#and to answer the first part of your question

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content · graphic sex · rough sex · orgasm denial · dom/sub dynamics · dirty talk · aftercare · possessiveness · emotional vulnerability · toxic ex / abusive relationship (past) · physical assault · violence · blood · protective behavior · minor alcohol mention · language

notes: in which your regular bartender minho lets you stay at his apartment when your toxic ex-situationship gets physical — and things spiral from there.

The bar doesn’t have a sign. Just a brass door with no handle and a button that glows red when you press it. Inside, it’s all velvet and shadows—low jazz crooning from invisible speakers, smoke curling from too-expensive cigars. The kind of place that smells like secrets and old money.

You don’t belong here. But you come anyway.

Mostly for him.

Minho’s behind the bar like always. Shirt black, sleeves rolled just once, collar stiff against the sharp line of his neck. He doesn’t look up when you walk in, doesn’t smile. He never does.

You don’t need him to.

It starts like most nights do—low lighting, soft jazz, the smell of expensive bourbon and even more expensive cologne drifting through the speakeasy’s velvet-lined walls. The kind of place that pretends not to notice you unless it wants to.

He always notices you.

Minho’s already at the bar, polishing glassware with deliberate, almost surgical focus. No smile. No greeting. He doesn’t do small talk—just glances at you when you slip onto the stool you always take, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bare skin above your knee before it flicks away like you imagined it.

He slides a drink toward you without asking.

Tonight it’s something amber and sharp—neat, no garnish. Not the floral bullshit you usually order to irritate him but don't actually enjoy.

“You’re learning,” you murmur, fingers curling around the glass.

“You’re predictable,” he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Approval, maybe. It’s hard to tell with him.

You take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest before you speak again.

“Gonna make fun of me tonight, or just stare at my legs?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Why can’t I do both?”

You raise an eyebrow. He’s in a mood.

Good.

You lean in a little, voice dipping low. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me.”

Minho finally looks at you head-on, the edge of a smile ghosting across his mouth.

“If I liked you,” he says, smooth as glass, “you’d know.”

The heat that curls low in your stomach has nothing to do with the liquor.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been playing this game for weeks—weeks of drawn-out glances and sharp tongues, of letting your knee graze his thigh beneath the bar, of asking him questions you already know he won’t answer just to hear the dry curl of his voice when he tells you no.

But tonight, the rules feel different. The air feels heavier. Charged.

You blame it on the day you had. On the message you didn’t answer. On the fact that your body still remembers the way your so-called lover grabbed your wrist last night when you dared to pull away first. The apology this morning was short. Cold. Like a favor he did you.

You’re tired of favors. Of men who act like your body is borrowed space.

So maybe that’s why you’re here again. Why your dress is a little shorter than usual. Why your smile is a little sharper. Why you stare at Minho like you want him to cut you open and see what’s underneath.

“I think you like me,” you say, swirling the amber in your glass, eyes fixed on his fingers as he reaches for a bottle behind him.

He uncaps it without a word. Pours slow—like he’s buying time or maybe making you wait on purpose. The line of his jaw is clean and sharp in the bar’s dim light, a profile carved in something colder than marble.

You’ve never seen him fluster. Not once. That’s part of why you keep coming back. That composure, that razor-thin control—you want to see it slip. Just once. Just enough to know what he looks like when something matters.

But Minho doesn’t rattle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He sets the bottle down, replaces the cap with the same care you imagine he uses with everything else—his knives, his words, his hands.

“I think you like being watched,” he says finally, without looking at you. “That’s not the same thing.”

Your lips curl. “Is that what you do? Watch me?”

He glances up, and the full weight of his gaze hits you square in the chest—dark, steady, measuring.

“Only when you want me to.”

You swallow. Hard.

There’s nothing coy about it now. No masks, no playful deflection. Just static in the air and the slow realization that this isn’t banter anymore.

It’s foreplay.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the bar. The liquor burns differently now—hotter, deeper.

Minho sees it—how your legs shift, how your breath stutters—but he doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The power slips over him like a second skin, smooth and effortless, like he was born to unravel people slowly and never touch them at all.

You try to hold your ground, try to find something clever to say, but the words stick to your tongue. They don’t come.

He leans forward—just slightly, just enough that you catch a whisper of his cologne, clean and sharp like crushed pepper and steel. The kind of scent that makes you ache without knowing why.

“You always drink faster when you’re upset,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think he’d blow you off again.”

Your stomach flips.

You didn’t tell him that.

Not out loud.

But you’ve mentioned him in passing before—your almost-boyfriend, your never-quite-yours. The man who texts when he’s bored and shows up when he’s drunk, who fucks you like a secret and then disappears for days. You’ve never named him. You never had to.

Minho’s too observant for that.

You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Minho hums like he understands. Not kindly—accurately. Like a blade understanding the softest part of skin.

“Didn’t think you would.”

His voice is soft. Low enough that it doesn’t carry over the jazz humming through the room, but not so low that it misses the mark. It slides under your skin, settles there. Warm. Heavy.

You press the rim of your glass to your lips, but don’t drink. You’re stalling. He knows it.

“Is this where you offer comfort?” you ask, tilting your head toward him, trying to claw some of the power back with your voice. “Tell me I deserve better?”

Minho chuckles—quiet, sharp-edged. “You know you deserve better.”

He lets it hang there for a beat too long, until you can feel the unspoken part of it clawing up your spine.

You deserve better, and I could give it to you. But I won’t.

Not yet.

His fingers flex against the bar’s edge. It’s the first crack in his control tonight, the only betrayal of the restraint wound tight through every part of him. You don’t think he even notices it—but you do.

Because that’s what this has always been, hasn’t it? A standoff. A war of glances and gestures. Who can make the other want without asking.

You swirl the last inch of liquor in your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, pretending like you’re not memorizing the shape of his hand against the bar.

Minho isn’t looking at you anymore. Not directly. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond you—on a bottle that doesn’t need touching, a thought that doesn’t need voicing. But his body betrays him in small, precise ways. That flex of his hand. The stillness of his shoulders. The slow, measured breaths like he’s giving himself rules to follow.

Don’t reach for her. Don’t say her name. Don’t touch unless she begs.

You can feel it—how close he is to undoing himself. How he’s fighting it like it would cost him something if he gave in.

And that makes you reckless.

“Why haven’t you?” you murmur, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “If you’ve thought about it—which you have. Why haven’t you done anything?”

You lick your lips—subtle, involuntary—and his eyes drop to your mouth like it was the only thing in the room worth watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your pulse thrum in your throat.

“You’re not going to offer comfort,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than him. “That’s not your game.”

Minho doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t comfort girls who let men treat them like that,” he murmurs, voice like slow smoke. “I fuck it out of them.”

Your breath catches.

You can’t help it.

It punches the air straight from your lungs—just for a second. Just long enough for your lashes to flutter and your grip on the glass to falter and your entire body to go still.

You should’ve known that’s where he’d take it. You should’ve seen it coming. But hearing it—feeling it—low and steady like that, like an invocation and not a threat?

It’s something else entirely.

Your thighs clench beneath the bar. Instinctive. Useless. You feel suddenly too warm in your skin, in your dress, in this damn chair. Like the room’s shrunk down to just the two of you and the weight of those words lingering in the air between them.

He said it like a fact. Like a promise. No smirk. No tilt of his head. No performance.

Just Minho—staring at you with that terrifying, surgical precision that’s never been louder than it is now.

He knows what he just did.

Knows you’re squirming. Knows you’re soaking. Knows exactly where your mind’s gone—and he hasn’t even touched you.

Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.

And that’s when he leans in.

Not by much—just enough that his mouth is close enough to graze the rim of your glass if you tilted it.

“I’d start with your mouth,” he says, barely louder than the jazz, like he’s confessing something obscene to a priest. “Because I know you’d still try to be smart with it. Even while you’re choking.”

Your stomach drops.

Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but it’s no use. His voice is a velvet hand at your throat, gentle enough to tease, firm enough to hold

Minho doesn’t linger.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch into tension, doesn’t wait for your reply, doesn’t press a single inch further into the ache he’s just created.

He simply pulls away.

Smooth, unbothered, like he didn’t just fillet you open with nothing but words. Like your insides aren’t still ringing with the ghost of him. He reaches for a towel, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the rim of a coupe glass, and then���casually, almost bored—slides the folded slip of paper toward you across the polished marble.

Your bill.

Back to business.

It’s maddening. Unbearably normal. Like he didn’t just spit filth into your ear that made your spine arch in the seat. Like he didn’t just speak to you like he already owned your body and was only waiting for the right time to claim it.

Your hand moves on autopilot.

Fingers dip into your purse, fishing out your card, swiping it through the reader like this is any other night, like you’re not unraveling at the seams. Like you’re not trembling just slightly beneath the surface of your skin, still burning with every word he spoke to you moments ago.

The reader beeps.

Declined.

You blink.

Try again. Slower this time. Like it might make a difference.

Declined.

The air shifts.

You don’t look up. Can’t. You stare at the reader, thumb hovering over the chipped edge of your card like pressing harder might fix it. Like it wasn’t inevitable. Like you haven’t been running on fumes and stubbornness and overdraft protection for longer than you want to admit.

You exhale through your nose. Force a quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you mutter, trying for nonchalant. “Guess it’s been a week.”

Minho doesn’t move.

You finally glance up—and he’s already looking at you.

Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.

Then he takes the bill back without a word.

Folds it in half.

Tucks it beneath the register.

“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is different now—softer, low and careful like a hand on the back of your neck. “I’ve got it.”

You hesitate. “No, really. I can come back tomorrow—”

“I said it’s okay.”

The quiet in his tone settles over you like a coat. Warm, heavy. Weighted with something you don’t quite recognize yet.

You search his face for a catch. A smirk. A condition. But there isn’t one.

And that—that’s what undoes you more than anything else.

Because it’s not a trade. Not a tease. Not a power play.

It’s just kindness.

Uncomplicated. Unexpected.

From him of all people.

You swallow hard. Nodding feels dangerous, so you don’t.

You just sit there, small and grateful and aching in a way you didn’t expect.

“I’ll pay you back,” you say quietly. “Next time.”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re not a charity case,” he says finally. “I know you’ll settle.”

You nod again. This time it lands.

He straightens. Pulls your empty glass away, sets it behind him.

“You staying a while?” he asks. Not teasing. Not performative. Just… offering.

And you want to say yes.

But your throat is tight and your wrist still hurts beneath your sleeve and your body feels like too much tonight—too raw, too full, too loud.

So you say, “Think I’ll head out,” and your voice sounds gentler than it should. Like you’re asking permission.

Minho nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t try to stop you. Just wipes the bar in front of your empty seat like he’s already preparing for the next ghost to sit down.

You stand slowly. Adjust your bag over your shoulder, glance toward the hallway that leads to the exit.

He doesn’t say anything at first. But you feel him watching you—not your ass, not your dress, but the way you cradle your arm. The way your hand hovers over your wrist like you’re guarding something.

And then—

“Did he grab you?”

Your spine stiffens.

Like someone cracked ice down your back.

You don’t turn around right away. You just stand there, shoulders drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag.

“Excuse me?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

Minho doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t repeat himself, either. Just waits.

You finally turn, chin lifted in that familiar tilt—the one you wear like armor, the one you’ve perfected for moments like this. When someone sees too much. When someone dares to ask.

“I don’t need you psychoanalyzing my love life,” you say flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

Minho says nothing.

Which somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, you can’t stop talking.

You huff a laugh, bitter and breathless. “Jesus. You let one card decline and suddenly you think you’re my therapist?”

Still nothing.

Just that same steady gaze. Not pitying. Not cold. Just... seeing.

And maybe that’s why it stings. Because he’s not wrong.

You fold your arms, fingers pressing hard over the bruise like you can erase it by force. “He didn’t mean to,” you finally mutter.

Minho’s voice is quiet. Even.

“But he did.”

You look away.

It’s not a fight. He’s not raising his voice. He’s not accusing you of anything. But something about the way he says it—flat, factual, calm—makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something shameful.

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

His expression doesn’t change. “It never is.”

You exhale hard through your nose. Every part of you wants to run. You don’t like feeling cornered like this—especially not by someone like him. Someone who doesn’t play pretend

Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.

“I’m not some broken girl who needs saving,” you snap.

“I know.”

And again—it’s not cruel. Not dismissive. Just a truth, spoken plainly.

That disarms you more than anything else.

He knows.

He knows you’re angry and proud and stubborn. He knows you want control, even when it costs you peace. He knows you’re clawing your way through something you don’t want to name yet. He knows—and still, he said nothing until you were already walking away.

You sigh. The kind of sigh that tastes like surrender.

“I’m fine,” you say. Softer now. “Okay? I’m fine.”

Minho doesn’t agree. Doesn’t argue. Just nods like he’s filing it away for later.

And then, gently:

“Text me when you’re home.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

The dark sweep of his lashes. The slow tension in his jaw. The barest flex of his fingers against the rag he’s holding—like he’s grounding himself on the bar instead of reaching for you.

“I don’t have your number,” you say, quiet again.

He doesn’t even blink.

Just reaches for a napkin. Writes it down in clean, deliberate strokes. Slides it to you without flourish, like it’s nothing.

You take it with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

The napkin is soft, a little damp in one corner, the ink bleeding just slightly where his pen dragged too slow over cheap paper. His handwriting is neat. Precise. The kind you’d expect from him. Not a flourish in sight.

You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.

Like if you memorize them now, maybe you won’t have to admit how much you care that he gave them to you.

“I’m not going to cry in the cab,” you mutter. Not to him. Just to yourself. A warning. A promise. A lie.

Minho’s mouth twitches—too fast to call it a smile. “Good. They charge extra for that.”

You roll your eyes, but the sound that escapes you is almost a laugh.

Almost.

You fold the napkin once. Then again. Tuck it into your purse like it’s fragile, like it’s worth something, like it matters. You don’t say thank you. Can’t. The words would taste too much like gratitude and not enough like the armor you’re trying to put back on.

He doesn’t press. Just nods once—final, quiet—and goes back to polishing the same glass he’s been holding all night. Like none of this ever happened.

You walk away before you can change your mind.

Before you do something stupid, like apologize for flinching. Like ask him to say it again, that he knows you’re not broken. Like ask if he’s ever been hurt in a way that still echoes years later.

The hallway is dim. The velvet curtains at the door part with a whisper. The street outside is colder than you remembered.

You step into it anyway.

That night, lying on your side with the city leaking through the blinds in long gray stripes, you stare at your phone screen for too long.

You’ve opened a new message three times. Deleted it each time.

Minho’s number sits untouched in your contacts now. Just a string of digits and a name that feels like something you shouldn’t be allowed to keep.

Eventually, you type:

[you]: home.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Then nothing.

Then:

[bartender]: good. sleep.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

Just those two words. No punctuation. No fluff. Just simple, clean concern dressed up like a command.

You can almost hear his voice in it—low, even, with that deliberate edge that makes everything sound like a dare.

You think about typing something back. A joke. A thank you. Something to make it lighter.

But it’s too late for pretending now. And maybe—just maybe—you like that he didn’t say take care or sweet dreams or anything that would let you brush this off as ordinary.

Because it’s not.

You set the phone on your nightstand.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before the sun rises.

The bass is too loud.

It rattles your ribs, crawls down your spine, settles behind your eyes like a headache waiting to happen. Bodies press in on all sides—sweaty, glittered, half-drunk strangers shouting lyrics they only know the chorus to. The lights strobe fast enough to make you nauseous.

You wish you were having fun.

You should be having fun. It’s Maya’s birthday. Everyone showed up. Friends, coworkers, mutuals you forgot you still followed. You wore the good dress, the one that makes you feel like the sexiest version of yourself. You downed two shots at the bar and danced until your skin burned.

And for a while—it worked.

Until he showed up.

You feel him before you see him. Isn’t that always the way?

That weight in the room. The static against your skin. The sharp twist in your stomach that feels too close to guilt to be anything else.

You turn. And there he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a show of it. He doesn’t look at you at first. He never does. Always lets you spot him first. Lets you feel him before he lets you see him.

Your heart drops anyway.

It’s been three weeks since you told him not to text you again.

Not after the last time—not after his fingers curled too tight around your wrist and left a bloom of purple that took a week to fade. Not after he said your name like a curse when you tried to walk away. You were never his. That was the whole point. And yet… it never seemed to matter.

You turn back toward your friends. Pretend you don’t see him.

It works for ten minutes.

Then a hand slides around your waist.

“You look good tonight.”

You freeze.

His breath is warm against your ear. Familiar. Suffocating.

You force a smile, even as your whole body goes still. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he murmurs, voice syrup-smooth. “Say hi to my favorite girl?”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not your anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His fingers flex at your waist. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve already lost something.

You shove his hand off. Step back.

“I said don’t.”

He laughs—soft and cruel. “You’ve got some nerve, walking around like that. That dress. That mouth.”

You’re not sure what breaks first—the fear or the fury.

But your hand moves before your mind can catch up, pushing at his chest, not hard enough to knock him back but enough—enough to draw a line, enough to say stop, stop, STOP.

He stumbles back half a step, but the grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.

“Oh, she’s got teeth tonight.”

You hate that he says it like he’s proud. Like he likes it when you push back—because it means he gets to push harder.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, louder this time. Louder than you meant it to be. Louder than the beat crashing around you.

A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.

He laughs, cruel and close and reeking of entitlement. “Calm down, drama queen. We used to have fun, remember?”

You take a step back.

He follows.

His hand shoots out again, this time not for your waist—but for your face. Fingers clamp around your jaw, sudden and firm, yanking you forward so fast your breath lodges in your throat.

You gasp.

Pain sparks where his thumb digs in. Your hands shoot up instinctively, trying to pry him off, nails raking across his skin in desperation.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Your voice breaks—sharp, raw, real—and for a second, just one, the crowd parts around the two of you like the air shifted.

He leans in closer. His mouth is at your ear. “You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice low and mean. “Is that it? That little bartender got you feeling brave?”

The blood drains from your face.

Because you never mentioned Minho. Not to him. Not to anyone who would repeat it.

It hits you like a punch to the chest. Not just the shock of his voice, low and poisonous in your ear—but what he said.

That little bartender.

Minho.

He knows.

You don’t know how. Don’t know who told him or what he heard or why it matters to him at all—but the fact that he said it means he’s been watching. Listening. Picking up pieces you didn’t even know you were leaving behind.

Your stomach lurches.

“I said—” you shove him with everything you have, panic fusing with rage “—get off me!”

This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.

His grip slips from your jaw, and you recoil like you’ve been burned, taking three steps back so fast you nearly trip. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes sting. The club feels too loud, too tight, the lights flashing like warning signs behind your eyelids.

But he recovers fast.

Too fast.

And now he’s pissed.

“You fucking slut,” he spits, voice ugly and thick with venom. “You think someone like him is gonna want you for anything more than your mouth? You think he’s any different?”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

You turn.

You run.

You don’t care that your friends will wonder where you went, that your drink is still half-full on the table, that your heels weren’t meant for this kind of escape.

You just run.

Out through the club doors, down the street, across the crosswalk without waiting for the signal. You walk like if you stop, he’ll catch up. Like the weight of his voice will sink into your skin and stay there. Like you’ll never feel clean again if you don’t keep moving.

You’re breathing too fast. Hands shaking. Vision blurry. Heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.

You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, the panic curling its claws up your spine, pressing down hard on your ribs like punishment.

And before you even know where you’re going, your feet are taking you there.

You don’t remember making the turn. Don’t remember crossing the street. You just blink—and suddenly the neon glow of the bar bleeds into your vision, cool and low and familiar in the haze of your panic. The bar. His bar.

And he’s there.

Outside, leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. The glow of the cherry lights his face in pulses—his cheekbone, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a smear of something on his forearm. 

He hasn’t seen you yet.

Not until your steps falter and the click of your heels dies out beneath the sound of his exhale.

Then—he lifts his head.

And his whole body goes still.

You must look like a disaster. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Shoulders drawn up like a cornered animal. Your lipstick smeared, hair falling out of place, the strap of your dress slipping.

But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.

Just watches you.

The silence stretches for a moment too long. Then, quietly—

“Did something happen?”

Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.

Low. Measured. But not indifferent.

There’s something else beneath it. A thread of tension wound so tight it barely makes it to the surface. The kind of control that only comes from practice. From restraint.

He doesn’t take a step toward you.

Doesn’t reach out.

Minho can read a room better than anyone you’ve ever met, and right now, you’re a room filled with alarms—flashing, screaming, crumbling.

He sees it.

“I…” Your voice falters. “No.”

You mean yes. You mean everything.

But the syllables won’t fit in your mouth.

He nods once. Slow. Like he hears what you didn’t say.

The cigarette between his fingers burns to the filter before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.

You don’t realize you’ve been swaying on your feet until your hand shoots out to brace against the wall.

Minho’s eyes flick to the motion, then back to your face. He still doesn’t move.

Instead, his voice softens—somehow quieter than before, like he’s afraid even sound might be too much for you right now.

“I’m just down the block.”

You blink at him, still catching your breath.

“My place,” he adds, nodding toward the street, toward the night that still hums like static around you. “Nothing weird. Just… quieter. Warmer. No one else there.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t trust him—you do, in ways you probably shouldn’t—but because your whole body still feels wrong. Like your nerves are too close to the surface, like any wrong move might set them off again.

Minho sees it.

He doesn’t rush to reassure you. Doesn’t over-explain or fumble for comfort.

Just lifts a shoulder in a light shrug and says, dryly, “I have cats.”

Of all the things he could’ve said. “Cats,” you repeat, the word catching oddly on your tongue like it doesn’t belong in a night like this. Like it’s too soft, too domestic, too absurdly normal for the way your heart is still hammering inside your ribs.

Minho nods. “Three of them.”

You raise an eyebrow—wary, trembling, but still capable of curiosity. “Three?”

“Soonie. Doongie. Dori,” he says. “They're spoiled. Judgmental. Loud as hell.” His tone doesn’t change. Still calm. Still flat. But there’s something careful behind it. Like he’s offering you a rope. Something to hold onto. Something that doesn’t smell like sweat and fear and everything you just ran from.

You nod. Just once. And somehow, that’s enough.

His apartment is small. Not cramped, not cold—just lived-in. Clean in that intentional way, like someone takes pride in it but doesn't obsess. The floors are wood, soft under your bare feet when you kick off your heels by the door. The kitchen glows faintly from the under-cabinet lights he left on, casting long amber streaks across the floor.

And the cats… the cats are waiting.

One sits perched on the back of the couch like he owns the place—which, judging by the scratch marks in the armrest, he might. Another peeks out from under the coffee table. The third appears from the hallway, tail high, meowing like you’ve personally offended him by existing.

You blink again.

“They’re boys,” Minho explains as he hangs his keys. “But they act like little old ladies. Dori’s the mouthy one.”

The meowing continues. A chorus now. You’re too stunned to respond at first. But then—Doongie, maybe?—pads up to you with those wide, judgmental eyes and headbutts your calf like it’s his god-given right.

Something inside you breaks. Not in the sharp, painful way. Not like at the club. No. This is different. This is soft. Shaky. This is the moment your body decides it’s safe enough to start crumbling. You crouch down—slow, careful—and let your fingers curl into his fur.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel it drip from your chin. Until your breath stutters. Until you fold over completely, arms wrapped around a cat who didn’t ask for this, face pressed into the warm softness of something alive and gentle.

Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn't touch you. You feel him move quietly behind you—setting a glass of water on the coffee table, flicking off the main lights until only the soft kitchen glow remains. And then… he just sits. A few feet away. Cross-legged on the floor, still in his black button-up and rolled sleeves, watching you like you’re made of glass and still trying to figure out if the cracks were already there.

You stay curled there on the floor for a while—knees tucked beneath you, fingers knotted in soft fur, cheek pressed to Doongie’s side like it might anchor you to something solid.

The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional swish of a tail or soft thump of paws. You can feel the warmth of Minho’s presence without looking at him. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just stays—close enough that you don’t feel alone, far enough that you don’t feel trapped.

Eventually, your breath starts to come steadier. The shaking dulls. And when you finally lift your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears and eyes too tired to hold anything else, he’s still there—arms resting loosely over his knees, gaze steady. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, half-laughing, half-apologizing.

“Sorry,” you murmur, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—fall apart all over your cat.”

Minho shrugs. “He probably liked it.”

You snort, exhausted. “He’s purring.”

“Doongie’s kind of a slut for attention.”

You laugh—a real one this time, hoarse and soft—and drag your fingers through Doongie’s fur once more before sitting up straighter, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress.

Minho stands slowly, careful not to startle the moment, and disappears into the hallway without a word. A minute later, he’s back, holding a folded bundle in his arms—what looks like a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie so worn it’s probably been through a hundred washes. He sets them gently on the arm of the couch beside you.

“Shower’s through there,” he says, nodding toward the narrow hallway. “First door on the right. Towels are on the rack. The water takes a second to heat up.”

You blink up at him, the offer settling slowly over you like warmth. He doesn't say you look like a mess. Doesn’t tell you to clean yourself up. Just offers you comfort in the quietest way he knows how. You nod.

The bathroom is small, clean, and filled with that same soft golden light that seems to follow him everywhere. You peel yourself out of your dress, step under the spray, and let the steam unwind you. It’s the first time all night you feel like you’re breathing in something clean. Like maybe there’s still space in your skin for something that isn’t fear.

You stay until the water starts to run cold. When you finally step out, dressed in his clothes, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, your heart thuds with a strange, fragile kind of relief.

And then you see it.

The couch. The cushions have been cleared, a blanket folded neatly at the foot, pillow fluffed, a glass of water on the side table. One of the cats is curled up like a sentry near the armrest, blinking at you lazily as if to say it’s fine now.

You stare for a second. Because it’s not just that he made up the couch. It’s that he didn’t assume. Didn’t point you toward his bed. Didn’t insist. Didn’t press. He just knew.

You sit down slowly, tucking the blanket over your legs, body sinking into the cushions like they were waiting for you.

Minho reappears from the hallway, already dressed down—black joggers, a loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he rinsed off too. He gestures toward the light. “You good if I kill this?”

You nod. He flips the switch. The room dims. He doesn’t say goodnight. Doesn’t do the awkward lingering thing. He just turns, quiet as always, and heads for his bedroom.

And for a moment, you let him go.

For a moment, you think it’s fine. But the second the door clicks shut, something tightens in your chest. Your breath catches. Your pulse jumps. That same fear from earlier curls back in under your skin—not loud, not sharp. Just a whisper now. A what if. What if he comes back. What if he finds out where you went. What if this silence isn't safety at all, but the space before another breaking point.

You sit up. “Minho?”

A beat. His door opens again. The light from his room spills into the hall. He’s already halfway back into the living room when he says, “Yeah?”

Your throat works around the words. They feel small. Silly. Needful. But you say them anyway. “Can you stay?”

He pauses. Looks at you. And you can tell—he knows. Knows exactly what you mean. Knows it’s not about him. Not about company. Not about flirting or closeness or warmth. It’s about safety. It’s about knowing the world can’t get to you if he’s there. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make a sound. Just disappears for a second, then comes back with two blankets folded under one arm and a spare pillow under the other. He drops them on the floor beside the couch, shrugs out of his hoodie, and settles down without a word.

The hoodie slips off his shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing the thin black tank top underneath—clinging just enough to map the sharp cut of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders.

You don’t mean to stare.

But the fabric hangs loose at the chest, dipping just low enough to expose the curve of ink over his left pectoral—black lines disappearing into shadow, something abstract and intricate. Just a glimpse. Just enough to wonder what the rest of it looks like when he breathes.

Minho doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just too tired—or too gracious—to call you on it.

He lies on his back beside the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach. Doongie circles once on the rug, then collapses beside him like a guard, chin resting on his forearm.

You turn onto your side. The room is still. Not quiet—still. Like the air itself is holding its breath. You don’t sleep. You can’t. Not with the phantom heat of a hand still lingering on your face. Not with the aftershocks of fear still curling around your ribs. Not with the weight of this unfamiliar kindness just a few feet away, warm and steady and unearned.

So you watch him. And eventually, he turns his head. Eyes open. Heavy-lidded but focused. A slow drag up your face. Your cheekbone. The faint shadow blooming just below your temple. His jaw ticks, subtle but sharp, and he doesn’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper.

He blinks. Like the words take a second to land. “Mm.”

His gaze flicks down briefly—to where the fabric clings to his chest, then back to your face. There’s no smirk, no warning, just a shift in the air, like gravity tilting. “Wanna see it?”

The question isn’t loaded. It’s not teasing. It just is. You nod. Minho sits up slowly, one hand tugging at the hem of his tank top. The fabric slides up and over his head in one clean motion, soft and soundless. He tosses it to the side and leans back on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing, loose and languid.

The tattoo stretches across the left side of his chest—black ink, fine lines, bold shapes. It isn’t a compass. It’s a storm. A swirl of wind and waves, jagged mountains etched in silhouette. At its center, the faint outline of a wing—fractured and rising, like something caught between ruin and flight. The ink moves with him, flexes when he breathes, like it’s alive beneath his skin.

You stare.

Not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it feels right on him. Like he was born with it. Like whatever storm he came from left its mark on the inside first, and this was just its echo.

Your hand moves before you can stop it.

Slowly, like reaching for fire. Like asking for permission with the space between your fingers. When you don’t meet resistance, you touch him.

Just a single point at first—your fingertip landing lightly on the edge of the wing, where ink meets skin just beneath his collarbone. His breath hitches, subtle but real, a flicker of tension in his chest. You feel it before you hear it. Then you trace. Softly. Reverently. Down the curve of the wing, across the stormline where jagged wind spirals out into broken waves.

Your touch drags slow, deliberate, following the black lines like you’re learning a language. One that only his body speaks. Minho doesn’t move. He just watches you. The way your lashes lower, the way your lips part slightly like you’re holding your breath for him. The silence between you is thick but not heavy—dense with something neither of you are ready to name.

When your finger glides over the highest peak—inked mountain just above his heart—his head tilts back slightly, like the contact pulls something from him. His throat bobs with the swallow he doesn’t bother to hide. You pause. Right over his heart now. The skin is warm. Steady. And for a second, the storm beneath your own ribs goes quiet—like his rhythm tames yours without trying. He exhales.

His eyes flutter shut for a beat, then open again—slow, measured. He looks at you like you’ve unraveled something in him, like your touch left ink on him instead. But when his gaze drops lower, it changes. Softens. Darkens. And then his hand moves. Carefully. Cautiously. Like he’s seen too many things break when touched too fast.

He lifts it to your face, the backs of his fingers ghosting along your jaw—light enough to be mistaken for air. He doesn’t go straight for the bruise. He lingers near it, watching you, waiting for the slightest sign of retreat.

You don’t give it.

So he shifts—just slightly—until his knuckles brush the edge of the swelling beneath your eye. You flinch. Not because of the pain. Not because it hurts. Because of how gentle it is. Like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he doesn’t know how to hold something unless he’s sure it won’t shatter. Like he wants to carve your bruises from your skin and wear them instead. His fingers hover there. Still. Tense. A breath away from trembling.

“Fucker’s lucky I wasn’t there,” he murmurs.

You inhale—slow, shallow. The air catches in your throat like it’s thick with something unspoken, something too big to name. Minho’s hand starts to pull back. And maybe that’s why you speak. Maybe that’s why you reach for something else, anything else, before the room folds in too tightly.

“So,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “that tattoo.”

Minho pauses. Just for a moment. His eyes flick back to yours, and he knows what you’re doing. Of course he does. The deflection is transparent, but he lets it happen anyway—lets you steer them away from the heaviness still clinging to your skin like ash.

“What about it?” he murmurs, settling back on his elbow, the other hand now resting on his chest near the ink you traced. You mirror him slightly, folding into the edge of the couch, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes fixed on the storm etched into his skin.

“The wing,” you say after a beat. “In the center. What’s it mean?”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “Freedom.”

You blink. “It’s broken.”

His mouth quirks—barely a smile, not quite bitter. “Yeah. It usually is.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you say nothing. Just let your gaze trace the peaks and spirals, the places where black lines blur like smoke, the edges of him carved in ink instead of bruises. His body tells a story too. You just haven’t read all the pages yet.

Minho shifts again, slowly lying back down on the floor, the side of his arm brushing the base of the couch now. You're above him on the couch, laying on your side so you can look at him.

“You can ask,” he says softly.

“About the tattoo?”

“About anything.”

You hum—soft, skeptical. The kind of sound that curls into the quiet and lingers, not quite a no, not quite a yes. You’re tired now. The real kind. The kind that settles into your limbs like gravity, like wet sand. Your eyes flutter half-shut, your voice feather-light.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Minho lets out a low exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Maybe.”

Your gaze slips to his again—his eyes open, trained on the ceiling like the answers might be there if he stares hard enough. One hand still rests loosely over his chest, the other pressed against your cheek.

You reach for it. Not with purpose. Not even with need. Just because it’s there. Because it feels like the thing to do.

Your fingertips graze his, gentle, thoughtless. And then his hand shifts—just slightly—so his pinky catches yours. Hooks. Holds.

It’s not a kiss. It’s not a confession.

But it feels like both.

You don’t speak for a while. Don’t need to.

The silence feels clean now. Like rain after smoke. Like you could fall asleep inside it without drowning.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just lets you anchor there—your hand half-curled over his, your lashes brushing your cheek as your eyes slip closed.

But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:

“You have a nice voice.”

You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.

“Yeah?” he says, and it’s quieter than anything else he’s said tonight—rough around the edges like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment.

You nod against the pillow. “Mhm.”

There’s a beat.

“You’ve heard me say some pretty fucked-up things.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “Have I?”

He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just a sound with history behind it. With edge. With weight.

“Don’t play innocent,” he murmurs. “You remember.”

You do.

Of course you do.

Words like silk and smoke, coiled tight with implication. The things he said across the bar, into your drink, into your skin without ever laying a hand on you.

You remember all of them.

But you’re tired. Softened. And the edges of those memories feel dulled now—faded by warmth and flannel and the rhythm of his breathing a few feet from your chest.

So you hum again, lashes still pressed to your cheeks. “They didn’t sound fucked-up at the time.”

Minho’s quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet that hums.

You can feel it in the space between your bodies—how the air thickens again, but not with tension. With memory. With the weight of everything you haven’t said and the things you probably never will.

“That’s the problem,” he says eventually, voice low enough that you almost miss it. 

Your eyes open again. Just barely. The room is still steeped in shadow, but your vision finds him easy—half-lit, half-lost in the floor beside the couch. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other still tethered to yours.

You study the line of his jaw, the way it tenses and relaxes like he’s caught between restraint and regret. He’s not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll answer for him this time.

“You say that like you’re proud of it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just exhales, rough and dry.

“No,” he says. “I say it like I don’t know how to stop.”

That hurts in a way you didn’t expect. Not because of what he said—but because of the way he said it. Like a flaw in the foundation. Like a truth carved into him long before you ever stepped foot inside that bar.

You shift a little, turning more fully toward him, cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. Your fingers are still slotted with his. His skin is warm. Callused at the tips.

“You don’t have to stop,” you say quietly. “Just don’t lie about what you mean.”

That gets him.

His gaze flicks to yours—fast, sharp. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like no one’s ever said it to him quite like that before.

“I never lied,” he says.

You blink at him. Slow. Sleepy. “No. But you hide.”

Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches you. Face unreadable. Chest rising slow beneath the ink on his skin.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I don’t want to scare you.”

That makes you pause. The silence stretches thin and long between you.

“You don’t.”

Minho swallows. His thumb brushes, barely, against your knuckle.

“Not yet.”

You shake your head. Your voice is nearly gone now—nothing but a breath. “I think I’m harder to scare than you think.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m starting to believe that.”

The air settles again. Like the truth came in and made itself comfortable.

You close your eyes, finally letting your body sink into the couch. Letting the warmth of him—his hand, his presence, his voice—press into all the places that still feel fragile.

“Don’t stop talking,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your voice,” you murmur, already half gone. “It’s nice. It helps.”

And when you drift off like that—quiet, safe, held by nothing more than the sound of him—Minho stays awake long after. Eyes on the ceiling.

Still talking.

Just in case you can still hear him.

You wake to the scent of coffee and something faintly savory—garlic maybe, or eggs. The couch beneath you is warm where your body curled into it, blanket tangled around your legs. A cat is pressed to your ribs like a living paperweight, tail flicking once when you stir.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget what happened. Forget him.

Then the ache hits. Dull and deep, low in your chest and blooming outward. You shift to sit up, and it all comes back.

The club. The hands. The words.

The running.

And then—Minho.

His apartment is quiet now, but not empty. There’s music playing low from somewhere down the hall. You follow the sound on slow feet, dragging the blanket with you like armor.

You find him in the kitchen, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up. He’s at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. There’s a pan of eggs on the burner. A second mug waiting beside the sink.

He doesn’t turn when you enter. Just glances over his shoulder and says, “Mornin’.”

His voice is rough with sleep. Deeper. It hits somewhere low in your spine.

You hover at the doorway, feeling small in his clothes—his hoodie draped over your frame, sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Making breakfast,” he says, cutting you off with casual finality. “You still eat, right?”

You blink. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” He turns back to the pan. “Then sit.”

You do. Quietly. At the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of the mug he left for you. It smells like cinnamon.

He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Pushes the dish toward you and leans back against the counter with his own. He eats without looking at you at first, fork moving in clean, efficient motions.

When he does speak again, his voice is softer.

“You don’t have to go back.”

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.

“What?”

Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.

“I’m serious. If you don’t feel safe there…” He trails off, jaw tensing. “Stay here.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch far.

“I’ve got room,” he adds. “Cats already like you. You don’t snore.”

That last part earns the smallest smile from you. “You don’t know that.”

“I was up half the night,” he says, mouth twitching. “I’d know.”

You look down at your plate, pretending to rearrange the toast like that’ll somehow buy you time to think. But the words—stay here—they’ve already lodged themselves under your ribs. Warm. Unexpected. Real.

And terrifying.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say finally. Quiet. Like if you speak too loud, you’ll ruin the softness of it all.

Minho sets his fork down.

The sound is soft, deliberate. When you glance up, he’s watching you again. Really watching—like he does when he’s about to say something that’ll cut deeper than you expect.

“You’re not.”

Just that. Nothing flowery. Nothing performative. Just the fact of it, laid bare on the table between you like it shouldn’t be questioned.

You want to believe him.

You almost do.

But then your fingers twitch near your coffee, and the pain in your face pulses a little sharper—pulling you back into the fragile ache of your own body. You shift to look away, to hide the swelling that’s bloomed across your cheekbone and down to your jaw.

But Minho doesn’t let you.

He moves around the counter slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you. His hand is warm when it finds your chin again—fingertips brushing along your jawline, coaxing your face toward his. Gentle. Grounded.

“Let me see.”

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb ghosts beneath your cheekbone, skimming over the darkened bloom that’s bloomed overnight. His brow furrows—not in pity, not even in anger. Just... stillness. A silence that hums with the kind of fury he’s learned how to wear like armor.

His voice is low when it comes.

“I hate that he touched you.”

You blink. Something thick swells in your throat, too full to swallow down.

“I hate that I didn’t find you first.”

That hits you harder than it should.

You try to speak—but your voice sticks somewhere behind your teeth. So you just nod, your cheek pressing into his palm like your body can answer for you.

Minho doesn’t let go—not yet. His fingers trail down to the edge of your neck, where the fabric of his hoodie pools at your collarbone. You’re not sure if he realizes how close he’s gotten. How the warmth of him wraps around you now, even without touching anything else.

“I want you to stay,” he says again, steady now. “Not because I feel bad. Not because you need help. I want you here.”

Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.

His thumb moves again—just a gentle stroke along your jaw.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You breathe in once, shaky and thin. “Okay.”

The corners of his mouth pull—slow, subtle. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Relief, maybe.

He lets your face go with that same care—like he’s afraid it’ll leave a mark if he’s not gentle enough. Then he steps back, returns to his plate, and picks up his fork again like he didn’t just hand you the softest kind of shelter.

You take another bite of your eggs.

They taste better than they should.

You don’t move in all at once.

There’s no official decision, no suitcase moment. Just the slow accumulation of things—your toothbrush beside his, a sock that somehow never made its way back into your bag, a t-shirt folded neatly at the foot of the bed that you don’t remember taking off. A rhythm forms. One that begins with his voice in the morning—low, rough, coffee-laced—and ends with the soft click of the front door when he comes home from the bar past midnight, thinking you’re asleep.

You never are.

The apartment starts to feel different. Lived-in. Yours, even if you never say it out loud. Your shoes by the door. Your laughter echoing off the tile. Your perfume clinging to his sheets like memory.

Minho doesn’t comment. Not once. He just starts making a second cup of coffee without asking. Starts keeping almond milk in the fridge. Throws your laundry in with his like it’s never been separate.

And you—you watch him fall into it as easy as breath.

He moves through the apartment like smoke. Silent, confident, present in ways you’ve never been used to. There’s no performance with him, no empty gestures. If he folds your towel, it’s because it needed folding. If he brings home your favorite tea, it’s because he remembered. And if he looks at you too long in the mirror while you brush your teeth, it’s because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.

One night, he comes home late. The bar ran over, and the cats had started pacing like they could feel the quiet shift without him. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, a half-finished movie playing on low, just waiting for the lock to turn. When it does, and he steps inside—shoulders drawn, eyes tired, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to him—you don’t say anything at first.

Just watch him.

He slips off his boots. Shrugs off his jacket. Walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water like he’s not sure how to be here yet.

Then he grabs the pack from the counter.

You sit up.

“Minho.”

He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.

You rise slowly, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, padding barefoot to meet him.

“You said you were trying to quit.”

“I am.”

“You’re also lighting a cigarette at midnight.”

He exhales through his nose. Tired. “Rough night.”

You stop just short of the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, bare toes curling against the tile, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Want to talk about it?” you ask softly.

“No,” he says.

Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.

Minho pulls the cigarette from the pack with that same familiar motion—two fingers, flick of the wrist. The sound of the lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. He doesn't look at you as he inhales, jaw tight, lashes low. The cherry glows in the dim.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

He leans against the counter, exhales slow, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. It swirls around the line of his jaw, catches the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, clings to him like it’s part of his skin.

You hate how good he looks like this. Angry. Quiet. Unreachable.

But you hate more that you can’t reach him.

“Was it something at the bar?”

His lips twitch. He doesn’t answer.

You step closer, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”

“I’m not,” he says. Still not looking at you. “I’m carrying it just fine.”

You frown.

“Minho—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

And this time, it is clipped. Sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts more than it means to. He finally looks at you then—eyes rimmed with something hot and unreadable, mouth hard.

The silence that follows is cold.

You shift your weight, wounded but trying not to show it. “Okay.”

Minho’s jaw ticks. Like he wants to take it back, but doesn’t know how. Like everything in him is fraying at the edges, and you just happened to be the softest thing close enough to get caught in it.

He curses under his breath. Stubs the cigarette out halfway through, presses the filter down into the tray until it smears.

Then, quieter: “It’s not you.”

“I know.”

He runs a hand down his face, palm dragging hard across his mouth like he’s trying to erase himself. Then he sighs and looks at you—really looks at you. The hoodie swallowed around your frame. The bare legs. The worry softening your brow.

His voice breaks a little on the next part.

“Had a guy come into the bar tonight. One of those types—smiles too wide, looks through women instead of at them. He kept cornering this girl, leaning over the counter, asking me why I gave a shit when I told him to back off.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

Minho swallows. “He called me a cockblock. Said I must’ve been jealous.” His gaze drops, eyes narrowing. “Said I looked like the kind of guy who watches.”

You don’t interrupt.

“He grabbed her arm when she tried to leave. Wouldn’t let go."

The words hang there. Not just what he’s saying—but why he’s saying it. You feel it bloom in your chest. Cold. Familiar.

You walk the last few feet.

He doesn’t stop you this time.

Your hand finds his wrist—warm, tense, still trembling slightly. You run your thumb over the bone there, grounding him.

“You’re not that kind of man.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to be.”

That makes you pause.

He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.

“I wanted to slam him into the bar. Make him bleed. Make him feel small. And the worst part?” A breathless laugh. “I would’ve enjoyed it.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

You squeeze his hand.

It’s quiet for a while. The kitchen lit only by the soft amber under the cabinets, casting warm shadows along the tile. The cats have settled somewhere in the living room. Even the city feels hushed.

He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.

Then, suddenly: “He looked at her the same way—”

He stops himself. His jaw locks.

You swallow.

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You know.

And he knows you know.

So you step closer. Gently. Carefully. Press your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something like home. You pluck the cigarette from his lips and he lets you, watches as you toss it into the sink.

“Come to bed,” you murmur.

He doesn't move.

You tug on his hand again. “Please.”

Minho glances at you—eyes a little too tired, a little too dark—but he lets you guide him.

He doesn’t say much once you're in the bedroom. Just peels his shirt off and tosses it into the corner. You catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest again—the wing in the center of the storm, fractured, fighting to stay airborne.

You turn away to climb into bed, give him space.

But when you settle under the blanket, he’s already there. Already behind you. Warm and solid, arm slipping around your waist without hesitation. His chest to your back, his breath against your neck.

He’s quiet for a long time. And then:

“I hate that I couldn’t stop it. What happened to you.”

You close your eyes.

His fingers tighten slightly against your side. Not rough. Just firm. Just real.

“I think about it more than I should,” he murmurs. “What I’d do if I saw him again.”

You shift, just enough to feel him breathe differently—like your movement catches him off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to respond. But you don’t turn around, not yet. You just let your voice slip into the quiet, soft and slow.

“What would you do?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then another.

His breath ghosts across your shoulder. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d scare you.”

His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Measured. Sharp at the edges like he’s spent all night filing it down.

You blink slowly into the dark, heart thudding, air thick between your bodies. You feel him behind you—warm, solid, tense. A wall at your back. A shield. A fuse.

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t exhale.

And just when you think he might pretend he didn’t hear you, Minho speaks.

“I’d wait,” he says, voice low, words heavy like molasses. “Wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t warn him. Just watch. Let him come close. Let him think he could try again.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers curl slightly where they rest on your waist, grounding himself in the shape of you.

“Then I’d take his hand,” Minho murmurs, “the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

A chill snakes down your spine.

Not fear.

Just something colder. Older. Like someone had finally said the thing you weren’t allowed to say out loud. That it wasn’t okay. That it would never be okay.

“And when he screamed,” Minho continues, voice almost tender now, “I wouldn’t stop. I’d make sure he understood what it feels like to lose control. To be small. Helpless. The way he made you feel.”

You turn in his arms.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Face to face now.

His jaw is clenched. Eyes storm-dark. He looks dangerous like this. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s loyal. Because he means every word and there’s no drama in his voice—just truth. Cold and clean.

You reach for him without thinking.

Your hand moves to his face, fingers threading into the hair at his temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone like you’re trying to soothe something in him—or maybe in yourself. And Minho… he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften either. He just lets you hold him, lets your touch settle over the anger still thrumming in his bones like a warning bell that hasn’t stopped ringing.

“You wouldn’t scare me,” you whisper.

His brow twitches, just slightly. “You should be scared of a man who wants to hurt for you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I’ve been scared before. You’re not that kind of man.”

His mouth parts. His breath hits your lips. The weight in his eyes shifts—something cracks beneath it. Not entirely. Just a fracture. A weakness. A truth.

“You don’t know what I’d do,” he murmurs.

You lean in, close enough that your breath brushes his skin when you speak.

“I don’t need to,” you whisper. “I know what you’ve already done.”

His brow furrows, but you go on—soft and steady, the words falling between you like they’ve been waiting for a place to land.

“You made space. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You let me have silence without asking for anything in return.” Your fingers press more firmly against his jaw, thumb brushing just below his lower lip. “That’s enough. That’s more than anyone else ever did.”

Minho’s eyes darken—not with lust—but with something thicker. Something closer to reverence. Like the weight of your trust is heavier than all the violence he ever imagined inflicting in your name.

His hand rises slowly, palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that borders on fragile. His thumb swipes beneath your eye like he’s checking for something he missed.

“I don’t deserve that,” he says, voice raw.

“Maybe not,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “But you have it.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough to make him move.

Minho kisses you like he’s falling. Like he’s been holding himself upright for so long, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to give in. His mouth finds yours, and there’s no hesitation in it—only heat, only hunger. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet groan that vibrates in your chest.

You gasp softly when he pushes you back, his body pressing you into the mattress, weight balanced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One hand slips under your shirt, fingers skimming up your ribs, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast.

He pulls back barely an inch, eyes flicking over your face like a question.

His breathing is uneven, but his touch isn't. His hand rests there—still beneath your shirt, just barely cradling your breast like he's not sure he deserves to hold anything so soft. So willing. His thumb strokes gently, slowly, and his eyes search yours like he's waiting for a line to cross. Or worse—waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the hem of your shirt, dragging it up with trembling fingers. You don’t break eye contact. Don’t speak.

You just offer.

And Minho accepts.

He helps, silent, peeling it over your head with quiet reverence. He looks at you like you’re made of something rare and unrepeatable. And when his gaze drags over your chest, down the soft swell of your ribs to your stomach, he breathes your name like a confession.

His voice is wrecked when he says it—your name, cracked and reverent like he’s saying it for the first time. Like it’s a word he isn’t worthy of.

“Fuck, look at you.” His hands drag down your sides, slow and sure, palms wide and heavy like he’s trying to ground himself. He shifts over you, mouth lowering to your breast, and he moans as soon as his lips close around your nipple—no restraint, no performance. Just need. He sucks hard. Just once. Like he can’t help himself. Then he pulls back, panting, and shakes his head like he’s already losing it. “I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smile—lazy, wrecked, already warm all over—and tilt your head just enough for your lashes to sweep up, gaze locked on his. You reach for him, fingers trailing down his arm until your palm flattens against his chest, right over the fractured wing. “I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper.

Minho’s breath stutters—one of those shallow, fractured exhales that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. Not when your palm is flat against his chest, thumb grazing the tip of that wing inked over his heart. Not when your eyes look like that—half-lidded, dark, shining with something he’s not sure he deserves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Keep lying to me.”

But he doesn’t pull away. He watches you. Watches the way your hand trails lower, slow and certain, down the cut of his abdomen. Fingertips ghosting over the faint dip of muscle, over the waistband of his pants, teasing the edge like you’re not sure yet—like he has any say in it anymore.

Minho goes still. Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he does. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against the fabric, already leaking for you. But there’s something in his face—tightness around the mouth, tension in his jaw. A flicker of control barely clinging to the edge. And you see it. You see all of it. So you press your lips to his collarbone—soft, reverent—and whisper, “Let me.”

Minho shudders. And then he nods. You sink down the bed a little, propping yourself on one elbow, other hand already slipping beneath his waistband. He lifts his hips to help, pants shoved just low enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and thick, tip slick with precome, veins standing in sharp relief.

“Jesus,” you murmur, fingers curling around the base. “You’re so hard…”

“Because of you,” he rasps. “You lying, teasing little thing—”

You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.

You give him another stroke, tighter this time, and the sound he makes punches straight through you—low and ragged, a shattered groan caught in the back of his throat. His hips twitch, almost against his will, and you can feel the restraint vibrating through his body, every muscle tight like he’s on the verge of snapping.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, almost teasing. “What happened to all that control?”

Minho laughs—just barely. Just a breath.

“Keep talking like that,” he mutters, “and I’ll ruin you before you even get the chance to try.”

But the way his eyes flutter shut when you twist your wrist on the upstroke says otherwise. “Hah—fuck—” He’s panting now, head tipped back, one arm holding himself up beside your head for support while the other fists the sheets like he needs something—anything—to hold onto.

You lean up, breath brushing the underside of his jaw, your voice soft and honey-sweet in his ear.

“You gonna beg for it?”

He freezes. His eyes snap open, and there’s something electric in the silence between you. His cock throbs in your hand, twitching like the idea alone nearly undid him. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing yours.

“Do you want me to?” he whispers.

You smile, smug and slow. “Wouldn’t hate it.”

He groans—deep, guttural, wrecked—and it makes your cunt clench. He looks like he could devour you whole, like he might if you ask nicely. Or if you don’t.

“I’d get on my fucking knees if you told me to,” he mutters, mouth moving along your jaw, your cheek, your throat. His hand finds your hip and grips, firm enough to bruise. “I’d crawl. I’d beg. I’d say please—is that what you want?”

You don’t answer. You just stroke him again—slow, tight, deliberate—and feel the way he shudders against you, how his whole body flinches like your hand alone is enough to wreck him.

“Mm— baby, slow down—fuck—” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin.

“I’ll give it to you,” he murmurs. “Anything. You want me desperate? Pathetic? Done. Just say it.”

You hum, soft and pleased, lips brushing his temple. “I think I like you pathetic.”

Minho groans—“Fuck, you’re evil,”—but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he sinks into it. Into you. Every stroke of your hand wrings another sound from his throat, each more desperate than the last.

You swipe your thumb over the slit, smear precum down the shaft, and his entire body jolts.

“Shit—don’t—f-fuck—”

“You gonna make a mess in my hand, baby?” you ask sweetly, tightening just a little. “Gonna come like this? Without even being inside me?”

He growls. “No.”

You blink up at him, lips parting in mock surprise. “No?”

Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes absolutely wrecked. Hair messy, jaw clenched, throat flushed with effort. He’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“I’m not coming until I’m inside you,” he says, voice low, dark, edged with pure hunger. “Until I’m fucking deep in that pretty cunt, feeling you squeeze me while I lose it. You think I can come just from your hand?”

He leans in, nose to yours, breath harsh. “I’d beg for the chance to do it right.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then you let go of his cock. Minho groans like it physically hurts.

“Then beg.” He stares at you. One long, heavy moment. Then he kneels back on his haunches, hands splayed on your thighs, and dips his head.

“Please.”

Just one word—but fuck, the way he says it. Voice hoarse, raw, like it���s scraped from the bottom of his chest. His lips graze the inside of your knee as he speaks again.

“Please, let me in. Let me fuck you slow. Let me feel you stretch around me.”

You exhale shakily.

He presses another kiss higher. “Let me make you come on my cock. Let me ruin you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

Your thighs tremble. He reaches for your underwear, eyes flicking to yours for permission, and when you nod—barely, breathless—he tugs them down with reverence, slow enough to make you whimper.

Minho drags your underwear down your legs like it’s the last ribbon off a present, like beneath it is something he’s been waiting his whole life to unwrap. When the fabric slips past your ankles, he tosses it somewhere behind him without a glance. His gaze never leaves you. You’re already soaked.

He sees it—feels it when he runs two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open with a breathless “fuck me.” His knuckles tremble.

He sees everything. Every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your thighs, every slick sound his fingers make as they glide through you, slow and reverent. His knuckles tremble, but his touch doesn’t falter—not even a little. If anything, the way his hand moves only deepens, turns hungrier.

“Fuck me,” he breathes again. He parts you with two fingers, spreads your folds and watches your cunt clench on nothing, dripping for him, aching.

“Look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t help it. “So wet I can see my reflection. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

You’re panting now, back arching just slightly off the sheets, eyes half-lidded but fixed on him, on the way he looks at you like you’re something sacred and ruined all at once.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “Please.”

Minho sinks two fingers into you in one smooth stroke—slow, thick, curling just right until your breath hits the back of your throat. He groans, low and guttural, watching your cunt stretch around his fingers like it’s something holy.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “How the fuck am I gonna fit my cock in you if you’re already this tight around my fingers?”

The question is low, more to himself than to you, but it rips through you like heat, like lightning. Your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers at the thought, and Minho groans—long, drawn out, wrecked.

“Oh, you like that,” he breathes. “You want me to stretch you open, don’t you?”

Your answer is a breathy whimper, more sound than word—your hips canting up, your fingers curling in the sheets. Minho watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s the one being touched, like you are the thing unraveling him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he’s lining up. His cock drags through your folds, thick and flushed, already smeared with your slick. He grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting the head catch against your clit before slipping lower. When he presses in, the stretch burns, even as your cunt welcomes him, soaking and clenching and shaking just from the promise of it.

“Jesus—ngh, fuck—you’re tight,” he growls, jaw clenched, forehead tipped against yours. “Gonna ruin me.”

He gives you an inch. Then another. Then thrusts the rest of the way in with a groan that sounds like it’s been caged in his throat for weeks.

You cry out—sharp, startled, stretched to the brim in one sudden, devastating motion.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he pants, not stopping. His hips roll into yours, hard and deep, dragging his cock through your walls like he’s trying to etch himself into them. “You can take it. I know you can. Look at you—fuck—made for this.”

The first few thrusts are brutal. Snapping, deliberate, filthy. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. He pins your hips down like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t keep you there. Every time he sinks back in, your breath knocks out of your lungs, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer—wrecked, endless, real.

“Just like that,” he grits, cock dragging against your walls, soaked in you. “Let me fuck it into you—let me make you feel me.”

But then— Then he slows. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he wants to feel all of it. His hand slides under your thigh, hikes your leg higher around his waist, and he sinks into you again—slower this time. Deeper. His hips roll instead of snap, the rhythm shifting into something that feels closer to worship than fucking.

He fucks into you slow, deep—each thrust wringing a breathy moan from your throat, each drag of his cock carving his name deeper into the heat of you. The sweat on his skin glistens under the low light, hair clinging to his forehead, jaw tight with effort and restraint. You’re clinging to him now—arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back, body arching to meet every roll of his hips. And then he says it—low, ragged, right in your ear.

“Feel good?”

You gasp, nod, whisper-plead a breathless “Yes.”

He hums—a soft, dark thing, almost smug. He thrusts a little harder, just once, like a reward, like a test. “Yeah?” he pants. “How good? Tell me."

You try—but your voice catches. It’s just air at first, punched out of you by the deliberate grind of his hips, by the thick, aching stretch of him moving so slowly inside you you could scream. You manage a broken, breathy sound: “So—fuck—so good…”

And Minho groans. Long, low, full of grit. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your lips—messy, hot, open-mouthed. His breath fans against your skin as he mutters, “That all you’ve got for me, baby?”

You dig your nails in—fuck him, he knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how good he feels, the way his cock strokes that spot just right, again and again, with filthy precision. The way his hand curls around your thigh to keep you spread for him, to keep you right there

You whimper his name—soft, ruined—like it’s the only word you remember, and he groans, sharp and deep, lips dragging along the sweat-slick curve of your throat.

“God, you feel—” he pants, voice splintered, barely holding. “You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re so tight, so warm, you—fuck, you ruin me.”

Another thrust—slow, deep, devastating—and your head falls back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry. Minho watches your face twist, watches your chest heave, and it breaks something in him.

“I—shit—I think I’m in love with you.”

It slips out like a sin. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like he couldn’t hold it in one second longer.

Your whole body goes still beneath him—just for a moment. Like your brain’s catching up. Like his words are a second kind of penetration, sharp and unexpected. He freezes, too. Breath held. Eyes wide. The moment burns.

And then you whisper, broken and trembling: “Say it again.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate this time. “I love you.”

He moans it into your mouth, like it hurts to say, like it hurts more not to. His hand slides up your side, tender now, reverent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, forehead pressed to yours, hips still rolling deep, slow, full of everything he never knew how to say before now.

“You hear me? You’re not just someone I fuck, you’re—god, you’re everything.”

Your lips part—words rising up like breath, like instinct—but you don’t get the chance.

Minho kisses you before you can speak.

Not soft. Not tentative. It’s all tongue and teeth, heat and hunger, the kind of kiss that steals thought and gives only feeling in return. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it—like he’s still starving, even now, with his cock buried deep inside you and your body curled so sweetly beneath his.

You gasp into him, and he drinks it down—tongue licking into your mouth, filthy and tender and real.

And then it’s all friction.

The slow roll of his hips turns urgent, dragging moans from your throat he swallows between kisses. He fucks into you like he means it now—like every thrust is a promise carved into your bones. You cling to him, helpless against the way your body arches, the way your cunt tightens around him, soaked and pulsing, every nerve on fire.

“M-Min—hah—Minho—”

He pulls back just long enough to look at you—just long enough to let you see how wrecked he is, how far gone, how in it he is with you.

“You’re mine,” he pants, voice rough and wrecked, thrusts hitting deeper now, harder, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. “You hear me? Say it.”

You nod, broken. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

And that’s all he needed.

He groans—loud, guttural—and buries himself deeper, cock twitching as he fucks you through it. His thrusts lose rhythm, chasing his high, and you’re barely hanging on, every drag of him inside you rubbing all the right places, the sweet heat spiraling again in your belly.

You’re both so close. So close.

And when you come again—tight and soaked and shaking all around him—he feels it. Feels you flutter and pull and milk him until he can’t hold back anymore.

He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, voice wrecked.

“I love you—fuck—I love you, I love you—”

It’s not gentle when he comes.

It’s everything.

And when the tremors subside, when your nails loosen from his back and your breaths sync again, he still doesn’t let you speak.

Not yet.

He just kisses you.

And kisses you.

And kisses you.

You learn something about Minho that night. That as nonchalant and unshakable as he seems—cool and composed, cigarette smoke and sharp tongues—when he gets going, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re crying his name again. Not until your thighs tremble and your voice is wrecked and your body’s too boneless to beg for more, even though your eyes still plead with him.

You lose track of how many times.

The night runs long and slow and molten—fucking turns to touching, touching turns to laughing, and every kiss feels like a secret passed between mouths.

Now, the room is quiet again. Still.

You’re sprawled across the sheets, skin bare, limbs warm and heavy with exhaustion. The duvet’s been kicked down to your ankles, your body slick with the soft sheen of sweat, your chest rising in steady, sated waves.

Minho is gone—but only for a second.

You hear the quiet thud of the fridge door, the sound of a glass under the tap. When he returns, he’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding out a glass of water like it’s some sacred offering.

“Drink,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex. You sit up just enough to take it, careful not to meet his eyes at first—and then you see them.

The marks. Dark smudges blooming across the sharp cut of his hips. Nail trails raked down the meat of his shoulders. A bite on his collarbone, faint and already bruising. All yours. And suddenly you feel… Shy.

You didn’t before—when his mouth was on you, when his hands were everywhere, when your back arched and you begged him not to stop. But now, in the soft quiet, with morning somewhere close on the horizon, it hits you. So you reach for the blanket, dragging it up your chest like modesty matters, like you didn’t spend the whole night unraveling beneath him.

Minho sees. Of course he sees.

And he smiles.

That slow, crooked thing. The one that doesn’t show teeth but somehow says everything.

“Oh?” he murmurs, placing the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed. “Now you’re shy?”

You don’t answer. Just burrow into the pillow, cheeks hot. He slips beneath the duvet anyway—doesn’t give you a choice. Just tugs it down again with a smug little hum, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your embarrassment.

“I like the marks,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Wish you’d left more.”

You blink at him. He just keeps going—slow, lazy kisses trailed down your arm, his body curling around yours like he can’t bear the distance. One arm loops under your waist. The other hooks over your thigh. And then he’s half on top of you, all weight and warmth and him. Clingy.

He tucks his face into your neck like it’s the only place he knows how to breathe. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of it when he speaks again—low, slurred, thick with sleep and smugness.

“Gonna have to start wearing long sleeves to work.”

You choke on a breath, eyes fluttering open. “Because of me?”

“Mm.” He kisses your jaw. “Unless I want to get fired.”

You raise an eyebrow. "You work at a bar, not an office."

“Yeah,” Minho hums, lazy and amused. “But people tip more when I’m unmarked.”

The words slip out casual, offhand—like a throwaway comment he doesn’t mean anything by.

But your smile falters anyway.

Just a flicker. Just enough for him to see it.

You shift beneath him, eyes drifting away, teeth catching your lower lip before you can stop the twist of something sour in your gut. You don’t say anything—not right away—but your silence says enough.

Minho stills.

Then lifts his head, just barely, so he can see your face.

“Hey.”

You blink up at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his voice.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, tone low. Honest. “Because I’ll quit.”

Your heart stutters.

“What?”

“I mean it.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “If you don’t like it—me working there, people flirting, whatever—I’ll quit. I don’t give a fuck about the tips.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can answer.

“I only took that job to kill time. To pay rent. But you—” His brow furrows. “You’re not something I’m willing to risk for a few extra bills thrown in a jar.”

You swallow hard.

He watches you.

Your eyes search his face—his furrowed brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark smudge of sleep still softening the corners of his eyes—and there’s no doubt. No teasing in his voice, no smirk on his lips. Just Minho. Serious. Steady. Unflinching in his honesty.

“I’d rather be yours than anyone’s favorite bartender,” he says, quieter this time.

Your throat tightens.

And for a second, you can’t speak. You can only stare, caught between the weight of his words and the way his fingers stay curled so gently around your jaw—like you might vanish if he lets go.

You whisper, “I don’t want you to quit.”

He waits.

You blink slowly, pulling in a breath thick with the scent of him, the warmth of his body still heavy across yours. “I just didn’t like the idea of someone else looking at you like I look at you.”

Minho’s expression shifts—barely, but you feel it. Something in his chest loosens. His eyes soften, flicking between yours.

“No one else gets to,” he says simply. “Not anymore.”

You exhale, shaky with something that feels suspiciously close to relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans down, brushes his lips against yours—so soft, so sure. “They can look all they want. But I go home with your marks on me. I come home to you.”

Your pulse trips. Your hand fists the sheets at your side, but he feels it. Feels the way the tension bleeds out of you when he says it like that. Like a promise.

And then he flops on top of you.

Dead weight. Limbs loose. Hair flopping messily across his forehead as he buries his face in your chest with a dramatic sigh.

You laugh, startled. “Minho!”

“Mmm,” he grunts, nuzzling between your breasts. “Too early for serious talks. Thought we were in our post-sex cuddling era.”

You squirm under the sudden weight, still giggling, breath hitching when his cheek brushes the swell of your breast. “We can’t be in our post-sex cuddling era if you suffocate me in it.”

He hums again. Doesn’t move.

Just slings an arm over your ribs like a human paperweight, sighs through his nose like he’s never been more at peace. “Shhh,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

You let your fingers find his hair, carding gently through the tangled strands at his nape. He melts into it, chest rising and falling slow against your stomach. The silence between you stretches—soft, golden, alive with the echo of everything that came before. Of everything that now lingers.

Minho doesn’t say anything else for a while. He just breathes you in. Lets you trace lazy shapes along his spine. Lets his lips ghost across your skin every now and then, aimless, unthinking. Like he needs the taste of you to fall asleep.

Eventually, you murmur, “You’re not really gonna wear long sleeves, are you?”

He snorts into your chest. “Hell no.”

“Good,” you whisper.

He hums again, content. Almost purring.

Then, after a beat: “Might even go shirtless.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” His voice is muffled against your skin, low and lazy. “Let ‘em see everything. Let ‘em know I’m taken. Ruined. Whipped.”

You huff a laugh, warm and breathless, chest shifting beneath him. “You’re not whipped,” you tease, even though your heart trips a little at the word. The way he says it like a badge of honor, like something he wants people to know.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.

“Babe,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, “I let you suck a bruise into my neck while my dick was still inside you. I think the jury’s in.”

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”

He grins, smug and sleepy and so clearly unrepentant. “Should’ve taken a picture. Hung it behind the bar.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious.” He nuzzles into your sternum, exhales a satisfied sigh. “Caption it: Do not touch. Fed and fucked.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “You’re insane.”

He chuckles. “I’m in love.”

The words land softer than they should, but firmer than you'd expect. Not casual—comfortable. Like truth in its final form. And you feel it, all the way down: the weight of his affection, the certainty of it, so tangled up in the ridiculous things he says that it feels like breathing.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left for him to go. “You’re still insane,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hairline.

“And you’re stuck with me.”

The truth of it rings out between you—not heavy, not sharp. Just there. Simple. Whole. You are. He is.

His fingers drum a slow beat against your ribs. He studies you for a second longer, then tucks himself back in, face hidden against your skin, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, already halfway there. “We can fall in love more tomorrow.”

You close your eyes.

And you do.

It’s been a few weeks.

A few golden, quiet, full-bodied weeks—where everything that once felt fragile now feels real. Whole. Yours.

Minho had asked you properly—booked out the bar for the night, turned the lights low, played your favorite song on vinyl, and gave you a private bartender show complete with one too many shirtless shaker tricks and your name carved into a lemon twist.

He cooked, too. And kissed you between courses. And pulled you into his lap to ask—not casually, not like it was assumed—if you’d be his girlfriend.

You said yes.

Of course you did.

And now you live together. Officially. Your clothes are in his drawers. His toothbrush sits next to yours. He makes you coffee and you fold his laundry and somewhere in the haze of shared spaces and soft kisses, you forgot what it felt like to flinch.

And then it happens fast.

One moment, you’re walking up the block—hands tucked into your sleeves, heart light from the texts Minho sent not even ten minutes ago.

[Minho] : hurry up[Minho] : wear that thing i like [Minho] : might be drunk by the time you get here if i keep taste-testing the menu

The bar’s glowing ahead, amber light spilling out of the windows like warmth. You’re already rehearsing the way you’ll slip onto a barstool, lean over the counter just far enough for him to grab your waist and kiss you across the spill mat—

You weren’t expecting him.

The ex.

Slurring your name like a threat. Blocking the sidewalk like a curse you thought you’d buried for good.

And for a second, it startles you. Not because you’re afraid—no, not anymore. But because how dare he.

How dare he still think he has access. How dare he act like the time you spent clawing your way out of the wreckage didn’t matter. Like the scars he left didn’t teach you how to fight.

You meet his stare.

Voice steady. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh, now you’ve got a mouth?” he slurs, taking a step forward. “What, dick that good it grew you a backbone?”

You don't flinch.

Not when he leans in, not when he sways close enough for you to smell the sour reek of alcohol clinging to his breath like bile. Not even when his voice drops lower, curling around your name like it still belongs to him.

It doesn't.

"You heard me," you say again, firmer this time. "Move."

But he doesn't. He laughs instead—ugly, mean, mouth curled in that old, familiar smirk that used to make your stomach sink.

Now it just makes you angry.

“You always thought you were better than me,” he sneers, stepping closer, invading your space like he owns it. “Acting like you're some fucking saint now, just ‘cause you got a new dick to suck—”

You move to sidestep him, but his hand shoots out—grabbing your wrist, hard.

Too hard.

You stumble back with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the alley beside the bar. Pain sparks up your arm, sharp and hot where his fingers dig into your skin.

"Let—go of me—"

He doesn't.

His grip tightens.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me—”

And then it happens in a blink.

A blur of dark hair, a sharp crack of movement, and suddenly your ex is off you, shoved back so fast and so hard he nearly falls into the curb. The momentum knocks him sideways, but he catches himself, stumbling back with a curse.

Minho steps between you.

Calm.

Controlled.

Lethal.

Minho’s voice is low. Measured.

“You have until the count of three.”

Your ex scoffs, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “The fuck are you gonna—”

“Three.”

No warning. No buildup.

Just violence.

Minho’s fist slams into his jaw with a sickening crack, the force of it snapping his head sideways. He stumbles—off-balance, stunned—but Minho doesn’t let up. Another punch, straight to the ribs, and you hear the breath leave his lungs in a strangled wheeze.

Your ex hits the ground hard.

But Minho’s not done.

He drops to one knee beside him—precise, deliberate—and grabs his hand.

The hand he used on you.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

Because you remember.

“Then I’d take his hand, the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

And now—

Now you watch it unfold in real time.

Minho takes that wrist in both hands, pins it to the pavement, and presses down—hard—until your ex screams.

“No—no, fuck—stop—!”

Minho’s grip doesn’t waver.

He curls his fingers around one of your ex’s.

“First one,” he mutters—almost gently. Like he’s naming something, not destroying it.

Then he bends.

The crack is sharp, grotesque. It splits the air like a firework misfired—brief and brutal and final.

Your ex howls, voice cracking as he thrashes beneath Minho’s knee, but it doesn’t matter. Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Just shifts to the next finger.

“Second.”

Another break. Another scream.

You don’t look away.

You should—maybe. A part of you knows that. But the rest of you, the part that remembers—remembers shaking hands, bruised ribs, the way your ex used to whisper apologies into your hair while you cried onto the bathroom tile—that part of you watches.

And breathes.

Minho leans closer.

Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.

“Third.”

Crack.

Your ex is crying now. Tears, snot, spit—he’s babbling nonsense, slurring pleads that dissolve into whimpers.

“Stop—please—I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Minho grabs the fourth finger. “You meant it every time.”

“Fourth,” he says, and the word falls like a guillotine.

He pulls.

The snap is quieter this time—deeper, more internal. A tendon giving way. A joint yanked cruelly from its socket. Your ex lets out a broken sound, not quite a scream anymore. Not loud. Just raw. Hollow. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes no one’s coming to save him.

Minho still hasn’t raised his voice.

Hasn’t needed to.

Because this isn’t rage. It isn’t revenge.

It’s justice.

Delivered slow. Delivered steady. Delivered by the man who saw every crack in you and loved you anyway—especially because you survived them.

Minho shifts again.

“Fifth.”

“No,” your ex gasps, eyes rolling, lips slick with blood from where he must’ve bitten through them. “No—no more, I—please, please, I—”

But Minho’s hand is already there, curling around that last finger like a closing grave.

And this time, he doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at him—right in the eyes. Like he wants this to be the last thing your ex ever remembers when he reaches for something in the dark.

Then he snaps it clean.

The sound is sickening.

The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.

“Touch her again,” Minho murmurs, bending the wrist back until the guy writhes, “and I’ll break your fucking spine next.”

And finally—finally—Minho lets go.

He rises slowly, like he’s not rushing to leave the wreckage behind, like he wants your ex to feel every second of what it means to be beneath him. A shadow cast by justice. A reminder that some hands don’t heal—they answer.

He turns to you.

And all of it—the sharpness, the stillness, the steel in his spine—it bleeds away when his eyes meet yours.

He sees the shock there, the tremble hiding in your shoulders.

And he moves to you—not with fire this time, but with the same careful quiet he always gives you after storms. Hands gentle. Expression softer now, but no less certain.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

You nod—but it’s shallow. Fragile.

So he cups your face in both hands, grounding you.

“Look at me,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

And you know it's true.

Because he is here.

Behind you, the sirens wail.

[oakandgumtrees]

Reading the paper itself (second link), one thing that jumped out at me was this bit:

"Moreover, my findings suggest that the ways we measure and ask questions about gender may erase the possibility of gender detachment by operating under the assumption of compulsory gender."

Winer makes the comparison to 'compulsory heterosexuality' etc that is very apt - having a gender identity is so socially normed that even people who are gender detached learn how to behave as if they are gendered. His participants - the ones who found the term 'gender detached' described them - all had answers to the question 'what is your gender identity?'.

He also points out that his participants frequently made a distinction between agender/nonbinary identities and their own experiences. He connects this to the idea that agender/nonbinary people are often still 'doing' gender, engaging with gender as a category even if by challenging it.

Personally, the idea of compulsory gender really rings a bell for me. I am content to 'act as' a woman - wearing women's clothes, using women's bathrooms, using she/her pronouns - but the suggestion that womanhood is part of my identity has always made me uncomfortable. Saying that I am agender seems equally false, both because I inhabit the role of woman quite comfortably, and because it's a statement about how I FEEL about my gender, when in reality, I would like to NOT feel about my gender. Gender as a social role, I can live with. Gender as an identity, I don't want.

(Funnily enough, growing social awareness of trans issues has troubled this MORE, because the discourse of gender identity has gotten very prominent.)

Winer makes the excellent point, in his discussion, that gender detachment has been invisible in research so far BECAUSE of assumptions about compulsory gender. Many studies ask for gender identity; few ask how MUCH you identify with that gender, or with gender at all. Because gender and sexuality are closely linked (both in terms of how you experience them as an adult and how you construct them growing up), it's not surprising that gender detachment first became visible in a study of asexuality and gender. But now that the concept has entered the literature, I look forward to seeing where else we will find it.

i feel so seen!!

(twitter thread)

[lvl109]

oh captain, my captain ✶ caleb xia

summary.ᐟ fem reader. wc: 6569. ( ?! ) belated birthday smut because the caleb demons were perched on my shoulders for almost three weeks. half plot half porn because here goes yappatron 3000.

teddy says.ᐟ this was originally supposed to be under 2k words, lmfao. i haven't written smut in a hot minute and didn't know how to end it so show grace. big big linkon sized thank u to my local caleb girlie @neigepomme for answering my silly characterization questions. i told u i was gonna site u as a source and i meant it. surrendering myself as a member of #applegirlnation now bc wdym this started as a joke. there is absolutely nothing funny about six thousand words for a man. sobbing hysterically what is this life. + idk who started writing mc as 'emcee' in fics but i thought it was cute so i used it too. :)

“avoiding the question isn't going to make me stop asking, you know.”

you've been at this for almost two hours now. following him around your apartment with narrowed eyes as he whistled cheerfully and avoided your budding frustration. the shared space is warm with the afterglow of a shared meal and lighthearted conversation. 

or at least, lighthearted until he started ducking your questions.

“i don't know what you're talking about.” his grin is easygoing when he turns to you, blinking innocently as your stare turns into one of comical disbelief. “i did answer your question.”

“answering a question with another question is not an answer—!”

caleb only smiles sheepishly in response. you swear—if not for the fact that he looked cute when he smiled, you'd punch him for his cheeky behavior.

“ow—okay, okay, i'm sorry!”

arms crossed in petulant expectation, you watch as he sighs dramatically and sags into the couch. his head leans back against the plush material, closing his eyes briefly before another smile, this time a bit resigned, crosses his lips.

“i meant it when i said what is there to ask for?, you know.” when his eyes open, his gaze is soft. “i've got everything i could ever ask for, and then some. the two most important people in my life are safe and cared for. i don't really need anything else.”

your expression immediately softens. you knew how selfless your boyfriend could be. it was practically hardwired into his brain to be someone of use to the people he cherished close to his heart. hearing what he and emcee went through from childhood was enough to make anyone give up several times over—and here he was choosing to use himself as a pillar to uplift her at the cost himself over and over again. selflessness seemed to be coded within him.

so when she was able to branch out and fall in love… it had made him wary. the two of them had been practically conjoined by the hip. it made sense he wouldn't have warmed up to the idea immediately. the two of you had actually met that way—an embarrassing moment in time that ended with dropped papers, several spilled coffees, and emcee and her hunter-partner-turned-boyfriend xavier staring at the both of you with varying degrees of concern and amusement.

(‘your first meet was cute!’ is what she always says when you recall the memory with a little bit of embarrassment. the only cute (and hilarious) part was how close caleb looked to exploding out of sheer despair.)

now coming on a year of dating, you'd like to think you know your boyfriend well enough. turns out caleb will never stop surprising you with soft and tender moments of sincerity. and with the way he looks at you when you fall silent, you nearly forget why you're even badgering him in the first place.

shifting over to kneel on the couch beside him, you take his face in your hands and gently brush the pad of your thumb against his cheek. he leans into the feeling as if starved, his eyes fluttering shut once more. long lashes settle over faintly freckled cheeks in a silent show of letting his walls down and bearing his weak side to you. and you appreciate it. you always will.

too bad it still wasn't an answer.

“caleb xia,” you murmur softly, the words hushed in the space between you both. his answering hum is just as light and a kiss is pressed to your fingertips. “i love you dearly, but if you don't answer me, i’m using your hard earned money to buy a robot to do our laundry.”

his eyes fly open immediately. shock, surprise, and—funnily enough—a hint of betrayal shine through his widened gaze. they then narrow as if to gauge how serious you were about a useless technological upgrade before ultimately sighing in defeat.

point to you. (emcee really wasn't lying about his aversion to robots.)

“i really just want to spend time with you,” he concedes, shaking his head when you narrow your eyes at his words. “is that a good enough answer? pips and co. are on an important mission that week, and i'm not going to ask her to cancel for me—”

you nod in agreement. as sad as it was, it was reasonable. sometimes plans couldn't be worked around.

“—even though i could, but—”

caleb makes an exaggerated punted sound when you shove his shoulder, his hands raising in mock surrender. “i won't. not because she won't let me, but because she'll make me see true hell if she finds out i'm the reason behind it.”

your exasperated expression makes him smile, leaning forward to caress your cheek. “so really. i don't want much. as long as you're here and she's safe, then i’m happy. so don't don't stress yourself out about it, okay?”

he pinches your cheek, already knowing you'd swat his hand away for it, intercepting and lacing your hands together. your heart flutters a bit.

“this isn't over,” you grumble, trying your best to stay mad at him. though with how bright his eyes shone when he looked at you, it was a difficult task to maintain. “watch your back.”

“aye, captain.”

you stress yourself out about it. naturally, of course.

could anyone blame you? you wanted his birthday to be perfect. it's the least you could do right by him, someone who refused your help mostly because he was stubborn, but mostly because he didn't want to feel like a burden. 

but you had plans. and you would see them through.

you ask him to meet you near the fleet’s landing pad a few hours in advance, wanting to surprise him right after work, complete with vague responses to his confused but otherwise curious inquiries. the sound of your shoes are muffled against the flooring. as you make your way into the headquarters, a little robot flits around your head in greeting.

“welcome to the farspace fleet’s headquarters, miss.”

once you finish signing in, you quickly make your way to the designated meeting spot. confused stares and murmurs waft over your head as you pass his fellow pilots and staff members alike, but you pay them no mind. you were only here for one person and one person alone–the very same who happened to have his back towards you, engrossed in a game on a small holographic screen. fondness coloring your expression for a few seconds, you quickly change it before clearing your throat.

“does the colonel usually spend his hours playing mini games all day? maybe you get a pass for today. it’s very special, after all.”

with the cold press of a drink against his cheek, caleb startles slightly before whirling around at the sound of your voice, the hologram swiped away with a quick movement of his hand. briefly surprised, his expression morphs into one of mirth, rubbing at his cheek where the soda previously touched skin.

“so that’s your first birthday surprise for me?” a scoff pairs itself with a teasing eye roll. “thank…”

his gaze drops lower, holding you at arms length, and his words trail off. your smile falters a bit nervously.

the outfit you were wearing wasn’t just any outfit. black boots, a collared shirt tucked into black pants, and a jacket bearing the insignia of the farspace fleet’s logo on its slightly padded shoulder revealed you dressed in a similar fashion to the man standing before you, even to the hat nestled comfortably atop your head. it had taken you a while to even round up most of the items you were wearing, down to the gloves that adorned your hands.

because every colonel needed their lieutenant, right?

caleb sputters out something akin to a laugh, frayed around the edges with disbelief. “where’d you even…”

“i had some help.” your voice trembles a bit, clearing your throat before grinning sheepishly. “not saying who. but, um. i wanted to get to know your world, too. so i hope this is okay.”

his prolonged silence makes you increasingly nervous. his expression is a bit unreadable underneath the brim of his hat, and the more he stares, the more you fidget. until he opens his mouth again.

“i don't like how everyone else is looking at you.”

the words make you freeze, watching in real time as the weight of his gaze intensifies. it's then do you tune in the rest of your surroundings again, hearing faint murmurs and parts of conversation. your eyes meet. his hands travel from your shoulders to take your hands in his.

“caleb—” you sputter out in disbelief, similar to his earlier reaction as a laugh lodges itself somewhere in your throat. of all things to say—

“you want to be second in command? you look the part, lieutenant.” for a brief moment a hint of amusement glints in his eyes. approval. a small shiver runs down your back. “doesn't mean i like people looking at what's mine.”

you blink and he's on your left, the palm of his right hand at your lower back warm even through your clothes. “you know i don't like to bring work home,” he drawls lowly as he begins to walk, causing you to walk as well. “seems home came to me instead. how do you figure.”

you peek at him as you approach his private plane. he looks so pleased. this is going far better than you thought it would, making you exhale quietly in relief.

“can't believe you're gonna make me fly on my birthday, though.” 

caleb pouts a bit as he leans into your space, adding on, “was looking forward getting home and burying my face between your —”

onlookers titter as you smack the farspace fleet’s colonel’s arm in shocked dismay with him grinning as he lets you. 

dinner in the skies wasn't an easy feat to plan. but with a boyfriend who loved you enough to go with your odd directions, after two hours of jetting over the skies of skyhaven, picking up orders from your favorite spots, and gaining access to an airborne movie theater, the private jet was nestled comfortably in the air.

“cruising altitude?”

“somethin’ comfortable,” caleb’s voice pipes up from the front of the plane.

“coordinates?”

“positioned exactly where you asked, baby.”

you look out of a window and come face to face with a beautiful sunset. yellow and orange bleed into pinks, blues, and sharp violets reminiscent of your lover’s eyes. the thought warms your heart with enough heat to rival the lowering sun.

arms encircle your waist from behind when you straighten up, squeezing gently before a weight presses himself against your back. his chin hooks over your shoulder like he'd always meant to be there. 

“if i'm looking through the window and you're here, who's flying the plane?” you tease lightly, but make no effort to remove his arms. 

something around the lines of autopilot is muffled into your collar. looking through the reflection in the glass, you can just make out the sight of caleb with his eyes closed in momentary bliss.

“did you like the movie?” you ask softly. “i had some help with that, too. she sends her birthday wishes and her present is waiting for you at home.”

caleb squeezes you a bit tighter, nosing along the line of your shoulder before his eyes flutter shut. “you didn't have to do this all this for me,” he mumbles just as quietly. his brows furrow as an unreadable expression crosses his face. “but i love it. love you. thank you, baby.”

your own eyes flutter shut briefly when he kisses your cheek in thanks, the gesture sweet and loving. but his kisses move from your cheek to your jawline as his hands slowly begin to wander, a gasp leaving your throat when he gently tugs your tie loose to move your collar out of the way.

“can't believe you played dress up for my birthday. aren't i lucky?” your collar finally loosens enough for him to kiss right where your neck and shoulder meet, smiling against your skin when you shiver. “tell me who helped you put it together so i can fire them for insubordination.”

“wha—why?” you can barely think as his hands run through the buttons of your collared shirt, your jacket discarded somewhere on the aircraft. “don't fire anyone, shit—”

“it's my birthday.” his voice lowers with toying calmness to it as hands find skin, making you hiss upon contact. “i can wish for whatever i want for the next few hours. and the colonel,”

his lips brush just shy of your ear, nearly tipping the hat off your head. “wants his second in command out of her clothes. can she do that f’me?”

was the sky blue?

you don't remember how the two of you got home that night, let alone how caleb managed to land the plane without crashing into one of the city's many towering skyscrapers. all you can feel right now is the cold surface of the door through your shirt’s thin material before caleb surges forward to kiss you like he'd die if he spent another second away from you.

“you have no idea how much i wanted to rip this thing off you when i first saw it.” 

a hoarse laugh rips from his throat the second he pulls away from your lips, trembling hands sliding down the outline of your body. his gaze is reverent. hungry. you feel pinned to the surface and he's barely even touched you.

“really?”

“got hard immediately. that's why we left so soon.” and despite the heat between the both of you, he still makes you laugh, giggling as you push at his chest a bit. “what? honesty is the best policy ‘n all that.”

your tie comes off first, finally. the buttons you'd hastingly redone after just barely keeping his hands off of you aboard the plane fly off in different directions next as his frustrations build up. and when the material pools at your arms, he freezes again.

you duck your head shyly, the brim of your hat casting a shadow over your face. “surprise…”

black lace comes into view, sprawling over your chest and barely peeking underneath your pants. caleb stares.

“just one surprise after another.” he exhales through his nose, a gloved hand settling on your bare waist. “the perfect gift that keeps on giving. look at you.”

you can't discern whether or not he looks tormented from self preservation or the last fraying nerve desperately trying to hold itself together for his sanity’s sake. but the moment you shrug your shirt off and take a daring step forward into his space, you watch in real time as the last thread of his patience snaps in two.

with barely a grunt in sound, the floor gives as caleb hauls you over his shoulder to march towards your bedroom. pieces of your uniform lay discarded to form a path straight towards the plush mattress where caleb lays you down gently—but his eyes are anything but. darkened violet betrays the intense amount of arousal surely swirling through his head as he gets down on his knees before you.

“ah—wait, caleb—” your voice is already shot as he spreads your legs open, his nose brushing against the flimsy lace barely covering anything in between. his lips begin to part before he registers the calling of his name, his eyes flicking upwards. “i f-forgot to show you the cake–nghh—”

he licks a bold stripe against your covered core right as the last of your words tumble out of your mouth, large hands pressing your legs open as they begin to tremble. the sudden heat makes you flinch, reaching out to push at his shoulders with shaking fingers.

“you don't wanna eat the cake first—? we can—”

a faint snap! against your skin makes you jump, looking down to see his fingers toying with the band of your underwear. warmth spreads like fire across the surface of your skin. 

“can i take these off?”

huh? “caleb, the cake—”

“can i take these off?” he repeats slowly, his gaze dropping back down. “we’ll get to the cake later. wanna finish unwrapping my present.”

you lamely let your hand drop back to your side, nodding after a moment. “okay,” you mumble. “you… you can take them off.”

you lift your legs in preparation, fully expecting them to be slid down and tossed somewhere behind them. but a loud rip echoes in the room instead, and before you can even register what he'd done, his mouth finds your clit and latches on brazenly.

your trembling arms finally give out as you keen in surprise. the only thing preventing your thighs from framing his head is the strong grip keeping them apart. the mattress is soft against your back as your hands find purchase in the sheets and tug. small whimpers and moans leave your lips but it's nothing in comparison to how debauched he sounds. labored breathing and low moans paired with the growing wetness of his mouth against your most sensitive parts. 

you look down when a sharp feeling in your lower stomach begins to coil tightly, tears budding in the corner of your eyes as you part your lips to tell him such. but the sight you're met with sends yet another wave of heat down your back.

his face flushed red, his brows furrowed above eyes fluttered shut. the tips of his ears are bright red, and you know if you brush your fingers along the outer part, they'd be warm to the touch. what makes your heart stutter in your chest however, is the begging. and you barely even hear it at first.

“please… please, mmnnf please—” words slurred together between your legs, unintelligible and rushed. he tugs you further against his mouth, unwilling to let you go. all you hear is wet. “cum on m’face. please? pretty please? f’me?”

heat coils tighter and tighter until it becomes unbearable. your hands move from the rumpled sheets to his shoulder, momentary loss of mind making him forget to take his jacket off, but his shoulders don't budge against the sudden onslaught your hands bring. your voice pitches higher and higher, scrambling to grasp anything to hold until they push his hat off to find purchase in his hair and tug.

his answering moan, loud and unashamed, is your undoing. your orgasm crashing into you with the speed on a freight train, your back bowing taut and off the bed as your voice cracks on the near yell you let out. and caleb is unrelenting, slick sounds of him taking in every last drop of your essence dripping down your thighs and running down his chin. 

“that's it,” he breathes out, eyeing the way your thighs tremble as your hole clenches around nothing. without much hesitation, he licks another bold path on your thigh, grinning when you shriek in surprise. “what a sight for sore eyes. think you can sit on my face?”

you can barely lift your head up to stare at him in disbelief, your chest heaving as the toll of your orgasm rushes to your head. he blinks back almost innocently, his cheek pressed against your inner thigh. “pretty please?”

your head drops back down to the sheets. “you'll have to move me,” you say weakly. “i'm out of commission.”

his laugh is low in sound and it makes you shiver. he presses a kiss to your hip bone and immediately gets to work. mouth still wet, he pulls his gloves off with his teeth before gently maneuvering you to a dry spot before hauling himself atop the sheets as well. it takes a moment, limbs reduced to jelly, but before long your thighs frame his face once again.

you watch in real time as his gaze darkens at the angle change, his hands smoothing down your hips. “will never get tired of you looking at you,” he murmurs, turning his head to press a kiss to your knee. your body trembles in response, hands gripping at the headboard. “prettiest thing i've ever seen.”

“preparing for landing,” your voice cracks on the joke. caleb smiles, his thumbs smoothing shapes crossed your skin. up and down, almost v-shaped.

hearts. he was drawing hearts on your skin. your lower lip trembles when you realize.

oh how he loved you.

“least now i know you were really paying attention when i was talking.” his smile turns a bit sharp. hungry again. “land her on me. c’mon.”

slowly, with encouraging words and guiding hands, you lower yourself above his mouth. he releases a breath into the silence chalked tense with arousal once more. you look down to see his vision go hazy with want. and then he inhales sharply.

the sound makes you jolt, mortified at his sudden action, and before you can even choke out the first syllable of his name, he yanks your hips the rest of the way down. his tongue immediately gets to work swirling pointed circles around your clit, the pleasure skyrocketing high enough for you to immediately forget what you were about to say.

the first word you manage to blurt out is a curse, rolling your hips forward to chase the high you so desperately wanted now that shame had been discarded once again. “f-fuck—caleb, caleb—”

his nose catches on your clit and you scream, gripping the headboard so hard it hurts. he shows no sign of relenting, not even when your second orgasm ripples through your body. all he does is moan, the sound grateful.

two orgasms in less than ten minutes. at this rate, you'd be dead weight come morning.

trying to give his neck reprieve, you slowly begin to lift yourself up, clinging to the headboard. caleb immediately begins to complain, panting through slurred words. “where’re you goin’? ‘m not finished… ‘m not—fuck, come back? please?”

he blinks rapidly, adjusting back to the dim lighting. his hair is tugged in all sorts of directions from your frenzied grip, his face wet from the nose down and flushed red down to his neck. yet his brows remained furrowed with determination.

his hands reach for your hips again, gently trying to coax you back down. “i'll make you feel real good, y’know that right? prettiest present i've ever gotten. perfect… she's perfect, you're perfect, and you're all mine…”

you bite your lower lip, shifting above him. it draws his attention like a magnet and you let out another mortified sound, opting to move and sit on his lap instead.

big mistake.

caleb lets out a sharp hiss the moment you do, immediately tightening his grip on your waist. “don't move.” you take in his increasingly reddened appearance and pause, two things suddenly dawning on you.

one, caleb was still dressed. and two, the hard mass currently twitching underneath you was the reason why he'd tensed so quickly after you'd sat down. you rock your hips experimentally and get a slew of curses in response.

“or do,” he manages to wheeze out. he lowers his head for a moment. “jesus. don't wanna cum anywhere but inside of you, so if you would be so kind—”

your hips buck up once again and he whines. “you're playing dirty,” caleb hissed lowly, his expression pinched. it spurs you to action.

“can i let you in on a secret?” 

caleb eyes you with equal parts interest and weariness as the palms of your hands rest on his shoulders. “i've always thought you looked good in uniform,” you admit sheepishly, smiling faintly when he lets out a snort. “i’m serious! it's… i don't know. whatever they say about men in uniform.”

“that's real cute of you,” he drawls slowly, leaning back to look at all of you. “considering you're leaking all over it.”

the two of you look down to see a dark patch between your legs right where the outline of him is more than visible. the sight only heightens the arousal between the two of you, and that's when he decidedly has enough.

“here's what's going to happen.” 

he pats your side for you to lift your hips, groaning at the sight of slick sticking to the fabric. pearly whites sinking into his lower lip, the sound of his belt unbuckling masks the sound of your mingled breaths as his hand tugs and pulls at the material with budding annoyance.

“let me help.” your hands settle over his, tugging the leather out of the loop. the sound of his zipper is loud. his chest rises and falls the more your hands graze where he needs relief the most. “okay?”

“mhm.” his brows pinch together again, half-lidded gaze trained on your hands. “okay. okay. haah—just—mmnplease, take it out.” 

his rigid posture screams hurry. you slide your hand between skin and soft cotton and his head thunks against the headboard.

“caleb?!”

groaning, his hips buck into your hand. “‘m fine,” he sniffles, letting out a breath. “no, ‘m not. i dunno. can i fuck you already?”

you blink at him, taken aback as you sputter out, “are you concussed —?” your hand moves to pull out of his pants and he lets out a sound akin to a kicked puppy. “sorry—but that sounded pretty bad, i should look at—”

you're yanked back down, seated right on top of his cock again. it makes him curse once more. “can i make one last wish?” he doesn't wait for you to nod. “i'll let you in on a secret of my own. i've been dreaming about fucking you until either one of us cried.”

now you gape at him. he stares right back.

“with you on top, like this.” his breathing picks up, getting off on his own words. “ridin’ me. like you owned me. you do. you do. think about it all the time. and…”

he pats around for a moment, shushing your sound of confusion. his arms lift above your head and something a little bigger than form fitting settles on your head. when he pulls back, you swear his cock twitches a mile underneath you.

“yeah. yeah—even better than i imagined. fuck me.” 

he straightens the brim, tilting your head towards him. “my last wish,” he murmurs, “is watching you take my cock while wearin’ this. any objections, captain?”

oh.

a weird sense of exhilaration flows through you at his sudden address, emboldened by the slightest shift in power dynamic. your hand travels further into his pants, your grip unforgiving as his head falls back in faint relief. “no objections. but i do have one request.”

“ye–aah, baby?” breathless, he forces himself to watch through gritted teeth as you finally free his cock, letting out a sigh of relief. “what is it? what?”

“just something i wanted confirmation on from earlier.” your hand wraps around the girth of him, causing him to shudder. “i just think it's so interesting how much you know about planes. it's cute. but i don't remember if it was the f-22 or f-15 that was the fastest…”

you can tell he really wants to answer. but right as he opens his mouth, your grip tightens before slowly beginning to apply pressure as you stroke. caleb chokes, hips bucking up into your hand.

“it's the-the 15,” he answers quickly, groaning lowly. “it's b-built for mach 2.5 speed and—ohh fuck—designed for co–oh god, go faster, please.”

you stop instead and he flinches. “wha—no, nononono, c’mon—”

“designed for what? you didn't finish.”

caleb looks like he's about to burst, silently weighing his options before clearing his throat. “...designed primarily for air-to-air combat.”

“good to know.” the soft smile you give him gets you a weak one in return. “what else?”

his smile falls. your hand squeezes around him once more and he emits a broken sound. “fuck, okay, okay. c-compared to the f-22, which was designed for—shit, f-for stealth over aerodynamics and flies at—at mach 2.25 speed.”

his hips begin shifting again, chasing the warm heat of your palm, beginning to ramble and trip over his own words. “they both can, mnngh reach altitudes of over 60,000 feet or more making th-them perfect options for important operations. fuckfuckfuck—but they're not used for just combat, they can be used for training, search and rescue, and—god, that's so good.”

your fist is covered in precum, making it easier to slide over his cock at an increasing speed that makes him tremble. his mouth opens and closes over butchered attempts at words, face as red as his angry tip. 

“such a mess. not the only one leaking over your uniform anymore, right?”

“wanna cum.” he blurts out, his grips in the sheets white knuckled. “b-but inside. please? wanna fuck you so bad pleasepleaseee i—”

he groans when your fist works even faster, weak hands pushing at your own. “baby–baby no, fuck, inside—insi—oh fuck—”

caleb makes a sound between a disbelieving laugh and a moan as he resigns himself to your whims, chin dropping to his chest as his hips stutter once, twice, three times before coating your hand opaque white. stuttered breaths fill the air before an idea pops into your head.

you bring your stained hand up to his mouth. he blinks at first, surprise adding to the red flushing his face, but after a moment he leans forward to lick out of your hand painted white. desire strikes hot and heavy in your stomach as you maintain heavy eye contact, his tongue swirling over each individual finger. it doesn't take much for him to get hard again.

“did i pass?” he releases a breath, staring at the way your hips shift above him. “wanna be inside you now. you can keep quizzing me later. please.”

his eagerness spurs you into movement, letting out a small laugh of your own when his evol lifts you in the air as he searches for a condom. “been dreamin' about this for months and it's finally happening—you don't get to make fun of me if i cum in like three seconds when it's in all the way.”

your laughter grows in volume when you settle in his lap again, subject to his sudden onslaught of kisses. his nose bumps against yours in a silent moment of sweetness. his awkwardness with the condom eases your nerves a little bit, clumsily helping him stretch the latex over his cock. 

“would never.” your hand pushes his chest so his back is flat against the sheets, straightening up on your knees and using your free hand to position him right against your heat. “we take care of each other. it's okay if you do.”

caleb takes the hand placed near his heart and presses a kiss to your palm. an unspoken thank you resonates through the gentle action.

“ready?” he breathes out, his gaze trained on your face. “i know i've been… needy—”

“understatement.” the teasing lilt to your voice earns you a pinch to your side. it makes you bat at his hand with a grin, “sorry, continue.”

“but, if you want to back out, i don't mind going down on you again and we can do this another time. at the expense of heroically suffering through blue balls for however long it takes.”

you roll your eyes fondly, squeezing his hand. “you're very sweet, but i intend on fulfilling your birthday wish. besides… i want this, too.”

your hips lower as if to prove your point, the tip of his cock brushing against your entrance before pushing in. caleb’s immediate moan makes you clench around him, his hands flying to your hips to help guide you down.

“all of it,” he murmurs as if entranced by the sight of you taking him in, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against your skin. “takin’ me so well already.”

you don't expect to feel so full the more you slowly skin down, breathing through the stretch. whimpers fall from your lips without warning, biting your lower lip when he shifts his hips and you slip down even further. his praise is nonstop the entire time, more ramble than coherent words.

“feels so good around me. so pretty on top of me, yeah? doin’ so well, you're almost there. and then it'll feel so much better, okay?”

“caleb—”

“i know.” his voice is sweet. cooing, almost. “i know, baby. it's taking all me not to go all the way in just like that. but you can take it. i know you can. right?”

your head is nodding before you can even register his words, wiggling your hips before sliding down a bit more. “yeah. mhm—so big. can feel it in—”

you slide all the way down when he squeezes your hips, letting out a surprised squeak. ass flush against his thighs, caleb’s voice drops an octave lower when your walls flutter around him sporadically.

“see? you're—shit—doing so well. took it all just like you said you would. fuck.” his pupils dilate at the sight, sighing with pleasure as one hand moves to press against your stomach, long fingers spreading across your skin. “can feel me right… here.”

and as if a switch turns on in your brain, you begin to move in slow circles, breath catching at the fleeting sparks of pleasure. his hands settle on your hips to hold, fully letting you take control of both of your pleasures. with every sound you pull from him, every moan and sharp exhale of your name, your moves begin to grow bolder, walls clenching at each time you land back down in his lap.

“feels so good.” you pant lowly, the sound of skin slowly beginning to fill the room. the drag of his cock hitting deep inside you elicits a sweet sound from your throat that has him responding with a needier one of his own. “do you—does it feel—ohmygod—”

the sound between your legs is near sinful, wet squelches from the slippery glide turning easier the more you lift your hips. and all caleb can do is watch in awe as your head falls back with pleasure before you can even finish your sentence, committing the sight to memory as he begins to ramble once more.

“i'm the luckiest man to ever—ever walk the planet.” he begins to rub frantic circles on your clit, stuttering when you cry out and squeeze around his cock. “gettin’ to s-see this, to see you like this. fuck, thank you, thank you—take it, take it, it's yours. ‘m yours, always have been—”

unable to help himself, his hips start to meet your own in mindless thrusts, making you jolt and look down in surprise. “caleb—? ca—ahh, wait—”

his entire body trembles from the intense pleasure, his thrusts speeding up now that he's gotten to feel you. “can't—i can't, ‘m sorry, you're squeezin’ me so tight, feels like i can't breathe. gotta move, ‘msorrysosorry, angel—”

his hips slam against yours, wet and sticky with sweet and slick, his thumb still pressed firmly against your clit. the pressure makes you squeeze and flutter around him, drawing out more and more moans from your chest.

“your voice is so pretty, did you know? keep—fucking—singing for me. want everyone to know how good you're taking me.”

your entire body flushes with heat, skin prickling at his vulgar expression. but your body responds with short bursts of sounds pulled from your throat despite your best efforts, jolted whines and gasps filling the air. as a familiar heat coils in your stomach again, caleb’s thrusts also get sloppier.

“you're almost there—can feel it. sucking me in even more.” he sucks in a breath, brows furrowed slightly. “could stay buried in this pussy forever. and you'd let me, right? let me fuck load after load inside you, painting the prettiest picutre of you covered in my cum. full of me, about to burst. maybe even—maybe—”

your head lolls to one side, eyes half lidded as the brunt of caleb’s pussy drunk babbling and fantasies hit you full force. he'd made sure to use a condom before he fucked you, but the thought that maybe he… maybe one day, you'd let him fuck you raw. to really feel him inside of you without the protective barrier of latex. the thought makes your hips jerk, hands scrambling for anything to hold on to as the pleasure heightens.

caleb surges up to claim your lips in a bruising kiss, teeth clashing as your nails dig into his shoulders. his lips travel to your neck, the scrape of teeth causing the both of you to groan in unison. the sharp feeling of pain and pleasure mix into something indescribable, both of you hurtling towards a shared high.

“i love you,” he pants against your shoulder before whimpering low in his throat. “love you so much. best birthday ever. could die right now as the ha—ahh—ppiest i've ever been. ‘m gonna give it to you right now. say you love me and i'll let you cum.”

your lips part around a whine almost immediately. “i love you, i love you, pleasepleaseplease, caleb—!”

“sound so pretty when you say my name.” he presses a kiss to your jaw, nosing into your neck as his thumb doesn't let up on your clit. “go ahead and cum right… now.”

the pleasure is instantaneous. the coil snaps and heat rushes to your abdomen as your voice cracks on a hoarse moan, creaming all over his cock. your nails dig into his back, tears budding in the corner of your eyes as your orgasm rocks your entire body. 

caleb isn't too far behind, spurred on by the sharp tug of his hair when he nips at your shoulder. a sharp gasp is all you get in warning before he pulses inside of you, shuddering apart in your arms before he sags against your shoulder with a weak groan. 

closing your eyes to savor the haze post orgasm, you run your fingers through sweat slicked hair and press kisses to his forehead as he shivers and anchors your hips down.

“sensitive.” he mumbles against your shoulder. “don't move.”

“least you didn't cum early.” caleb lets out a low groan and you laugh, petting his head. “proud of you.”

“yeah, yeah.” he grouches through the brief showing of a smile, closing his eyes. “it's still my birthday so you're not allowed to make fun of me.”

“mm, is that right?”

caleb huffs, amping up the theatrics, refusing to calm down until you cup his face and silence him with a kiss. only then does he settle down enough for you to wish him a happy birthday with an even sweeter kiss, lifting your hips up to settle down in the rumpled sheets as he disposes of the condom. exhaustion hits your body even harder than after your first orgasm, nearly half asleep when he comes back with a damn cloth to wipe away the sweat and cum from your thighs.

“i love you,” he whispers against your skin when he settles back into bed besides you, wrapping his arms around your waist and drawing you close. “we’ll get to the cake and presents tomorrow. thank you for everything you did today, baby. i loved it and i love you so, so much.”

three squeezes to your linked fingers is your response before you fall asleep in his arms. i love you, too.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part forty-two: hello? are you there?

word count: 5.7k

warnings: this chapter contains descriptions of violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

forty-one | forty-two | forty-three

It slipped out somewhere between Oscar raiding the fridge for orange juice and Logan bitching about how Max Fewtrell kept leaving his boots in the entryway like it didn’t pose a hazard, considering they all had an inexplicable tendency to walk around armed more often than not.

“If someone breaks in, Max, what? You gonna throw your fucking loafers at them?”

“They’re not loafers. They’re tactical boots.”

“They’re muddy gym shoes, bro. Move ‘em, man!”

Lando didn’t even look up from the glass he wasn’t drinking out of. He just leaned against the counter and posed a question aloud. “How do you tell someone you’re sorry?”

The conversation stumbled mid-step.

Max F. blinked. “By saying it?”

“No shit, Sherlock.”Lando scrubbed a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I mean, like… how do you make them—y’know…”

“Not mad at you?” Oscar offered.

“Yeah. That.”

“You’re asking how to make someone forgive you,” Max Fewtrell clarified from the doorway, his voice knowingly even. “Which is a very different question.”

For a beat, there was silence. Lando glared at his coffee like it had personally betrayed him.

Then, it was Oscar who spoke up first.

“Time machine,” the Aussie offered with a wry smile, clearly proud of his little joke.

It took everything left of Lando’s willpower not to dramatically roll his eyes. 

“Not helpful.”

“Chocolate,” Max Verstappen offered next. “Expensive chocolate. Or wine. Works on everyone.”

“She doesn’t drink,” Lando muttered, clearly exasperated by now.

“Then just send her the chocolate of course,” Max replied, completely unfazed.

“Or,” Oscar said, holding up a spoon like it was a pointer, “you could write her a letter. A real one. Handwritten. Not just a text. It’s very… Jane Austen. Trust me, girls eat that shit up.”

“I tried that,” Lando said. “I don’t think she even looked at it.”

Logan bit into an apple and spoke around it, his mouth very much still full. “You could try showing up at her work with, like, a sad sign. Y’know, something pathetic. Women love pathetic.”

“She’s not the kind of person who’d be impressed by public humiliation,” Lando replied dryly. “Especially when I’m the one she’d want to humiliate.”

Carlos, who had been silent until now, set his coffee down slowly.

“You want her back, si?,” he asked simply, getting straight to the point.

Lando didn’t answer, looking away. Carlos, of course, took that as a yes. It was no secret that Lando Norris was not a man who was used to asking for help, much less for advice. This certainly could not be easy for a man of his… personality.

“Flowers,” The Spaniard announced. “This is what always works for me.”

Oscar snorted, the sound echoing into his mug as he lifted it to his mouth for a sip. “Of course they did,” he muttered under his breath.

“No, listen,” Carlos waved off the young man and his usual remarks, turning instead to Lando. “You cannot get the cheap ones. You have to get the real ones, hermano. Be, uh, thoughtful, eh? Get her favorite ones. Not these ‘I want you back’ flowers. It must be ‘I am sorry I ruined everything’ flowers.”

Lando blinked, too deep into his new action plan to really be offended by Carlos’s bluntness. He’d have to let it go this time – the idiot was actually making sense for once, it seemed.

“Peonies,” he mumbled aloud.

Carlos nodded, giving the British man a concerned once-over. “Then send peonies. And do not write a note. Let the flowers do the talking.”

Lando blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Carlos shrugged, unapologetic. “I once ghosted a girl for three weeks and she forgave me after one bouquet. I’m just saying.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “…you’re the reason girls don’t trust men.”

But Lando had already tuned them out.

Always a man of action, Lando was knee-deep in floral websites within minutes. More than happy to let the rest of his men continue whatever it was they occupied their time with, he sauntered off with his phone in his hand, preoccupied with this new opportunity for redemption.

There was a fresh arrangement of flowers on her doorstep by the next morning.

Meticulously planned, Lando made sure that he gave nothing but his best. His best apparently included not just flowers, but arrangements – ridiculous, overdone, hand-delivered bouquets in tissue-wrapped boxes with quiet little cards that never said his name.

The first bouquet arrived with full, perfect peonies in pale pink and cream, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a soft ribbon that matched the color of her favorite sweater.

Of course, there was no note – he didn’t want to write the wrong thing. So he chose to write nothing at all.

He sent one a week later, and then again the next week. Each time, he’d send them in different colors this time in different colors. Some of them had sprigs of lavender tucked inside, others with a bit of eucalyptus. They were always delivered on Mondays.

She’d always said she hated Mondays.

He sent them once a week – always peonies, always without a message. Just to let her know he hadn’t stopped thinking about her. Just to make sure something soft was showing up in her life, even if it couldn’t be him.

He knew it wouldn’t fix anything, but truthfully, he didn’t know what else to do.

The first time, she stared at them for a long time before placing them gently behind the counter at the café. Not quite throwing them out. Not quite acknowledging them either.

The second time, she didn’t even look at the delivery guy. Just nodded, took the box, and walked to the back without a word.

They always arrived just often enough to remind her that she was still on his mind. That she hadn’t disappeared from his world, even if he’d vanished from hers.

For a while, she accepted them.

Once, Logan even told him while they were out on a job — that she had smiled when she saw this week's delivery – a stunning bouquet of stark white peonies in the softest lilac wrapping. As they loaded their weapons back in the trunk, Logan turned to him and put his hand on Lando's shoulder, daring to look him in the air in a rare moment of familiarity.

“Hey, she smiled. Even if it’s just a bit, that’s gotta be worth something, right?”

Lando hated how that simple thought was enough to rekindle the tiniest spark of hope in his chest.

Between the bullshit with having to manually throw out Binotto and the faulty shipment Stella delivered, the Reaper’s Circle was already having a pretty shit week.

Binotto wasn’t the only one of their clients who had started to play fast and loose with the rules. Verstappen had to knock sense into at least three different people who had decided to try their luck with asking for “an extension” on their payments, or just for “a little more time.”

What did they look like, a fucking charity? 

So it was Lando who had to take Binotto and make an example of him, had to rough him up a little. It took a few hours of strategically placed cuts and meticulously calculated fractures to ensure that when he walked out of Jimmy’z, he served as an example for anyone else who felt brave enough to be as stupid as him.

Logan stood in Lando’s office just as this did any other day, more of Sargeant’s weekly updates scattered about the large desk in the form of meticulous photographs. The two of them were going over the surveillance details of the Monte Carlo police, as well as the officers who’s been trying to demand a greater cut over in the Moneghetti district.

“Those bastards aren’t worth half the money we pay them,” Lando snarled. “I mean, what the hell do they even do?”

“Uh, I believe they do… police things, Boss.”

The American winced as he said it, already anticipating the bout of rage he’d just signed himself on to be the target of.

Lando simply glared at him, too preoccupied with angrily pacing the length of the room.

“24 thousand euros, and what do we even pay them for?”

“I can dig up dirt on them, if that helps,” Logan offered eagerly. “There’s actually this new technique with my clip point blade I’ve been meaning to–”

The assassin cut himself off when he noticed he apparently no longer held Lando’s attention. Instead, the leader seemed preoccupied by a slip of paper he was reading, a worn sticky note with distinct scrawl.

Ah, he realized. The pains of young love.

 “She just seems… quieter,” Logan shrugged, clearly hesitant to tell Lando this truth. He offered it in hopes that an update would cheer him up, make him less of… whatever it was he’d been lately. “Like, sure, she’s not really smiling like she used to…” 

“But that doesn’t mean it’s not working!” Logan corrected, quickly realized his mistake. It was honestly a miracle how long he’d survived in this profession. “Maybe she’s playing hard to get? You know, I was tailing this girl one time…”

Logan’s story faded into the background as Lando absentmindedly brushed the pad of his thumb along the familiar grooves of the ink.

“Was she… Was she angry?” Lando interrupted, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Logan almost felt bad for the guy.

“No,” he responded just as quietly, his expression sincerely sympathetic. Even he had noticed just how much this girl – this apparent stranger – had worked wonders and brought magic into his boss’s life. Hell, he had front row tickets to the whole damn thing.

“She wasn’t angry,” he told Lando honestly, hoping it would make him feel a bit better. “Just… less happy, is all.”

Instead of breathing easier at this information, Lando’s expression only became more forlorn.

Something behind his ribs shifted. It was worse, somehow. Anger meant she still felt something for him. Sadness just meant the part of her that used to feel safe with him was perhaps… gone.

Lando turned away. There was a strange tugging sensation in his chest, he found, in response to Logan’s words. He shouldn’t have been surprised really – Lando hadn’t really left Y/N with all that much to smile about when he’d wormed his way into her life and earned her trust, all while lying right to her face.

But the problem was that Lando knew that smile. The smile that crinkled her nose and ruined his entire week. He was intimately familiar with the radiance of the smile she used when she was pretending not to be proud of herself. His memories held perfect recreations of the exact curvature of the smile she used when she was happy and didn’t know how to contain it.

Lando could never forget the smile Y/N used around him.

Or at least, used to.

He gave it one final attempt.

Some stupid, human part of him that she’d managed to dig up and make living once again pleaded with him to try one more time, to reach out for her once again despite it all. That part of his heart believed that if all the time they’d shared – from haphazard dinners made in her kitchen and movie night where she always fell asleep first to staying at her university’s library at unholy hours of the night – had been worth anything, that then there was still something worth fighting for.

So he arranged for one more set of flowers to be delivered to her place. These peonies were cream and soft pink — the exact shade of the kind she always watered a little extra at the shop, the ones she showed that little bit more love. They used to make her light up in this stupid way, like the whole world had softened just for her.

These ones he’d hand selected from his own garden, carefully the buds that were still barely in bloom – the kind that unfurled slowly over a few days, like they were shy about being beautiful.

He didn’t know all that much about flowers. For all long as he’d lived in this residence, he’d had a gardener who dutifully took care of all his plants, no matter how boring at times it seemed to Lando. Christian likely knew a lot more about flowers than Lando did, but had gone ahead and tried anyway.

He just chose the ones that reminded him of her.

The delivery man came back to the residence with a familiar bouquet and a less-familiar look of pity on his face.

“Didn’t take ’em,” the man informed Lando with a shrug. “Didn’t even open the door, really. Said she doesn’t want ‘em anymore.”

Lando stood in the middle of the foyer, staring down at the rejected bouquet in silence. The petals were still fresh, still beautiful, and yet somehow already wilting. 

That hurt more than she probably meant it to, not because of the money or the gesture, but because it confirmed what he already knew.

Y/N didn’t want his apologies. She didn’t want him. The truth was that no matter how many flowers he sent, Lando couldn’t fix what he broke – not with peonies, not with silence, not with love.

Not anymore.

She had always loved peonies, and now she couldn’t even look at them without thinking of him. Now she didn’t even want them in the same room. Lando finally understood: there were some things he couldn’t buy, or fix, or drown in beauty.

Some damage was just done, and all the peonies in the world couldn’t bring her back.

He didn’t try again after that.

Because if even peonies hurt now, what chance did he have?

Days blurred. Weeks passed. 

The world went on like it always does when people fall out of love — or maybe, in his case, when someone lets the person who loved them see them for who they really are. 

Lando didn’t keep track in any meaningful way. Life had its own rhythm again: operations resumed, meetings were scheduled, threats were dealt with. No one dared mention her name around him anymore. It had faded from conversation the way most dangerous things do.

But even as the months stretched out like fading shadows, Lando still found her in places he didn’t expect.

He had been searching for one of his IDs when A sticky note, curled and fading, pressed between his phone and the case, tucked behind one of his IDs. Her handwriting spelled out some mundane comment, something stupidly her: drink water, don’t die :) 

Another day, it was the origami stars. The ones she used to make when her fingers were too restless to be still, usually while he was telling some story she pretended not to care about. He had reached into the pocket of his winter coat and felt a small, crinkled shape — the tiny origami she’d taught him how to make, gentler hands placed right over his as he did his best to mimic each of the folds he’d watched her do dozens of times.

Another time he found two of them, pale blue and slightly squished, tucked in the front pocket of a he hadn’t worn since winter. He had never noticed how many she’d left behind. Some days, it made him feel like she’d never left at all.

That was the worst part of grief, he found – the way it hid, the way it waited.

He would find them by accident now, like landmines. Every time he thought he was fine, something else would come along and remind him of her, making it impossible to breathe.

He hated it.

He didn’t mean to think about her.

But that night, when the house was all quiet and there was nothing more to do, he couldn’t help but think of her. Even Lando Norris, the Reaper of Monaco, couldn’t stop the reel of old footage his brain kept playing back. On nights when sleep felt more like punishment than rest — she came back in whole memories.

It was worse on the nights he drank.

Not the reckless kind — not anymore. But the kind that made his head buzz just enough to knock the edges off, to make the memories less sharp and the guilt a little warmer.

He was already a few drinks in — not drunk, just loose around the edges — when it happened. Sinking into the large wingback chair, he let the darkness drape itself around him as he reached under the table to grab a different bottle, seeking something stronger.

If he focused just enough, he could spot her silhouette in the mirage of spotted lights reflected across his glass wall, the distant flecks of color blending together to remind him of the evening at the little Chinese place before Brazil.

Under the hanging lights, her eyes shimmered.

The lighting then had been dim but golden, all soft bulbs and reflections in window glass. He remembered watching her chew the end of her straw like she always did when she was pretending not to smile. Remembered the way she looked across the table at him — chin in her hand, laughter still blooming in her throat — and how the world had felt still for a moment, like it paused just to give him that memory in perfect detail.

She’d been radiant.

He remembered the warmth of it, the way the lights caught in her hair, the soft flush on her cheeks when she laughed at something dumb he’d said. She’d worn that dark green sweater he liked — the one that made her eyes look almost unreal under the amber glow.

God, she’d looked unreal under those lights — hair a little windblown, cheeks warm from the cold, eyes lit up with some joke he didn’t even catch all the way. Later that night, she’d reached across the space between them and took his hand gently, so gently, and asked him to stay still.

“Give me your hand,” she’d asked softly.

He’d frowned but obeyed, watching as she pulled a thin, threaded bracelet from her bag. It wasn’t fancy – nowhere near the caliber of the multimillion euro watches he always wore. It didn’t seem to matter to her — she’d still tied it around his wrist like it meant something sacred.

Now, when he thought about it, he couldn’t remember ever having taken it off. He still wore it, tucked beneath sleeves and suits and the rest of the life he kept moving forward in. He still wore it, even after everything.

He tried then, inspired by the flash of anger that seared through him, to tug the stupid thing off. It was only a couple of stupid threads woven together, after all – how hard could it be?

Hooking his fingers under the braided string, Lando tugged with a mighty grunt. The skin of his face burned hot with shame, with frustration, with something when no matter how hard he tried the damn thing didn’t come off. He tugged and twisted and yanked on it until his fingertips were red and raw from all his failed efforts.

Stupid thing.

He told himself he’d cut it off the second he could get his hands on something sharp enough, but after too many drinks and not enough distance from his own thoughts — he found himself holding that thread between his fingers like it might answer something.

Sometimes love didn’t end in shouting or closure. Sometimes it just lingered like a thread around your wrist – fraying, but still tied.

A few more drinks later he found himself in his personal bedroom, pulling open one of the locked drawers in the back of the too-large walk-in closet. 

He breathed a sigh of relief. The ring was still right where he’d hidden it, wrapped in a receipt and tucked beneath a box of spare cufflinks. Reaching for it, he stumbled to the ground more than he sat down with any amount of grace, the black velvet box smooth under his fingertips.  

He hadn’t bought it for a reason. He hadn’t planned a proposal or imagined some cinematic moment with rose petals and violins. He’d just seen it in a market somewhere in Italy, or maybe Portugal, he can’t even remember. It reminded him of her, simple and delicate. A pale, iridescent stone — quiet and beautiful, just like her. He remembered seeing it and thinking that’s hers – not would be, or should be – just hers.

So he bought it, tucked it away and never told her.

He’d never gotten the chance.

He hadn’t planned on proposing. If he was being honest, he hadn’t even known what the future looked like. But he’d bought it anyway, because he’d wanted to – because he loved her.

He missed her.

Not just the version of her that had loved him — but her. All of her. Her stubbornness, her sarcasm, the way she threw napkins at him when he made a dumb joke. The way she used to hum when she studied. The way she’d fall asleep with her cheek pressed to his shoulder like she didn’t even realize she was safe there.

He missed the life they never got to have.

He turned it over in his fingers now, the weight of it a little heavier than he remembered. It was almost the only proof she was ever real, that he hadn’t dreamt her up. That he was real when he was with her. 

Maybe she’d been a fever dream in the middle of the violence, a soft thing his brain made up to protect him from the rest.

This ring was nearly the only proof he had ever cared about her enough to dare to think that she could someday be his.

He held it between his fingers for a long time and let the metal sit against his palm as he tried to imagine how her hand would’ve looked wearing it. He also tried not to imagine what her hand might be holding now – if it wasn’t his.

Maybe I’ll finally stop thinking of her, he told himself, if I can just see her once.

What Lando wanted to know, deep down, was that she still smiled sometimes. He wanted to be certain that despite his Midas touch, he hadn’t ruined Y/N entirely. He wanted to see with his own eyes that she was okay, that she was safe. He needed her to still be able to smile, to still be building the life he watched her dream about. He didn’t need to talk to her or even approach her – just needed to finally confirm that Y/N had moved on.

Just to see. Just to know. Just to remember what it looked like to love something without touching it.

Perhaps then he would finally be able to let go of this godforsaken guilt festering in his chest.

So on that late Thursday night, Lando propped himself up until he was steady on his two feet, grabbed his coat, and headed out into the night.

The streets were quieter at this hour, the city breathing in its own way — hushed murmurs of distant cars, the occasional flicker of neon signs reflected on the rain-slick pavement. The neighborhood was mostly empty by the time he made it to the block where Brews & Books sat, still gleaming faintly under the warm light of its storefront. The leftover light spilled through the windows, cutting faint patterns into the pavement.

The café was tucked into the corner of the street like always, windows glowing soft and golden against the dark. Brews & Books — the lettering still intact, still the same warm serif she had chosen for the sign herself. 

It looked exactly how he remembered it.

Outside, it wasn’t freezing — just cold enough to cut through his jacket in that way that made everything feel sharper, more real. He welcomed it, letting the wind bite at his hands and cheeks like it was a punishment. Or maybe a penance.

He kept his head down as he walked.

For once, Lando Norris wasn’t dressed nicely. Instead, he wore jeans and a hoodie and that same worn coat with the thread bracelet still tucked under the sleeve. If she saw him, he didn’t want her to think he was trying anything. He just… wanted to see her.

That was all.

He’d timed it carefully — picked a night he was fairly sure she’d be working, when the café usually stayed open late for evening study hours. He’d walked by enough times before to know the rhythm of her schedule. The soft hum of her days.

So when he got there — the familiar corner glowing faintly in the dark, window fogged from the warmth inside — he let himself hope, just a little.

With his gaze locked on the glass storefront, he waited for a glimpse of anything – a silhouette in motion, a flash of her in a messy bun, the curve of her smile as she handed someone a drink. All his attention focuses itself, seeking out the sound of her voice rising faintly through the door. Her laugh — god, her laugh.

He would’ve taken anything, even just her reflection in the glass. So he waited.

One minute. Then two. Then five.

He shifted from foot to foot, tucking his hands deeper into his coat. Then, he kept glancing back at the window like she’d appear any second, but she didn’t.

He didn’t go in, didn’t even get close enough for the security camera to pick up more than his silhouette. He just stood across the street with his hands in his pockets, the ring burning a hole in his coat.

Watching. Waiting.

His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his fingers brushing the frayed bracelet on his wrist. He just stood there — across the street, in the dark, watching the life that might’ve been his… if he hadn’t ruined it.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. And, finally, the truth started to set in.

She wasn’t there. She wasn’t coming.

And the thought hit him harder than he expected: she used to love this place.

She used to light up in here. He remembered that night he showed up soaked from the rain, and she’d dragged him behind the counter just to dry him off with the sleeve of her cardigan. She used to hum while she organized the books. She used to sneak extra whipped cream into his drink and then pretend she hadn’t. She used to live here, in that warm way that he had never really seen her take up space anywhere else.

Now? Even this felt empty.

Did I ruin it for her?

Had he taken the one place that was hers and turned it into something she couldn’t stomach?

His jaw clenched as he looked away from the café window and swallowed hard.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, under his breath. 

He shouldn’t have come out here like an idiot thinking she’d still be where he left her. He should’ve asked Logan before coming here. He should’ve checked if her schedule had changed, should’ve done anything other than walk out here like a complete idiot expecting some kind of… moment.

Because now he just felt stupid.

He stayed a little longer anyway — because some part of him still hadn’t caught up with reality. Some insane, idiotic part of him was still half-convinced she’d come around the corner any second and look at him like she used to. Certainly there had to be a reality where he got to see her one more time, got to witness one more time the way she used to light up when she would realize that it was him who had walked through the door.

But that didn’t happen

Frozen in place by some unknown power, Lando felt the rest of the world go quiet as he let himself miss her, just for a moment. For a moment, he let himself love her, quietly and from a distance. For a moment, he told himself that maybe, from now on, that this was what love had to look like.

So Lando stood alone in the cold a while longer, with a bracelet on his wrist and a ring he couldn’t give to anyone.

It took him longer than it should to realize something’s off.

The lights were on. The sign beside the door was still lit — OPEN in neon, flickering letters. The usual warm glow still poured from the café windows. He hadn’t noticed it at first, too busy watching for her, but now that he was really looking, the whole place was… awake, still thrumming with the faint hum of electricity.

That was the first thing.

The second thing was the music. Something played low, an acoustic track with a familiar rhythm that was barely audible from the street.

Yet no one was inside.

There were no customers, no baristas. In fact, there was no movement at all.

Instead, each booth and table and chair lay empty, devoid of even a single soul. From here, he could still spot a mop bucket abandoned near the center of the floor space. One of the chairs was left pushed back like someone had stood up quickly and never sat back down.

Lando squinted through the window. There was no sign of her – or of anyone else, for that matter.

There was a pressure in the air, a certain amount of wrongness that his body recognized before his brain caught up. His stomach tensed, the muscles tightening subconsciously to the unease he now felt creeping through his whole body. The sensation was faint at first, like static on the back of the neck. He hadn’t survived this long by ignoring a gut instinct like that.

That was the third thing — the bad feeling. 

His hand drifted automatically to the inside of his coat. The leather of the concealed holster there was familiar, the weight of it comforting. 

Just in case.

Worst case scenario, he told himself, this’s nothin’ more than a simple misunderstanding. It was more than likely that some barista had stepped out for a smoke break or someone with the closing shift merely forgot the lights on. 

But Y/N wouldn’t do that.

The thought nagged at him.

Immediately, he stepped forward and crossed the street, barely looking on either side of the pathway before making his way over to the familiar entrance. When his hand went to press against the glass door, it gave way immediately. The door wasn’t locked.

That was the fourth thing.

He pushed it open slowly, the bell above it jangling with the same cheer it always had. The sound made his chest ache with something akin to grief for this place he’d somehow developed fondness for. 

He stepped inside, and Lando’s eyes narrowed. His palm instinctively brushed the inside of his jacket, where the holster sat snug against his ribs. his long fingers still curled near the handle of the gun, but with the index finger still pressed up against the safety lock on the side of the barrel. There was no need to draw it yet.

Huh.

Lando’s eyes narrowed. His fingers instinctively brushed the inside of his jacket, where the holster sat snug against his ribs. He didn’t draw it — not yet — but the tension settled across his shoulders like a warning. Years of training and muscle memory kicking in without being asked.

He rounded the side of the first booth, his eyes flicking over everything now. The register appeared to be closed somewhat haphazardly, its security latch visibly loose. On the countertop sat a single transparent cup, likely intended for some drink, only to be abandoned with the now-melting ice cubes as its sole content. He also noted a blueberry muffin on a plate, untouched. From where he stood, Lando could also spot the familiar sight of a note stuck to the side of the shelf, clearly in Y/N’s handwriting: restock oat milk!!

He was just in the middle of attempting to identify what it was about this scene that was so disconcerting when–

The loud, shrill ringing of a phone interrupted his train of thought, nearly startling him in the process. The stillness of the place had lulled him into a sense of ease, one that was disrupted the longer the ringing went on.

Isn’t anyone going to get that?

It rang again and again, going unanswered. Despite the fact that the sound seemed to emanate from behind the swinging door that led to the backroom, Lando could hear it clear as day, even out here. 

Why won’t anyone answer it?

He moved slowly now, eyes scanning, every step heavier than the last. Each step followed the same heel-to-toe rhythm his body had long since memorized, his body working on autopilot as he continued to scan the room in an attempt to figure out what was going on. 

"Hello? Are you there?"

Not paying enough attention to where he placed his steps, Lando’s shoe squealed against the tile. The floor behind the bar must have been slick with something, the rubber of his boot catching on it slightly.

He looked down to see what it was.

A spray of fresh, red blood.

Instantly, his gun was out, his finger hovering over the trigger now. He moved faster now, stepping past the edge of the bar counter and through the swinging door into the workspace. His body moved before his brain could even finish catching up.

And that’s when he looked down. His breath caught, and time slowed.

Crumbled on the tile like the air had been knocked out of her, one of her arms was outstretched, the soft skin of her palm open towards the door. The deep burgundy of blood rapidly stained her abdomen, with even more dribbling out of the side of her mouth. There was enough of the thick liquid for it to just begin pooling beside her, the floor beneath her soaking fast. Her body twitched weakly, like she was still trying to move.

Her eyes met his for the briefest, most agonizing second.

She tried to speak. All that came out was a wet, choking sound — like the air was catching on itself, like her lungs were filled with something thicker than breath.

Blood.

“Y/N!”

a/n: so...

[softtdaisy]

_____confessions cookies

pairing. Aaron Hotchner x media liaison!reader (part of the dating game)

summary. after your conversation, Aaron needs answers: would you consider him, your boss, to start your dating game?

words count. 2 308

a/n. thank you everyone for the nice feedback on the first part, I'm so happy you enjoy this series as much as I do!! I promise the dates are starting in the next part 👀

___the dating game masterlist | criminal minds masterlist

Aaron had a problem. You.

Well, not you. But the fact you had been on his mind non-stop these past days.

“Can you just imagine how much easier it would be if we could just discover the dating world again with someone we know? Someone we trust?” 

He had learned to know these 26 words by heart. The intonation, the way you paused after your first question. The little sigh at the end, like you had been desperately trying to say these things for so long. How you sounded like you believed no one could understand your feelings.

But that wasn’t the worst part, no.

The worst part was that he felt like you didn’t care as much as he did. He felt like you didn’t care at all.

When you came back to the office on Monday, you greeted him with a very professional “Hotch.” 

The team knew you used a different tone for each one of them. You sounded protective with Spencer and in a constant private joke with Emily. 

As for Aaron, there was always this sweet and encouraging smile, telling him you would have his back no matter what. And if he could taste your tone when you said his name, Aaron would notice some vanilla hint: a safe bet, sure, but something reassuring. That was how he liked to picture it. Maybe it was indeed reassuring that nothing had changed after your conversation. You still treated him as your chief with the same kind attitude. He could count on you, even with you being two desperate lost souls. 

Yet, he couldn’t stop imagining what could have happened if you had five more minutes. Just five more minutes to end this conversation and not be left disappointed.

So now a whole week had passed, a case had been resolved, and Aaron needed answers.

Everyone had left the office except for the two of you. No surprise that this was happening very often. With the number of new files and case requests piling up every day on your desks, you could probably build a new wall. 

Needless to say, your personal life also had something to do with that. You had no one to go home to. And if Aaron was being honest, sometimes his guilt was taking over, and he couldn’t find the strength to go home early and face a disappointed Jack. Even if his son, being the angel he was, would never say anything about that.

“You should really take a break,” you heard him say when he walked in your office. 

You were so focused on your last case file that you didn’t even hear the knocks on the door. You’d like to think he maybe didn’t even knock. Your office was just a kind of extension of his, and you kept telling Aaron that he could walk in as much as he wanted. You loved to say you could always feel him coming.

The truth was that you could usually see him, from the shadow through your window to the fact the door was right in front of you.

The other truth was that, indeed, you felt like you had some kind of sixth sense letting you know when he was near you.

The final truth was that in case you missed Aaron’s presence, Blossom couldn’t. Even if right now, your dog was more interested in the little treat you gave her and didn’t move from her bed.

“You, Aaron Hotchner, are the one saying that?” You laughed, lifting your head up to watch him. “That’s a bit hypocritical.” 

More than once tonight, you considered leaving and coming back earlier tomorrow morning to finish your work. But just for the simple view of the lazy smile growing on Aaron’s face, the one he had when he got so tired he couldn’t control his facial expression nor had the strength to give a proper smile, staying late was worth it. 

You had barely seen him today. The days after the team came back from a case were always full of paperwork, and you didn’t even leave your office to eat lunch. Not even when the girls took turns to convince you to take a break and instead took Blossom with them.

You really wanted to get up, leave your office for a few minutes, and forget about the atrocity you were reading. But some other people couldn’t take a break, and their pictures were lying on your desk. So no, your propriety truly wasn’t your appetite. 

However, was it weird that seeing your chief right now was lifting a weight off your mind?

“At least I ate today.”

“Who are you?” you replied in a fake shocked tone, watching as he walked to your desk and sat in front of you. 

Yes, hearing his short and spontaneous giggle definitely made the whole staying late worth it. 

“I thought you might need some of these,” he said, finding just enough space on your desk to put down the plate he had been carrying.

One of the agents had brought some cakes and cookies from their child’s birthday. Aaron knew what it was to see the big picture, to compensate for their absence and make sure their children aren’t mad at them. Turns out, at the end, it was the Bureau who could enjoy all the leftovers.

And he was making sure that you got your daily sugar dose too.

“Don’t be too nice to me, Aaron, or I could cry,” you laughed, taking a cookie in hand before biting into it. 

You couldn’t care less about the little moan that escaped your lips when you felt the sugar melt in your mouth. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine a little paradise, peacefully away from the FBI. You clearly needed this more than you thought. 

Blossom was quick at jumping off her bed after hearing you. She ran and tried to charm you into giving her a piece of cookie too. She was absolutely not interested in the caress you gave her in exchange and even granted you a judgmental look. One that you didn’t even bother noticing. 

You were so focused on your own pleasure that you didn’t think Aaron could hear too. Or noticed the little change in his posture. How he moved his thighs on the chair, clearly not as comfortable as he was a few seconds ago. Or how he played with his tie to keep his hands occupied on something else. Something that wasn’t, well…you.

Not even Blossom was nice enough to help him, going back to her bed in a lazy and disappointing walk. 

He cleared his throat, looking for his composure back. “You deserve some kindness,” he then said.

You tilted your head to the side and pouted slightly. The simple thought of someone thinking about your own good was touching. And not only was it a man, it was your boss. More than your boss, it was Aaron. That was more than what your heart could handle at 8 p.m. on a Friday night. 

You grabbed another cookie from the plate and handed it to him. “Have some too.”

Aaron looked at it and considered refusing your offer. He already ate some earlier, and the ones he picked were for you, not him. But the sweet look in your eyes made him think that you could actually cry if he said no. 

He chose the safe option and took it from your hand. His fingers brushed yours softly, and he let that moment last longer than he should have.

The view of the two of you sharing cookies in your little office made you laugh. “This is, like, the closest to a date I’ve been to in months.” 

This was enough to remind Aaron why he was there in the first place.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night.”

Your eyes grew big at the sudden thought that you might have said something controversial or problematic. You remembered the conversation—or at least you thought so. Did you say anything inappropriate to your chief? You sure had inappropriate thoughts in the past—and I, in a not-so-far-away past—but you were secretly praying none of them escaped your mouth.

To be honest, even now, totally sober, you weren't 100% sure you could trust your mouth. It wasn’t your fault his rolled-up sleeves made his arms and his veins so visible you were dying to look at them. 

Thankfully, Aaron was quick at putting a hand on your arm to stop your overwhelming thoughts. 

“About wanting to start dating again with someone you know and ttrust, he completed in such a serious tone you could forget the context of the conversation in the first place.

Your lips formed an O for a few seconds before you replied with a soft laugh: “Yep, sounds like something I said.” 

It didn’t sound like something you said. You said that, and you knew it. 

You knew it just because your brain made sure to perfectly memorize Aaron’s face when he heard those words. His confused but also relieved expression, telling you he had been working hard to express his own feelings. But also the expression when he asked if you had someone in mind. Like it was a need for him to know. Like a part of him expected an answer you weren’t sure you were allowed to give.

“I still mean it,” you said. “I still think this could be a good solution. The whole thing now is…”

“Finding that person.” Aaron completed it, and you simply nodded.

And soon the room fell into silence again.

If you were in a movie, you would yell at the characters to speak the obvious. Because it was obvious to both of you.

How Aaron, as your chief, didn’t feel like he had any right to speak his mind and feared being accused of harassment—even though he trusted you enough to not do it. 

How you, as his agent, were scared you might lose the job of your dream for a fantasy—even though you trusted him enough to not fire you for this.

But how you both had the same idea in mind.

“Do you think…” Aaron started.

But you spoke at the time. “...Want to do it?”

Another silence. Then a shared laugh that lightened up the mood.

“This would stay between us?”

You could tell how important it was for him. The low voice he used, like he was sharing some secret. Like a child asking for something he shouldn’t be. Like a part of him still wasn't sure this was the right thing. 

It was easy to start it; it would be harder to face the consequences if anything went wrong. And the list of possible consequences was already long enough in his head. 

Starting from professional procedure for going on dates with a member of his team to potential unsub taking advantages of this. To broken hearts. Yes, broken hearts were the worst scenario, even for Aaron Hotchner.

“I didn’t plan on adding a new slide on my case presentation about this, no,” you replied, taking another cookie from the plate. 

Your sarcastic remark kind of worked when he rolled his eyes and let out an amused sigh. But this wasn’t enough.

“The only person aware of this is Blossom right here,” you said, pointing to your dog. Blossom, who apparently couldn’t care less about whatever you were talking about. But still got up from her bed and walked to Aaron.

Either she was still mad at you for not giving her any treat, or she finally noticed Aaron’s presence. In any way, it didn’t take her long to jump on his lap and get some new caresses.

You found it funny how she had a very different relationship with the members of this team, especially the men of this team. She knew she could easily get treats from Spencer, who couldn't resist her sweet face. She went to Derek when she wanted to play, and you didn’t have the time. 

And Aaron was kind of her safe place. Sometimes, she would disappear in the middle of the afternoon just to rest on his lap. Not even asking for any cuddle or anything, just like she needed to be with him.

“Can we trust you, Blossom?” He whispered in a very serious tone that you actually heard him use once with Spencer. 

And the only answer Aaron got was a cuddle against his hand and a peaceful sight from your dog. Something he seemed very pleased about from the smile that grew on his lips.

He then looked up at you, who were on the verge of freaking out from the cuteness of the situation. “I guess we’re good,” he said, making it sound like he made an agreement with your dog about you. Without you.

If it meant seeing a softer look on his face, you could accept being sidelined from this. 

“I won’t say anything, Aaron.” You finally replied for good, giving him his long-awaited answer.

“I just don’t…” he started before sighing. “You’re very important to the team. I don’t want to make things weird here because I…you know.” 

Aaron had to fight hard to not add you were important to him too.

“We don’t have to make things weird, you know.” You smiled. “We could start with a simple coffee…date, and if we find it too awkward, we call it a day and laugh about it at David’s next dinner.” 

The smile he gave you was probably the most sincere of the night. It was a thank you.

Thank you for understanding his fear and validating his feelings.

Thank you for accepting to take care of his old and still broken heart.

“Thank you," he then said. For being you.

Tag List: @kiwriteswords @monzabee @raysmayhem-72 @kajjaka @pastelpinkflowerlife@winyourheartemma @aaronhotchnersgf @averyhotchner @liilysblog @storiesbynova@lemoncee@mayhills @deeninadream @sillymuffintrashflap @alediao @jsjcue @marina468 @violettablackwood @yasministration

📬FILL THE FORM TO BE ADDED

[pedroscurls]

Hii love. Can you please do something about Harry or Joel. He has some type of insecurity and it gets worse one night when you are out at an activity or party maybe. You looked beautiful and lots of guys kept talking to you and trying to make a move.

So after you finally realize what is wrong with Harry/Joel, you make sure he feels loved and understands you only have eyes for him.

Something like that, thank you!

no one else comes close (one-shot)

pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader content warning(s): spoilers, so please beware!!!, harry POV, harry's super insecure, established relationship, no physical descriptions of reader (we're all beautiful here!!!), no use of y/n. word count: 1.9k a/n: shout out to you, anon for this incredibly sweet request! i don't usually take requests, but i loved this idea so much and i've been obsessed with harry that i couldn't not write it. hope you enjoy this and ty for sending this in <3 (btw this isn't proofread lol, i wrote this in like 2 hrs bc it's just such a good idea! so if there are errors, sorry in advanced!)

Harry was never a jealous man—at least not until he was in a relationship with you. It was ridiculous really because you had never given him the reason to feel this way. Whenever you both went out, he had gotten used to the lingering glances that would come your way. You were always so polite, so kind to everyone you met. 

But tonight, he wasn’t sure why the scars on his legs were making him insecure. It was one of the first things he told you—he didn’t want any secrets between either of you. You had looked at him with such a sad look on your face that Harry wasn’t sure if you were pitying him or embarrassed for him. It had taken him by surprise when you told him that you were sorry he felt that way, that he felt so strongly about increasing his height that he had to endure all that pain. 

Harry knew he loved you at that moment. You had always been different from the women he dated, but you never did care about his money or any of the materialistic things he had to offer you. You had been hurt in the past and the only thing you asked of him was to be completely and truthfully honest with you—about anything, about everything. 

Even now, as the men at the bar are casting glances in your direction, Harry couldn’t help but curl his hands into fists against the counter of the bar. It shouldn’t bother him, especially since there’s a pretty decent-sized engagement ring sitting on your finger. He tried to smile at what you and his brother were saying, but he couldn’t help but continue to look around the room. 

He had to wonder if he hadn’t been the height he was at now, would you even be interested in him? Would you have even gone on a first date with him? Said yes to marry him? Harry knew the answer to all of the questions that nagged at him—yes. 

Yes—you would still have been interested in him, would still have gone on that first date with him, and you certainly would have said yes to marry him. Harry knew that you didn’t care about looks, about height—you loved him for him. The good. The bad. The ugly. You accepted him entirely, even embraced parts of him that he tried so hard to push aside because it just never worked in the past. With you, Harry felt like himself. 

Harry heard you whisper into his ear that you were going on the dance floor with Charlotte—his sister-in-law. He didn’t have time to object, to instead tell you that he wanted to go home. You were already halfway to the dance floor, body swaying expertly to the beat of the music. He watched you vigilantly, keeping a careful eye on you. Even from afar, you made sure to glance in his direction and smile at him—a smile so big that it met your eyes and Harry, for a brief moment, forgot the lingering insecurity and jealousy that he felt all night. 

Harry winked at you and then decided to look away. You were going home with him, so he had no reason to be jealous. His brother clasped him on his shoulder and they ordered another round of drinks, casually talking about work. It hadn’t been five minutes before Harry felt the urge to look at you again. He looked over his shoulder casually, caught a glimpse of your smile before he turned back around. Slowly, he felt more comfortable—the jealousy and insecurity now an afterthought. 

Leg lengthening surgery—as painful as it was—had been the best decision of his life. Harry felt more respected, more valuable. No one else needed to know that he had gone through great lengths just to add six inches to his height. It bothered him though, how other men who were naturally six feet and above would just take it for granted. He tried not to think so materialistically, especially since you had told him that you never had an issue with dating someone under six feet, but there were moments where he couldn’t help it. He had grown up around that kind of thinking—the way you presented yourself mattered. 

“Oh shit,” he heard his brother whisper under his breath, pulling Harry out of his thoughts. 

Harry’s brows furrowed in confusion until he followed his brother’s gaze to the dance floor. A man was trying to dance with you and there was a look of discomfort in your features that he noticed immediately. Through your discomfort, Harry noticed how you had gently taken a step back from the other man—to distance your body with his. He wasn’t sure what you were telling him, but from the look of disappointment on the other man’s face, Harry had an idea.

“She can handle herself,” Harry replied to his brother, though he hoped that saying it out loud would convince himself that he didn’t need to intervene. 

Harry met your eyes and he gave you a single nod, which you returned instantly. You were ready to go home and Harry was more than willing to leave. As you were walking back to the bar though, several men tried to come up to you and strike a conversation. You forced a smile and politely declined, oblivious to their lingering eyes on your body. Harry’s jaw tightened and he downed his drink in one gulp before excusing himself to meet you halfway. 

“Yeah, think it’s time to go,” he heard his brother say from behind him. 

Harry didn’t bother to respond. His main focus was to get to you. Once at an arm’s distance, Harry reached out for you and took your hand, immediately pulling you into his chest. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, forehead leaning down to rest against your own. To you, Harry was being sweet, but to him—he was telling every man in this bar that you were off-limits. 

“Can we go home?” he asked quietly, hand coming up to rest on your cheek. 

“Yeah, let’s go home.” 

Back at Harry’s penthouse, he had already changed into a black t-shirt and sleep pants. He was in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water as his mind drifted again. Tonight had given him a glimpse of a life that he didn’t want—a life without you. You could have been with any other guy in that bar, could have said yes to someone else other than him and again, he wondered if you would have even said yes if he was at his actual height of 5’6. 

Harry didn’t hear you come into the kitchen, but he felt your soft touch on his shoulder. He cleared his throat quietly and turned around to face you—his insecurity written all over his face as his deep brown eyes softened at the sight of you. 

“Hey,” you whispered, hands coming up to rest on his chest. “You okay?” 

Harry nodded, kissed your cheek, and then pulled away. “Just tired. Ready for bed?” 

You furrowed a brow. Harry knew better than to lie to you. “Yeah, I am,” you answered. “But something’s wrong. I can tell.” 

Harry shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong, baby,” he lied once more. 

You sighed and moved to sit on one of the stools at the counter, arms crossed over your chest. Harry bit the inside of his cheek nervously and rested his forearms against the counter as he leaned against it, staring into your eyes. 

“If I wasn’t six feet tall, would you still be with me? Would you have even said yes when I asked you out on a date?” Harry blurted out.

“What?”

“If you met me and noticed that I was actually 5’6, would that have made a difference? Would we even be here?” He repeated.

You reached out for his hand and leaned forward to press your lips against the back of it. You never looked away, just held his gaze. “Yes, we would be right here where we’re meant to be even if you were 5’6,” you answered. “Your height isn’t the reason why I said yes. You know this.”

“I know… I just—” Harry sighed. “A lot of men like to stare at you. No matter where we are—bar, restaurant, even at a fucking family party. And tonight, it just got to me. All these men were just gawking at you,” he finally looked away—embarrassed that he was even feeling this way. “And then some even had the audacity to ask you to dance or even for your number despite the engagement ring you’re wearing.”

“Harry,” you whispered, climbing off the stool to stand next to him. You gently released his hand, only to have him turn his body to face you. You reached up and cupped his cheek—his eyes filled with so much sadness. “I chose you because you make me laugh, make me smile… We can talk literally about anything and nothing at the same time. My favorite place to be is in your arms. You’re my best friend, six feet or not. Rich or poor. You’re the only one I have eyes for,” you continued. “I chose you before. I’m choosing you now. And I will continue to choose you for the rest of my life.”

Harry’s eyes softened instantly, glistening with tears that threatened to spill over. He moved a hand to your hip, gripping it tightly under his grasp as he pulled you flush against him. “I’m just in my head and—”

“Stop,” you interrupted. “You have every right to feel the way that you do. Your feelings are valid, baby. But I’m here to tell you that if you need a reminder, I’m more than happy to tell you just how much I love you—how you’re the only man for me. No one else comes close, Harry.” 

Harry nodded and moved his other hand to your hip before wrapping both arms tightly around you to pull you into a tight embrace. His face buried against the crook of your neck as he let out a heavy sigh when your hands moved to rub his back soothingly. He hadn’t ever felt a kind of love like this before. 

“I love you,” he whispered. 

“I love you too,” you answered instantly, pressing a soft kiss against his temple. “Now, let’s go to bed so that we can cuddle.” 

Harry smiled and pulled back to look down at you. “Yes, ma’am.” He lifted you into his arms and carried you back to the bedroom. Once he set you on the bed, he pulled off his sleep pants and set it aside before climbing onto the bed and underneath the sheets. Harry immediately spooned you from behind, his arm draping over your midsection as he held you close to him. 

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” you whispered. 

Harry nodded against you, face buried against you. “I know, baby. I just didn’t want to bother you with all of the things that were going on in my head.”

“Hmm,” you mumbled, moving a hand over his and lacing your fingers together. “You’d never bother me, Harry. Besides, if the roles were reversed, I know you’d tell me the same thing.”

He chuckled and kissed the side of your neck. “Okay, fair point.” 

You smiled proudly and leaned back against him. Harry tightened his grip around you and shut his eyes. “Good night, Harry.” 

“Good night, baby,” he whispered. Harry knew that his insecurities wouldn’t magically go away, but he felt safe and heard with you by his side. He brushed his thumb across your engagement ring and he let out a contented sigh. “Thank you for choosing me,” he said quietly. 

[eizuuya]

# ICKY!

"SAID SHE WANT MORE THAN A TIP, I AIN'T TALKIN' 'BOUT GUIDANCE!"

♬ paige bueckers x reader ♩ 1.3k ♪ sub!paige, strap sucking (p), strapon sex, is this oral fixation idk ♩ sorry so short

it starts the way it usually does.

not with a kiss. not even a look, just the sound of the front door slamming shut and paige muttering, “god, i need you,” in that low, breathy tone she only uses when her body’s already halfway unzipped from adrenaline. practice just ended. she’s still in her compression pants, jersey clinging to her back with sweat, hair a messy half-bun.

you’re curled up on the couch, ipad in your lap and one of her old t-shirts hanging loose around your thighs. it smells like her, of course it does.

she’s looking at you like she might devour you. no hello. no questions.

“paige.” you set the ipad down, shifting to sit up straighter. “tough practice?”

“no,” she says, already walking toward you, dropping her gym bag somewhere in the kitchen. “just been thinking about your mouth all day.”

you feel your face flush. “well,” you say softly, “that’s very sweet of you.”

paige stops in front of the couch and tilts her head like she’s not amused. she’s never amused when you’re coy. she knows your game.

“get up,” she says.

it’s not rude. it’s not mean. it’s just paige. commanding. serious. desperate in that tightly-wound way she gets after long days.

you rise slowly. let her take you in: bare legs, soft shirt, hair half-tied.

she pulls the shirt over your head before you even get a chance to react. her hands are greedy, not rushed but decisive, and she tosses it to the side like it was never important to begin with.

her mouth grazes your collarbone. “did you wear this just to tease me?”

“maybe.” you’re already breathless.

“mm.” her fingers slip under your panties and yank. they slide down your thighs and fall to the floor. you step out of them, naked now, and paige exhales like you’re the answer to a question she didn’t know she was asking.

“bedroom,” she says. “now.”

she always lets you lead when you want to.

but tonight? she doesn’t want soft. she doesn’t want teasing. she wants to be used.

it’s written in how she peels off her jersey and stands in front of you in just her sports bra and leggings. muscles taut, skin flushed, her chest rising and falling like she’s just run a mile. you can see it in her eyes: the want, yes, but also the trust. the way she drops her shoulders and waits.

“get on your knees,” you say gently.

she obeys without hesitation, settling in front of the bed where your strap is already waiting, clean, shiny, purple, the way she likes it.

you don’t dress too slowly, but you take your time. watching her. letting her sit there, chest heaving, lips parted, eyes wide. the anticipation makes her squirm, makes her thighs press together.

when the harness is on, you cup her jaw. “open.”

she does. wide, eager, obedient.

you guide the tip to her mouth and she moans before she even tastes you.

the first press in is shallow, just to get her lips around it. she groans low in her throat like the feeling alone is enough to undo her. you keep your hand firm at the back of her head, fingers tangled in her damp hair.

“that’s it,” you whisper. “take it.”

she does. she always does.

you start to thrust gently. just her mouth working, tongue pressing underneath, lips stretched wide. her eyes flutter. she reaches for your thighs, gripping tightly as if she needs to ground herself.

you go deeper.

she chokes. moans again. saliva begins to gather at the corners of her mouth. she doesn’t care. you don’t stop.

“that’s what you needed, huh?” you murmur, voice breathy. “needed your mouth full to stop thinking so much.”

she nods around the strap, eyes glossy. you fuck her mouth harder. not cruel, just controlled. you watch her unravel, drool dripping down her chin, her nails digging into your legs, her breath catching every time you push deep and pause there.

you pull out with a wet pop. her lips chase the emptiness.

“get on the bed.”

she scrambles up without complaint.

by the time you crawl on top of her, she’s trembling. not out of fear, but out of need. her legs are spread instinctively. you press your thigh between them and she ruts against it like she’s already on edge.

you kiss her finally. it’s sloppy, hungry, full of teeth. her arms wrap around your waist, her nails dragging down your spine like she wants to mark you.

“say it,” you breathe into her mouth. “tell me what you want.”

“you,” she gasps. “i want you to fuck me.”

you run your hand down her chest, under her sports bra, fingers circling a nipple until she shudders. “say please.”

“please,” she moans, arching into you. “please, baby. please.”

it’s all you need.

you pull her boxers off and she’s wet already— slick, hot, throbbing. you guide the strap between her legs and slide the tip through her folds, slow and teasing, just to hear the way she begs.

“don’t tease—”

you push in.

all at once.

she screams, half-pleasure, half-relief, and throws her head back as her hips buck up.

“god, yes,” she gasps. “don’t stop. don’t stop.”

you don’t.

you pound into her, hips snapping with purpose, the sound of skin on skin loud in the room. she takes it all, legs wrapped around your waist, nails clawing at the sheets, mouth open in a broken moan.

“you like that?” you whisper. “being used like this?”

she nods frantically. “yes. fuck, yes. harder, please—”

you grab her thigh and yank it higher, driving deeper, hitting that perfect spot that makes her curse under her breath and bite her own wrist to stay quiet.

“you’re so good like this,” you murmur. “taking me so deep. letting me fuck you like i own you.”

“you do,” she whimpers. “you do, fuck, you do—”

you slow down just enough to make her cry out. her hips chase you, desperate, greedy.

“you wanna come?”

“yes, baby, please, please let me—”

you speed up again, hard and deep and punishing. the bed creaks. her hands grasp blindly for your shoulders, your back, your hips, anything to hold onto.

she comes with a cry, whole body locking up around you, thighs trembling, breath stuttering.

you don’t stop.

you fuck her through it, past it, until she’s clawing at your arms, sobbing, mouth open but no sound coming out.

she comes again.

after, you slow down. not out of weakness, but out of care. out of reverence.

you ease out of her and she shudders, still twitching with aftershocks. you pull the harness off and toss it aside, crawling back up to hold her.

her face is flushed, soaked with sweat and tears. she’s boneless under you, chest still rising and falling like she just finished a sprint.

you kiss her forehead. “you okay?”

she nods against your shoulder, voice hoarse. “never better.”

you laugh softly and pull her close.

“god,” she mumbles. “you ruin me.”

you stroke her hair gently. “you love it.”

“i do.”

you let her lay on your chest, skin-to-skin, the room filled only with your quiet breathing and the slow tick of the clock. eventually, paige kisses your shoulder. “you know what i need next?”

“water?”

she nods. “and then maybe you’ll let me sit in your lap and make you come until you cry.”

you grin. “so demanding.”

she smiles lazily, eyes still closed. “you started it.”

and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[chaconnewon]

심 재윤 ! ; you would do anything to see your bestfriend happy.

warnings: sub!jake x switch f!reader, begging, masturbation (m.), slight of praise kink, cum tasting, reader talks a lot, both of them are whipped, whiny jake, mdni ! ——

wc: 2k(2.227)

a/n: i came back from the death— proofread but since english is not my first language there could be mistakes !!! please, let me know and enjoy it(im thinking about a part two¿?)

you and jake have been friends for a while now. and if you were 100% sure about one thing about him was that he was shy around girls.

you could tell by how his hands trembled a little when female students approached him with any lame excuse to talk to him. his cheeks and ears were always red, almost burning. his puppy-like eyes were always searching for you like calling for help. and you found it cute, how can you not? jake wasn’t interested in them by any chance. sure he would talk to them and be polite because his mama raised a good boy but nothing further than a casual conversation.

it was late in the afternoon when jake dropped by your house, a handbag full of your favourite snacks. you two found a comfy spot in your bed as both of you took turns to update your day. he was first. you always wanted to hear him talk first. the way jake was expressive while talking about his interests made you feel kinda attracted. like a feeling you couldn’t quite tell. it didn’t mind you since it was pretty obvious jake was a good looking man with unique charisma. maybe way too much. you thought being kind of attracted to your best friend was the most normal thing on earth.

or you simply didn’t want to dig in too deep.

“. . . i’m telling you, they won't leave me alone.”

“what can I say? you’re very popular among the other students.”

jake furrowed his brows before answering.

“i only talk to you and the rest of the boys. every single day i find myself meeting people i’ve never seen in my life!”

“that’s how making friends works!” you replied, your voice laced with humor. “ what if you find the love of your life? you’re gonna miss it because of… shyness?”

“you’re right but—“

“also, there are sooo many pretty girls to kiss, no attachment, just enjoying the moment.”

the last sentence left him thinking. all these girls were interested in kissing him? like a whole make out and all? but most importantly, was he looking out for it? sometimes all that attention on jake made him uncomfortable, just wishing to avoid interactions with strangers just to get to you or his friends. jake never thought about kissing anyone. 

at least not anyone that he didn’t know. 

“but, uh… you kiss people for fun?”

“i think that's a part of kissing someone… you find someone you’re attracted to, or just someone who's pretty. what would you do then?”

“but isn’t it strange?”

you went silent for a couple minutes. his eyes seemed to shake with subtle agitation. his questions were avoiding answering you but you weren’t dumb, and soon you knew something what’s up. 

before answering, you took time to meet his gaze. the way he was chewing his lip, fingers fidgeting with each other in some attempt to calm his nervousness. it wasn’t working though. 

“jake… if you ever kissed someone, you would know how that’s not strange.” silence. his eyes dropped to his lap, evading your curious yet surprised look. “I'm assuming by your lack of response that, in fact, you haven't kissed anyone yet.”

“please don’t laugh at me.”

“why would i? it’s not a bad thing. you just didn't find that someone and that's alright. people have different concepts about the first kiss and—“

“i found her but i’m afraid because i dont know if i can do it right or not.” also she talks so fucking much he would’ve added. 

“but it’s something normal, natural. you just aren't born knowing everything in life. you have to learn, to understand.”

jake parted his lips to say something but not a single noise went through his mouth. you were right and that made him feel at ease. but still his heart pounded fiercely inside his chest by simply thinking about kissing. 

but not anyone. 

kissing you.

the red-ish shade painting his cheeks was still there, and your gaze was still analyzing every movement or reaction by him. you’ve kissed people, sometimes for fun, sometimes blinded by desire but this time… the urge to smash your lips against your best friend's one was bigger. like something you couldn’t control. 

“maybe… maybe we can try— if you want, of course. starting with some pecks, slow. there’s no rush.”

jake’s mouth hung open a little, processing what you just told him. you wanted to? you wanted to kiss him? his eyes were more than sparkling, trying to contain his hype, his need to scream because fuck, he couldn’t even imagine you would offer something like that to him. 

“y–yeah, i mean. we can try.”

you giggled a little. jake used to be confident and funny around you but now was shuddering. like his confidence vanished the moment you suggested kissing each other would be a good idea. 

“relax, okay? we are gonna start with something simple. you can always tell me to stop and I will, no questions. alright?”

he nodded, impossible for him to say anything out loud. 

“i need you to speak, jake. say it with your words, it’s okay.”

your hand flew to his knee, caressing it slowly with your thumb. 

“all right, it’s okay with me.”

you smiled at him, squeezing his leg a little. 

next thing you did was to place the snacks aside, and crawl to be close to him. your knees were barely brushing his as you repositioned yourself closer. jake accommodated himself too, straightening his back and waiting for you to do something. you smiled, softly. you could read his mind at this point. jake was unsure what to do so he was waiting for you to take the lead.

after all, you were the one with way more experience than him.

your body leaned closer to him, your hands against the mattress to hold your weight as you finally pressed your lips against his.

the kiss stayed like that for a few seconds. no movements, no tongue, no nothing. just a gentle pressing against his plump, soft lips. jake’s heart beat faster, pounding hard into his ribcage and suddenly he felt so stupid for being this nervous by a simple peck. but in reality the kiss wasn’t the reason to be that nervous–it was you. the fact that he was kissing you was making his whole body tremble with anticipation.

after a few seconds you pulled back.

‘’was it okay?’’ you asked in a whisper, and you watched him nod.

before you can suggest anything more, his lips crashed onto your one again. started like before, a gentle press between both lips but he felt courage building inside him and took a step forward. his lips, unsure, started to move against yours. despite the intention his moves were clumsy but you found it adorable. you didn’t try to set a pace, you just matched his, making him familiar with that new emotion. 

within minutes he seemed to understand what the whole kissing thing was about. his lips captured yours, pulling them slightly and then taking them again. slowly the tension between both of you started to feel heavy, and your hands found a place cupping his head, your left hand sinking in his fluffy hair, caressing it.

you moved away from the kiss to catch her breath, looking at his state. reddish lips a bit swollen, a darker shade of red more prominent on his cheeks. the image in front of you was impossible to not look at. now again you leaned close and attached your lips into his neck, kissing it with open-mouth kisses that left some trail of your own saliva, sucking gently whenever you had a chance.

jake’s hands gripped the sheets beneath him. all the new emotions he was feeling were starting to be too hard to handle, soft gasps leaving his lips. you took it as a green light, not stopping your commitment which was making him feel good. just where his pulse was beating rapidly, you sinked your teeth.

‘’y-y/n wait. . .’’

you stopped, you face contoured in concern. maybe you were pushing too hard for a first time. last thing you wanted was to make him uncomfortable. 

jake struggled a bit seeking for words and you patiently waited, taking a peek of how rosy his cheeks were, or how shaky his hands were as well. you felt like he was avoiding your gaze  and in fact, he was. you looked down, searching for something that told you what was crossing his mind.

until you noticed it.

a big, notorious bulge under his pants.

none of you said anything. it was normal, a natural reaction from the human body. if he was enjoying it that much, it made sense he was that hard. and to be honest, seeing how he grew an erection from a kiss, a simple kiss and a few touches on his neck, made you wet.

‘’jake.’’

he shook his head, embarrassed. you took his chin, tilting his head back a bit to make him look at you. jake chewed his lower lip nervously. what would you think about him? getting so hard for a kiss, almost so close to come… was embarrassing for him.

‘’i’m sorry i–’’

‘’hey, it’s okay, yeah? it’s a common reaction. do you want to stop?’’

he shook his head again, earning a smirk from you.

‘’does it hurt, mh? your crotch looks so tight…’’

jake swallowed hard at your words, eyes widening slightly but nodded anyway. fuck yeah it hurted, a lot. his hard dick was pressed against the uncomfortable clothes and them started to feel a bit damp. he needed a bit of relief. 

your free hand traveled across his chest, fingers ghosting over. you could feel his muscles tensing. taking your time, your hand landed on top of his clothed boner, massaging it slowly. quickly jake shut his eyes down, his breath trembling. despites him being silent, he thrusts against your hand, asking wordlessly for more friction.

you unbuttoned his pants, taking him over his underwear. jake whimpered, eyes locked on your face now. his face was red, hot. along with his neck. you started to pump him slowly, with deliberate strokes, and it didn’t take long before soft moans escaped his lips. breathy. you continued until you felt him hard enough to free his dick from the remaining clothes. his cock twitched slightly by the sudden air hitting it directly, earning a soft hiss from him. jakes length was standing proud, a bit curved at the and his tip wet with some pre-cum. the view was amazing, and his shy attitude made it ten times better.

‘’show me how you make yourself good.’’ you whispered.

he hesitated for a moment, processing your words. you wanted him to jerk off in front of you? that scenario felt like a dream. even though his shaky hand reached his base, your tender yet firm demeanour made him feel, somehow, bold. jake started to slide his hand along his length, slow at first, feeling every mover, every squeeze. took a few minutes for him to gain a bit of confidence and start to pump faster, using his pre release as lube. 

you watched him with hunger in your eyes, eyes glued at his hand. the heat between your legs was uncomfortable, your sticky panties pressed against your core. but tonight was for him, only for him. for his pleasure and adventure to explore what made him feel good. what he liked or not. and with that thought in mind, you placed your hand above his, setting a faster pace.

at that point, jake was a whiny mess. his chest raising and falling heavily, trying to stead his breathing but unable to. his lips puffy, red and wet by all the biting and licking he submitted them to. 

‘’y/n shit– feels so good…’’

‘’does it?’’ he nodded, eagerly. ‘’look at you, all you body trembling, all your cheeks rosy… you look like a goddamn painting.’’

your words made him moan, arching his back. so, he was into a little praise? you wanted to test a bit further.

‘’did you like that? you like how pretty i tell you you look right now? how good are you taking our hands?’’ he whined, his legs starting to tremble anytime you opened your pretty yet filthy mouth.

‘’are you close?’’

‘’y–yes! so close…. keep going please—’’

he let go his hand, giving you full permission to masturbate him. and you did, fast and heavy. the wet noises filling the silent room. he gripped his sheets again and arched his back to you, feeling so, so close to cum.

‘’fuckfuckfuck– i’m cumming… please, can I?’’

as soon as you nodded, giving the permission he needed, warm sticky ropes of cum spurt off him, landing into your hand and his clothes. his body was shivering, moan after moan slipping through his lips until he couldn't anymore. 

you lowered yourself as soon as he rode his orgasm, his soft dick sticky in your hand and you took your tongue off to lick a stripe of it, tasting him. he hissed, wide eyes looking at you.

‘’couldn't help it, jake.’’ you smiled, patting his hair with your free hand as his breath came to normality again. ‘’but we are not done yet.’’

[whimsical--cat]

Shadows of His Past

Summary: Spencer had a routine he always did on Maeve’s death anniversary. Lost in his own grief, something, or rather, someone, completely slipped out of his mind. You. He was hyper-focused in his grief that he hurt you in the process.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5111 (This is now officially the longest fanfic I’ve ever written!!!)

Author Notes: This fanfic was born from one line that stuck in my head for days: “Do I have to compete with her for a place in your heart my entire life?” I’m clearly not an expert on the language of flowers. I simply read people’s blogs/articles about flowers and their meanings as I wrote this. Sorry for any inaccuracy.

In the last two months, you’ve noticed that Spencer has been acting a bit off. It became more noticeable every time you spent the night at his apartment. You’d find him standing in front of the bookshelf, simply staring at his collection, or maybe one certain book, you weren’t entirely sure. Yet he never actually took anything off of the bookshelf. He clenched his fists, as if he restrained himself from reaching out to that book. After a few moments, he’d usually go to a different part of the apartment; either it was the kitchen or the bedroom. You didn’t know if he was even aware of what he was doing, and you didn’t know the reason he did that either.

Knowing that something bothered him but didn’t know how to help him irritated you. One night, you’ve had enough of this behavior, so you pulled him to the couch, and confronted him. You could tell that he was taken aback by the question — proving your suspicion that he wasn’t aware of his actions. He didn’t answer immediately, but you knew his big brain was running its gears to form an answer for you.

“It’s almost Maeve’s death anniversary.” His voice was shaky, and it was barely audible.

That was the only response you got from him, before he buried his face in the palm of his hands. You didn’t know what kind of answer you expected from him, but that was entirely off the table. You weren’t sure what to do, but you offered him a hug. The moment you pulled him to your embrace, he immediately held you close. As if he was afraid he’d lose you.

One of the first things he had brought up when you two started dating was how his job could possibly be a danger to the people in his life. The people he loved. That was also the day he first ever mentioned a woman named Maeve, who tragically had been murdered by her stalker, right in front of him. Possibly the first woman he ever loved.

You didn’t think much of it when he told you about her. Didn’t even think she was still relevant to the relationship you had with him right now, because it’s been years since it happened anyway. Right?

A week after Spencer told you about Maeve however, when his female colleagues invited you for a girls night’s out, you instantly said yes — thinking it could be the perfect opportunity to ask them about her. After the second round of drinks, you mustered up the courage to ask them about her. Once the question left your mouth, you were greeted by an uncomfortable silence. You clearly had put them in the hot seat, and most likely ruined the night. They hesitated to tell you, afraid that it wasn’t their place to share the story. You encouraged them that it was alright, that Spencer had already told you, you just wanted to know the story from their perspectives.

So, they eventually told you everything they knew about Maeve, which was pretty much the same things Spencer had told you. However, they revealed that what happened to her greatly affected him mentally and emotionally. Which at some point also clouded his judgment in the field. It took him weeks to seek out help from the team, and another weeks to give himself a proper closure. The topic surrounding her and the relationship with Spencer seemed to be more sensitive than you let yourself to believe.

The sound of a muffled cry brought you back to the present. You were so lost in your own head you didn’t even realize that Spencer was crying. You tried to sooth him as best as you could; one hand rubbing his back in gentle motion and the other hand brushing his curls. At one point, you managed to convince him to call it a night. That night you slept with his hands tightly wrapped around you, like he needed proof that you were real.

The next day, you wanted to ask him when exactly her death anniversary was, but he didn’t even try to give you a further explanation, so you went along with him. Pretending that the conversation from the night before had never happened in the first place.

Days, weeks, passed by since that night, and things have returned to normal. At least, that was what you wanted to believe. Both of you still communicated like you two normally would. He still informed you when he was about to travel for a case or when he was about to go home. From time to time, you still spent the night at his place, or him at yours. It was just that both of you carefully avoided the subject altogether.

One day, the buzzing sound from your phone wouldn’t stop. There were dozens of texts in the group chat. The one group chat that consisted of you and Spencer’s female colleagues. You were overjoyed when they added you to the group chat — how they considered you as one of them. However, today, as you read through the texts, you felt… confused? They were talking about going to another state to catch yet another bad guy, guessing who they’d share the room with, etcetera.

You were confused because you received no text from Spencer that indicated those things. No, scratch that. You received no text from him at all. You thought he was busy juggling piles of case files, thus he hadn’t responded to your text, but apparently that wasn’t what was happening.

You tried to send him another text before putting your phone aside. Trying to ignore the unsettling feeling in your gut, and getting back to your work.

By lunch time, you still hadn’t heard anything from Spencer, and you began to worry. A bit desperate for an answer, you made a phone call to Penelope.

“Hey, sweetness. It’s always a great time when you call. A distraction that I need. Anyway, do you need anything?” She sounded like her usual cheerful self on the other side of the line.

“Hey, Penny. Um, it may sound weird, but I wonder if you happen to know where Spencer is? I haven’t heard from him all day.”

“Oh. I don’t think I’m the right person to tell you about it, hun.”

“Will you please tell me what’s going on? I won’t be mad at you. If he’s going to be mad at you for telling me, then it’s his problem with me. I promise.” Considering what’s been going on between you two, you didn’t like the implication that he hid something from you.

She went silent for a moment. Probably contemplating her choices. Then you heard her sighing. “Every year, on this day, Reid always takes a day off. Today’s Maeve’s death anniversary.”

Your heart dropped to the bottom of your stomach. You vaguely heard Penelope’s worried voice through the phone, but you barely registered what she said after that. Her previous words echoed in your mind — played over and over, like a broken record.

Every year…

He takes a day off…

Today’s Maeve’s death anniversary…

You didn’t even remember how you ended that phone call. All you could remember was the pain that grew in your heart.

As reality started to kick in, a bitter laugh escaped your lips. Knowing how demanding his job was, you two rarely made a plan for dates. Your dates always revolved around his day off. Even on your birthday, you only received a phone call because he was miles away solving a crime. Meanwhile he willingly took a day off, to do God knew what, on his almost ex-girlfriend’s death anniversary?

What did he do that he needed an entire day off? Did he visit her grave? Where was he now?

You had so many questions, yet you didn’t have any idea how to communicate with Spencer, when he hadn’t responded to any of your previous texts.

The rest of your day went on a blur after that phone call with Penelope.

---

Even after years had passed, waking up on this day never got any easier. The moment Spencer opened his eyes, everything that happened that day flashed before his eyes as if it just occurred yesterday. Then the guilt would follow close after. As he laid on his bed, he constantly asked himself the same question; was there something he could’ve done differently in order to save her?

Every year, today, he’d do the same routine. He’d start his day by reading “The Narrative of John Smith”, the book she gave him. At this point, he had completely memorized every word page by page. He didn’t really mind, because this was the only thing he had left of her. If he normally could read 20,000 words per minute, he took his time when reading this one. He wanted to completely immerse himself in the memory of her.

When he was done reading the book, he’d take a ride. His first stop was a florist, where he always bought 2 bouquets of flowers for different purposes. Beth, the lovely elderly woman who owned the place, would have the bouquets ready for him when he arrived. She knew Spencer would stop by to get the bouquets every year on this day.

Once the bouquets were secured, he drove to his next destination; the crime scene. He put the first bouquet at the entrance  of the loft. After the first year of Maeve’s death anniversary, he learned that her parents went to her grave around noon, hence he opted to go to this place first. Spencer would stay in his parked car, pull out the “The Narrative of John Smith” book from his messenger bag, then read it again for an hour or two, before finally driving to the cemetery.

There was a bouquet at her grave when he arrived, definitely from her parents. He put his bouquet next to it. He’d stay there, and simply talk to her. Over the years, he’d tell her the same things. To this day, aside from the fact he failed to save her, his other regret was he didn’t get the chance to tell her how he felt. He knew that Maeve was smart enough to realize that him saying he didn’t love her was part of the plan, but he wished he didn’t have to do that. He wished for the alternative outcome where she was alive, and he could tell her how he felt in person. He’d apologize for what happened to her, how he couldn’t save her, asked her if she had forgiven him, and asked if it was okay to forgive himself.

He felt lighter when he drove home. Usually he’d try to recall their phone call conversations. How Maeve laughed when he attempted to make terrible jokes, how she often made intellectual puns, or how she sounded like when she told him that she loved him. It scared him that someday he would forget the sound of her voice.

The sun had already set by the time he was back to his place. Spencer was exhausted and starving. The last time he had meals was before he left his apartment. He’d make himself a quick dinner, then get ready for bed. He was about to get a few ingredients from the fridge, when he saw it; a bottle of juice he usually didn’t drink. Odd. Then the realization hit him like a ton of bricks . That was your favorite juice that he stocked in his fridge for you.

Shit.

He quickly pulled his phone from his pocket and turned it on. Once it was on, Spencer noticed tons of texts and calls from you and surprisingly Garcia too.

He had completely forgotten about you.

You [09:47 AM]: Hey, genius. Are you heading somewhere or stuck in Quantico doing paperwork today? You [11:29 AM]: Spence, are you okay? I haven’t heard anything from you. You miscalled (3) You [04:31 PM]: Can you at least tell me that you’re okay? You miscalled (2)

Garcia [01:15 PM]: Your girl found out through the ladies group chat that the team headed to San Francisco today. She asked me about you because she couldn’t reach you. I’m so sorry.

The last call from you was one and half hours ago. He grabbed his bag and car key, then in an instant went out of his apartment again. Before he started the car engine, he tried to call you once but it went straight to voicemail.

Garcia miscalled (2)

Garcia [04:26 PM]: Please call her back. She’s worried about you.

How could he be so ignorant?

The fact that you had called him out for his odd behaviors lately was bad enough, then you found out the significance of today from someone else. Not from him. That felt like a punch to his face. You were kind enough for not forcing him to explain everything to you immediately that night. No, you tolerated him enough to not bring up that topic again. He should’ve told you sooner.

On his way to your place, his brain ran a mile a minute; thinking of what would be the best explanation to give you. At this point he knew his explanation would probably sound like an excuse to you, but he’d still try. If you wouldn’t listen to him today, then he’d try again, and again, and again.

Once Spencer parked his car, he realized he didn’t know if you were even home. There was still a probability that you were somewhere else. He remembered how you once stayed the night at Garcia’s place when you weren’t feeling well, and he was unfortunately away for a case — you could be at her place again. Now that he was standing in front of your door, however, he could vaguely hear the sound from your TV. He released a sigh of relief. You were here. He could do this.

He knocked on your door twice — you didn’t answer. The sound from your TV was gone. He tried knocking again. Still no answer.

“Sweetheart. I know you’re in there. Can we please talk?” He pleaded as he rested his head on your door.

Silence.

The silence stretched too long for his liking. He tried knocking again. He didn’t want to give up on you. On this relationship.

Then he heard a shout from inside the apartment. “Just go away, Spencer! I don’t want to talk to you!”

Even through the door, he recognized the hurt in your voice. He hated that he caused that pain. You were alone inside your apartment, hurting, and it was because of him.

Determined, he simply had to try again. “You don’t have to talk, if you aren’t up for it. I just need you to listen to my explanation. Please.”

He heard footsteps coming his way, and he allowed a tiny hope blooming in his chest. You opened the door, and the sight of you made his heart shattered instantly. Your eyes were red and puffy, the unmistakable proof that you were crying. Spencer was furious at himself, looking at the undeniable evidence that he caused that. He wanted to caress your cheeks so badly, and to tell you that everything would be fine, that you both would be fine. But he restrained himself from doing so. How could he? When he was the source of your distress to begin with.

“Babe—”

“I’m tired, Spence.” Your voice was hoarse, definitely from the crying. “I don’t want to deal with any of this now. Just go home.”

You didn’t entirely turn down his effort to make it up to you, he’d take that. So he tried a different approach. “I’m helping the team from Quantico, so if you’re up to have the discussion tomorrow, or any day really, just let me know.” He eventually reached for your hand, and the tiny hope from earlier grew a bit bigger when you didn’t flinch at his touch. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you like this.”

“Good night, Spence.” You let his hand go, and closed the door on his face.

---

When Spencer woke up the next day, he couldn’t shake the guilt that lingered within him. The look on your face kept replaying in his mind like a movie. You looked so broken and defeated — a far cry from your usual bubbly self. He felt sick to his stomach knowing he did that to you. If he had to spend the rest of his life making up to you, then he’d do exactly that.

As he walked out of his bedroom to get ready for work, he checked his phone, and no text from you. Understandable. After all, he ignored you all day yesterday, why would you text him today?

Before he left his apartment though, he texted you.

Spencer [07:18 AM]: Hey, sweetheart. I know that you’re still mad at me. Rightfully so. But let me know if we can meet up today. I want to properly explain everything to you. I love you.

As he stepped into the bullpen, he immediately walked to Garcia’s office. It’d be more efficient if they assisted the team together from her office. After he knocked on the door, he didn’t bother to wait for an answer, he just walked right in. He was hoping for the usual witty greetings from her, but the moment she saw him, her expression was a mix of sadness, worry, and perhaps pity.

“Oh, Reid.”

Knowing what she was probably about to say, he held his hand up to stop her. “Let’s not talk about that, yeah?”

Having his mind occupied with the case was the distraction that he needed. However, Spencer couldn’t help himself from checking his phone every now and then, in case you texted him. You didn’t. He could feel Garcia’s stare every time he checked his phone, but he didn’t really pay attention to it.

He appreciated her for granting his wish to not talk about his personal life, and they were strictly discussing anything work related. Although, he knew she was dying to say something; asking him how you were, had he apologized, or something.

Ever since Spencer introduced you to the team, they instantly adored you. Of course they were. How could they not? You were kind, funny, smart, and beautiful. They told him that the two of you were a perfect match, but also joked that you were too good for him. That wasn’t wrong, because for him, you were perfect. To this day, he couldn’t believe the fact that you two were dating. 

If the rest of the team easily welcomed you, then Garcia practically adopted you as her sister. He had lost count how many times you had lunch with her when the team was away. You once joked that you were actually in a relationship with her, and not him. He didn’t really mind, in fact, he was glad knowing you could share such a bond with one of the people he considered family.

Frankly, he wasn’t even surprised that Garcia told you the significance of yesterday for him. Spencer might know her longer, but you were her chosen sister. He also understood that she had no ill intention when she informed you. She simply helped someone she cared about.

As he packed his stuff, ready to go home, his phone buzzed. He immediately checked it. A text from you.

You [05:47 PM]: You can come to my place now if you want.

He hurriedly packed the rest of his stuff, not caring if the folders were folded in his messenger bag. In all the years he had worked in the BAU, he didn’t think he ever ran to the elevator that fast.

When he arrived at your apartment, he tentatively knocked on the door. This time though, it didn’t take long for you to open the door. As if you were waiting for him to be there.

You already changed your work outfit to your favorite pajama set, makeup had been washed, and you put your hair on a messy bun. Despite all of that, you still looked beautiful to him.

“Hey.” Spencer greeted you with hesitation.

You didn’t respond, simply step aside and let him in.

The two of you sat on the couch, but you kept him in an arm’s distance. He disliked how you even needed a space from him, as if being in any close proximity with him would hurt you.

You still hadn’t said a single word since he stepped into your place. The tension that filled the silence started feeling unbearable, so he began talking.

“I’d like to apologize to you first. For the way I behaved lately, but especially yesterday. I didn’t mean to hurt you, at least not intentionally. I’m so sorry.” You just shrugged it off, and he took it as permission to continue. “It’s like a habit at this point, something I do every year. It wasn’t my intention to ignore you. It’s just… I always have my phone off.”

“Because you don’t want anybody to disturb your time with Maeve.”

It felt like you mocked him, and perhaps he should be ashamed that he pitied himself for how you reacted.

“No, that’s—”

“Then what, Spencer? You forgot that I existed for the entire day.”

“I didn’t mean to.” It sounded like a pathetic excuse even to his own ears.

“I’m here, still breathing, and pretty much alive, while she’s 6 feet under! Yet, she’s still at the top of your priorities.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is it? You willingly take a day off to spend it with someone who’s dead, while I constantly got rescheduled dates. No, shit, Spence, that sounds like she’s more important to you.”

To some extent, it was perhaps true that there were other things at the top of his priorities, his job for example. However, he never put Maeve above you. No, never mind, she wasn’t even on the list of his priorities to begin with. He never thought he made you feel like that.

For someone who once saved both his and Hotch’s lives by talking, right now the gears in his brain stopped working, and he couldn’t form a proper response for you. Besides, he felt like no matter what he said to you at this moment, you wouldn’t believe him. He couldn’t even blame you for that. After all, it was him who put you both in this situation.

Big fat tears freely fell from your eyes. He ached to reach for you and hold you close.

“I feel like I’m living under her shadow. Do I have to compete with her for a place in your heart my entire life?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“What? No! I love you. I’m so sorry for making you feel that way, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making up to you.”

Spencer tentatively moved closer to you, and when you didn’t react, he tried reaching for your hand. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when you didn’t take your hand away from his.

“Sweetheart. I’m really sorry for what I did. Please give me a chance to make this right.”

“I don’t know, Spence.”

He panicked. “You… Do you no longer love me?” The question left his mouth before he even realized.

“I still love you, but I don’t know if I can forgive you yet.”

He’d gladly take that answer. At least he knew that he still had the chance to right his wrong. He could plan what to do in order for you to forgive him. He would grovel if he had to. He didn’t really care, as long as he could obtain your forgiveness.

“What can I do to make this right?”

“Give both of us time and space to thoroughly think about what we want.”

“No, but… I don’t need those to know what I want.”

“I do, Spence.”

That night, Spencer reluctantly left your apartment, but not before promising you one more time that he’d do whatever it took to right his wrong.

---

It’s been two weeks since Spencer came to your apartment. True to his words, he continuously made amends while still respecting your wish for time and space. You didn’t contact him as often as you usually did, but he would still tell you about his whereabouts throughout the day. You knew from Penelope that he would ask about you through her, because of course he knew you would talk to her. You apologized to her that he kept bothering her, but she only shrugged it off like it wasn’t a big deal for her.

While he was away for a case, every other day, he sent bouquets of flowers to your apartment. He had sent 3 bouquets so far. Knowing Spencer, each of the flowers must’ve been chosen with intention, and not random at all. Therefore, you looked up the meanings for each flower.

The first bouquet he sent was a mix of Lily of the Valley; the classic apology flower, Red Tulip; for one’s true love, and one that represented your birth month. The second one was a mix of Statice; for remembrance, Dahlia; the symbol of commitment, and one that represented the month you both started dating. The last bouquet you received yesterday was a mix of roses in different shades. Red Rose; the ultimate symbol of eternal love, Peach Rose; for gratitude, White Rose; represented a new beginning, and Yellow Rose; for lasting happiness.

As you were about to make yourself dinner, you heard your phone buzzing. A text from him.

Spencer [06:29 PM]: The case is closed. We’re going home tonight.

You reread his text a few times, then glanced at the flowers he gave you — now neatly put in a vase and placed in your kitchen counter. Maybe it was time to have another talk with him?

You [06:34 PM]: Can I come to your place tomorrow?

The response came immediately, like he was waiting for you to reply.

Spencer [06:35 PM]: Of course. Just let me know when you’re on your way.

Truthfully, you weren’t even sure what you wanted to talk about, but one thing you knew for sure was how you missed Spencer. You just hoped you made the right decision.

The next day, after informing your boyfriend, you went to his apartment around noon. Aside from your rapid heartbeat, the commute to his place was uneventful. The last time you felt this nervous at the prospect of meeting Spencer was probably on your first date with him, which was funny considering the current situation you both were in.

It only took two knocks before he opened his apartment door. The corner of your mouth drew downwards at the sight of him. Penelope had told you that Spencer looked like a mess ever since he left your apartment two weeks ago, but you didn’t know he looked this awful. His hair was in disarray, as if he’s been running his fingers through his curls in the last hours. The dark circles under his eyes were more noticeable, perhaps he had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t like yours were any better, but at least you managed to conceal them with your makeup.

“Hey.”

“Hey, please come in.” He stepped aside to let you in.

You immediately went to the living room, and tried to make yourself comfortable. From the couch, you could see Spencer in the kitchen, probably making tea for both of you. Your guess was correct when he walked to the living room with two cups in his hands. A tiny smile adorned your face when you noticed one of the cups — doodles all over it. You insisted on buying it when you two went to the local market close to his apartment a few months ago. You wanted to have something that was yours in his place. He always made your drink of choice in that cup. Spencer put the cups on the coffee table, then sat on the other corner of the couch.

You could tell that he was nervous. Probably more nervous than you were. He was most likely afraid he’d say something wrong that’d jeopardize the relationship further. You put an end to the silence by striking up a conversation — something easy.

“Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I also did my own research on the language of the flowers.”

“You did?” 

You noticed the way his eyes lit up from your confession. “Of course. I didn’t even know there’s a flower that represents my birth month.”

You missed this, having a laid-back conversation with him. However, you knew the heavy conversation was also inevitable, so you told him that he could start his explanation if he wanted to.

He told you everything, from the beginning down to every tiny detail, like the book “The Narrative of John Smith” and the bouquets of flowers. He even mentioned how Beth, the florist, had remembered him and his order after the second year. 

The knots in your stomach felt more and more undeniable as his story went on. It hurt knowing how the guilt still consumed him, and the fact that to some extent Spencer still cared about Maeve.

By the time he was done with his explanation, his eyes were looking anywhere but you, and his hands were fidgeting the hems of his cardigan. The guilt you saw in his eyes wasn’t the reflection of how he felt towards her. It was the regret for causing you pain.

“Spence. Honestly, I’m still hurting, and I don’t know if I can fully forgive you just yet.” You saw the moment the light in his eyes dimmed even more, and maybe your heart cracked a little. “But I’m willing to try again. You have to be patient with me though.”

He looked directly into your eyes, probably searching for any hint of doubt in them. “Anything. I’ll do anything to gain your forgiveness.” He slowly moved closer to you on the couch, but still maintained some distance, afraid he might startle you. “I love you. I’ll do everything in my power to correct my wrongdoings. I promise.”

You offered him your hand, which he immediately took. You smiled at him as he squeezed your hand. For the first time in a while, you knew it’d be alright. It might take some time, but you knew that the two of you would survive this one.

[erwinsvow]

you know how charlie reid finds you? it's because he's come to the conclusion that he hates brats. unfortunately for him, the age range he dates is usually filled with them. the girl he’s seeing—because dating is not accurate to describe whatever that was and fucking isn't descriptive enough since she was spending his money pretty freely—before he meets you fits into that category pretty well. he thinks he’ll give it a try because he doesn’t care about money or commitment or anything else in that realm. what he does care about, he learns, is making sure she listens. he needs a girl who listens to him, who doesn't make him repeat himself. a girl smart enough to pay attention but not enough to question him. that's just what he wants and he's patient enough to wait to find it. in fact, he makes a goal out of it.

when he stumbles onto you, he realizes he may have hit the jackpot. he's going to some event inside one of the rooms of the big public library and he holds the door open for you. and jesus, is chivalry really this dead? the way you beam at him like he's just saved your kitten from a tree or carried you out of a burning building, thank him twice and smile sweetly and politely. he thinks after all these years in the city he's pretty good at figuring people out from first impressions and what he knows for certain is that he wants to know more about you. people aren't just nice like that for no reason. when he follows you inside, you end up heading behind a counter because you work there. it's almost five, and he concludes this must be your part-time job. perfect, he thinks to himself, staring at you smiling at your coworkers and listening patiently to whatever they must be telling you because you're too sweet to not pay attention. part-time is perfect because convincing you to leave your job would be a lot harder if it was full-time and something you had already incorporated into your routine. you walk away with a cart of books to put away when he flags you down, this time to ask for your help finding the room he's supposed to be in.

charlie is not stupid—he could have easily found it himself. in fact, it would have taken much less time and energy to just find the room himself. but he wants to hear what your voice sounds like and see how sweet you are about helping him, particularly your reaction when he thanks you for your help and makes eye contact that he thinks will fluster you. you lead him to the room right away, abandoning your cart of books immediately and just like he thought, when he tells you thank you, sweetheart, your eyes get big and you look away and stutter out something like oh it's no problem. the correct answer, charlie thinks while watching you walk away and turn back once, only to see him still staring at you, is you're welcome. he'll have to teach you that. he'll get to it in due time.

there's no other reason for him to be at that library besides to see you—and yes, technically it might be a violation of your privacy to have someone in his office find the library's worker schedule, but that's besides the point—though he still 'runs' into you and has you track down a book for him. really it's just the first book that came to mind, but you had recognized him immediately and smiled brightly and it's almost as if you forgot to be nervous for a second there, leading him to the correct row and shelf. coincidentally, you start talking about how much you loved this book and that you can't recommend it enough. he doesn't even think he has a library card. from there on it's easy work to read the damn thing and come back to return it and then tell you he'd like to take you out to dinner so you two can have a proper discussion about it.

and you, poor thing, it's like the first time you've ever been treated right. you seem surprised when he knocks on your door, and you're scrambling to put your shoes on as if he expected you downstairs by now. your eyes are wide like coins when he hands you the flowers, expression shifting into something that makes an uneasy feeling spread throughout his chest. something he doesn't like—how reactive you are to things that charlie considers the bare minimum. he notices it for the rest of the night—when he opens the door to his car for you, when he pulls out your chair at the restaurant, when he asks you what you want to drink before the waiter gets there and then tells him your order for you. he notices it all night long—the fluster while you answer another question he's asked, the continual, repeated thank you to him, to the server, to the waiter, and how you look at him when the waiter hands him the check instead of putting it on the table. he stares back at you—because surely, chivalry can't be this dead, that you expect him to split the bill with you? it's then and there that charlie decides he'll have to teach you what a real relationship with a real man is supposed to be like, because you must not know.

it's just by chance that you also happen to be great at listening—the one thing he was looking for. he kisses you goodnight by your door after the first date, and on the second one, you bring up all the things he had mentioned on the first. you ask him about two different cases at work, another book by that same author he had said he wanted to read (not really, but if it's for you, he supposes he'll read it), and the fact that he said he liked this restaurant. the place he brings you is slightly closer to his side of town, and you thank him profusely for picking you up even though it's out of the way. charlie's a little confused—it's barely out of the way, and of course he's going to pick you up. but that's besides the point, the point being that he had a secondary reason for picking this restaurant. he wants to show you more of the area where he lives, get you more comfortable with it, since it'll be your area soon enough. at the end of the night, he kisses you outside your door again and he tells you that he'll call you tomorrow, and he does, another thing which confuses him about people your age.

on the third date, he gets an invitation inside. breathless from the usual kiss, you quietly ask him do you want coffee or something? when he accepts, you seem to regain your senses and realize it's almost ten-thirty and fluster while telling him you don't have any decaf. you offer to make him hot chocolate and he laughs, settling onto your couch while you come sit beside him, thinking of how you won't have this problem soon. he always has decaf and regular at his place, and though your apartment is charming, it's certainly not big enough for you both. he has a house and there's extra rooms, and that's exactly the sort of place you need. he even gets distracted looking around at your belongings—knick knacks and an overflowing bookshelf and all the other things he can imagine fitting in nicely with his own things. but you put your hand on his arm to get his attention and he forgets about all of it temporarily.

he doesn't actually sleep with you until two dates after—which is right around the time he starts spoiling you. he shows up with a pretty necklace for you and you try and fail to explain why you can't accept it, but when he says the magic words—let me take care of you—you give in easily. and right around that fifth date is when you've become a little bit needy, the result of one too many prolonged good night kisses and staying horizontal on your couch until he's hard and you're soaked. when he takes you back to his home, he gets hard just thinking about how perfectly you'd fit in here. he makes you cum once just against the door as soon as he gets you inside, and then twice on his bed. in the morning, you wear his button-up while he makes you both breakfast and it's a little too easy to imagine you there every morning.

but charlie doesn't just imagine things and leave it at that—he makes them happen. after the first night, it's all too easy to convince you to sleep over and start leaving things. you work short, periodic shifts, but his place is closer to the library anyways, so you really can't complain. besides that, you have a noisy neighbor and there's construction down the street and charlie's place is peaceful and quiet. perfect for sipping coffee and reading whatever book you've taken out from the library. he tells you he doesn't like all the rooms in the house and if you have any ideas to change it, he'd listen to you, and you do the thing you always do where you flush and pretend that he's just saying that to be nice, when really, he's not. it's going to be your house anyways, relatively soon at that, so you may as well decorate however you please. that's the sort of thing charlie knows to leave for his wife.

it's easy after that—you barely make enough to cover rent each month and when you get a letter from the landlord that rent is going up starting next month, well, it only make sense to move in with charlie. things have been going great for months and there's no use in wasting money. so the playing house gets much more intense after that—charlie has a strict routine and you blend in perfectly with it, though he could have guessed that. it's all the things he didn't expect, the things he's not used to, that take him by surprise. how when his alarm goes off—six fifteen sharp—and he goes to shower, you get up too. you make him coffee and breakfast like it's second nature to you, yawning and stretching in whatever one of his shirts you had slept in the previous night. how easy it is for you to remind him of commitments—a meeting or someone dropping by at his lunch or a friend's birthday.

it turns into a routine, one that he likes very much, and when he surprises you with a ring at the same restaurant he took you for that first date, it's ultimately so easy to say yes. to get compliments at the library on the gigantic rock on your finger—for people to wonder why you still work if your fiancé can afford something like that. and then it's way, way too easy for charlie to convince you that wedding planning and redecorating and thinking about what to do with those empty rooms in the house are going to take up more time than you have. to bid your job at the library goodbye, to focus on your future life as a housewife. one night charlie comes home to you debating between two wallpapers and you let it slip—well, i think this one would be nicer for the baby's room—and after that, it's like you've created a demon. and then charlie reid has a new goal, because he's always been like that, always been focused on a goal—meeting you, getting you on that first date, moving you into his home, making you his wife. the latest goal is to see how quickly he can get you pregnant.

[fiamat12]

Re: They *Really* Lost the Plot!

... but did they mean to?

There have been lots of questions swirling around today - everything from do Nic & Luke really hate us to don't you think there *has* to be more going on than legal obligations? Then @frantastical posed a question that gets right to the root of it as only an OG can:

I'll answer the 1st two questions, then get to Fran's argument. 1- No, Lukola loves their fans and if you think they'd purposely try to alienate or manipulate them while simultaneously trashing their own images, I don't what to tell you. 2- No. As protracted as the legal obligations have become, the alternative was worse. Now, onto Fran's theory...

Shippers are struggling w/ the contradictions that we're trying to reconcile. A smattering of comments taken from the threads today:

• "I am really torn as to whether this is an obligation. I think this post is an image nightmare, so would they actually agree to it?"

• "It seems coordinated w/ Lauren and the Dad follows. It also then continues the Roumeloti business promotion checklist; promote Dads restaurant ✅, DJ business ✅ and now Antonia’s employer ✅ (who is probably family or friend of family)"

• "I’ve been vacillating between obligations and A going rogue to humiliate Luke and Nic all day. I can’t imagine today was about obligations and yet it’s the Lauren TT and his dad following A’s dad of it all. Was today part of the obligation fulfillment or did what was storied by Nic last night piss her off?"

• "They don’t even need Savage anymore if his team are involved in this... A man who has been widely criticised for his hot boy summer antics posing with these dancers 🥴😳🤦🏼‍♀️. Then we get a caption that must be mocking him because that man is not Bond material... even those who like him will say that."

(Fans did want L as Bond for a hot sec.: https://www.mylondon.news/news/celebs/bridgerton-james-bond-luke-newton-25619695)

Sunny, @jmuz09's AI Robot helped work through it ⬇️⬇️⬇️

1) A LEGAL LOOPHOLE

Fran's assertion fits more into it NOT being an obligation. I asked Sunny about this but added a legal loophole; he laid it out to where it could makes sense w/ what's been happening w/ A all along...

2) THE CHICKEN AND THE EGG

Here's another Sunny response which makes what happened BOTH, and could also be plausible.

I asked: What came first the chicken or the egg? Meaning did N give us those stories as a preemptive measure knowing that L's pic w/ the Cyprus dancers was about to surface? OR did A have her camp post it as a reaction to N's Lukola coded posts?

Lastly, ignore ignore ignore adjacent nonsense! Lukola has been trying to keep a plot on track that keeps getting derailed. We know the truth, and nothing you've seen should change that - except it can cause further (understandable) frustration.

As others have said - we got N w/ a stroller!!! That's far more interesting! 👀

And so are you. YOU are important to this ship but more importantly to your friends, family, colleagues, pets, and greater community. So take care of yourself and don't let this whiplash cause you unnecessary stress. Protect your peace and enjoy your weekend! ✌️🕊☮️

[xuchiya]

Could I request maybe some angsty comfort?? It could be about anything with any of the boys, but with a happy ending please?? :)

til' my heartaches end || jung wooyoung || one-shot

| genre: angst with comfort. | mentions: broken promises. slight suggestive. mentions of intimate night.

word count:

Inspiration: Til' my heartaches end - Ella Mae Saison

Dear Wooyoung, my love—

You’re married now.

I wanted to say that with pride, with a smile blooming on my lips and warmth in my heart. And in some strange, aching way—I do. I really am happy for you. This isn't coming from bitterness or resentment, nor from the hollow place where jealousy usually thrives. No, this is something else entirely. Because when I saw your eyes—God, those eyes—light up like stars the moment you looked at her, I understood.

You’ve found the love of your life.

And it isn’t me.

So here I am, writing to you not to win you back, not to question what happened, but to ask for something. Just one thing. Stay by her side. Always. Be her calm when the world becomes too loud. Be her warmth when the cold sneaks into her bones. Be her light, her tether, her silent promise that no matter what she feels—pain, rage, despair, or even numbness—your presence will be enough to remind her that she’s not alone.

Because once, you did that for me.

I can’t help but remember from seven months ago. We had just ended our nth date, and I was giddy from the way you held me like I was everything. That night, before you left, you kissed me so gently, so surely, and you told me you'd never leave. I believed you. And not long after, I remember calling you in tears, trembling from a nightmare that clung to me like shadows I couldn't shake off. You didn’t hesitate—you came. And you wrapped me up, not just in your arms, but in every word you whispered into my ear.

You’re safe. I’m here. I’ve got you.

You steadied the storm inside me with just your voice. With just you. 

That night, the storm outside mirrored what raged inside me, but you stayed. You didn't flinch. You held me until my body finally gave in to rest, and for the first time in a long while, I slept peacefully. Safe. Loved. Like I could finally breathe. Before my eyes fluttered closed, I heard you say it—I’ll be here forever.

I wanted to believe forever meant something. But morning always came. And mornings became the cruelest part of my days. Not because I hated waking up, no. But because you were always gone before the sun could even kiss the sky. No note. No goodbye. Just the cold side of the bed and my arms hugging the air where you used to be.

You left without a word. And somehow that silence hurt more than any goodbye could have. It’s hard to forget someone who shared their soul with you. You kissed me like I was your last chance, held me like I was the only thing keeping you together. You let me in—completely. You gave me your laughter, your pain, your vulnerable, broken pieces. You let me love them.

You let me love you.

I thought, maybe, just maybe, that meant you’d stay. That I was worth staying for. But I was wrong. And now, you’re miles away. Not just in distance, but in promises.

You made new ones. To her. 

Still, I love you. I guess I always will. you weren’t mine to keep—just mine for a while. Even though I knew it couldn’t last, even though something deep inside me told me this love was borrowed time, I loved you anyway. I loved you recklessly, selfishly, and fully.

When the church bells rang today, I froze. I knew this day was coming. I saw the signs. But nothing prepared me for the sound of it—those chimes echoing through my chest like a cruel countdown. You were saying “I do” to someone else, and I hadn’t even asked when you were going to tell me. Maybe because I was too afraid of the answer.

Too afraid that this—this love, this us, this maybe—wasn’t real after all.

You were my anchor in the storm, the breath that reached me when I was sinking. And now, all I have is the memory of you. So maybe tonight, I’ll see you in a dream. Maybe you’ll hold me again, just once. Maybe that’ll be enough to soften this ache. To remind me how it felt to be loved by you—even if only in the sanctuary of sleep. Maybe I’ll keep dreaming. Until the heartache stops. Until my love for you becomes nothing more than a soft ache, like a song that used to make me cry but now only makes me remember.

Yours, always in the silence

You sighed, fingers trembling slightly as you re-read the letter for what must’ve been the tenth time. The words blurred at the edges, but you didn’t need to see them—you already knew every line. They were etched into you now. A confession you were never brave enough to say aloud, sealed away in ink and paper.

With one final breath, you folded it carefully and slipped it into the envelope. No perfume. No initials. Just… quiet closure.

You crossed the marbled hall of the venue, heart pounding louder with every step. Dressed in muted colors—a soft cream blouse and a mid-length skirt—you looked like any other guest. You had chosen carefully. You didn’t want to stand out. You didn’t want eyes on you. You just wanted to blend in, deliver the letter, and disappear before the music swelled again.

A wedding planner in a navy headset was busy organizing the gift table, double-checking ribbons and labels. You approached her with a polite smile, offering the envelope.

“For Wooyoung,” you said softly.

She returned your smile with a nod, adding it to the growing pile of well-wishes and blessings. You turned your back on the bright lights, on the sparkling table arrangements and the distant sound of laughter. The melody of wedding bells and the soft strum of a love song bled faintly through the open doors behind you—each note like a thorn dragging across your chest. As you moved past the rows of guests in suits and pastel dresses, you kept your gaze low, praying no one would notice you. No one would recognize you.

“Zinnia?”

You froze.

That name. That cursed, beloved name. It rolled through the air like a whisper from the past. “Zinnia.” The nickname the boys had given you all those years ago when you correctly identified the rare flower growing in their yard—a bloom so bright and strange no one dared to pluck it. They had laughed, called you their little botanist, their Zinnia. The name stuck. It had become a part of you. A symbol of how loved you were. How seen.

And now it carved a hollow into your chest.

You didn’t turn around. You walked faster, breath hitching, vision blurring as tears welled in your eyes. You just needed to get out. To breathe. You reached the marble steps leading out of the venue when a hand suddenly caught your wrist. You gasped, spinning halfway around. Your breath faltered when you saw him.

Seonghwa.

His eyes searched your face with disbelief, as if unsure if you were real or just a phantom from memory. You pulled your wrist gently from his hold. “Bye, Seonghwa,” you whispered, voice breaking at the edges. You turned to go, chest heaving with the effort of holding yourself together.

“He still loves you!”

The words struck like thunder. Your jaw clenched as the storm inside you cracked open. Your ears rang from the sudden rush of emotion. Your hands balled into fists as you struggled to hold back the tears threatening to fall. You turned back slowly, eyes brimming, lips trembling.

“You expect me to stay after hearing that?” you asked, voice shaking. “You expect me to love him while standing in the ashes of everything he burned down and left me in?”

Seonghwa stepped closer, desperation in his expression. “Please… just stay. Hear him out.”

You scoffed bitterly, your heartbreak boiling over. “You—of all people—know what this did to me. You were there when I couldn’t eat. When I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. You held my hand through the silence he left behind.”

Tears fell freely now.

“To hell breaks loose that I would stand here and watch him marry someone else,” you hissed, voice tight. “I already buried this heartbreak. If he could walk away without a word… then so can I.”

“You don’t understand—” Seonghwa tried, stepping toward you again.

But you shook your head, stepping back, “No, you don’t understand. This—me leaving—isn’t weakness. It’s survival.” You turned then, one foot in front of the other like each step was tearing skin from bone, “I’m not here to ruin his day,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. And then you walked out of the venue.

You didn’t hear his name at first—only the sound of footsteps.

Fast. Desperate. And before you could even register what was happening, you were being stopped—arms gripped gently but firmly, held in place like the world had just paused for the two of you.

He was standing right in front of you. In a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair immaculately styled, lips tinted with just the right shade of nude to match the glow of his skin. You smelled him before you even fully processed the sight—his cologne. That warm, musky scent that once clung to your sheets. To your memories. And just like that, nostalgia hits you like a tidal wave.

You blinked the ache away, shaking yourself free from the dreamscape your heart wanted to fall back into. Your hands flew up to his wrists.

“Wooyoung, you can’t be here,” you hissed, trying to remove his grip from your arms. “You’re not supposed to—”

But he didn’t let go. Not tightly, but not loosely enough for you to slip away either.

“I’m not getting married,” he said.

The words stopped everything.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands paused against his. You shook your head, stunned, “But… I heard the bells. The invitations, the ceremony—you…” your voice cracked, eyes searching his face for sense, for explanation. “You left. You left without a word.”

He dropped his head with a breathy laugh, a mixture of regret and affection softening the curve of his mouth. And when he lifted his gaze again, you saw it—the same look he always gave you. That quiet worship. That chaotic warmth. That love.

“I was doing it out of obligation,” he said bitterly. “But screw obligation. Karma’s a bitch, and I deserved every sleepless night, every second of heartbreak.”

“Woo—” you began, your voice frail.

“I still love you,” he said, cutting through everything. “I always will.”

Your lips parted. The words caught on your tongue, but nothing came out. You just stood there, stunned, your breath shallow and your heart doing somersaults. He chuckled again, unable to help himself. That dazed, beautiful look on your face—he fell in love with that years ago. And right now, seeing it again?

He leaned forward and pressed a deep, soft kiss to your lips. His hands slid around your waist as he dipped you dramatically, stealing your breath as you let out a surprised squeal against his mouth. The kind of kiss that belonged in a movie. The kind you never forget.

When he stood you upright again, you smacked his arm—but there was no anger behind it. Only trembling emotion. Your fingers lingered against the fabric of his sleeve as you looked at him, blinking through tears.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why did you leave me like that, when you could’ve just told me?”

His shoulders sank, and for the first time in a long while, Wooyoung looked… small. Not the charming troublemaker. Not the man with the mask of confidence. Just someone who had made the worst mistake of his life, “I thought I was protecting you, I thought I was doing something right” he admitted. “It all felt like too much. Too fast. I didn’t know how to explain it. But I see it now. I should’ve let you in. That’s what love is, right? Not hiding. Not shutting you out.” 

He stepped closer, gently taking your hand in his. Then, he bent slightly to your eye level, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as he cupped your cheek. You leaned into his palm without hesitation. It was instinct—like your soul remembered the shape of him before your body did.

“There were times,” he whispered, “I imagined it was you walking down that aisle. Not someone else. I saw you in a wedding dress, laughing at how the veil kept falling over your eyes. I imagined those vows—every one of them meant for you.”

He drew even closer now, his nose brushing yours, “I tortured myself thinking I’d marry someone else and then come running back to you after. But I never made it down that aisle, because every step felt wrong. You were the only one who ever felt like home.”

Your lip trembled. “What obligation, Wooyoung?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, and for the first time that night—you laughed. A small, teary chuckle that cracked the shell around your heart. His eyes sparkled at the sound, “The usual business deal,” he muttered. “Some arranged marriage crap. Merging companies, saving reputations… blah blah blah.”

“And now?”

He smiled, bringing your joined hands up to press a kiss to your knuckles, “Now?” he whispered against your skin. “I’m done playing the part. I don’t care about business. About image. I only care that I almost lost the love of my life.”

Then, he pulled you close, resting his cheek against your head, “You’re my wife in all the ways that matter,” he murmured. “Always have been and always will be.” Your arms slid around his waist, your body sagging in relief against him as you closed your eyes. You were home. And the ache that had been tearing at your chest all day?

Finally it quieted.

Later that night…

The suit was long gone. His hair, freshly washed, no longer sculpted by gel, fell naturally across his forehead—soft and boyish. His skin was bare now, the makeup removed, revealing the gentle shadows of his features under the dim glow of your apartment’s fairy lights.

He lay beside you on the mattress, one arm beneath his head, the other stretched toward you as your fingers played lazily with his. Both of you stared up at the ceiling, where the old glow-in-the-dark stars from your childhood still clung in awkward clusters—some faded, some glowing strong. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was full. Peaceful.

His voice broke through the quiet like a whisper of wind:

"I saw your letter..."

Your fingers paused. The breath you were about to take caught somewhere in your throat. You had written that letter with every shard of a heart that thought it would never beat whole again—and then left it behind like a piece of yourself you didn’t want anymore.

You didn’t reply immediately. He turned on his side to face you, his cheek resting against the crook of his arm. The moonlight from your window outlined his profile, casting a quiet vulnerability across his features.

"I read it..." he added, voice softer now. "But I threw it away."

Your brows lifted, head turning slightly in surprise. “You what?” He smirked faintly, not in mockery—but in that familiar, Wooyoung kind of way. The one that always carried too many feelings for just one smile.

"I couldn’t let it exist," he said, simply. "Not in a world where we found our way back to each other." You swallowed, the ache in your throat blooming again—not painful, this time. Just real. Tender.

“What did you think of it?” you asked, almost afraid to know. He shrugged, but his gaze was steady. “Honestly?” he said, lips curling. “It was so poetic, I’m convinced Hongjoong could make a whole album out of it. But if he ever does,” he paused, leaning forward to bump his forehead gently against yours, “you better get full songwriting credit.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his arm. That kind of laugh you only allow yourself when you’re safe. When you’re home.

His smile softened as he watched you. And for Wooyoung, this was it.

Not the ceremony. Not the stage. Not the headlines.

You.

In your dimly lit apartment, tangled beside him on a mattress with glow stars above you and love rediscovered between you—this was where he belonged. Not chasing obligations. Not playing roles.

“This,” he whispered, brushing a thumb across your cheek as you closed your eyes, “this is home.”

And that night, with the world quiet beyond your walls and a love once lost now found again—he stayed. Wrapped in the scent of your hair, the rhythm of your breath, and the promise that he’d never run again.

[englishisaboutconfidence]

Morso d'amore : Part 2 of Ahyeon knows best

Dating Ahyeon was great for a number of reasons, one being you had a smoking hot girlfriend and second your girlfriend already knew you better than anyone else. The first few weeks of dating didn't cause you to have to change your life really at all. You still had the same classes with her and sat next to her during all of them. You two kept working on projects together for classes, so it was an easy excuse for your friends as to why you were with her and why you were leaving the dorm. She already knew how much of a nerd you were so she wasn't too mad (emphasis on too mad) when you would ghost her while gaming or when you would spend hours grinding solo queue. Although she did force you to be on FaceTime with her as often as possible if you were going to be gaming for a few hours. Plus, you know, the whole thing that you were having a very active sex life with one of the IT girls of your school, who also happened to be your childhood crush. So, to summarize your current situation, you had an amazing hot girlfriend, and your friends and family had no clue… or so you thought.

Your sister Pharita and told Ahyeon that she was going to spend the weekend with your parents, so naturally Ahyeon had let you know immediately, and you ran over to their dorm the second Pharita left for your parents. You barely had time to text Ahyeon you were there before she pulled you in and started making out with you. Stumbling onto her bed, you two were too busy fighting for oral dominance that neither of you noticed the door open and someone entered the room. Finally asserting our dominance, you went to remove Ahyeon's shirt when you heard a loud "Yaaaah". Spoked by this, Ahyeon released a loud shriek before hiding herself behind you. Turning around, you see your sister Pharita with her arms crossed and an annoyed look on her face.

"How long has this been going on? My best friend screwing my brother?"

Awkwardly rubbing the back of your head, you say "Uhhhh, like 3 weeks".

Unsatisfied with your answer, you feel Ahyeon gently elbow you in the stomach, "And its ummm dating. Yeah, we've been dating for 3 weeks."

Still waiting for the most important part, Ahyeon cleared her throat "And I love her and intend to marry her."

Finally satisfied, Ahyeon gives you a quick peck on the cheek.

"Really?" Pharita asked which you and Ahyeon responded with an affirmative nod.

"God, you two are terrible at hiding it then because I realized it the Sunday you two returned from "dog sitting" at our parents".

Surprised, you and Ahyeon questioned your sister "Huh! What do you mean you've known since then?"

"Please, you two were making googly eyes at each other while you Y/N dropped Ahyeon off at our dorm. Plus, you two forgot there was an eyehole in the door, so I saw your little goodbye kiss. Also, did you two dumbasses forget that I have both of your locations so I can see when you two disappear to Ahyeon's house to fuck, or our parents place, or a love hotel? And of course, the fact that you Y/N make any excuse to come over and you Ahyeon don't even try to hide how much you love lying all over him when we watch shows."

Annoyed that your little secret wasn't really a secret, you respond to your sister’s very logical statements with a very mature "yeah whatever."

Chuckling at your annoyance, Pharita continued "Ahyeon although I do wish you would have told me yourself that you finally got Y/N to confess."

"Sorry Rita, I was a little distracted since this dummy finally stopped ignoring his feelings and accepting that he's mine."

"It's okay Ahyeon, I'm just happy that we are going to finally be sisters in law sooner rather than later."

Confused by the entirety of the conversations, you interrupt the two dormmates and childhood friends "Wait, what are y'all talking about? Rita, you knew that Ahyeon liked me and that I somehow liked Ahyeon? And what do you mean sisters in law? We just started dating 3 weeks ago."

Amused by your confusion, Pharita just smiled and said "Oh please, both our families have known that you two were destined for each other for years. You forget, but you would not stop talking about and hanging around Ahyeon when y'all first met in the 1st grade. You think that Ahyeon's infatuation with yours started out of nowhere? Please, you would always gravitate towards her and eventually, I guess Ahyeon somehow started to like you despite how annoying you were. 'Ahyeon said this. Ahyeon did that. Ahyeon likes this instead'. Good lord you would not shut up about her. Although in middle school you stopped talking about her as much though it was clear that she still occupied your thoughts and feelings and started to try to suppress your feelings for her with annoyance; but that's when Ahyeon truly showed how much she cared for you. She started following you instead and talking to you and about you all the time, or maybe how central you were in her life was made more apparent when you tried to hide how much Ahyeon occupied your life."

Hearing the quick recount of your two’s history, Ahyeon just smiled and leaned forward into your back while capturing you in a back hug.

Still confused and even more so with how relaxed Ahyeon was, you turn to her "Why are you so relaxed? If you knew all of this, why didn't you tell me."

Still smiling at you, Ahyeon gave you a quick peck before saying "Because honey, you needed to come to that conclusion mostly on your own. Plus, I was never scared about losing you, even when you were 'pissed' at me, your adoration of me was easy to see through the pointed jabs and attempts at annoyance and indifference. I knew that you only had eyes for me and that my happiness and joy for life were essential to you, even when you didn't realize it. Do you remember when my grandma died?

You nodded.

"Well, it was a really shitty time especially the funeral, but honestly, it is one of my favorite days because it showed me what kind of person you are and how much I mean to you. Your family was of course coming to the funeral; but I remember Pharita telling me how much pressure you put on your family to show up not only on time (which is struggle especially for your dad); but an hour early to make sure that whatever my family and I needed, you could provide. Of course, you didn't yell at them like a drill sergeant; but you kept subtly reminding your mom and by extension your dad that my family would do the same and that it's probably really important and helpful to show up early and take care of us during such a tragic time. And then when you arrived at the funeral, I don't remember you ever leaving my sight. You didn't ever really come up and tell me you were there for me explicitly; but you kept hovering in case I needed something, I could tell that you had your eyes on me the entire time, and whenever I did ask for something, you pretty much sprinted and got it for me and made sure that you were the one taking care of me. And of course, you comforted me after the funeral when everyone had left, even our parents and Pharita and you just sat with me for hours. And when I went to leave, you softly grabbed my hand and tried to console me but instead started to ramble awkwardly which led me to smile for the only time that day."

"I don't remember your smiling; all I remember is my rambling and staring at our hands instead of you because I could barely look at you in the eyes because of how nervous I felt."

"Do you remember how I finally got you to shut up Y/N?"

Blushing, you nod your head.

"God you two are the worst. It's like watching a cheesy romcom; but I also love you two and wish you nothing but happiness; but can you let me know what the hell she has been since I wasn't there, and she never told me this story?" Pharita said exasperatedly.

Looking at her, you silently beg Ahyeon not to tell the whole story, but she just lovingly pats your check and continues on

"Okay Okay. Well, despite his truly terrible and inaudible rambling, I knew the gist of what Y/N was trying to say as well as where it came from, so I decided the best way to shut him up was to do something that would truly stun him, so I grabbed his face with my right hand and raised his face so our eyes met and kissed him right then and there, at the funeral home on the day of my grandmas funeral. Then while he was stunned and opening and closing his mouth like a fish, I told him the truth, that I loved him and wanted him to be my first and only for everything in my life. And this asshole just stared at me and right when I was about to turn and leave, heartbroken; he grabbed my hands and pulled me into a kiss and told me that he had no clue how or why, but that he knew that he loved me too and that something inside of him was telling him that I was the one for him. We then just stood there hugging for a while before he walked me home hand in hand. But of course, being Y/N, the next day he was back to his old self and kept acting like I was the bane of his existence when we both knew it was quite the opposite."

"Awwwww, that's so cute. Disgusting but cute. I didn't realize how in touch with your emotions you were Y/N." Your sister said.

"I'm not. I just can tell what my gut is telling me, and it told me that if I fucked that up then I would regret it for my entire life. So, I am not cute and that story doesn't need to be repeated".

"Okay sweetie" Ahyeon responded.

"I'm not!" You responded back like a child.

"Of course,"

"I'm telling you Ahyeon. That story is not sweet or cute and doesn't need to be mass spread."

Sighing softly, Ahyeon just said "Y/N honey, that story is going to be told at our wedding and probably plenty of times before that so you are just going to need to accept the fact that everyone is going to know you’re a big softie who is also absolutely whipped for your wife"

"Fine, but you were obsessed with me and that's how we got together so you're even more whipped, so ha."

"Of course," Ahyeon sweetly responded before shutting you up with a quick peck.

Smiling since she knew she had won, Ahyeon turned to your sister and asked, "So are you going to your guys' parents or was that just bait?"

"Oh, don't worry you two, I'm still going. Just needed to confirm my suspicions so now I can tell both families the great news. But don't worry, I'll make sure they don't do anything tonight or tomorrow; but be prepared for Sunday because they will summon you then."

"Wait, shouldn't we be the ones to tell them?" You quickly questioned your sister.

"It's fine Y/N. They deserve to know ASAP, plus let's be honest, if you had it your way, no one would know until after the wedding."

Knowing she was right and that this was probably the best way for the news to be revealed to the parents aka you would have a 2 days to prepare for the Spanish Inquisition as well as an overindulgent celebration of you getting your head out of your ass, you just nod and say "Fine, just make sure we get to eat steak on Sunday and no one bothers us till then"

Smirking, Pharita responded "Of course dear brother… although I will tell them that you are busy making them grandchildren" before running out the door laughing.

"Wait, Rita. Don't say that!" you yelled at her retreating figure before laying on Ahyeon's bed sighing and saying "God they are going to be so annoying on Sunday. At least we have 36hrs before then. So, what do you want to do Ahyeon?"

Turning to look at her, you are met with an annoyed and dumbfounded look. Once again confused, you say "What?"

"Your sister who we thought was going to be gone all weekend is finally gone. She is telling your parents we are making babies. You came over specifically because she was going to be gone and we haven't fucked in 2 days, so what do you think I want to do?"

Realizing that you were in a very advantageous position and that to fuck it up would be an absolutely moronic thing to do, you make the very tough choice of giving your girlfriend what she wants as well as making sure you do what you came over to do.

You quickly recapture the moment your sister so rudely interrupted and pin your girlfriend to the bed with your hands while you capture her lips with yours. Moaning into your kiss, Ahyeon frees her wrists from your control and guides you to take off your shirt while making sure not to separate her lips from yours. Knowing what she wants next, you flip the two of you over and quickly remove her shirt. Taking a moment to catch your breaths, you are happily surprised to see that Ahyeon had decided to forego a bra that night and your eyes were met with her perfect, perky tits adorned with the most beautiful areolas. Knowing your next move, Ahyeon quickly shoves you back onto the bed before you can capture her tits in your mouth and wiggles out of her pants before quickly discarding yours along with your underwear (she of course doesn't have to deal with panties of her own since she had also decided to go commando for tonight).

Giving you a quick little smirk, she grabbed your cock and quickly started stroking it to get it nice and prepped for her. After needing a couple of seconds to recover from the pleasure that she was giving you, you grab her by the waist and pull her close to you before capturing her right tits with your mouth and giving her left one equal attention with your hand before starting to switch between the two like a man eating for the first time in weeks. Feeling how hard you were and knowing how easy it was for you to become distracted from the objective when her tits were present, Ahyeon tears you off her chest before straddling you and sinking down until you were fully sheathed in her. Not letting you recover, she quickly started to ride you but not before once again capturing your lips with hers. After a few minutes of her strong riding, you feel your orgasm coming. Sensing this too, Ahyeon quickly locked her legs around you and made sure you were buried as deep as possible in her. Burying yourself as deep as possible, you let your orgasm take hold and you release spurt after spurt of cum into Ahyeon's waiting womb. The feeling of you filling led to Ahyeon finally reaching her peak. Once the last remnants of your shared orgasm subside, Ahyeon finally allows herself to let go and she falls onto your chest. Pulling up the covers which you two had cast to the side during your lovemaking, you make sure that Ahyeon is properly covered before sighing and saying "Fuck, I love you Ahyeon". Smiling softly, Ahyeon raised herself up to give you a soft kiss on your lips saying, "I love you too". Content, satiated, and utterly spent, the two of you finally fall asleep in a loving embrace with your legs intertwined and bodies connected in a way that showed true intimacy.

[yzzart]

⋆˚࿔ JINU + HUNTR/X!READER. ── HEADCANONS!

── content warnings: F!reader, mention of twitter, compilation of enimies to lovers, light content.

── word count: 674!

⭑.ᐟ He was just a pretty face. — perhaps, apollonian, charming, delicate. — Only. — There was no way you could start admiring that man, besides, he wasn't everything they keep saying, gossiping about; you weren't a teenager.

⤷ But, damn, in a few moments, you were judging and scolding Zoey, alongside Rumi, for admiring the new, damn, demonic boy band; and right now, you're reveling in the group's leader. — No, you weren't proud of that, not even a little bit.

⭑.ᐟ Jinu was looking for your contact; regardless of whether he could be rejected, snubbed, offended or completely threatened. — Funny, he liked the rude and confusing way you greeted him politely next to the girls. — The boy, demonic and enigmatic, dedicated himself to tormenting you.

⤷ Daring winks, mentioning your name in an interview, flirtatious greetings, or compliments on some song you wrote? — Oh, that man was a stupid curse; you wished you had the chance to kill him. — Mira was begging you to put this plan into action.

⤷ It was ridiculous; Jinu was ridiculous. — The feeling of vulnerability could never taste your chest, however, you knew that his actions made you curious, almost disturbed; it was not out of fear, anguish or lack of security, it would never be that. — After all, you had always been taught to bury those feelings in the tombs of demons.

⭑.ᐟ OH, THE GOSSIP? — Zoey, as always, updated on everything that was being said about HUNTR/X on all social networks; seriously, she was starting to outgrow Bobby. — So, every night, especially during breaks and rests, you all got together to read all the news, tweets.

⤷ And of course, your fans and SAJA BOYS were commenting, almost obsessively, about the amount of interactions that happened between you and Jinu; right, there were many, many tweets. — Photos and some videos of him looking at you, with those soft, venerable eyes, while answering a question from the interviewer or how you were together when it was time for the photo shoot for a magazine; there were many situations.

⤷ On the one hand, you were curious to read all those tweets, posts just out of curiosity about the fans' creativity, just for that. — Ah, a demon with a huntress, what a joke in terrible and horrible taste.

“OH, look at this one!” — Zoey exclaimed, with great enthusiasm, almost spilling her soda on the couch, earning a sigh from Rumi. — “I wish i had thought of that one before.” — She laughed as she tried to show and tell what the tweet would be; Mira and you looked at each other, not trying to contain your laughter.

“Say it!” — Participating in the excitement, you said to the youngest.

“Okay, okay…” — As she turned the tablet, Zoey showed two photos where you and Jinu were greeting each other; in the first photo, you had bowed and in the second, you stared at each other for a few seconds. — Do you remember this moment? — “Listen, “They look like a couple of divorced parents who still see each other every day because of their child and who are going to fall in love again.”” — She repeated what was written in the post.

“Oh, no…” — Your hand found the small, white pillow, then slapped it against your face, hiding your red, embarrassed cheeks.

⭑.ᐟ He intrigued you; he disturbed you. — There were times when you felt persecuted, but you allowed yourself to be; acting as if you were cat and mouse, or rather, two individuals who were hard to antagonize in any environment. — You swear you couldn't say whether or not you liked maintaining this feeling, a dangerous, forbidden feeling with a creature you knew was cruel.

⤷ Jinu could contemplate, worship your presence; sometimes, you didn't even need to know or fear that he was near. — It was always a mystery. — Likewise, how he enjoyed feeling all your anger, confusion and, perhaps, fascination in singing a part of the song that might — or might not — be for him.

“How can you sleep or live with yourself? a broken soul trapped in a nastiest shell.”

[wildestdreamsblog]

Elysian: a Latibule Spinoff

Pairing: Doctor/Mafia!Kim Seokjin x Intern!Reader 

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: Heavy chapter ahead? Also, comments and reblogs are my fuel so please let me know if you still want to read the story ahehe

Masterlist, Part X of __

“She’s not here.”

Seokjin’s brows pinched together, his usual demeanor of lightness gone as though it had never been there in the first place. He tilted his head, looking intensely at the head of your department as though if he didn’t say that you were here right now, there would be consequences to pay.

“Do you care to repeat that?” he asked in a conversationalist tone of his. One would assume that he was asking for a weather and that the question held no weight had the dark glint in his eyes not been anything but casual.

Your department head—an older man, composed and experienced—visibly stiffened. His throat bobbed in a swallow as he forced a polite smile. “I-I meant she’s not currently on-site. She called in sick this morning. Said she needed the day off,” he clarified quickly, hands clasped in front of him to mask the way his fingers twitched. “I’m sure she’ll be back shortly. Is there something I can help you with, Dr. Kim?”

Seokjin didn’t respond right away. Instead, he simply stared at the man. Just stared, as if weighing something, calculating in a way that made the temperature in the office drop several degrees.

Then he smiled.

But it wasn’t the kind of smile that warmed a room. It was the kind that made your stomach twist and your instincts scream.

“No,” Seokjin said, finally. “You can’t.”

He turned on his heel, coat swaying gently behind him, his phone already in hand as he walked away. His fingers moved with clinical precision, a message being typed, a call perhaps queued. Whatever it was, it wasn’t casual. And it certainly wasn’t good.

His jaw ticked as he stepped into the elevator, the polished doors reflecting the tight line of his mouth, the flicker of restrained emotion in his eyes. Anger? Worry? Hurt? Even he didn’t know. Not yet.

Had he spooked you with his confession last night?

Had his feelings stopped being reciprocated?

Had…he moved too slow that you lost interest?

Maybe he had moved too slow. Too cautious. Too afraid of crossing a line that you had already quietly erased behind him.

His last few messages sat there, unread. Delivered, but never seen.

His calls—rung out, ignored. Not declined, not blocked. Just unanswered.

He hated this feeling. He hated now knowing where you were. He hated not having you in front of him where he could see you. He hated not having access to you like you’d slipped through his fingers and he wasn’t even sure when.. He let out a laugh. Dry. Cold. Emotionless.

He laughed at the realization that he had quite turned into his father.

That obsessive son of a bitch.

He used to swear he was nothing like him. That he would never become the man who treated people like possessions, who clawed and controlled and manipulated because that was the only way he knew how to love. The man who loved violently. Selfishly. With chains instead of touch.

But here Seokjin was—phone in hand, jaw clenched, heart pounding because he couldn’t find you.

No.

He shut his eyes, drew in a breath that didn’t reach his lungs.

He was still there. He would not lose himself. He wasn’t like his father and you weren’t his mother.

You were you.

You were kind and brilliant and warm and—

Sick.

That was all this was.

You were just sick, right? You were just too sick to answer his calls. Of course. It was just that. Nothing had happened. No one had touched you. No one had hurt you. No one had taken you from him. You had not taken yourself away from him.

He opened his eyes and stared at your name on the screen again, his thumb hovering just above the last message he’d sent.

Call me when you wake up. I’ll come to you.

--

You woke up to the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

As soon as you opened your eyes, a splitting headache pulsed just behind your eyes. It felt like your skull was caught in a vice grip. A groan tore from your throat, raw and small, as your fingers twitched against the stiff sheets beneath them.

A nurse appeared almost instantly, rushing to your side. “Oh good, you’re awake, dear,” she adjusted your dextrose with practiced precision

You blinked slowly, trying to sit up—immediately regretting it as the room tilted sideways.

“W-What happened?” you rasped.

The nurse offered a kind smile, placing a hand on your shoulder to keep you from straining. “You passed out in the ER after getting your arm checked. You were burning up with fever when you went here. Do you remember anything?”

Memory came crashing down at you. What transpired last night…Seokjin, his confession… His warmth when he said good night. And then the gang your father loved to borrow money from, the ones who came collecting month after month, each visit worse than the last despite trying to pay them on time.

The bruising grip on your arm. The threat, the sneer. The way your knees buckled afterward. The panic. The cold sweat. And finally, stumbling into the ER—alone—trying to breathe through it.

“You’re safe here, dear. The doctor will see you in a while. Try to rest, okay?”

But rest did not come. You laid awake that night. One moment you were happy, in the verge of falling for someone as perfect as Kim Seokjin until your old life reminded you that you were trash compared to him. For a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to envision your life alongside his. Now the world had pulled you back down by the ankles. Reminded you who you were. Where you came from. What you could never outrun.

Some parents did everything for their child. Some parents would move heaven and earth to provide for their child. Some parents would shield their child from the harshness of the world.

Funny enough, yours didn’t.

Your mother died trying. She was tired, worn thin, but she tried. She held the house together with trembling hands and sleepless nights. When your mother died, you father even got worse. He would drown his sorrow with alcohol. When that was no longer enough, he turned to drugs.

And when even the high couldn’t numb whatever haunted him, he found the one thing more destructive than both: Gambling.

You shut your eyes, the ceiling a blur through the sting.

He gambled away the funeral money. The rent. Your college savings. The electricity. The food. Your safety.

Until men with sharp smiles and cruel laughter started showing up at your door asking to speak with “Daddy.”

Until they started speaking to you instead.

The same men who found you again last night. The same ones who would go to you instead of your father now.

The same ones who reminded you that no matter how far you got, you were still just collateral in someone else’s debt.

You chuckled at your misery. How could you even dare to like someone as perfect as Seokjin?

You wrapped your arms around yourself, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes—just in time to hear the door open.

A figure stepped in, clipboard in hand.

“Ms. Y/N?”

You straightened as best as you could in the hospital bed, brushing a stray hair behind your ear, forcing a small smile.

“Good evening, Doc.”

The doctor nodded, his expression professional but kind. He glanced down at your chart before returning his eyes to you.

“You came into the ER last night complaining of pain in your arm. You told the triage nurse you fell on it?”

You nodded stiffly. “Yes.”

“Well,” he continued, “good news is that it’s not broken. But it is sprained, and the inflammation around your wrist is significant. I’ll prescribe a mild painkiller and an anti-inflammatory. We’ll also have it wrapped to stabilize the joint.”

You gave him a tight, polite smile, trying to ignore the throbbing ache in your wrist that seemed to pulse in time with your headache. “Thank you, Doctor.”

He paused, then looked up again—this time his gaze lingered a bit longer.

“There were some… bruises noted along your arm,” he said gently. “Not consistent with a simple fall.”

You froze. Just for a second. Just enough for your stomach to twist.

“I—I must’ve hit something on the way down,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

The doctor gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, but his eyes didn’t quite believe you.

Still, he didn’t press. “Alright. I’ll send the nurse in shortly to wrap your wrist. You should be able to go home in a few hours. But I recommend rest. And next time, don’t go to a hospital two hours away from your residence.”

You didn’t respond. Just offered a polite nod and turned your face to the window.

You were discharged the next day.

You had no one to take you home. Suffice to say, you had only yourself.

 After buying the medicine from the pharmacy, you went home. The two-hour ride was too much for you; your thoughts were loud, your heart numb. Two hours of nausea and thoughts you couldn’t outrun. Two hours of silence and strangers, of shivering beneath your coat, of your injured arm throbbing every time the bus jolted.

Where could you even go that they wouldn’t follow?

Despite cutting your father off and moving so far away from him, they still found you. Was there no escape in this life?

When the bus finally hissed to a stop, you stood slowly, legs unsteady. Your coat hung limp around you, concealing the fresh bandage on your wrist. You wrapped your uninjured arm protectively around it, holding it close.

You walked with your eyes to the ground. Step by step. Heavy and dull. The weight in your chest deeper than fatigue.

You didn’t see him at first.

Not until he said your name. Not until his voice—low, rough, restrained—cut through the fog in your head like lightning.

“Sunshine…”

You froze.

Your breath caught.

Slowly, disbelievingly, you looked up.

And there he was.

Seokjin.

Standing at the edge of the sidewalk like he'd been waiting for hours. His coat open, eyes stormy and tired and wildly relieved.

He took one step toward you, his jaw tight, his hands balled into fists at his sides like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you yet.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked, voice low, shaking—but not from anger.

From fear.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant—guarded, brittle.

“What do you mean what am I doing here? You were gone for two days. No calls. No messages. Nothing. Am I not allowed to worry?”

You didn’t meet his eyes because if you did, you’d break. How do you look at someone you want with your entire being and tell him that you didn’t want him? How do you look at someone so perfect and tell him that he shouldn’t want someone as tainted as you?

“You’re not allowed to worry,” you said, voice tight. “Why would you?”

His expression cracked, confusion and pain flickering across his face.

“Sunsh—”

“And don’t come here anymore,” you cut in sharply, stepping back toward your apartment door. Your fingers shook as you reached for your keys, but you forced them still.

“Wait—” he called out, moving instinctively.

His hand shot out to stop you, to hold onto you—but he grabbed your injured arm.

A sharp jolt of pain lanced through you, white-hot and sudden.

You gasped, the sound leaving your mouth like a sob you tried too hard to swallow, and a whine slipped free before you could stop it.

Seokjin froze. His eyes dropped to your wrist—the one hidden beneath your coat. The one he now felt was wrapped.

You pushed him away as hard as you could, but he held on as gently as he could.

His brows pinched, jaw tight, gaze flickering between your eyes and your arm.

And then, with a touch too careful, too fast for you to stop, he brushed back the edge of your coat.

The fabric fell away.

And there it was. Your bandaged wrist. Angry and bruised. Swollen beneath medical gauze. Evidence.

Real. Inarguable.

The breath he drew in was sharp—quiet, but brutal.

His entire body stiffened like something inside him had just cracked.

“Who did this to you?”

[sweetfwr]

(TEASER!) MISSION: MATRIMONY ˒˒ yjw

your handler was very clear what your mission entailed: get in, get information, then get out, no matter the cost. when you find yourself in a sham marriage to avoid suspicion from the enemy country’s government, you begin to realize the cracks in your ever-so-sweet husband’s facade. turns out, the enemy might be even closer than you thought.

pairing) spy!jungwon x spy!reader

tags) fluff, enemies to lovers, romantic comedy, action

wc) SOON

warnings) mentions of killing, injury, weapons, violence, and more.

your husband was hiding something.

whether it was a mistress, a huge debt to an evil loan shark, or a criminal record, you were yet to find out. even if your money was on the mistress. honestly, that was what landed you in couple’s therapy in the first place.

so you sat primly in a therapist’s office — legs crossed, arms folded, and the big, fat diamond itching on your ring finger itching like guilt. truly, how did you let his big secret elude you? you’re a spy, for god’s sake. you escape death on the daily, uncover national secrets, and get rid of dirty politicians, yet you can’t figure out where your husband heads on his own after dark? or why exactly he leaves no trace of his activities?

doctor kim’s office reeked of lavender room spray and he smiled like someone that reupholstered his own furniture and drank chamomile by the gallon. he adusted his glasses for a moment, clearing his throat and letting his eyes wander to his clipboard.

your husband beat him to it.

“that’s jungwon. with a j.”

his voice was steady, pleasant, even warm. the kind of voice that could pull you to sleep— or into your demise if you didn’t know better. except you did. your husband was lying to you, and you were yet to find out just how catastrophic the situation really was.

jungwon sat in the sad, beige lounge chair beside yours and smiled like he meant it. teeth pearly white, hair parted neatly, and not a wrinkle in his carefully ironed shirt, he looked every bit the image of a loving spouse.

you resisted the urge to douse him with kim’s steaming cup of tea.

doctor kim only nodded, humming and scribbling something down on his notepad.

“well,” the doctor started, chuckling when you and your spouse tensed up ever so slightly.”i’m going to start off by letting you both know that this is a safe space. no judging or assigning blame, and especially no hurting each other.”

the softest of laughs followed. “you’re not going to kill your spouse. neither of you are murderers.”

as if on cue, the two of you offered the oblivious man across you tight smiles and awkward chuckles.

except now, your neatly polished nails were curling into the arm rests and jungwon’s arm was twitching like he was calculating the distance between him and the nearest emergency exit.

“just to clarify—we don’t need marriage counseling. this is just… a healthy little check in.” jungwon spoke, as if the chill in the room didn’t exist.

you turned to stare at him, before slowly nodding stiffly in agreement. “right. like a dentist appointment, but for our marriage.”

the doctor only blinked, before moving to furiously scribble down notes on what you believed to be his thoughts and observations about how you were the strangest couple he’d ever given aid to.

kim nodded, likely regretting every certification framed on his wall. “you’re not alone in that mindset. a lot of couples come to me just to strengthen their bond. say, on a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your ability to talk through conflict?”

“7.” you said, almost immediately. it was robotic and held no emotion, like you had planned out answers for specific questions beforehand.

jungwon’s confident “9.” followed right after.

you turned to him slowly, and he tilted his head at you like this were some quaint dinner conversation and not a literal bomb waiting to detonate all over your lives.

“that’s generous,” you said.

“what can i say? i’m a generous guy,” your spouse replied smoothly, and you held his stare with an intensity that made the third party in the room begin to sweat.

the doctor cleared the tightness in his throat, the lavender diffuser puffing in the corner like it was nervous too. you and your husband stayed as cool and collected as ever, despite the fact that you were making a mental note to hide his keys later. and oh, you were going to hide them good.

“well,” he said carefully. “do the both of you feel heard by your partner?”

you really thought about this one. your husband always looked like he was listening, staring at you intently and leaning into your every word. head tilted and hands folded, you had to give it to him. he did make you feel heard.

that is, if you didn’t feel like he was calculating the pressure points on your neck half the time.

“sure,” you responded curtly. jungwon pursed his lips, looking as if he didn’t like how you were already bored of the conversation. “he listens.”

completely disregarding his previous expression, your partner smiles graciously. “and she talks a lot.”

“excuse me?” you turned to him, completely and utterly fed up with his bullshit responses as if you weren’t paying this damn counsellor 300 bucks an hour to keep up appearances. your killing and spying for a living can only make so much.

“honey,” your husband laughed. “i’m just agreeing with you here.”

“i talk a lot,” you smiled, the kind that would make any normal person flinch. except, your freakishly perfect husband was no normal person. ”mind elaborating?”

he didn’t react. of course he didn’t. a lot of your inner hatred towards him was rooted from how good he was at pretending. at being a doting husband. a cardigan-wearing, camellia-watering, perfect man who never had a hair out of place during dinners at 7.

”just saying,” jungwon said, leaning back with the manly charm that had you falling into his honey trap in the first place. “sometimes i don’t even have to speak. it’s like she’s having the conversation for the both of us.

you scoffed, and something tells you your husband is well aware of how he’s irritated you.

from beside you, jungwon smirked in his seat. and you?

unsure whether you wanted to kiss him or kill him.

like 4 tag once released!