The air in the training room was warm — not just from your fire-imbued abilities that occasionally flared mid-fight, but from the way your laughter filled the space like sunshine.

“Come on, Cap, you’re losing your edge,” you teased, breathless, as you ducked under Steve’s punch and slid behind him. Your palm tapped lightly against the center of his back. “Point for me.”

Steve turned, grinning wide. “I’m letting you win. You’ve got a reputation to uphold, after all — Firecracker.”

You groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s fitting,” he smirked, circling you. “Explosive temper, hot hands, and an unfair amount of style.”

Your grin widened, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “That was almost smooth.”

“I’m working on it.”

You both lunged at the same time, arms clashing in a flurry of practiced blows and counter-movements, years of sparring translating into something that felt more like dance than combat. You’d always had this playful rhythm with Steve — easy, comfortable. He was the one who had pulled you out of the burning wreckage of that HYDRA facility two years ago. The one who had looked into your terrified, half-conscious eyes and said, “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” Since then, he'd been your constant, your big brother and sparring partner rolled into one.

But sometimes, the flirting slipped in. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe just how close you always got in combat. Or maybe — if you were honest — it was to poke at a certain ex-assassin’s nerves. Not that he ever gave you any clear reason to.

Not yet.

You didn’t even notice Bucky when he entered. Not at first. You were too caught up in your fight, in the way Steve’s hands had suddenly locked around your waist from behind, your back flush to his chest.

“Gotcha,” he whispered near your ear, breath brushing your neck.

You laughed, your head tilting slightly into his shoulder. “Dirty move.”

“You love it.”

You did, a little. The intimacy of it. The warmth. The way it let you forget everything else for a second — the nightmares, the pressure, the endless missions. For a moment, it was just sparring and shared smiles and sweat-soaked comfort.

But then, something shifted.

The tension in the room thickened like smoke.

Bucky stood across the gym, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, jaw sharp and unmoving. He wasn’t punching the bag anymore. Wasn’t training. Wasn’t pretending to be casual. His eyes were locked on you. No, not you — on Steve. On the way Steve held you.

You could feel it — that slow-burn crackle under your skin, like you were about to combust. And this time, it wasn’t your powers.

You quickly twisted out of Steve’s grip, a little too quickly, and he stumbled back. His foot caught on the mat and he fell flat on his back, groaning with exaggerated pain.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh my God—are you okay?” you giggled, kneeling beside him.

Steve blinked up at you dramatically. “You did that on purpose. Wanted to be on top, huh?”

Your eyes went wide. “Steve.”

“What? I’m just asking how long you’ve been waiting for a moment like this.”

Your jaw dropped, but the shock dissolved into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Captain, I didn’t know you had a mouth like that.”

He grinned, hands behind his head. “You don’t know how I have so many things.”

That was the moment the tension cracked.

A sharp, deliberate cough came from across the room.

You turned. Slowly.

Bucky was standing by the bench press now, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable. But his eyes — God, his eyes — were molten.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked flatly.

Steve propped himself up on his elbows, still smirking. “Just training.”

You pushed yourself off Steve’s chest, suddenly feeling like a spotlight had been thrown on you. “Yeah, um… I just discovered a side of Steve I didn’t think I’d ever see.”

Steve laughed again. “It’s a shame we don’t spar more often.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. His tone didn’t change.

“Can you get off of him?”

Your heart jumped. You blinked. “We were just—”

“Calm down, Buck,” Steve cut in, casually wiping the sweat off his brow. “We’re literally in the training room.”

“Whatever.” Bucky didn’t wait for a response. He just turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving a trail of heavy silence behind him.

You stood there for a second, unsure what to do. Your stomach fluttered — not with excitement, but something between confusion and hope. Because Bucky Barnes had looked at Steve Rogers like he wanted to end him. And for the first time in a long time, it meant something.

Steve chuckled beside you, brushing off his shoulder as he stood. “Jealousy, thy name is Barnes.”

You stared after the door, still frowning. “But… why would he be jealous?”

Steve gave you a look, one brow raised. “Seriously?”

“I mean, he’s—he doesn’t act like—”

Steve tilted his head. “He doesn’t act like he’s in love with you?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked away.

“I’m just saying,” Steve added, his voice gentler now. “That man barely speaks to anyone. He barely looks at anyone. Except you. And when he looks at you… it’s like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years.”

You swallowed hard. The words sat heavy in your chest.

Outside the gym doors, down the hall, Bucky’s footsteps echoed away. But all you could think about was the way he’d looked at you — and the way he hadn’t stayed to explain himself.

You didn’t know what was happening. But maybe… maybe he felt it too. And maybe that was what scared you both the most.

The hallway was silent, except for the soft echo of your bare feet on the metallic floor. You were still wearing your training clothes, an old sweatshirt tied around your waist, your heart pounding as if you’d just run ten flights of stairs. You didn’t know exactly why you felt like this. You just knew you weren’t going to sleep until you talked to him.

You crossed the empty common room, passed the couch, and stopped in front of his door. You hesitated. Just for a second. But then you knocked—twice, quickly, like doing it slower would give you time to back out.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Bucky stood there. Shirtless, wearing the gray lounge pants he used to sleep in, hair slightly damp, like he’d splashed water on his face to calm down. Or to cool whatever he’d been feeling earlier.

His eyes dropped to meet yours, but he didn’t say anything.

“Can I come in?” you asked, voice firm—even though that wasn’t how you felt inside.

He stepped aside without a word, letting you walk in. The room smelled like wood, something clean and warm and his. Dense. Familiar. Like the way he made you feel.

You closed the door behind you.

“Are you gonna tell me what that was about?” you asked, turning to face him.

He crossed his arms, looking down at the floor for a moment. Then he lifted his eyes to yours. They were dark. Intense.

“What was what?”

“What happened in the training room. The way you looked at Steve and me… the way you spoke to me. Cold. Sharp. Like you wanted to rip me out of there.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, his metal arm flexing like it was burning inside.

“I didn’t like it.”

“What didn’t you like?”

“You two.” The words shot out like a bullet. Then, softer: “Being that close. Laughing. Touching. Flirting.”

His eyes locked on yours like he was searching for something—something he couldn’t say yet.

You frowned, feeling a twist in your stomach.

“What do you mean flirting?” you asked, your voice quieter.

Bucky stepped toward you. Then another step. Barely noticeable, like he didn’t even realize he was moving. But by the time you noticed, he was already in front of you. Inches away.

You could see every little scar on his face, the crease between his brows, the slight tremble in his lips when he opened his mouth to speak but bit down because the words wouldn’t come.

“I didn’t like the way he touched you,” he finally admitted. “I didn’t like that you laughed with him like that. That you looked at him like…”

“Like what?”

“Like he was the only one who could make you feel that way.”

The air stilled. Your chest rose and fell fast, like you’d been running. The room felt smaller. He felt closer. Everything felt too intense.

“And why does that bother you?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at your lips. His breathing was quicker. His human hand lifted, slowly, shaking just a bit, rising toward your cheek… then stopped halfway.

“You know why,” he said. Almost too softly to hear.

“No,” you lied. “I don’t.”

He stepped even closer. And now there was no space left between you.

His nose brushed against yours. His breath warm on your skin. His voice, low and broken:

“Because I don’t want anyone else to have you like that. Because when I see you with someone else, something inside me cracks. Because I want to pull you away and tell you that you’re mine, even if I’ve never had the guts to say it.”

Friday nights in Stark Tower had become something sacred. No missions. No training. Just badly cooked takeout, too many drinks, and a dangerously competitive round of Uno or Mario Kart with some of the most powerful people on Earth.

You were curled up on the couch between Sam and Wanda, a blanket draped over your legs, your hand deep in a bowl of popcorn you were definitely not sharing. Steve was across from you, tossing back a beer and trying to pretend he didn’t take this game as seriously as his old war strategy briefings.

Bucky, as always, sat slightly apart from the group—on the edge of the loveseat that no one else dared to sit on, sipping slowly from a glass of whiskey, arms crossed over his chest like he wasn’t trying to have fun, but still... never missed a Friday.

You didn’t mind it. You knew better than anyone: Bucky liked to observe before he jumped in. He always had.

Tonight’s game was Truth or Dare—Tony’s idea, naturally, because if he couldn’t humiliate his teammates once a week, he might explode.

“Alright, Witchy,” Sam grinned, nudging Wanda. “Truth or dare?”

Wanda smirked. “Dare.”

Sam leaned in like he was about to expose a national secret. “I dare you... to tell us your most inappropriate Avenger crush.”

Groans and laughter erupted instantly.

Wanda looked amused. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The people need to know,” Tony chimed in, way too invested.

Wanda took a dramatic pause, then raised her eyebrows in your direction. “You. Obviously.”

You nearly choked on your popcorn. “Me?!”

“You literally set things on fire when you get emotional,” she teased. “That's hot. Literally.”

The whole group burst into laughter, including you. Even Bucky huffed a small laugh from his corner.

You smiled and leaned into Wanda’s shoulder. “Flattered, but also terrified.”

“Alright, alright, your turn,” Sam declared, looking at you.

“Fine,” you said, brushing popcorn salt off your hands. “Steve. Truth or dare?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Truth.”

“If you weren’t a superhero,” you asked, “what would you be doing with your life right now?”

There was a pause. A soft shift in the mood.

Steve leaned forward, suddenly sincere. “Something quieter,” he said. “A quiet life. Maybe painting. I used to sketch a lot before the war.”

There was a collective silence.

“Wow,” Clint muttered. “Way to ruin the mood, Cap.”

That broke the tension, and everyone laughed again.

You leaned back against the couch, smiling, and turned your head toward Bucky—

And froze.

He was already staring at you.

Eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even aware of it. There was no mistaking it this time—not a glance, not a passing look. This was different. His gaze was deep, unmoving, and there was something in it—something warm and aching and maybe even a little broken. Like you were the only thing in the room he could see.

Your breath caught. Your heart stuttered.

And then, in the span of a blink, he shifted. Looked away. Took a sip from his glass like nothing happened.

You stared at him, stunned, your pulse still racing. Did no one else see that? Did you imagine it?

He looked over at Steve, then at Tony, pretending to be part of the group again.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Minutes passed. People changed seats. Someone spilled beer. Wanda was now trying to get Steve to admit he owned flannel pajama pants. But you couldn’t let it go.

Later, when the crowd finally began to scatter—some drifting to the kitchen, others calling it a night—you slipped away down the hallway, almost without thinking. You didn’t even knock. You just pushed open Bucky’s door and stepped inside.

He was standing at his window, back to you, nursing what had to be his second or third glass of whiskey.

“You were staring at me,” you said softly, closing the door behind you.

His shoulders tensed. Slowly, he turned.

“What?”

“Earlier,” you clarified. “During the game. You were staring.”

He shook his head, too quickly. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Bucky.”

He looked away. “You were imagining things.”

You took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend like it didn’t happen. I saw you. I felt it.”

He met your eyes then. For a second, everything dropped from his face—the careful mask, the distance, the safety net he always kept between you. And there it was again. That look. The one that made your knees weak and your heart twist.

But then he blinked, and it was gone. Again.

“You’re my friend, Y/N.”

Your heart clenched. “So that’s all it is?”

“That’s all it has to be,” he said quietly.

It happened one night when everything was almost perfect.

The mission was a success. For once, no bruises. No blood. Just tired limbs and adrenaline slowly fading into the quiet hours of the night. Everyone else had gone to bed, but you and Bucky — as always — ended up on the rooftop of Stark Tower.

You sat beside him in silence, wrapped in one of his sweatshirts you’d stolen weeks ago. Your knees were drawn up to your chest. Bucky had one leg stretched out, the other bent, his metal arm resting on it, glinting silver under the moonlight.

The city hummed softly beneath you. But here, above it all, it felt like time had slowed just for the two of you.

He didn’t speak much. He never did. But tonight, he looked relaxed. Safe, even. Something that only happened when it was just the two of you.

You’d been here before. So many times.

But something felt different.

Maybe it was the way his hand brushed yours earlier and didn’t pull away. Or the way he looked at you when you laughed over dinner, like he wasn’t just listening — he was soaking you in. Like he needed to remember it.

Like he wanted to remember you.

You sighed quietly and leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever think,” you whispered, “what it would’ve been like if we met under normal circumstances?”

He turned slightly, his eyes soft. “Like if we were just... two people?”

You nodded. “No Hydra. No missions. No Avengers. Just... you and me.”

His mouth twitched in a half-smile, and for a second, he didn’t answer. Then:

“I think I still would’ve found you.”

The silence between you thickened, heavy with words left unsaid. Your heart pounded in your ears.

You lifted your head, searching his eyes.

And there it was again.

The look.

The one that said everything he never said out loud. The one that set your soul on fire and broke your heart all at once.

His hand came up — slow, hesitant — and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your jaw, his thumb tracing your cheek like he was memorizing you. Again.

You tilted your head slightly into his palm, eyes locked with his. Inches apart. So close you could feel his breath.

You had been avoiding him for days.

The training room? You didn’t show up. Midnight walks? You made up excuses. And last night, when he knocked softly on your door at 2:47 a.m. — when he needed you, again — you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because the truth was, you weren’t okay. Not anymore.

You couldn’t keep pretending that the looks didn’t mean something. That the almost-kisses didn’t hurt. That the words left unsaid weren’t killing you.

So when Bucky finally cornered you in the common room the next afternoon — after you'd brushed him off again — your heart was already halfway to breaking.

He stood across from you, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched like he was holding something in. His eyes searched your face like you were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out anymore.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked, straight to the point.

You didn’t look at him. You were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your tablet, even though your fingers had stopped moving minutes ago.

“I’m tired,” you said.

“You’ve been tired for four days.”

You still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Well, maybe I am.”

There was a long pause.

Then the softest, lowest version of his voice: “Why didn’t you open the door?”

You swallowed hard.

Because if I saw your face, I would’ve broken down. Because I’m trying so damn hard not to love someone who won’t let himself love me back.

“I didn’t feel like talking,” you whispered.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked slightly. “You always talk to me. That’s… what we do.”

You stood suddenly, anger bubbling up in your chest — not at him, not really. At this thing between you that kept building and building and never going anywhere.

“What are we doing, Bucky?” you said sharply. “Because this… this thing between us? It’s exhausting.”

His brows furrowed. “I don’t know what you—”

“Yes, you do!” you shouted, finally looking him dead in the eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean when you act like that.”

He blinked, frozen.

“I know your past,” you continued, quieter now, but each word trembling with the weight of unshed tears. “I know everything you’ve been through. And God, I understand why you are the way you are. You have a million reasons to keep yourself locked up. But you don’t get to pretend like I’m imagining things.”

He stepped forward slightly, lips parted like he was about to say something—anything.

But you didn’t let him.

“No. Don’t. You said it was never gonna happen,” you snapped. “You said it with your words, Bucky. But then you almost kissed me.”

He closed his eyes for a second, his jaw tight with regret.

“And we say we’re friends,” you went on, your voice shaking, “but I catch you staring at me all the damn time. You look at me like I’m the only thing holding you together. And then the second it gets too real, you disappear. Or worse, you pretend like it never happened.”

Bucky’s hands had curled into fists at his sides. His eyes — stormy and heavy — never left yours.

You choked on your next breath, your voice breaking now.

“Friends don’t look at friends that way,” you whispered.

And there it was — silence.

The truth, hanging heavy in the air like fog, like smoke, like a fire no one could put out.

Bucky didn’t move. Not toward you. Not away. Just stood there, stunned, wounded, and too scared to say the words you needed.

So you shook your head, taking a step back, like distance would dull the ache.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said softly. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with being close to you… but never close enough.”

His voice, when it finally came, was so broken it hurt. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” you nodded, eyes burning. “But you did.”

[pomegranatelifethis]

Ding dong

You hugged the rabbit in your lap tighter as you blinked. You were soaked from the rain, but you held back so as not to show anyone that you were crying. As you stood in front of the door, the sound of the car driving away behind you continued to echo in your ears.

The person who left you left without even stopping to check if the door was open.

You held the folder tighter in your hand. It said "To Bruce Wayne - Personal" in capital letters.

The door opened.

"God…" said the old man in a gentle voice. He bent down and came down to your eye level.

"Little lady, what are you doing here?"

You couldn't say anything. You couldn't speak. You just handed over the folder. Your lips trembled, but your tears held back. You pulled your rabbit up a little more. It made you feel safe.

That evening

You were under a soft blanket in the living room. Accompanied by the crackling of the fire, there were people around you that you didn't know but somehow felt warm.

A cheerful person who makes you hot chocolate.

A tough-looking but sweet person who smiles at you without you noticing.

A girl who sits silently and watches you.

And another one who straightens his rabbit, tough but gentle.

They were all looking at you from afar. And in one corner of the room... there was the man reading the folder. His black hair, thoughtful facial expression, and that strange warmth in his eyes when he looks at you.

He left the folder on the table. He took a deep breath. Then he approached you. He sat next to her.

You made eye contact. Something inside him made him feel different.

"I… I'm your father."

When he heard these words, everything inside him became complicated. You tried to understand.

Then you just shook your head. “Okay…” you said in a whisper.

You held your rabbit tightly. He gently caressed her hair.

"You're home now."

Next Days

Life slowly began to take shape around you in the mansion.

Patrul times were now after you fell asleep. Weapons, costumes—all kept out of sight.

You lived in a world of just hot breakfasts, cartoons, coloring books and lots of laughter.

When night came, someone was always with you.

Someone was telling a fairy tale,

Someone was braiding her hair,

Someone was sitting quietly with you, painting.

And every night, a whisper reached his ear:

“Sweet dreams, my little star.”

Every night, while you were in deep sleep, they were out to protect the city. They were wearing costumes, wearing masks, blending into the shadows of Gotham.

But when they returned in the morning, one of them always stopped by your room. They were looking at you with pieces of armor still on them, tiredness in their eyes, but love in their hearts.

And when morning comes…

You just woke up with a new breakfast, a new sketchbook, and lots of hugs.

Because to protect you from the darkness, you had not one but five heroes.

And for you… it was all normal.

Because you were their most precious secret.

It had been about two weeks since you arrived at the Wayne Manor.

Every morning at breakfast, a different face greeted you. Sometimes, it was the smiling boy — the one with slightly messy hair, who always managed to make you laugh. Other times, it was the quiet one, always sitting next to you with black hair. Sometimes, it was the one who would come into the kitchen and ask, "What do you want to eat, little one?" — the one with a slightly furrowed brow, but secretly caring for you a lot.

But they all had one thing in common: They cared about you.

And you had started to get used to them. You were forming bonds with each of them, individually. But it was hard to remember their names, so you had come up with your own nicknames for them in your head:

Funny brother (Dick)

Serious but sweet brother (Damian)

The one who falls asleep but brings chocolate (Tim)

The one who gets angry but secretly makes you laugh (Jason)

That morning, everyone was in the kitchen. The sun had rarely risen over Gotham. As you wrapped yourself in a blanket and climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs, you looked up and glanced around.

"Good morning, everyone," you said shyly.

Dick turned to you: "Good morning, little lady! I’m taking you to school today, are you ready?"

You smiled. "Okay... Funny brother."

Everyone paused for a moment. Tim almost dropped his cup. Damian raised an eyebrow. Jason chuckled.

"Did she just say 'brother'?" Jason said, grinning.

You blushed and lowered your head. But as Bruce walked in through the kitchen door, your eyes locked on him.

He was the quieter, more serious one. But he never missed checking on you at night. And every morning, he would face you with a tired but peaceful expression.

Today, you felt a bit braver.

When he leaned down towards you, you reached out and tried to climb into his lap, blanket and all. He easily lifted you up and wrapped his arms around you.

And you rested your head on his shoulder and whispered:

“Dad…”

There was a silence. It was as if the air in the room had stopped.

In that moment, Bruce’s eyes softened a little more. His embrace tightened a little more.

And he responded with just one word:

“My love…”

Dick wiped his eyes, pretending, as if saying, “I’m not crying, you are!”

Tim was staring at his coffee, though his nose was red.

Jason turned his back, but his shoulders were shaking.

Damian, however, kept looking at you without averting his eyes. For the first time, it seemed like he was proud.

In that moment, maybe for the first time, you truly felt "belonging."

A father.

And four brothers.

You were no longer alone.

[majinbangus]

Maybe...Reader gets real angry at guarddog!ghost and make him sleep on the blanket. Or not letting him on couches/beds.

Because if they want to play it like this, she's alright. Actually, she has a second collar for Johnny.

Maybe

i was wanting to play with this idea ( ͡°( ͡° ͜ʖ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ʖ ͡°) ͡°) -> more here

He's gawping at the sight before him.

"What's goin' on here?"

When Soap came home, he wasn't really expecting anything different. Just you, your dog, and a nice warm welcome back from the both of you. But not this. He was expecting anything else but this.

Kneeling on the ground, below the couch and right next to your feet is Ghost, not in his usual spot on the couch where you would normally be sitting in his lap. Soap raises his brow curiously at the adorable disgruntlement on your face compared to the content amusement radiating off of the lieutenant turned guard dog.

"I'm in the doghouse," Ghost informs, tone oddly facetious considering the obvious trouble he's in with you. In fact, he appears proud when he twists to look up at you from his spot on the ground. "'Parently I was 'barking too much' whatever the hell that means. Just pointed out a few flaws in 'er logic about something."

You're quick to rebuke him. "Hey, I told you if you were going to bark, at least do it properly."

Soap can't hold back his amused smile at how assertive you sound. He looks to Ghost to see his reaction, and instead of acting chastised, there's a flippant sort of glee tinged with arousal when he speaks again, slow and dark, "Woof, woof, pet."

You squint at the endearment, silently debating with yourself if you should do something about the cheek, but ultimately let it slide. Soap shakes his head in disbelief, but also chuckles much like Ghost did. He walks over, stopping by the kneeling man, exchanging a knowing smirk with him.

"Why don't you go easy on the dog?" Soap suggests, taking on a more lenient approach as he pats Ghost's head, sharing an amused look with him. "He's always been a good boy, hasn't he?"

"Woof," Ghost repeats, pointedly looking at you.

"See?" Soap points out. "Obedient!"

"Keep talking and I'll put a collar on you too, MacTavish," You threaten, turning your ire on him. "Make you both sleep on a blanket instead of the bed."

An interesting thought, but as much as he likes seeing this side of you, he and Ghost will have to keep you humble before you bite off more than you can chew.

"Careful, sweets." Soap chuckles lowly, deepening his voice in that way that makes your thighs clench. He hears you gulp and an amused huff from Ghost as he flashes his canines, leaning a shadow over you and forcing you to look up at him from the couch. He lets his smile widen into something a little feral. "I gave you Ghost to take care of because he's good for first time dog owners. He's quick to listen and willing to please, but I don't think you can handle two dogs. Got that?"

You swallow thickly, properly chastened, and weakly nod your head. "Yes, sir."

"Good girl."

-

sorry in this au i think ghost is gonna be the only dog, although maybe you're all a little dog-coded here. also you and ghost would be the only dogs soap likes.

[harmonysanreads]

Thinking of that bath fic and I feel like Phainon would be the type to also touch you with cold feet or hands when you’re trying to sleep in order to tease you, and not let you move when you want to flinch away because he’s either being a little shit or cause he’s too clingy

Previously.

You were but a step away from melting into the curtain of darkness behind your eyes, a duvetyne cradle that reached out to embrace you — yanked away from it's grasp with a touch that made your whole soul flinch.

You were nowhere near a water source, but the breath you found yourself inhaling felt as if you've been drowning. There's a heat in your cheeks, you realize as the skin comes into the presence of a cool palm, easing you back to reality with its firm grip.

From beyond the veil of blur, you hear something like a chuckle. You turn your head towards the right, eyes getting acquainted with the shadows to realize the source of the smile.

It doesn't even take more than a second for your sleep stricken mind to connect the dots, brows pinching together and a wave of exasperation washing by your face to form a grave frown — Phainon's amusement vanishes quicker than you're capable of blinking.

“Whoa— hold on hold on!” you don't even get to swing one leg out of the side of the bed before he's got a grasp on you, instinct trained by a paranoia you are no stranger to.

“Phainon! Let me go!” you feel his flinch travel to your skin from the insistent grip around your waist. You know that he knows he's screwed up severely by now. He should abide by your order and a part of you gets coated in confusion by the way he ignores it instead, dragging you towards him till you're all but enveloped by him him him.

“I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry...” his mumbles sink into your shoulder, both arms clasped tight around your waist.

You crane your neck behind in an attempt to see his face, futile it turns out to be in front of him getting comfortable in the crook of your neck. “You of all people should know how much I hate being disturbed in my sleep. Do you think you deserve to be forgiven?”

There's a shiver in his nerves, you may not be able to see what expression he's making, but you know you've temporarily robbed him off his breath. Just as you need not see it to understand what goes through his head, he also requires not his sense of sight to picture what look you're giving him.

“I'm sorry, I couldn't see your face clearly and thought you were still awake. The curtains are closed so —” a sharp pinch to his arm shuts down his vagaries. You know it actually didn't hurt at all, he's simply memorized all your non-verbal cues by heart.

You try to twist out of his grasp and this time he clamps down with enough force to knock you out — almost. You blink, stilling in place meeting this desperation again. It was simply a feeling moments ago, but now you're certain there is more to this.

“Phainon...” you call out, careful to only sound stern and not venomous. A whimper rattles your ribcage, convincing you to abandon all anger altogether.

Using what little leverage you have, you try to turn around to face the Hero — understanding that you were not trying to run this time, he lets you. He clings to stubbornness for a bit longer though, keeping his head bowed. You gather his face in your hands, nudging him up.

“Goodness...” you thumb away a tear rolling down, mind blanking in the face of this predicament.

“I'm sorry...” it rings in your head, “I... I was actually checking... if you were still breathing...”

You catch his fall just in time, holding his head steady. Your eyes flit over the streams of pain cascading down his cheeks, his unsteady breaths, the way his fingers still cling to your clothes and you can't even remember why you were angry before.

You free him from your grip and gather him close. Phainon seizes the invitation, practically falling in your arms. You can already feel the fabric around chest dampening from his waterworks, but you can't bring yourself to mind. With some maneuvering, you manage to free one hand to tangle it in his snow white tresses, soothing down the stress in their roots. For a man that usually towers over most, he appeared so... tiny in that moment that it ached in your heart.

He pushed closer still, as if envying even the air that managed to sneak in between you two and you knew, that was just the beginning.

[chansdoll]

방찬 ─── red

[ ⟡ ] ── NSFW, MDNI!  ✁ idol bf!chanx afab!reader , rough sex , no prep , unprotected p in v , safe word used , channie is angy in this this was a request ♡ i hope you like it ! [ 1.1 k words ] ♡ masterlist

after a long, exhausting day, you lay curled up on the bed you shared with your boyfriend, chan, waiting for him to return home. you knew today had been stressful for him—his boss was reviewing the album he had spent countless hours perfecting. if anything needed to be changed, it would mean more late nights, more frustration, and more pressure weighing on his shoulders. chan was a perfectionist, and having to redo something, no matter how small, always put him on edge. 

you and chan had established a free-use dynamic, mostly because it worked for you both. chan was always busy, and nine times out of ten whenever he came home from work you were too tired to fulfill his needs anyway. 

when the bedroom door finally opened, you immediately sensed his agitation. he walked in with heavy steps, his jaw clenched, brows furrowed, and his dark eyes shadowed with frustration. his muscular arms flexed as he set his bag down, veins visible from what you could only assume was an intense gym session—one that clearly hadn’t helped him cool off.

“hi, baby,” you greeted softly, your voice gentle, almost cautious, as you sat up on the edge of the bed.

he barely spared you a glance as he pulled off his beanie, ruffling his damp curls. “hey,” he muttered.

you frowned, setting your phone down and giving him your full attention. “what’s wrong?”

he didn’t answer—not with words. instead, he took a step forward, towering over you, his gaze heavy and unreadable. your heartbeat picked up. chan rarely got truly angry, but when he did, it was intimidating.

before you could say another word, his hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks as he crashed his lips against yours in a rough, desperate kiss. you gasped in surprise but quickly melted into him, sensing his need for release. his hands roamed your body, and soon, he had you pinned beneath him, his palm wrapping around your throat in a loose but firm grip. his frustration poured into every movement—the way his fingers dug into your skin, the way his hips pressed insistently against yours.

without warning, he flipped you onto your stomach, tugging your nightgown up and your panties down in one swift motion. you barely had time to process before a sharp smack landed on your ass, making you jolt with a soft gasp.

the sound, the reaction—it only seemed to fuel him. his large hands kneaded the flesh before teasing the entrance of your cunt with the head of his cock. your breath hitched, and you gripped the sheets.

“chan—”

another slap, harder this time. then, without hesitation, he pushed into you, stretching you in one deep thrust. you whimpered, trying to glance back at him, but he gripped your hair, pressing your face into the mattress as he set a relentless pace.

there was something different about him tonight—something almost dangerous. he wasn’t speaking, wasn’t checking in. his grip was unyielding, his thrusts forceful, his touch rougher than usual. the air felt thick with his frustration, and suddenly, an unsettling feeling crept into your chest.

your breathing became labored, not just from the overwhelming sensation but from the way he pressed you down, restricting your movement. the usual pleasure was overshadowed by discomfort.

“ch—chan,” you tried to speak, your fingers clawing at the sheets. he didn’t respond.

your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

“r-red! red!” you gasped out, your voice strained.

his body went rigid the second the word left your lips. the haze of frustration clouding his mind lifted in an instant, replaced by something colder—dread. his grip on your hair released immediately, his hands pulling away as if he had touched something scalding.

“shit,” he breathed, scrambling to move off of you.

you took in a shaky breath as you finally had room to move, your fingers still gripping the sheets like a lifeline. chan hesitated before gently touching your back, his voice softer now, laced with guilt.

“baby… are you okay?”

you turned over slowly, your chest rising and falling as you tried to steady your breathing. his eyes were wide, no longer dark with frustration but filled with worry. his lips parted as if to say something else, but he clamped them shut, jaw tightening as the weight of what had just happened sank in.

you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “you weren’t listening to me.”

his heart twisted painfully at that.

“i know,” he murmured, running a hand through his curls in frustration—this time, not at his job, but at himself. “i wasn’t thinking—i wasn’t in the right headspace. fuck, i should’ve stopped before we even started.”

he reached for you, but you flinched just slightly. barely noticeable, but to chan, it was like a knife to the chest. his stomach dropped. had he really scared you?

his hands curled into fists, his nails pressing into his palms as he forced himself to stay still, to not touch you until you wanted him to.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

your eyes softened at the raw remorse in his expression, but the lingering unease in your chest made you hesitate. you had always wanted to be there for him, to help him through his stress, but tonight had been different.

“i know you didn’t,” you said softly. “and i want to help you, chan. i always do. but… you were too rough this time. i was scared.”

his breath caught in his throat.

scared.

he felt sick.

chan swallowed hard and finally reached out, slower this time, giving you the chance to pull away. when you didn’t, he gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a silent apology.

“i’m so sorry,” he murmured. “i let my frustration take over, and i wasn’t thinking about you—about us.” he exhaled shakily, his other hand moving to lace his fingers with yours. “that’s never going to happen again. ever.”

you squeezed his hand lightly, finding comfort in his warmth, in the sincerity in his voice. “i trust you, chan,” you said. “i just need you to talk to me. if you’re upset, tell me. we’ll figure it out together.”

his eyes glistened, and he nodded, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “i will,” he promised. “i swear i will.”

he pulled you into his arms, holding you close, letting his warmth surround you as he gently rocked you back and forth. you felt the tension in your body slowly melt away as you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“i love you,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

you sighed softly, your fingers curling into his shirt. “i love you too.”

and as chan held you, he made a silent vow to himself—to never let his anger blind him again.

taglist: @ritsmith @bluesungology @jeonginsleftcheek @babigriin @tirena1 @nickgurl4life

©chansdoll do not repost, translate, or copy my works in any way, shape, or form.

[bookshelftreasures]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Summary: You've been sick for days, feverish and freezing, but you didn't want to bother Azriel. When he finds out, he's less than pleased—and determined to keep you warm, shadows and all.

Word Count: 504

Warnings: Fever/illness, physical illness, slight angst but mostly fluff

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

The fever had settled into your bones, sinking deep, turning every breath into a struggle. Your body burned like fire, yet a bone-deep chill wrapped around you, making you shiver uncontrollably.

The blankets weren't enough. Nothing was.

You weren't sure how long you'd been curled up in bed, caught in a feverish haze, but the room was dark, save for the flickering candlelight on your bedside table. The sound of the wind rattling against the windows sent another shudder through you, your body too weak to do anything but endure it.

You barely registered the door opening and soft footsteps padding across the floor. Then—warm fingers, cool against your burning skin, brushing damp strands of hair from your face.

Azriel.

Your eyes fluttered open, blurry at first, before focusing on the shadowsinger kneeling beside your bed. His brows were drawn together, golden-brown eyes scanning you with a sharp intensity that made your stomach flip.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was quiet but edged with something firm.

You swallowed, throat dry and raw. "Didn't... want to bother you," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You are never a bother."

Another violent shiver wracked your body, making your teeth chatter. You curled in on yourself, gripping the blankets tighter, but it did little to stop the cold that seeped into your bones.

Azriel was moving before you could register what was happening. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Then, without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as if you were made of glass. His wings shifted slightly, curling inward, shielding you from the cold air of the room.

The warmth of him seeped into your skin, into your very bones, like a fire thawing out ice. His scent—night-chilled wind, cedar, and something inherently Azriel—wrapped around you, soothing, grounding.

"You're freezing," he muttered, voice laced with something rough, almost angry—but not at you. At himself, maybe. At the face that you had suffered alone.

His shadows stirred, curling around you like an extra layer of warmth, slipping beneath the blankets and ghosting over your skin with their soothing touch. They moved like sentient things, pressing against you wherever the cold had burrowed in too deep, and you sighed, finally relaxing into his embrace.

"I've got you," Azriel whispered, his hand smoothing up and down your back in slow, gentle strokes. "Just sleep, I'll keep you warm."

The fever still clung to you, but for the first time that night, you weren't shivering.

Your head rested against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Strong. Certain. Warm.

Azriel—deadly, cold, unshakably Azriel—had the warmest heart of anyone you'd ever known.

And as you drifted into sleep, safe in his arms, you realized something.

That heart beat for you.

[digitaldaydreamm]

Same person from before - I have a req if this is okay! For childhood bestie au :)

Maybe reader being drunk and sad at a party and her girl friends are all trying to help her be less drunk and sad :( and reader really just wants Rafe. (He may have alr been at the party or comes to it from his house) and stays with her to help her feel better and she feels better but becomes a clingy shy drunk for him in front of everyone because she’s embarrassed that she needed him in the first place?

Maybe she’s too out of it to notice but people can clearly see that reader and Rafe have some unspoken thing.

unspoken claim

rafe x childhood friend!reader

| summary | there's nothing wrong with needing your best friend

warnings: drunk reader

a/n: love this concepttttt, clingy reader is me lol. i hope this is what you had in mind!!

masterlist | taglist

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

The party was too much. Too loud, too crowded, too overwhelming.

The bass thumped through your skull like a second heartbeat, every laugh, every slurred conversation around you feeling distant, like you were watching it all happen from underwater.

Your head felt light, the alcohol buzzing through your system, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the ache in your chest.

You had barely touched your drink in the last twenty minutes, just turning the plastic cup between your fingers as you sat curled into yourself on the couch, feeling more and more like you didn’t belong here.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” Kiara’s voice was soft, her brows furrowed as she knelt in front of you.

You blinked at her slowly, fingers tightening around the cup, but you didn’t answer, afraid your tears would spill out of you like a waterfall. She wasn’t the person you wanted to hear from.

Sarah, sitting next to you, sighed. “It’s Rafe.”

Your stomach twisted at the sound of his name.

JJ groaned from the armrest, throwing his head back dramatically. “Of course, it’s Rafe. What did he do now?"

You swallowed, eyes flicking to your lap.

“We argued before I left,” you admitted, voice small.

It felt stupid now, all of it.

You had pushed him, wanting space, wanting to prove that you didn’t always need him hovering over you like some overbearing shadow. That you could go to a party on your own. Be independent. And now, sitting here with an empty drink and a hollow feeling in your chest, all you wanted was to take it back.

Sarah frowned. “You should’ve known he’d get mad about you coming here.”

“...I know.”

JJ scoffed. “And yet, here we are.”

You bit your lip, suddenly feeling small, your fingers twitching against the cup.

You didn’t want to be here.

You wanted him.

Sarah seemed to pick up on that because she pulled out her phone without another word.

Your stomach flipped.

“Wait—”

But it was too late.

You watched, heart pounding, as she typed. A thousand different worries raced through your head.

Was he still mad? Would he even come?

The thought of seeing him, of facing him after how you left things, made your breath catch in your throat.

But the alternative—sitting here, pretending you were fine when you weren’t—felt worse.

So, you waited.

And it didn’t take long.

The moment Rafe stepped into the party, it was like the entire room shifted.

He didn’t look around, didn’t acknowledge anyone else. His gaze went straight to you.

His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but his eyes softened—just barely—the second they landed on you.

Your fingers curled around the fabric of your dress, your stomach twisting.

Is he still angry? Is he going to push you away?

You didn’t know, and that uncertainty made your hands tremble slightly as you fisted the fabric in your lap.

He was already making his way towards you, his presence cutting through the crowd effortlessly.

The closer he got, the harder it was to breathe.

When he finally stopped in front of you, towering over where you sat, you hesitated.

Your fingers twitched. You wanted to reach for him.

But what if he didn’t want you to?

“Hey,” you whispered, barely audible over the music. You felt your eyes water once more, the tears now threatening to spill.

Rafe exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping just slightly. And that was all the encouragement you needed.

The hesitation melted away as you moved, reaching for the sleeve of his dress shirt with shaky fingers.

He let you, didn’t pull away, didn’t move.

That was enough.

You gripped the fabric tightly, using it to pull yourself up, but the alcohol made your movements sluggish, unsteady.

Your body tilted slightly as you stumbled forward, and before you could even register what was happening, Rafe’s hands were on you.

One arm wrapped around your waist, the other gripping your hip, steadying you effortlessly. Your breath hitched at the contact, at the warmth of his touch.

Your fingers clenched in his shirt, your face tilting up to meet his gaze, and suddenly, it was impossible to think about anything else.

“I—” You swallowed, feeling your cheeks heat.

Rafe just shook his head, taking in your intoxicated state, his grip on your waist tightening. “Jesus, kid…”

You hesitated for half a second longer before finally letting yourself sink into him, pressing your face into his chest, your arms wrapping around his torso in a way that was almost shy.

He went rigid for a moment, like he wasn’t expecting it.

Then, his hold on you softened, and he let out a slow, steady breath before wrapping both arms around you completely, his fingers pressing into your back.

You felt yourself relax instantly, melting against him, gripping onto his shirt like he was the only thing keeping you standing.

Maybe he was.

You pressed closer, nuzzling against the soft fabric, your voice muffled when you mumbled, “Missed you.”

Rafe exhaled through his nose, his fingers twitching slightly where they rested against your back.

JJ groaned from the couch. “Are you serious?”

You flushed, suddenly hyper-aware of how tightly you were clinging to Rafe in front of everyone. But when you shifted slightly, he just pulled you closer.

You felt his lips brush the top of your head, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t.”

You swallowed. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like you don’t need me.”

Your breath stuttered. Because, God, you did.

So, you clung a little tighter, buried your face a little deeper into him, and let him take you home.

[strawbbzombwie]

Treasure.

Warnings: This is definitely not historically accurate but I’ll try my best😭 18+ so MDNI!! Emperor geta x fem!reader, Geta is possessive asf, P in v smut, loss of virginity, fingering, breeding kink, creampie, Geta and reader are newly married.

Word count: 1.4k

Notes: This is my first proper time writing a fanfic so I hope it’s alright and you enjoy it!!🫶🫶

~

“You seem nervous.” Geta spoke, snapping you out of your thoughts. You set eyes on your new husband, his back facing you as he set down the chalice of wine he held in his hand.

Your eyes scanned the chambers now belonging to you and him, dimly lit with candles casting a shadow over Geta. The nervous pit in your stomach grew more and more unbearable as time went on. Finally, his eyes met yours.

“Should I be nervous?” You muttered. He smirked at you, his dark eyes gazing into yours and scanning the rest of your body, practically undressing you with his eyes. You wore a white tunic adorned with a golden belt tied around your waist, your wrist covered with a golden bracelet and now a golden ring on your finger.

To Geta, you were an angel sent from the heavens themselves. He felt proud to call you his wife, proud he got to call you his before any other man could. To him, you were his treasure, his most prized possession and his empress.

“Of course not. I won’t hurt you.” He smiled at you, running his hand across your soft skin. You felt his calloused fingers run down your face, his cold rings making you shiver. You looked up at him, smiling back at him. His thumb grazed across your bottom lip. You could feel your face growing warm, the nervous feeling in your stomach disappearing and being replaced with arousal.

He cupped your face in his hand and interlocked his lips with yours, sharing a passionate kiss. His lips felt soft against your own, the sweet but bitter taste of wine now invading your mouth. It felt intoxicating, sharing an intimate moment with your new husband felt comforting to you but the slight ache between your legs grew more agonising the more time he spent kissing you.

His hand left your face, moving to your shoulder and slipping the fabric down and then down to your belt, untying the knot and letting it fall down onto the floor, your tunic pooling around you shortly afterwards.

You felt vulnerable. There you were, completely exposed and at his mercy. You felt his soft lips leave yours and watched as he took a step back to look at you. He looked you up and down, the smile on his face clear as day.

“You’re so beautiful. I can’t believe you’re all mine.” He said, lust dripping from his voice. Those last two words made your knees weak.

“All mine.”

He was right, you were all his. You were his empress, his wife, the mother to his future children. You were his and belonged to no one else. You were his to fuck. To claim. To breed. If anyone else were so much as to look in your direction, he would kill them with his own hands.

“I’m all yours..” you mutter, arousal pooling between your thighs. He grinned, leading you to the bed now belonging to you and him.

“Lay down.” He commanded, beginning to take off his own garments. You obeyed, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him undress. You began to feel nervous again. There was no denying that Geta has had sex before. You on the other hand, were still a virgin. Geta could see the panic on your face and speaks up.

“Don’t worry. We’ll start slow so it wont hurt. I wouldn’t dream of hurting a pretty girl like you.” He reassured you, the praise causing you to hold back a moan. He finally finished untying his belt, also letting his robes fall to the floor. Your eyes immediately went down to his cock. Now you understood why he carried himself with confidence.

He was thick, not too big but big enough to make you feel nervous and he was fully hard, the tip red and angry resting against his stomach leaking precum.

Your eyes widened, brows furrowing in worry as you now realised that this was truly happening, you were about to lose your virginity. Geta walked up to you and sat down next to you, pressing soft kisses on your jawline and down your neck, causing a moan to slip out of your mouth.

“Relax and let me make you feel good” he groaned, his hand caressing your body, resting on your stomach, his rings making you jump.

“Soon enough you will be carrying our heir. The future emperor of Rome.” He whispers in your ear, his warm breath causing you to shiver. He leans down, pressing a kiss onto your stomach and kissing up your body, your tits and eventually back to your neck.

His hand wandered further down until it was between your legs, lightly grazing his fingers across your cunt, causing you to moan out. It was music to his ears. He wanted to make you a moaning mess only for his ears to hear, only for him. It made him proud, knowing he would be the one making you moan and whine in pleasure, knowing he would be the one making you cum around his cock as he continued to fuck you through your orgasms.

His index finger pressed against your clit, beginning to rub it in slow circular motions. Your head fell back and moans of pleasure began to fall out of your mouth. You felt your body grow weak.

“You’re doing to well for me.” He said, a smirk growing on his face as he took his finger off your clit and pressed it against your entrance, feeling your slick coat his fingers. He slowly pushed his finger inside of you, causing you to yelp out. It hurt but the pain was quickly replaced by pleasure as he began moving his finger in and out of you, quickly finding that spot within you that made you grip onto his arm.

You could feel the knot in your stomach grow tighter as he inserted another finger, his palm bumping against your clit. His eyes were dark with lust as his gaze met yours, lips interlocking with one another’s as you came undone with his fingers.

He moved away from you, removing his fingers from you and bringing them up to his mouth, tasting the slick coating them. You whined at the empty feeling but could not take your eyes off the sight in front of you.

“You taste divine.” He says, removing his fingers from his mouth and moving so he’s situated between your thighs, gazing down at his lovely wife. He gathered your arousal on his fingers and coated it on his cock, adjusting himself so he is pressed against your entrance.

“You’ll feel great I promise.” He whispers, slowly pushing himself inside of you, causing you to whimper in pain while he bottomed out. He took his time, letting you adjust to him inside of you before slowly thrusting in and out.

Moans began falling out of your mouth as your hands gripped the bedsheets, your tits bouncing with every thrust. Your legs wrapped around his hips, wanting him to be closer to you.

Geta was watching you unravel right in front of him, watching how your tits bounced every time he thrusted into you, watching how your eyes rolled back in pleasure. It made him proud, knowing he was finally claiming you as his own. He could feel his own orgasm building up as he moved his hand to rub fast circles on your clit as he quickened his pace.

The knot in your stomach became unbearable as your sounds of ecstasy grew louder, your hands gripping to Geta’s arms.

“Go on. Cum for me.” He moans out, causing the knot to snap and for you to come undone around his cock, twitching in pleasure. Geta’s thrusts began to grow sloppy as he unravels in front of you, spilling his seed inside your pussy.

A few moments pass and you are both a sweaty, panting mess. He pulls out of you and watches the cum leak out from you, scooping it up and pushing it back inside you with his fingers. You quietly moaned at the sensation.

“Can’t have any go to waste can we?” He smiled. You slowly shook your head, eyes growing tired as your body begins to feel heavy. Geta lies down next to you, wrapping his arms around you as he kisses your cheek.

“You did so well for me.” He mumbled into your ear, his hot breath feeling comforting as you both begin feeling tired. His hand finds its way to your stomach again, rubbing small and slow circles around it. You feel your eyes begin to close as you hear your husband say something before you drift off to sleep.

“My perfect treasure.”

~

I really hope you enjoyed reading this I loved making it and hopefully I will write more soon!!This is my first fic so it may not be as good as ones I write in the future but I’m super proud of it!!💖💖

[daxisyzz]

Why so serious? Sergeant

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader

Trope: Grumpy x Sunshine, Domestic Fluff

Summary: It’s a lazy weekend and you’re bored, so naturally, you ask to practice makeup on your very serious, very grumpy boyfriend. He reluctantly agrees… not knowing you’re about to Joker-fy him and put it on tiktok. The twist? He looks too good, and now you’re the one suffering.

Warnings and tags: grumpy!bucky, but he loves her so soft for her, joker!bucky??, chaotic avengers' group chat, reader is clearly turned on by him.

Word count: 1k+

A/n: yes, this was inspired by Sebastian's role in the short film "The magic of passion", but he's a magician in that. Check it out if you haven't already. 500 followers special.

Saturdays were for pancakes, questionable movie choices, and Bucky grumbling around the apartment like a feral cat learning to be domestic.

Today, however, you were dangerously bored.

You were sprawled out on the living room rug in one of Bucky’s ancient hoodies, surrounded by your makeup collection like it was a war zone. He walked in slowly, suspiciously, like he was approaching some kind of trap.

“What... are you doing?” he asked, voice still gravelly from sleep.

You sat up like a puppy spotting a treat. “I’m bored.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “That’s never ended well for me.”

You gasped dramatically. “Rude. I’m an angel when I’m bored.”

“You convinced me to sign up for goat yoga last time.”

“And your glutes looked amazing for weeks, so you’re welcome.”

He sighed, already regretting asking. “What do you want?”

You grinned. “Can I do your makeup?”

Dead silence. The kind that stretched just long enough for a tumbleweed to roll by.

“No.”

“Pleeeease? You have the best face. Like, if Michelangelo did eyeliner.”

“No.”

You crawled over on your knees, giving him the full wide-eyed, pouty-lip, you-know-you-love-me look. “Pretty please? You’d be helping me grow as an artist. You’re like… my beautiful, brooding canvas.”

Bucky blinked. “That sentence gave me secondhand embarrassment.”

You clutched your heart. “That’s a yes.”

He groaned but sat on the edge of the couch anyway. “Fine. But no glitter, no lashes, no weird colors. Normal makeup.”

“Of course,” you lied sweetly, already grabbing a white foundation stick.

The man was so tragically trusting when he loved someone. He let you brush and blend and buff without question, arms crossed like a sulking statue while you worked.

He muttered under his breath, “This better not end up on TikTok…”

You gave a noncommittal hum. Because, obviously, this was not going to be a natural glam look.

And of course you filmed it. You’d propped your phone up sneakily on the bookshelf, recording the whole transformation in time-lapse: serious, scowling Bucky slowly morphing into a chaos-clown masterpiece.

You whispered to the camera, “Trust. The. Process.” before cackling silently.

No, this was Heath Ledger Joker territory. And the best part? Bucky hadn’t caught on.

You smeared more white across his face, added deep shadows around his eyes, a little black liner for depth… and then came the red. You dragged the lipstick in that jagged grin shape across his cheeks, trying not to burst out laughing.

“This feels clowny,” he said, suspicious now.

“Shhh,” you whispered. “Trust the process.”

When you were done, you stepped back with a breathless grin. “Okay. Ready?”

Bucky opened his eyes. You handed him the mirror. He stared.

“…You made me the Joker.”

You waited for the grumbling, the classic “Doll, I said normal!” speech—but instead, something entirely different hit you.

You blinked.

Because… damn.

The chaos of it. The cheekbones. The angry smudges. The “I might burn the world for you” look in his eyes.

You felt something stir in your soul. And maybe lower.

“…You good?” Bucky asked, brow furrowing.

You stared at him. “Okay but like… why is this kind of hot?”

He froze. “What?”

You stepped closer, eyes wide. “Like—I thought this would be funny, but now I want to crawl into your lap and make out while ‘Candy’ plays in the background.”

His expression flickered between horrified and smug. “You’re insane.”

You whispered, “Say it like you’re threatening Gotham, please.”

Bucky covered his face with one hand. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

You were already straddling his lap, giggling like a woman possessed. “Do the voice.”

“No.”

“Do the voice, James.”

He exhaled, deadpan. “Why so serious, doll?”

You gasped. “I’m going to combust.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, hands settling on your hips anyway. “You have issues.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped suddenly. “This is going to break my feed.”

Bucky froze mid-eye roll. “You filmed it?”

You nodded gleefully, already editing it to the “Joker stairs” soundtrack.

“If this ends up on the internet, I swear—”

You kissed his cheek, smearing more red on his jaw. “Too late, internet’s already falling in love with you.”

He groaned into his hands. “I hate Saturdays.”

He tried to fight it. He really did. But you looked too happy, too deranged, and clearly too turned on by the Joker makeup to argue.

“Alright,” he muttered. “You got your fun. Take it off.”

“Not yet,” you said, eyes gleaming. “We’re gonna reenact that ‘You complete me’ scene.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Bucky, please, I need it emotionally.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” he grumbled, but he didn’t stop you as you dragged him toward the bedroom, red lipstick still smeared across his perfect jaw.

And maybe—just maybe—he did the voice again.

The next morning...

(The avengers find the tiktok you filmed, which may or may not have gone viral)

Avengers GC: “Earth’s Mightiest Disaster 💥”

Sam: nah. NAH. you let her joker you up AND film it???

Tony: I just choked on espresso why did that actually go hard

Peter: I don’t know whether to scream or hide he looked into the camera like it owed him money

Bruce: the eyeliner is flawless why was the growl necessary

Steve: …what did I just watch? why is Bucky in clown makeup? why is he talking like that?

Loki: because Midgard is rotting.

Thor: I thought it was performance art

Wanda: he did the voice now I’m rethinking some things

Nat: my soul left my body i need to lie down

Sam: [NAME]. [NAME] GET IN HERE. you enabled this

[Name]: I was bored he was sitting still what did you expect

Steve: what is “break me like a glowstick” and why is it the top comment? what does that even mean?

Peter: I googled it i regret everything

Bruce: there’s fan edits already one has “Toxic” playing over it i need bleach for my brain

Bucky: no one talk to me ever again

Sam: too late joker boy you’re the main character now

Clint: someone printed a screenshot and put it on the fridge in the kitchen btw not saying who but it’s me

[sunboki]

⎯ what remains unspoken. (teaser) ⟡ featuring c. bahng

🪝 : Christopher Bahng x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. best friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, jealousy, angst, two idiots chasing their own tails believing their love is unrequited (ㅠㅠ), based in australia, summer! au, beachhouse! au

WORD COUNT. estimated to be around 4k-7k words

WARNINGS. cursing, jealousy/shame, reader moves away, mentions of drunkenness at a party, nondesc smut

AUG'S NOTES. my annual summer pieces are unearthing themselves as we speak and i’m so so so excited. i began this as a tiny snippet of thought while on the train :) who knew it’d be developed into a fic! although this is just a teaser, please let me know your thoughts!!

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Attached to the hip, you and Chris might as well have been twins in a past life. And yet, it’s always that tiny inkling, so many years where one of the two wants something more. So when you bring home a boyfriend one summer and both you and Chris begin drifting apart, you wonder if that denial will become something permanent.

or alternatively :

Until when do you stop pretending?

Among many things, Chris likes to think there was an “oh shit” moment to his life. One, exactly.

Over the years he tried pinpointing when that would be, what that would be. 

And then you brought a boyfriend home. His home. To a beach house you two would occupy together. Making shadow puppets with your hands and running out to the beach in the early mornings.

Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Making sand castles, running into the water with your clothes on and running out giggling messes.

For two weeks every summer, always. Together.

Never with a plus one.

He debated upon subtly sizing up the guy or appearing overly friendly, but not an ounce of his face seemed to move. Steely.

Cold.

Chris was never cold, and he felt that pang in his chest—guilt—seeing you notice it. That miniature knit of your brow, the purse of your lips.

Did he know you like Chris did? Know when you were angry, or frustrated. What your favorite song was, or how you preferred your hair when you were focused?

He wanted to hate comparison, he used to hate comparison.

And now he’s hating himself for being too late, letting you slip from his grasp like sand between his fingers.

When you were once protagonists of a novel written with a happy ending, that love interest was now home to another. 

And he was a bystander to a love story that was never his, watching you smile at someone else. 

Someone that wasn’t him.

Breakfast is hellish, not to mention the sleeping arrangements. This boyfriend of yours in the guest bedroom, while he sleeps in his.

Alone. Without you, or your pretty hair, or your pretty eyes. Void of your warm body snuggled up to his, where you used to make silly jokes beneath covers and muffle laughter in turn.

A part of him wants to cry, wants to ask you what you two used to be. What was under the covers? 

“Ah.. Chris..” The soft moan of yours, all those years back. Stupid, seventeen, single. A cursed pair of “S”’s he hadn’t realized would come to haunt him each time he closed his eyes. 

What was your pretty sounds, his face between your thighs those five years back?

Was it all pretend? Exploration as friends? 

No, you were smarter than that.

So he tells himself he was too late, and endures. 

Because maybe, maybe they’ll be a plot twist one chapter. Where you fall for the side character. 

No, no book ends like that.

It all started in an editing firm’s office. 

Well, not literally, considering you hadn’t even been in your mother’s mind until Jessica Bahng—mother of a four-month old Chris Bahng—held back a poor woman’s hair while she belched into a toilet.

That poor woman being your mother, who found out she was pregnant that evening after work.

And through a few Saturday’s at the corner cafe and prolonged conversation by the office’s monitors, the two became the best of friends. Watching little Chris grow into a toddling one year old, and in the process welcoming you into the world nearly ten months later.

From there, almost every waking moment consisted of time together. Chris as the lanky teenager with his brown hair sweeping across a tanned forehead, and you, following after him each step he took at less than a year younger. Kindergarten, Primary School.

Although, in the midst of the friendship, your father had found a better job opportunity in Brisbane, a decent ten-hour drive from the Bahng household you’d found second home in.

Though, after plenty of crocodile tears and mumbled “I’ll miss you”’s tumbling from an eighth grade mouth too absorbed in worrying about the matter of leaving rather than the fact you’d likely visit every month, you departed, off to a city so different from the Sydney you had known of. 

Even if it was Australia all the same.

And in turn, the annual summer visits began.

Summer before your freshman year of high school, where Chris finally got his braces off in his sophomore year and you soaked up every ounce of information given on surviving the first few days of school.

Then your own sophomore year, filled with feelings and discoveries and struggles unearthed you didn’t think could be experienced so vividly, expectations in need of fulfillment the board expected a sixteen year old to answer immediately.

What do you want to do with your life? Any plans for college? What about taking these extra classes? They look good on a résumé.

And simultaneously rip the ounces of childhood from your fingertips, but no school board puts that in the papers.

So the moment the car door opens after hellish voyaging to Sydney, you allow your lungs to inhale each ounce of salty air the Bahng family house offers, the childishness allowed for once amid crushing pressure. 

It is a meager five minute walk to the lapsing shoreline after all, and the ocean keeps good secrets within the sand, washing away your footprints as to flush away traces of whatever happenings occurred there. 

Yet, never truly forgotten. Instead, taken into the waters for little children to tell their mother of whom never believe the ocean spilled someone’s precious secrets.

“Chris.”

June eighteenth of your second year in high school, pajama-clad knees curl close into your body, lashes dusting open in the sparsely lit room to focus on him.

A dilation of the pupils, a hitch of the breath when he turns to you.

High school has changed Chris, but not in a foul manner. Blond curls, he’s exchanged from his usual russet locks. Round cheeks shifting in tandem with a sculptors hand, the marble of his skin a bit more toned, defined.

His jaw that clicks when he grows angered—not often, sometimes at his gaming system. 

Thickened brows furrowing and knitting in concentration.

Though those eyes are the same, and always will be. No other will have eyes like his, and you know in any life, in any state of amnesia, they would be recognized.

An “aha” moment where a switch flips in your brain, formulating a mere sentence involuntarily.

I love this boy, and I hope for forever he’ll look back at me.

And for that, you’re selfish. But honest.

If Christopher was a stranger, a look into that gaze and you think you’d know him instantaneously.

How silly.

But just as you had spoken, you’re reminded that childishness was something found each time you visited this place regardless of your actions. You’d hold onto that.

“I don’t want to grow up.”

The bit of fat at his under-eyes cause his eyes to form into crescent moons when he smiles, wrinkles at the corner of thick lashes crinkling.

Chris has always liked the moon.

A warm hand of his reaches forward, cupping your cheek as if the first time.

You think you like this more.

“Then don’t.”

A stroke of his thumb, and you snort a laugh when the cold of your nose bumps against the digit.

“And when you want to go back to being sixteen, come to see me, okay?”

Little did you both know that the future had a way of testing just how long sixteen would last.

Until when do you stop pretending?

sunboki, may 2022 ©